Читать книгу The Dwarf's Chamber - Fergus Hume - Страница 8

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WHEN Warwick learned from Dr. Pryce that Lord Lelanro, informed of his unexpected discovery of the family secret, was coming over from Paris for the express purpose of an interview, he received the news with much satisfaction. Pleasant and novel as was his position, he scarcely relished the idea of an indefinite captivity; and, habituated by custom to constant wandering, to seeing fresh faces and new neighbourhoods, he chafed at the narrow limits of his present dwelling. He trusted that an explanation, and a promise of secrecy to Lord Lelanro, would secure his freedom; and then he could resume his journey to London. In the meantime, being somewhat of a philosopher, he made the best of his anomalous position, and by so doing he gained the goodwill of those into whose company he had been thrown by Fate. In such adaptability lies the true secret of happiness.

The dwarfish lady in particular had taken a violent liking to Warwick; and, in confidence, informed him that he was the handsomest man of her acquaintance. As this was limited to three elderly men, none of whom were remarkable for good looks, the compliment was rather pointless; for Warwick was more attractive than Simon the guardian, Dr. Pryce the medical attendant, or Lord Lelanro, who was even older than his unfortunate sister. These three with Mrs. Vard, a prim antiquated dame who acted as personal attendant and nurse, formed the little world of Madam Tot. In all her sixty years she had seen no other faces, save those of two people who, having died, had been replaced by Simon and Pryce. It is then scarcely to be wondered at that the handsome looks of an engaging youth like Warwick awakened the femininity of the little creature.

Moreover, her visitor possessed accomplishments which ravished the soul of Madam Tot. He played the violin, which had been sought for and restored to its owner by the redoubtable Blunderbore; he told the most delightful stories, and he could set the poetry—which the dwarf was constantly writing—to beautiful music. Nature, which had denied the ordinary physical advantages of humanity to this being, had gifted her with the soul of a poet, and she had a wonderful facility for stringing verses on such trivial events as varied the monotony of her existence. Sometimes Warwick would suggest a theme, such as “The Faeries,” or “The Stream,” and accompany her on his violin, while Madam Tot would improvise verses thereon, and, excited by music and inspiration, deliver them with the dramatic fury of a diminutive Rachel. But she required many fatiguing compliments at the conclusion of these displays, for she had a childish vanity sufficient to fit out a dozen full-grown human beings.

She took it into her whimsical brain one morning that Warwick had not seen all the glories of her dwelling, and so sought him in Dr. Pryce’s library for the purpose of showing him round the house. The young man, who had become very friendly with the old one, was discussing the laws of heredity in relation to the Lelanro dwarfs, a subject on which Pryce was enthusiastic, and being in the full tide of argument, he was unwilling to humour the whim of the little creature. Madam Tot saw this hesitation, and, a common occurrence with her, became fractious.

“What, Mr. Warwick!” she cried, with the shrill voice she affected when angered. “Am I to be disobeyed in my own house, by my own servants—by my own guest?”

“My dear Madam Tot, I—”

“Not that name, I beg, sir. I am Miss Lelanro at present.”

This hinted that Warwick was out of favour, for only when she stood on her dignity did the little lady insist on her rightful appellation. She paused before them, tapping her ebony crutch on the oaken floor like an enraged faery godmother; and Dr. Pryce, who was fearful of the effect of such uncontrolled passions on her delicate frame, nodded to Warwick that he should accept the invitation; a hint which he reluctantly accepted.

“Mr. Warwick will go with you, Miss Lelanro,” said Pryce in a soothing tone; “we can finish our argument another time.”

“You shall finish it, sir, when I so choose,” replied the angered faery. “I wonder you are not afraid to offend me. Remember, I am a changeling, and if I would, could punish you very severely. There are certain friends of mine,” finished she significantly, “who do what I ask them. It is as well, doctor, not to offend the good neighbours.”

Pryce did not dare to smile at this fantastic speech, but, to soothe her injured dignity, he asked pardon, which was granted after some sulking. Then the doctor returned to his books, and Madam Tot, with great dignity, sailed out of the room, with Warwick after her, like a mighty three-decker in the wake of a tug-boat. He could not forbear a quiet smile at their contrast of bulk and stature.

