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- Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021
In his intricate novel, "The Dwarf's Chamber," Fergus Hume weaves a tale steeped in Gothic intrigue and vibrant character studies. Set against the backdrop of a crumbling estate, the narrative unfolds through an exploration of deeply buried secrets and treacherous family dynamics. Hume employs a rich, atmospheric prose style, drawing upon the conventions of Victorian mystery fiction while infusing the storyline with psychological depth. The interplay of light and dark symbolizes not only the physical setting but also the moral ambiguities of the characters, inviting readers to question the nature of human desire and ambition. Fergus Hume, an often-overlooked luminary of the late 19th century, found inspiration for "The Dwarf's Chamber" in his experiences with the social intricacies of his time. Having immigrated to Australia and later experiencing the literary culture of England, Hume's diverse background influenced his writing, particularly his ability to construct compelling, multi-dimensional characters. His commitment to challenging societal norms and exposing hidden truths enhances the weight of his narrative, making it not just a tale of suspense but a commentary on the human condition. For readers in search of a masterfully crafted mystery intertwined with profound thematic exploration, "The Dwarf's Chamber" is an indispensable addition to the Gothic canon. Hume's adept storytelling, coupled with his unique characters, ensures a gripping experience that resonates with contemporary audiences while evoking the charm of Victorian literature.
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The Dwarf's Chamber
Table of Contents
Chapter I The Fiddler
THE railway is responsible for the transmutation of sleepy villages into noisy manufacturing towns; of picturesque inns into gaudy hotels. Wheresoever that iron road runs, hamlets, as vitalized by its touch, begin to throw out lines of suburban villas, to gather into clumps of roaring factories; while the rustic alehouse, of yore the parliament of rural politicians, swells into a bloated, three-storey barrack, all glass, and glitter, and bare discomfort. The portly host doffs his apron for the smart vulgarities of a publican, and trim Phyllis, changing sex and attractiveness, shrinks to a lean, black-coated, white-cravated scarecrow, avaricious of “tips,” and servile in demeanour. This may be progress, but it is neither beauty nor comfort; and in stirring up mediaeval sloth to modern activity, laudable though the task may be, the utilitarian spirit of the age is apt to overlook the claims of eye and soul to lovely sights and artistic suggestiveness.
Yet, as on the verge of the maddest whirlpool lie broad still pools wherein collect flotsam and jetsam thrown off from the central gyration, so beyond the radius of railroad and mushroom town lie somnolent parishes untouched by the restless spirit of the nineteenth century. Here may be found the pleasant hamlets of old time, huddled in a confusion of picturesque houses round the square-towered church, grey and solemn. Here the market-place with cross and inn, yonder the dwelling of the Lord of the Manor, showing red roofs and lean chimneys above the park tree-tops. At the end of the crooked street a narrow bridge bestrides a swift stream, and beyond, the dusty high-road, leaving behind its rusticity, runs straightly towards the smoky towns which skirt the maelstrom of modern existence. Such a village is Dalesford.
Artists, pioneers of the great tourist tribe as they are, knew it well, and often had its quaint houses, its ivy-clad church, its gorse-besprinkled common figured on the walls of the Academy. So sleepy, so peaceful, so idle it was, that here, if anywhere, Thomson might have built his pleasant Castle of Indolence. Buried in fertile pasture lands thirty miles from the nearest railway, Dalesford was lamentably lethargic, and heard as in a dream the tumult of the century roaring far away. Notwithstanding, its proximity to the high-road, it did not seem to recognize that it was its bounden duty to increase its houses, to multiply its population. Not a single dwelling had been erected there for the last half-century, and its rural population was limited still to three hundred souls (inclusive of the surrounding farms), as in the Middle Ages. No battles had been fought in its vicinity, no great man had sprung from its inhabitants, no industry of lace, or cloth, or straw-weaving was peculiar to the place. In a word, Dalesford was, to all useful purposes, dead, and no artist in love with its somnolent beauty ever wished it to be alive.
Against the high-road near the bridge stood the “Lelanro Arms,” a quaint little hostel dating from the days of the Stewarts, and now presided over by Mistress Sally Ballard. She, a comfortable old spinster, round and rosy as an apple, was dubbed Mistress out of courtesy to her age and respectability. A famous housewife was Mistress Sally, learned in pickling, and baking, and brewing; and her inn was scrupulously clean and eminently comfortable. Here one slept in low-ceilinged rooms, with diamond-paned casements, wherein were set pots of mignonette and balsam; here the sheets smelt of lavender, and the breakfast-table was set forth with freshly-caught trout, rich cream, and the sweetest of home-made bread. Three maid-servants and an ostler formed the staff of this unpretentious hostel, and these Mistress Sally governed with a rod of iron. But she was a kindly creature, and her rule was beneficent.
Hither in the evening came labourer and farmer to taste the ale for which the “Lelanro Arms” was famous. They sat in high-backed settles, with their tankards before them, and discussed such scraps of news as came from the outside world until it struck ten, when Mistress Sally, with many a laugh and jest, bundled them out, so that they might not infringe the respectability of her house by keeping midnight hours. The parish clerk, the verger, the steward from Lelanro Manor, even the parson himself, knew that mellow taproom and the smack of the home-brew. Painters in search of the picturesque stayed at the hostel of Mistress Sally, and sketched its white-washed front, its high red roof, the twisted stack of chimneys, and those rustic casements opening on to the village green. Once a lean and hungry poet came, who abode a week in the best bedroom, and then decamped without paying his bill, save in the following jingle:
Oh, Mistress Sally, ask me not In kingly gold to pay my shot, For I have fallen on evil times: But lest you should be harsh and wild With one who is the Muses’ child, I pay my debt in lordly rhymes.
Over which sufficiently bad verses Mistress Sally laughed till the tears bestreaked her ruddy cheeks; and framing the “lordly rhymes,” she had them hung up in the bar-parlour. Had the lean poet appeared again, he would no doubt have been permitted to pay a second bill in the like coin.
“I’m sorry for the poor creature and his bits of verse,” said Mistress Sally, with a large-hearted geniality.
