Читать книгу The Dwarf's Chamber - Fergus Hume - Страница 7

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WISEACRES, who are merely simpletons in disguise, are fond of declaring that romance is a thing of the past; although by so foolish an assertion they unwittingly nullify their claim to wisdom. Unable, by reason of their shallow understandings, to take in other than external evidence, they deem romance to appertain exclusively to courts of kings and picarooning expeditions; to require doublets, and swords, and masks; to necessitate haunted chamber, lonely castle, and picturesque inn; as though romance, which may be termed the miracle of circumstance, were not independent of wardrobe, scene, and conjunction of planets. Romance is as much with us to-day as ever it was with our forefathers; but less apparent to the eye, less insistent in thrusting itself athwart the current of daily life, it conceals itself under the mask of the commonplace. To him who seeks shall it be given.

In the present instance Algernon Warwick, by no means heroic in circumstance or requirement, found himself placed, almost against his will, in as romantic a situation as was ever conceived by poet or novelist. To say that a handsome youth, apparently a disguised noble, took shelter in a village inn, penetrated through a wild forest, and scaled the walls of a feudal castle to rescue an enchanted princess, is to treat the subject in the romance vein. To relate that a fiddling tramp slept in a wayside hotel, trespassed on private property, and feloniously gained admission into a country house, where he saw an undersized lady, is to tell the same story in plain words. Yet the one description is fitted for a faery tale, while the other, similar in all respects, smacks of everyday life. In this way, when a story is related in plain prose, does your wiseacre refuse to credit it with the elements of romance. Nevertheless, romance it may be called.

Warwick considered his adventure by the light of an imaginative brain, and far from scorning it as commonplace and prosaic, he adorned it with all the hues of fantasy. Miss Lelanro was not an undersized lady, but a dwarf who doubtless had elfish blood in her veins; the country house was an enchanted castle, Dr. Pryce a fair representative of a kindly magician, and Blunderbore a giant, dull and spiteful. In such wise can the alchemy of a youthful and poetic imagination transmute the prosaic into the romantic.

Yet he had some excuse for so poetizing, for the strangeness of his surroundings lifted his life out of the ordinary commonplace of existence. The dwarfish lady was full of fancies concerning the reason of her tiny stature; and although Dr. Pryce, hardened man of science as he was, professed to explain the matter on physiological grounds, Warwick infinitely preferred the fantastic legend related by Madam Tot.

“You must know,” said she, several days after his unexpected arrival, “that one of my ancestors, Sir James Lelanro, went to visit the old ferry-house of his father, Leal Andrew. The hut was ruined and the boat gone, so, unable to cross the river or to retrace his steps, Sir James wrapped himself in his mantle and lay down on the bare ground to sleep till morning. By chance he had gathered a twig of the rowan tree, which protects mortals from faery power, and also gives them faery vision. With the rowan twig in his hand, Sir James woke at midnight when the moon was full, and he saw the little people arrayed in green, holding their revels. They danced and sang, and drank their wine o’ broom from goblets of gold fashioned by the gnomes. Not knowing that Sir James by the magic of the rowan twig could espy their solemnity, they paid no attention to his presence, but skipped merrily in the moonshine. Remembering the story of the Musgraves, one of whom thieved a crystal cup from the faeries, since called the Luck of Edenhall, which brought fortune to the family, Sir James thought he would steal a goblet also, so as to ensure a fair future to his race. With this idea he stretched out his hand and picked up a faery cup lying on the grass. Then the little people knew that he saw them, and with furious gestures demanded back their golden goblet. Sir James refused to restore it, and as they were unable to harm him because of the rowan twig, the chief faery pronounced a doom on him and his.

“‘You have stolen our cup,’ said the faery, ‘and for that we will steal a child from every generation of your family. It will be taken to faeryland, and we will leave in its place a changeling who will work woe to you and yours.’

“With this speech the faeries vanished and Sir James fell asleep. He awoke to find himself on the wet grass, amid the ruins of Leal Andrew’s hut, with the golden goblet firmly clutched in his right hand, and so took his departure from the spot. Since then,” said Madam Tot solemnly, “the little people have stolen a child from every generation of the Lelanros, and left in place of it a changeling. I am no Lelanro, Mr. Warwick, though I call myself one, for the real mortal is in faeryland, and I am the changeling.”

“You are then a faery,” said Warwick, smiling at the belief of the little creature.

“A faery without the power of one,” gravely replied the dwarf in all good faith. “I am of faery stature, I wear the livery of the little people, but my power is taken from me, and I shall work no spells till I return at the end of my mortal life to faeryland.”

“And what of the goblet which caused all this trouble? Does it still exist?”

“No. A grandson of Sir James Lelanro sold it to supply the necessities of Charles Stewart when he was in need of money. No one knows where the faery cup now is,” she added, “but the changeling remains. Every generation of Lelanros has had one of the little people placed in the cradle.”

Hardly had Madam Tot ceased speaking when, featherheaded and inconsequent as a child, she ran off in chase of a white butterfly, and left Warwick in the company of Pryce. They were in the garden under the shadow of the great wall, and at the conclusion of the legend the young man turned towards the doctor with a smile.

“So much for the ideal,” said he inquiringly; “now for the real. What is the reason of this dwarfish strain in the Lelanro family?”

“I am afraid science cannot answer that question,” replied Pryce, shaking his head; “it is one of the mysteries of Nature. The Lelanros are usually tall and well-formed; but every now and then a dwarf is born.”

“To every generation?”

“No. Sometimes a generation is free, and all the children attain ordinary stature. But the strain is sure to come out again, even after the lapse of years. There is physical as well as mental heredity, you know, Mr. Warwick.”