At the sunset hour she stood under the porch, looking across the green, to where the bridge spanned the stream. Already in twos and threes, with uncouth salutations, the customers of the “Lelanro Arms” were passing within; and from the windows of the taproom glimmered the flame of the early-lighted lamps. Shrill-voiced children played round the old stone cross, but Mistress Sally, heedless of their noisy pranks, stared at the gables of the distant Manor House as they loomed menacingly against the clear evening sky. She had been a still-room maid in the service of the Lelanros, and, as was natural, took a deep interest in the family. What she was thinking of it is impossible to say, but she pursed up her lips and wrinkled her brow in a manner which, to those who knew her, betokened unpleasant thoughts.
“Better if you were burnt down,” murmured the landlady, apostrophizing the distant mansion; “the fairy curse is on you and yours, though none know it but me. I—”
This somewhat recondite speech, which hinted at family secrets, was interrupted by a merry whistle. Across the bridge stepped a tall stripling with the tune of “Garryowen” on his lips; and straightly he bore down on Mistress Sally, who had already smoothed her brow to a hospitable smile. That amiable greeting took a yet more approving twist as she saw before her as handsome a young man as ever had crossed the threshold of her inn. Mistress Sally was no acidulated spinster to scorn the male sex on the sour grape principle, and, in her own heart, she secretly admired a strapping lad with a well-looking face. She had no fault to find on this score with the new-comer.
He was over the middle height, with a well-knit figure, an aristocratic and rather haughty countenance; but there lurked a twinkle in his dark eyes which did away with the reserve impressed on lip and brow. Well worn as was his dress, a shabby shooting-suit of brown corduroy, Mistress Sally saw that he was, as she expressed it, “every inch a gentleman.” And notwithstanding the bundle on a stick over his shoulder, and the fiddle under his arm, she acted on her first impression and addressed him accordingly.
“Good-even, sir,” said she, with a curtsey, “it is bed and board you want, I’ll be bound.”
“You’re right there, ma’am,” replied the wayfarer, taking his seat on a bench, and placing bundle and fiddle beside him, “but I’ll have board before bed, as my hunger is greater than my weariness.”
“Would you like a broiled trout, sir, or a chicken nicely roasted? And there’s a cold round of beef in the larder fit for a lord.”
The stranger flushed a trifle through the tan of his skin, and laughed in a somewhat embarrassed fashion.
“No, thank you, ma’am,” he said, with a half sigh, “my purse will not permit of such dainties. A pot of beer and some bread and cheese out here are all I require. After that a bed for the night.”
“Are you a poet, sir?” demanded the landlady, astonished at this moderation, and mindful of the rhymes in the bar-parlour.
“Why, no, ma’am,” answered the other, with an amused smile. “I have scribbled verses in my time, but I do not claim to be a rhymer. As you see,” he added, touching the violin, “I fiddle for my living.”
Mistress Sally looked at his handsome face, considered his gently bred air, and smilingly denied the truth of this remark. What is more, she supplied a reason for his making it.
“I understand, sir,” she said, with a broad smile. “You are a young gentleman who is doing this for a wager.”
“A charitable supposition, but incorrect. I am really and truly a simple fiddler, tramping my way up to London. Look at my bundle, my clothes, my violin, and—”
“And at your face, sir,” replied Mistress Sally, laughing. “It isn’t dress makes the gentry. Oh, I’ve lived with them in my time, sir. But as it pleases you to be merry it is not my place to say anything, though I wish,” added she, stepping back into the doorway, “that you would stay your stomach with something more substantial than ale and bread.”
The young man laughed as she disappeared, but the laugh gave place to a sad look when he examined his lean purse. Therein were two half-crowns and a piece of gold.
“Fifteen shillings,” the owner of this wealth said to himself, “and I am still over a hundred miles from London. Unless I earn more money with my fiddle I am afraid it is many a meal I shall have to go without, and many a night I shall be forced to sleep under the stars. Well, who cares? I am young and healthy, and after all there is something pleasant in this Bohemianism.”
He spoke in a refined manner, and his speech and accent betrayed education. That so apparently gently nurtured a young gentleman should be tramping the country had puzzled more heads than Mistress Sally’s. In spite of his denials the rustics persisted in attributing his ragged attire and fiddling propensities to eccentricity, and they firmly believed that he had plenty of gold on his person, wherewith to ride in a coach and dress in gay raiment were he so minded.
At every turn this greatness was thrust upon him till he grew weary of insisting upon his poverty and humble birth.
“That old lady is as sceptical as the rest,” said he, reclining full length on the bench to rest his weary limbs. “She thinks also that I am a lord in disguise. Well, who knows? It may be so, though I am ignorant of birth and title and wealth. Humph!” he added, catching sight of the sign, “that is a queer picture.”
One of the numerous artists who visited the inn had painted the sign, discharging his bill, as had the poet, by means of his art. The scene depicted was a stormy sea, whereon tossed a cockle-shell boat. This held three figures, a lady with outstretched arms standing up in the stern, a dead man lying in the bows, and midway a rower toiling at the oars. In the distance a lurid sunset flamed behind the gaunt towers of a castle. Beneath this mysterious picture was written “The Lelanro Arms” and four lines of verse, which could not be deciphered by the fiddler owing to the gathering darkness. It was an odd picture to swing before a village inn, and required explanation.
His attention was drawn from the sign by the reappearance of the landlady with his supper, to which she had added a small meat-pie. Seeing him colour at the sight of this addition, Mistress Sally hastily disclaimed any wish to offend.
“But sure,” said she in a kindly tone, “a lad like you needs good food after a long walk. You must eat well for health’s sake, sir.”
“Very good, ma’am. But if I can’t pay for my appetite?”
“Why, then you can give us a tune on your fiddle. I dearly love a country dance, Mr.—Mr.—”
“Warwick, ma’am. Algernon Warwick,” said the stranger, smiling at her simple craft, “and I’ll give you a tune with pleasure when I finish my supper.”
This he did, greatly to the delight of the taproom topers and the children on the green. No great hand at holding her tongue, Mistress Sally had already hinted her impression that the fiddler was a gentleman on the tramp out of sheer love for adventure; and every one was agog with excitement to hear what tunes this lord in disguise—for some foolishly imagined as much—could draw from the strings. Warwick proved to be a veritable magician of the bow, a strolling Orpheus, and moved their heartstrings by the magic of his melodies. How that fiddle talked, and cried, and laughed, and trilled, only those who were present could tell. Mistress Sally nodded benignly in the porch, and tapped her foot to the air of “Chloe, come kiss me,” or sighed when she heard the sad melody, “Jenny flouted Jessamy.” Then again he played brisk country dances, to which the delighted children footed it merrily; anon he changed to a minor key, so mournful, that the wine-bibbers within shook their grizzled heads over their cups; and finished with a wild Hungarian dance which stung slow, bucolic brains to unaccustomed excitement.
“A brave fiddler,” said Mistress Sally, when he laid by bow and instrument, “and, mind ye, a gentleman born, or I’m no true woman.”
Chapter II A Family Legend
THE Dalesford folk had a reputation for credulity, and certainly deserved it in this instance. Pleased with the fiddling, and looks, and pleasant manner of Warwick, they were disposed to believe implicitly in any tale he chose to tell them. He, knowing the value of silence, held his peace, and let Mistress Sally say what she would; and, as the foolish woman was firmly convinced in her own mind of his gentility, she soon promulgated this belief amongst the rustics. By dawn a fine crop of stories had sprung up round the personality of the tramp, and the gossips told one another that he assuredly must be an eccentric young nobleman in disguise. For the nonce the Golden Age was come again, and the Olympians walked familiarly amongst mortals.
Mistress Sally, whose naturally shrewd wits had been sharpened by contact with town-bred servants, did not go so far as to dub her guest a lord; nevertheless she saw in him a man of birth. That he fiddled round the countryside was no bar to this belief, as she well knew that gentlefolk were eccentric, and, not unnaturally, wearying of their grandeur, condescended at times to mix with the common herd. Hence, hopeful that Warwick would confess his freak before he left the “Lelanro Arms,” she gave him a bedroom far beyond his purse, and the next morning set before him as excellent a meal as could be cooked. Warwick, who had descended in the expectation of a repetition of the bread and ale supper, expostulated vainly against this hospitality being thrust upon him.
“I can’t pay for these dainties, ma’am,” said he, when the landlady pressed him to take a seat at the well-spread table. “I have only fifteen shillings and a fiddle in the world.”
“No doubt, sir,” replied Mistress Sally, nodding meaningly, “but if you wanted a score of pounds at a pinch, I dare say your friends in London—”
“I have no friends in London—I have no friends in the world. Why will you persist in ascribing to me a greatness which I do not possess? If I eat your goodies and don’t pay for them, you’ll have me put in the stocks for a vagabond.”
“Lord forbid, Mr. Warwick!” said the startled Sally. “Sit down and eat, sir. If you can’t pay, it won’t ruin me; and, after all, you’re too young a lad to go tramping on an empty stomach. Eat well, sir, and pay your bill with a tune on your fiddle. I’ve had worse payments in my time,” finished she, thinking of the poet’s rhymes, which were certainly less congenial to her than the heart-stirring strains of the violin.
“Well, ma’am,” said Warwick, taking his seat, “I accept your offer. But never did I expect to meet with such kindness in the world. I might starve in London before any one would give me a crust of bread.”
“Dear heart,” cried Mistress Sally, patting her breast, “what wicked people! Why not stay here a week, sir, and fiddle to the lads and lasses? They’d give you a trifle for your work, I’ll be bound; and the bill at the “Lelanro Arms” won’t drain your purse, I promise you.”
“It’s very kind of you, dame, but I must push on at once. There is somebody waiting for me in London who may do me a good turn; although,” added he sadly, “I am by no means sure of his goodwill.”
“Your father, no doubt, sir?”
“I have no father, no mother! I am an orphan,” responded the young man, with a sigh; “but there, there!” he added hastily, “let us talk of other things. My story is too common to be worth the telling.”
Thus baulked of her curiosity, Mistress Sally swallowed her disappointment as best she could, and proceeded to retail the local news. Of this she was well informed, as the inn was a rural Ear of Dionysius, into which was breathed all the scandal of the neighbourhood.
“Lord Lelanro and Mistress Celia are up in London,” said she. “He is the owner of the land hereabouts, and she is his grand-daughter—a fair and kindly young lady.”
“Heiress to the estates, no doubt?”
“No!” replied the landlady, pursing up her lips; “the estates go with the title to a distant cousin of the family. With Lord Lelanro the direct line ceases, unless—”
“Unless what, ma’am?” asked Warwick, noting the abrupt pause.
“Never mind, sir. Every family has its skeleton, and it is not for me to show that of the Lelanros. It is a fine house, is it not?” she added, evidently desirous of turning the conversation.
“What I saw of it,” answered Algernon, falling in with her humour; “a steep wall rising from the banks of the stream; turrets and gables beyond, encircled by a park. Why is the house defended in that fashion, Mistress Sally? Is the owner misanthropic, or is he merely doubtful of the world’s honesty?”
“He is not partial to strangers,” muttered the other reluctantly; “at least, not at the Manor. In London my lord keeps open house,”
From the way in which she spoke Warwick saw that the subject was distasteful, and wondered what could be the reason of her obvious embarrassment. Evidently there was some secret connected with house or inmates; and being a loyal servant of the family, she was bent on saying as little as possible. Nevertheless, as Warwick had kept his own counsel, he could not very well question her further on her private affairs, therefore went on with his breakfast in silence.
In a few minutes Mistress Sally left the room, and returned speedily with a portrait in a silver frame, which she placed proudly before her guest.
“This is a picture of Miss Celia, sir,” replied she, “given to me by herself. Isn’t she a beauty, Mr. Warwick?”
“A very charming young lady,” answered Warwick, examining the photograph, “but her expression is rather sad.”