“I believe so,” replied Warwick mechanically, for his thoughts were otherwhere. “I suppose these Lelanro dwarfs never marry.”

“Assuredly not,” said Dr. Pryce emphatically. “Who would marry an abnormal creature like that? It would be cruel and unwise. When a dwarf is born to the family it is placed here, and its life is made as pleasant as possible. That little being is far happier here than she would be were she allowed to be seen by all, and mocked at for her deformity.”

“But she is not deformed.”

“Not in the usual sense of the word,” assented the doctor thoughtfully; “but her stature is against Nature. Were she fully grown she might be as hideous as Caliban, and yet be able to mix with her fellow-creatures. As it is, the very beauty of her diminutive person would attract attention and curiosity; and as the Lelanros are a proud family, they naturally do not care to have one of their members so regarded by the world.”

“Nobody knows of the existence of Madam Tot?”

“No one, save myself, Simon, and Mrs. Yard, the female attendant. Our little friend is kindly treated, and, as you see, she has every comfort. Do you not think yourself that she is better here than exposed to the jeers of the world?”

“I must say that I do. She seems a childish being.”

“She is shrewd in some things, Mr. Warwick; but having no experience of life she is still in the stage of childhood, although close on sixty years of age.”

“Sixty years of age,” sighed Warwick sympathetically; “a long time to pass in captivity.”

“I beg of you not to use that word, sir,” said the doctor reprovingly, “it is not captivity to her; and you must not put such ideas into her head. Though, perhaps,” added the doctor, divining the reason of the sigh, “you object to your detention here.”

“Not at all, doctor. I am willing to remain till Lord Lelanro arrives.”

“He is coming here next week, Mr. Warwick, and he will then see you on the subject of your unfortunate intrusion here. I hope you do not blame me for detaining you, sir, as, all things being taken into consideration, I could act in no other way.”

“I am not at all angry with you,” said Warwick, taking the hand of the elder man, “and I have no objection to pass a few weeks in the company of so accomplished a scholar. But neither you nor Lord Lelanro need mistrust me, as my lips are sealed by honour on all points regarding this place. I will breathe no word of it to a soul.”

“I quite believe you, Mr. Warwick. From the moment you came I saw that you were a gentleman.”

“I’m afraid you saw wrong, doctor,” replied the young man, flushing. “I am not a born gentleman.”

“Of that I know nothing, Mr. Warwick; but you certainly give me a strong impression that your birth is not so lowly as you would imply.”

“Some day I shall tell you my story, doctor, and then you can judge for yourself.”

With this promise the other was obliged to be content, although he could hardly contain his very natural curiosity concerning this attractive young stranger. Several times he had hinted at the advisability of Warwick making a confidant of him; but with constant good-humour the youth declined to reveal his past life.

“If necessary I shall relate my history to Lord Lelanro,” said he decisively, “and it is very probable that, as I have unwittingly become possessed of his secret, I shall place myself unreservedly in his hands. But till then, Dr, Pryce, I prefer to keep my own counsel.”

There was so much quiet determination in this reply, that Pryce could not but admire the good sense of the young man. Notwithstanding Warwick’s assertion of his humble birth, the doctor could not believe that one so refined in looks and manner could come of other than gentle blood. Moreover, in their frequent conversations, Warwick showed himself to be a well-educated man; and in a moment of negligence let slip the information that he had been at a prominent public school. As wandering fiddlers do not as a rule attend such high scholastic establishments, the good doctor settled in his own mind that Warwick was a youth of good family who had run away from home, and feared to tell his tale lest he might be reclaimed by his parents. Yet as he confessed to twenty-two years of age, and was therefore beyond tutelage, this was hardly a satisfactory explanation. Nevertheless, in default of a better it was accepted silently by Dr. Pryce.

Warwick found his life at the Manor fairly pleasant. The domain of the dwarfs was shut off from the rest of the house, and beyond the barrier so placed he was not permitted to go. The high wall along the river completely excluded strangers on that side, and heavy doors, stoutly barred, kept out prying servants from the interior of the mansion. Madam Tot, as she was usually called, had a suite of tiny apartments furnished commensurate to her size; but the rest of the wing appertaining to the enclosed dwelling was arranged for the accommodation of grown-up people. To Warwick was assigned a comfortable chamber, and he passed most of his time in the study of Dr. Pryce, or in the garden, with Madam Tot for company.

That garden amused and delighted Warwick. It was three acres in extent, and sloped gently from the house to the huge wall which overhung the river. Everything that art could do, was done to make it a pleasant domain; but all was on a dwarfish scale, in keeping with the tiny stature of the manikin. There were stunted trees of no great size, many low shrubs, and wide spaces of lawn, interspersed with brilliant flower-beds. Statues of white marble, fashioned like tiny dolls, stood on low pedestals. A miniature Venus smiled beside a shallow pool, a dwarfish Bacchus grasped an infinitesimal bunch of grapes, a pigmy Apollo bent a childish bow, and Hebe, less in stature than Madam Tot herself, proffered a doll’s cup from her pedestal. The efforts of the designer of this miniature paradise had been directed towards a complete reduction of everything to a size in keeping with the tiny personality of the dwarf. Flowers, shrubs, trees, statues, summer-house, all were ideally small, and the high walls surrounding this pigmy paradise looked inconceivably high in comparison with the domain they enclosed. So rare a spectacle afforded Warwick no little pleasure.

“Decidedly, I am in the kingdom of Lilliput,” said he, on the first glimpse of this garden; “it is not given to every one to be a Gulliver of the nineteenth century. Swift’s fantasy has come true in my case.”