“Aha!” coughed Mistress Sally awkwardly, “she has reason to look sad. All the Lelanros are sad—after twenty.”
“Why after twenty?”
“I’m not the one to tell tales,” said Mistress Sally, hastily snatching up the picture. “If my dear pretty Miss Celia is sad, that has nothing to do with you or me sir. Let sleeping dogs lie. That is what I always say.”
After which significant remark she left the room for a second time, nor did she re-enter it again, and Warwick guessed thereby that she was afraid of saying too much. Indeed, her hints had already roused his curiosity, and he burned to know the meaning of this ambiguous talk. The sadness which came to the Lelanros when they reached the age of twenty years; the steep wall overhanging the swift stream; the remark anent the failure of the direct line with the unspoken reservation; all these things stimulated the desire of the young man to know more of the Manor House, and of the family who dwelt therein. However, his own immediate affairs soon withdrew his attention from such unnecessary matters.
He weighed his lean purse, counted and re-counted the three coins, and sighed to think that he must part with one of them for the discharge of his night’s ‘entertainment. Still, with twelve and sixpence he would do very well for the next few days, and he trusted when this was spent to replenish his exchequer by music and song. Having come to this conclusion he pulled out a clay pipe, and loading it with a morsel of tobacco from his scanty store, he proceeded to indulge in the luxury of a smoke. Then he picked up his bundle, tucked the fiddle under his arm, and repaired in search of Mistress Sally, to say good-bye.
She was blocking the porch with her portly form, and turned to greet him with a smile. In the bright sunlight, with her be-ribboned cap, rosy face, and buxom figure, she resembled one of those delightful landladies who enliven the optimistic pages of Fielding and Dickens. And why should she not resemble them? she who was their lineal descendant and worthy representative.
“I must go now, Mistress Sally,” said Warwick, tendering his poor coin, “and here is all I can pay for board and lodging. A miserable return for so capital a bed and supper.”
“Put it up, sir,” said the good-hearted landlady, waving it away. “Heaven forbid that Sarah Ballard should take from those who need.”
And in spite of his half-laughing, half-earnest expostulations, she absolutely refused to take the money. Nay more, she handed him a small parcel of provisions, for his midday meal, with a rubicund smile of goodwill and kindly hospitality.
“You’ll be hungry at noon,” said she, forcing this into his hand. “And there’s a meat-pie and bread and cheese and ale in there. And maybe, sir, you’ll find a trifle of tobacco,” she added, with a shy smile. “I see you spoil those white teeth of yours by smoking.”
Warwick had never before experienced such kindness, and was so deeply moved that he hardly knew how to thank the hostess. However, he managed to stammer out a few words, and shook her heartily by the hand, a salutation hardly relished by the buxom landlady, who would have turned her rosy cheek willingly to the lips of so handsome a traveller.
“If ever I become that which you take me to be,” said he earnestly, “you may be sure I shall return to thank you in other ways than mere words.”
“Come when you will, and you’ll ever be welcome,” responded Mistress Sally, and patted him on the back as he stepped out into the sunshine.
The fiddler would have moved away at once, for it was already late in the morning, when, looking up to note the weather tokens of the cloud-dappled sky, he again caught sight of the queerly-pictured sign creaking overhead. Curious to know the meaning of the representation, he asked Mistress Sally to afford him an explanation. Which she did, nothing loth to retain him longer by her side.
“That picture, sir,” replied Mistress Sally, with unconcealed pride, “was painted by a gentleman who is now great. I have been offered no end of money for it, Mr. Warwick, as his name is signed to it, and that makes it valuable.”
“But the meaning of the picture?”
“Read the words, sir, and see what you make of them.”
Warwick mounted on the bench, and had no difficulty in deciphering the following quatrain:
To those false lords my crown I gave, Now they would have my head I ween; Be Leal Andrew for aye, my knave, Be leal and row to save your queen.
“Those words describe the picture,” said Mistress Sally, when he stepped down, “it is the beginning of the Lelanro family. On the other side of the sign, Mr. Warwick, you will see their arms; a boat on a sea with the motto ‘Be Leal and Row.’ ”
“What is the story, ma’am?” asked Algernon, sitting down on the bench.
“When the Queen of Scots fled from her enemies,” said Mistress Sally, with the air of one repeating a lesson, “she came to the banks of a river hard pressed by her false lords. One serving-man had she with her, and urged a ferryman called Andrew, who dwelt on the banks, to put her and her serving-man across to where her friends were gathered. The ferryman, hearing she was the Queen, told her on his knees that he was known as Leal Andrew for his devotion to the House of Stewart, and gladly took her in his boat. Half-way across the stream, the false lords came to the bank and shouted to Leal Andrew that he should give up the fugitive Queen. Her friends on the further side implored him to be no traitor to his lawful sovereign. Leal Andrew rowed hard to save the Queen; but the serving-man, a traitorous knave, tried to upset the ferry-boat so that the Queen might fall into the power of her enemies. But Leal Andrew killed him and again took to the oars, whereat Mary of Scotland cried, punning on his name, ‘Be Leal Andrew still—be leal and row to save your Queen.’ She was landed safely and was saved, so the Lelanros took her words for their motto and their name.”
“How did they rise from ferrymen to lords?”
“The son of the Queen, James of England, rewarded Leal Andrew for his devotion, and gave to him and his descendants the estates of Dalesford, which they have held ever since.”
“I don’t quite understand the punning motto,” said Warwick, in a perplexed tone.
“The Queen said ‘Leal and row,’ which was a pun on his name, ‘Leal Andrew,’ made by altering ‘e’ into ‘o’ in the last syllable. The family now spell the name Lelanro as you see it there.”
“A very interesting legend,” observed Warwick, once more rising to his feet. “I suppose you tell it to every one, Mistress Sally? The Lelanros are a fortunate family.”
“Ah!” sighed the landlady, “they have had bad luck to balance the good. If Leal Andrew brought a blessing, his son brought a curse, which still endures.”
“What is the curse, ma’am?”
“It’s too long a story,” said Mistress Sally hastily; “you had better go, sir, for the sun is high, and see, the children are out from school. They’ll be asking you for a tune, I’m thinking.”
At this hint Warwick again thanked the good-hearted landlady, and took his leave. Half-way across the green he struck up a lively measure, whereat the school-children followed dancing in his wake as he marched along. It was a repetition of the Pied Piper of Hamelin.
Chapter III Adventures Are To The Adventurous
ON leaving that hospitable inn, it was Warwick’s intention to push on towards London; but so stimulated was his curiosity by the landlady’s chatter about the Lelanro family, that he determined to look again on that tantalizing wall, which apparently concealed some strange secret. With this intent he retraced his way across the bridge, still drawing onward by his fiddling the dancing children, and strolled over the meadows in the direction of the Manor. Here, anxious to rid himself of his innocent company, he sat down under a tree, and played to their restless feet until they were fairly wearied out. Then he nodded a kind farewell, and leaving them to pick buttercups till the school-bell rang, he betook himself along the banks of the stream.
This rustic river, of no great width, parted two landscapes markedly dissimilar in character. On the further side a forest of oak, and sycamore, and ash, and birch covered a round swelling hill; and at its foot, numerous large rocks thrust themselves from amid the green foliage into the turbid waters. Overshore the stream fretted and whitened round the Titanic stones, but swept smoothly onward, deep and silent, under the shadow of the bank whereon Warwick stood. Thence spread fat meadow lands dotted with ancient trees, and divided by flowering hedgerows, the rigid intersecting lines of which assimilated the plain to a chess-board. Through this fertility the highroad meandered white and dusty to where the vision was stayed by low-lying hills undulating against the blue June sky. As a finishing touch to the contrast, the peaked roofs of the Manor House showed themselves in the dip of the land, between forest slope and low-lying meadow, linking, as it were, the mountain with the vale, past savagery with present domesticity, being at once a feudal castle and a modern mansion.
After a careless glance at this scene, which would have longer enchained the eye of an artist, Warwick passed into the path which wound tortuously along the flowery banks. Here the green arcade overhead was vocal with the song of bird and hum of insect, while the murmur of the fretting water added a deeper note. Through the boles of the trees which fringed the meadows in a single line he now and then caught a glimpse of slowly-moving cattle, of scampering foals and playful lambs. From such a pastoral landscape his attention was distracted by the trout leaping after May-flies, and in the green twilight of the woods beyond he saw the brown flash of a squirrel springing from one tree-trunk to another. Across the stream flitted glittering dragon-flies and droning bumble-bees, while aloft swallows whirled hither and thither; and from the arching blue rained down the music of an invisible lark. The peaceful beauty of the whole stole imperceptibly into the heart of the wayfarer, and for the moment he questioned whether it would not be wiser to accept the offer of Mistress Sally and make music for the villagers, than to tempt the blows of Fate in far-off toiling, moiling London.
“Here I could be happy,” thought he, leisurely strolling onward. “No care, no trouble, no dread, only rest and comfort, and infinite peace. Merely with a violin and an ambition to be a musician, it is madness to go to London, where I would be but a drop in the ocean. That man of whom my father spoke may not be disposed to help me, and then what should I do?—I, with no friends, no money, with not even a name; a waif, a tramp, a bastard for aught I know. Yet it would be ignoble to rest in my present ignorance of birth and position.”
At this stage of his musings the path rounded a curve of the river, and began to slope gently upward. The gables of the Manor House were now close at hand, and Warwick, mounting the declivity, found himself able to command a fine view of the whole building. Surrounded on three sides by the woods, its mass lay directly on the verge of the stream, which here flowed ominously swift under a Cyclopean wall. From the waters, sullen in their gloom, these grey stones, looking massive enough to resist cannon, rose abruptly for close on twenty feet. Not a loophole, not a window, not even a chink was to be seen in its stern front, and the whole length was draped with dark-green ivy, which accentuated its forbidding appearance. Above this shot the red-tiled roofs, peaked and steep, round turrets, pierced with narrow windows, and lines of machicolated battlements grey with age; the whole jumbled together in picturesque confusion. With the stream moat-like at its foot, and the wild woods on either side, this curious building resembled a feudal castle, such as Doré drew for the tales of Rabelais. Here a robber chief might have dwelt; here a magician might have kept in durance some enchanted princess; yet the building was set in the heart of England, and promised no more extraordinary adventure than the commonplace kind, incident to our prosaic and law-protected existence. Civilization kills the romance of road, and river, and lonely country house.
Much struck with the sight of this wood-encircled castle dominating the swift stream, Warwick looked at it long and earnestly, and finally he sat under a shady oak to make his midday meal. After this he purposed to return to the bridge, and so pursue his way to London along the high-road. Despite the romance of the place, which engendered dreams and set strange melodies floating through his brain, Warwick was too young and healthy to neglect the food provided by Mistress Sally. He finished the meat-pie and the bottle of ale, reserving the bread and cheese for his supper; then throwing himself full length on the soft grass, he smoked luxuriously, and eyed wall and turret and gable through the blue clouds which rolled from his pipe. Seen through so misty a veil, the mansion became enchanted; and in the glamour of his dreaming brain it was less a common country house than a castle of faery.
“I might be heir to a mansion like that,” thought the romantic Warwick. “Every one seems to take me for a gentleman; so why should I not be one? I was born in the humble booth of a fair, it is true; but my father could never discover his place of birth. And how can he expect me to learn it from this?”
The reference was to a slip of paper which he took out of his pocket-book. Thereon was written a name and a date—the name, “Algernon”; the date, “December 24, 1857.”
“My father said the secret could be solved by this,” murmured the youth; “but though I have pored over it for hours, never have I been able to gain a hint of its meaning. It may be a cryptogram, a rebus, a cipher, a Chinese puzzle, for all I know. But a name and a date are poor material for a man to trace his progenitors.” He replaced the precious paper, which contained his future, in the pocket-book, and leaning his elbow on the grass, he continued to soliloquize aloud:
“My father’s friend in London may reveal the truth; but it is hardly likely. If he would not tell my father, he certainly will not tell me. Perhaps he cannot; but at all events I’ll see this Ballard as soon as I set foot in London. Ballard,” he added, starting up; “why, that is the name of the kind landlady. I wonder if she is any connection of my town friend? What a fool I was not to inquire! However, it’s not too late. I’ll return for the night to the ‘Lelanro Arms,’ and question her closely.”
This suggestion of the “Lelanro Arms” turned his thoughts towards the family of that name, and to the hints given by Mistress Sally concerning a mystery connected with their mansion. A thousand fancies haunted the imaginative brain of Warwick as he stared at the menacing wall, and he wondered greatly what mystery could be concealed behind it. Stories occurred to him of great families cursed with secrets engendered by the evil doings of former generations, secrets so terrible that they drove all cheerfulness from the heart, and banished all smiles from the face. No one knew what these secrets might be, yet they tortured the heart of many a proud noble and long-descended squire. From what he had heard and seen, it would appear that the Lelanros concealed some such indefinable horror in house and heart, which blighted the existence of all who bore their name. Mistress Sally hinted as much, and the mighty wall, so out of keeping with the law-protected security of an English home, confirmed the hint.
Dominated by the thought, Warwick no longer beheld in the mansion a castle of faery, but a blood-stained house, groaning under a curse. From the past came forth a power to render it infamous and desolate. No smile was on the lips of its lord; no stranger was admitted within its gates, and it loomed across the stream deadly and sullen; accursed, to the inflamed fancy of this lad, as ever was the dwelling of Atreus. Blue was the sky above it, green were the woods around it, and limpid the stream that sparkled under the lichened wall; yet to Warwick it scowled an abode of evil, a haunted mansion of crime and desolation. In the bright sunshine he shivered at the thought of what tales those hoary walls could tell, were they gifted with speech.
To dispel so gloomy a mood, he hastily seized his violin and improvised a merry air, which was more in keeping with the glory of that summer day. The notes chased one another in airy flight, and thrilled and trilled like a choir of birds. Into the musician’s soul Nature poured the suggestion of her fecund beauty, and under flying bow and lithe fingers the strains echoed through the warm air like the melodies of light tripping fairies. It was no passionate love-song, no melody begotten by the thought of human pain and grief, but an elfish carol, heartless and beautiful as Nature herself. She was the inspirer, and passing from the soul of her interpreter to the instrument, she rendered herself audible in silver cascades of hurrying notes. The voice of the stream, the trill of the lark, sigh of wind, and rustle of leaves were all blent in the magic strain, which rose and fell fitfully with joyous gladness.
In the interval of a brilliant passage, Warwick paused with a look of wonderment on his mobile face, for in the distance sounded a sweet voice mocking the cadences of his instrument. Pure and silvery as the note of a bird, it rippled from over stream, and he became aware that some one was singing in emulation behind the ivy-clad wall. To test the truth of the echo he hastily improvised a sparkling run, and paused. The unseen singer took it up, and executed the whole passage with faultless precision, in clear-sounding notes. He again swept the bow across the strings; and again the human echo mocked his fantasy. Then ensued a delicate duet, in which the notes of the violin trilled across the stream, to be met midway by similar strains. Note for note the hidden voice replied to the violin’s melody. Then Warwick paused, and the voice sang alone; he re-executed the melody, and so instrument and singer fluted together like mocking-birds.
“This is an adventure of faery,” cried Warwick, when he could no longer provoke a reply. “I would give anything to see this caged bird.”
He pictured to himself a delicate maiden prisoned behind those grim stones, and laying down his violin, he descended the green slope to the banks of the river, as though then and there intending to swim across and storm the prison. This fantastic adventure appealed greatly to his fancy, and, parted from all knowledge of the singer by wall and stream, he sat meditating on the flowery marge. Nevertheless, despite his ardent curiosity, he had no intention of swimming stream or of scaling wall, as it was not his business, or right, to thrust himself into the affairs of the Lelanro family. All he decided to do was to return to the inn, and, if possible, to learn from Mistress Sally what bird was caged in that woodland castle. Such was his intent, but Fate took the matter into her own hands, and thrust him forward on a path whence there was no retreat.
Wrapped in his dreams of the hidden singer, he did not note how insecure was the bank on which he reclined. The water had eaten away the under-part, and though Warwick was ignorant of his danger, he was seated on a mere shell of matted grass and earth, beneath which swirled the current. Unexpectedly his seat collapsed, and before he could collect his scattered thoughts he found himself swept into mid-stream, swimming for dear life. Notwithstanding the heat of the day, the water was bitterly cold, and the youth, chilled and numbed by the sudden immersion, was almost helpless in the grip of the current.
Fortunately Warwick was a good swimmer, but encumbered by his clothes, and cramped by the cold wave, he could not regain the shelving bank whence he had fallen. The main strength of the current rushed directly past the wall, and thither, in spite of all his efforts, the youth was borne. Dreading lest his strength should give way, he seized the roots of the ivy which, huge and gnarled, dipped in the stream, and with a powerful effort drew himself upward from the water which threatened to suck him down. Half bewildered by the shock, and the position in which he found himself, he saw that he was fully committed to the adventure; and, as there was no other means by which he could hope to save his life, he clambered with difficulty up the natural ladder formed by the roots and sprays of the ivy, Emerging at the top of the wall from shadow to sunshine, the change was too sudden; and smitten by the fierce beams, he was seized with vertigo.
But a moment he balanced himself on the wall, and saw, as in a dream, the stream on one side, a garden on the other, when, losing senses and hold, he reeled dizzily and fell downward into what seemed to be a gulf of roaring gloom.
Chapter IV In Lilliput
WHEN Warwick came to himself, he was conscious of a dull pain on the top of his head, and of a wet cloth lying across his forehead. Still confused, he did not at once open his eyes, but lay silent and inert, endeavouring to pick up the threads of life where recollection failed him. His soul, lately on an excursion into the unknown, whence it had brought back no report, reunited itself to the body with a sudden shock which thrilled his frame with pain and dread. Then memory awoke, and he recalled his fall into the stream, his scaling of the wall, and finally the utter blank which had whelmed him on the other side of the parapet. Between that and this he could recall nothing. At some indefinite period he had bestridden an ivied wall in the hot sunshine; but he could not even guess at his present situation. So bewildered was his brain, that for the moment he neither opened his eyes nor attempted to comprehend his position.
While thus lying, dead and buried, as it seemed to him, for he had no feeling of contact with the actual world, a sweet voice began piping a song in low tones. It was the same singing he had evoked with his violin; but now shrilled delicately, as though the vocalist were afraid of rousing him from slumber. As in a dream he heard the voice shape itself into song;
Sir James, tae guard his soul fra ill, Hae plucked the rowan berry, And walked him, in the moonlicht chill, Where faery folk dance merry.
Oh, lay ye doon the rowan twig, An’ taste oor wine o’ broom, Or mickle dole, on hairt an’ soul, We’ll gie ye for a doom.
Here the ballad abruptly ended, as a deep voice jarred on the silvery sweetness of the strain.
“Pray be silent, Madam Tot,” said the voice, “you will wake our patient.”
“Not so, doctor,” replied the singer lightly, “his soul is not there, but in the kingdom of faery with my kinsfolk.”
“We must try and bring it back to his body then,” said the doctor. “The lad has been severely shaken by his fall; but as no bones are broken I trust he will soon be all right. You stay beside him, Madam Tot, while I go for some wine.”
“Send Blunderbore to me,” cried the lady, as the other departed. “I wish him to see after my summer-house, broken by the fall of this giant.”
The idea that he was a giant so tickled Warwick, that, notwithstanding his aching head, he could not forbear a quiet laugh, and opened his eyes to see into what odd quarter of the world he had wandered. The sight of the room in which he lay made him doubtful of his sanity, and he began to think that he had been thrust into a doll’s house; everything was on so small a scale that he indeed felt as though he were a giant in the land of Lilliput.
He was lying on the floor with his head resting on a tiny sofa, and on looking upward he saw that the ceiling was so low that he could almost touch it by simply stretching up his arm. Tables and chairs on the same miniature scale were scattered about the apartment, and the doors and windows were commensurate to the size of the chamber. The hangings were of green, as also was the carpet, and everything betrayed daintiness and refinement, as though the room were inhabited by a luxurious doll. It was little wonder that these dwarfish surroundings confused the young man who so unexpectedly found himself amongst them. To lose consciousness in the actual world, and recover sensibility in the land of pigmies, is a rare, almost an inconceivable experience for the average human being.
The doll herself, who was seated on a little chair, started up when she heard his laugh, and hastened lightly towards him. This lady was a dwarf, not more than three feet in height, but so beautifully proportioned that for the moment she did not strike Warwick as anything out of the ordinary. But for her white hair and wrinkled face he would have taken her for a child. She was dressed in a green robe, with a silver belt, and wore a hat of the same hue, adorned with white feathers. Leaning on an ebony cane, she nodded and smiled at Warwick; while he could hardly forbear an exclamation of wonder at this perfect reproduction of a human being on a smaller scale. Head, body, hands, feet, all matched one another, and beyond the fact that she was three feet high instead of five or six, there was nothing incongruous or repellent in her looks. Evidently the chamber had been proportioned and furnished in accordance with her stature; and so strong was the impression created by this congruity, that Warwick looked upon himself, rather than on her, as an abnormal creature, and felt that he had no right to intrude his clumsy bulk into the miniature world presided over by this diminutive beauty.
“Am I in Lilliput?” asked he faintly, with an amazed glance at the green-clad faery.
“You are in my chamber,” replied the dwarf in a sweet, low voice, quite in keeping with her tiny personality. “You fell off the wall on to my summer-house; but that its thatched roof broke your fall, you would have been killed; for you tumbled,” added the little lady solemnly, “from an enormous height.”
Warwick laughed, as he quite conceived how infinitely high the wall would appear in the eyes of this little creature; seeing that he, a full-grown man, found it sufficiently lofty. He looked down at his limbs, which seemed unnaturally large in this chamber, where everything was reduced to suit the physical requirements of its dwarfish inmate, and wondered how he got in at the narrow and low door. Madam Tot, as the doctor had called her, guessed his thoughts, and smiled again, She had a very pretty smile, and revealed a row of pretty teeth as she anticipated his speech by a ready explanation.
“Blunderbore found you, sir, and it was Blunderbore who put you into my room, at my request.”
“Who is Blunderbore?” demanded Warwick, with a vague recollection of some nurse’s story.
“He is my guardian here,” replied the lady in a dignified tone, “and I call him Blunderbore because he is so tall and strong. But his real name is Simon.”
“Is he coming in here? I heard you tell the doctor to send him.”
Madam Tot threw up her tiny hands, and shrieked in a horrified manner—
“My dear young man, Simon couldn’t get inside that door. He’s much over six feet in height. It was as much as we could do to get you in.”
“Why didn’t you leave me in the garden then?”
“Because I wanted you in here,” replied the dwarf in a peremptory tone; “you have surprised a secret, sir, and you shall not leave this place until the will of my brother is known.”
“But, Madam Tot,” expostulated Warwick, remembering that she had been so addressed, “I—”
“Madam Tot, you rude person,” shrieked the lady, stamping a tiny foot, “how dare you call me by that odious name! I am Miss Selina Lelanro.”
“And your brother?”
“Is James, Lord Lelanro! You must call me Miss Lelanro! And now, sir, what were you doing on my wall? No evasions, no lies, no fictions,” cried she sternly, “or I will order Blunderbore to throw you into the river again.”
Thus warned, Warwick was about to attempt an explanation, when the door opened, and a large head framed in red hair and red whiskers filled up the opening. The owner was evidently kneeling in the passage outside, and, unable by reason of his bulk to enter, adopted this mode of learning the commands of his dwarfish mistress. This apparition of a head belonged, as Warwick rightly guessed, to the redoubtable Simon, alias Blunderbore.
“Oh, Blunderbore,” said Miss Lelanro, tripping forward, “go and see after the roof of my summer-house at once.”
“Yes, Madam Tot—”
“Miss Lelanro, you oaf!”
“Yes, Miss Lelanro,” replied the head submissively; “and what about the gentleman? Am I to throw him into the river again?”
“You’ve been listening, I see, Blunderbore,” said the dwarf disdainfully. “No, you are not to touch him. I shall attend to him with Dr. Pryce. But get the Blue Room ready, as he will stay here till Lord Lelanro returns.”
By this time Warwick guessed that he had surprised the secret of the Lelanros. Some hereditary taint in the blood produced at intervals a dwarf in the family, similar to the little being who now stood beside him. On account of their deformity, these poor creatures, suffering through no fault of their own, were shut up within the high wall; and the outside world was ignorant of their existence. Warwick recalled the hints of Mistress Sally, and he no longer wondered that a cloud rested on the faces of the Lelanro family. To have such abnormal creatures prisoned in their country house was quite sufficient to weigh on their spirits, and Warwick thought how many dwarfs, born to solitude and disgrace, had inhabited this tiny chamber.
He expected that, alarmed at the secret being known to a stranger, the servants who attended on the dwarf would not let him depart without the sanction of Lord Lelanro; and foresaw that until the owner of the house returned from London, he would be obliged to regard himself as a prisoner. The gigantic Simon, evidently chosen to prevent such invasions of the dwarf’s chamber, was quite powerful enough to keep him there by force, and moreover there was the doctor to be reckoned with. Warwick wondered what manner of a man he would prove to be, and mentally considered how his story would be received.
At this moment the head of Blunderbore vanished in a magical manner, and Miss Lelanro tripped back to the side of her unexpected guest with a resolute look on her elfish face.
“Now, sir,” said she, with an imperious tap of her ebony cane, “what is your name?”
“Algernon Warwick.”
“What are you, Mr. Warwick?”
“A wandering fiddler!”
“Oh!” cried the lady, “it was you, then, who played this morning!”
“Yes, Miss Lelanro; and it was you who sang?”
“It was I. Your music pleased me very much, but I hardly expected the honour of a visit.”
“I assure you it was quite unintentional on my part,” urged Warwick, anxious not to offend this dainty lady. “I fell into the river by accident, and was carried away by the current. It swept me under your wall, and to save myself from being sucked under, I gripped the roots of the ivy which overhangs the stream. Had I not done so I should have been drowned. As it was I could not hang there indefinitely, so I clambered up the wall, with no intention of invading your privacy, but only intent on saving myself. The sun beating on my bare head turned me giddy, and I fell into your garden; but I assure you, Miss Lelanro, I might just as easily have tumbled out as in, and so into the stream again.”
The dwarf listened gravely to this explanation, with her head cocked on one side like that of a pert sparrow. When he paused she nodded approvingly, and supplied him with the sequel to his adventure.
“I was in my garden, Mr. Warwick, and I saw you fall. It was fortunate I had left my summer-house, else I might have been crushed under its ruins. My cry of alarm brought Blunderbore to my assistance, and seeing that you were stunned he carried you in here by my order. Then I sent for Dr. Pryce, who is now attending to you.”
“Am I to consider myself your prisoner, Miss Lelanro?”
“You are to consider yourself my guest,”’ replied the little creature, with great dignity. “I have given orders that a chamber is to be prepared for you. Not one like this,” added she, looking round the doll’s house with ludicrous complacency, “but a grown-up apartment furnished to suit your size. Dr. Pryce will be here shortly to conduct you there, and in the meantime, Mr. Warwick, I shall take my leave, to see Blunderbore repairing my summer-house.”
“I apologize for my misfortune in having crushed it,” said Warwick gravely, though secretly amused by the dwarf’s self-importance.
“Not at all! not at all!” replied Madam Tot, pausing at the door of her chamber to wave a gracious pardon, “it was not your fault. I exonerate you from all blame, and I shall make your stay at the Manor as pleasant as I possibly can.”
When she disappeared, Warwick fell to thinking of the strange situation in which he had been placed by Fate. Certainly, in leaving the inn but a few hours previously, he had not expected to find himself in such straits. Here he was, in the secret portion of the Lelanros’ house, in possession of a knowledge which they jealously concealed from the world; and he wondered how the head of the family would deal with one who innocently had unmasked the curse which was their hereditary burden. From these considerations, which were somewhat unsatisfactory, Warwick’s thoughts reverted to his violin lying under the oak tree beyond the stream, and he resolved to ask Miss Lelanro to have it brought hither by Blunderbore. It would at least solace his captivity, and moreover, as the dwarf was fond of music, he could hope to entertain her on occasions.
At this point of his reflections Dr. Pryce entered the room. Though not a dwarf, he was considerably under the stature of the average human being, and had no difficulty in penetrating into the chamber. A mild, benign face he owned, with kindly eyes and a white beard; yet he was so lacking in ordinary comeliness that he resembled some gnome king, the father of the dwarfish faery in green. With slow steps he advanced towards Warwick, and presented a glass of wine.
“Drink this, Mr. Warwick,” he said, placing it to the young man’s lips, “and then come with me to your room.”
“You know my name, doctor.”
“Madam Tot has just told me your name and story,” replied Pryce, stroking his beard. “Your entry here was purely accidental, yet none the less regrettable on that account. But we will talk of these things later on. Meanwhile, leave the chamber of Miss Lelanro, and come to your own quarters. Your head still aches?”
“Very badly, and I feel rather sick.”
“Ay, ay! A sleep will do you good. Bend your head, Mr. Warwick, and your shoulders also. Remember,” added the doctor, smiling, as he assisted the young man to leave the room, “you are in the kingdom of Lilliput.”
Whether it was a recurrence of his former vertigo, or that Pryce had put an opiate in the wine, Warwick did not clearly know; but at the door of the chamber his senses again left him, and his last recollection was of being picked up like a child by the gigantic Blunderbore.