Delighted at gaining her ends, for she was very human in many ways, the little creature chatted pleasantly, and made herself thoroughly agreeable, a thing which she did not always choose to do. Her moods were various, and succeeded one another with inconsequent rapidity. Sometimes she would be a smiling angel, at others, sulk and pout like a naughty child; and not unfrequently she gave way to causeless passions of tears. This whimsical nature was condoned by those around as part of her affliction; and every care was taken to let her have her own way when possible. This constant fostering of her failings frequently brought out the worst of her traits. So provoking could she be, that Warwick oftentimes wondered if after all she might not be kin to Robin Goodfellow, for she was as tricksy, as wayward, as inconsequent as Oberon’s henchman. Yet withal the human side of her character, which she now displayed, was so engaging that the young man could not but pet her, as he would an irresponsible child. Poor Madam Tot, so fanciful, so changeable, so lovable.

“Dr. Pryce is a good creature,” said she in a patronizing tone when they left the library, “but rather odd—rather odd. He holds views of which I by no means approve. You might not think it, Mr. Warwick, but he disbelieves in ghosts, faeries, witches, and goblins. Quite a sceptic, my dear, quite.”

“Has he been here long, Madam Tot?”

“Twenty years, more or less. I had Dr. Gulder for a medical attendant before him. But Gulder died, and Pryce came. I wasn’t sorry, my dear, for Gulder was a dreadful ogre. Oh, yes, I have reason to believe,” said the little woman mysteriously, “that Gulder was descended from the giant who figures in the tale of Hop-o’-my-Thumb. H’m! yes. An ogre, Mr. Warwick.”

By this time they had arrived at an ordinary-sized door, terminating a narrow passage, and Madam Tot pointed upward to the handle.

“Open it, please. I cannot reach so high. You are now about to see my ancestors. Not the grown-up ones, but the little people such as I am. My portrait has lately been added to the collection. Pryce, who is no mean artist, has reproduced my delicate looks in a masterly manner.”

It was the strangest picture gallery which Warwick had ever beheld. Of no great extent or height, nevertheless large enough for him to walk thereunder at ease, it was roofed with glass, and on either side were five portraits, life-size, of the Lelanro dwarfs. The whole ten representations resembled Madam Tot in a marked degree; and it seemed as though Nature, in transmitting delicate body and diminutive stature, had also impressed on each succeeding generation the features of the former. In trunk hose, in farthingales, in wigs and hoops, powder and patches, brocaded coats, and red-heeled shoes, the dwarfs, male and female, were habited in the costumes of their various epochs, and all smiled weird and uncanny-looking out of their several frames. Yet not one was deformed, not one was ungraceful; instead of a gallery of dwarfs it might have been a series of the delicate beings feigned to haunt stream, and wood, and hill.

Madam Tot ran her cane along the pictures, and rattled off the names and histories of her ancestors with great delight. It was noticeable that she termed none of them dwarfs, but characterized them by the suave term of “little people.”

“Andrew Lelanro, the son of Sir James who stole the goblet. He was the first of the little people, and here is his sister Margaret, who was quite a beauty. Malcolm, on the left, was a Jacobite, and would have fought for the exiled House of Stewart had he been tall enough. Of course you know,” said Madam Tot, breaking off, “that we have always been famous for our devotion to that unfortunate family.”

“Yes. I have heard how your ancestor obtained his estates and name,” replied Warwick gravely.

“Be Leal and Row,” said Madam Tot, with great satisfaction. “Lelanro! I am proud of belonging to so loyal, to so great a house.”

Warwick looked sympathetically at the little woman, and wondered if she felt the indignity of her dwarfish stature, which was the penalty of her greatness; but he was soon corrected on that point. Apparently such an idea had never entered her mind, and she regarded her unique personality as an honour rather than as a misfortune.

The ineffable pride with which she talked of this dwarf and the other would have been amusing, had it not been, to Warwick’s mind, so pitiful. It reminded him of the fable of the fox who lost his tail, for Madam Tot, not being as tall and bulky as the rest of the human race, affected to despise such as overgrown monsters, and lauded her own delicacy and diminutiveness. In the most conscientious manner she repeated the history of each portrait, and finally came to her own, before which she smirked and smiled with overweening pride.

“You see I am painted in my favourite green colour,” said she, simpering; “it is the livery of the good neighbours. You must notice, Mr. Warwick, that I stand in the centre of a faery ring on a mushroom-spotted sward, in allusion to my kinship with faery powers. By the way, there is a Ring of Elves in the garden, Mr. Warwick,” she added, following her last thought with noticeable fiightiness. “Come and let us seek it. Often have I seen them dance there in the cold moonshine.”

It was characteristic of the dwarf that she rarely followed a train of thought for many moments, but let her actions be guided by the last idea which entered her capricious mind. The suggestion of the faery ring delineated in the picture withdrew her thoughts from further leading Warwick through the house; therefore, in pursuance of her last whim, he found himself in the garden. Here he looked down from his five feet odd on a miniature forest of shrubs and low bushes, amid which moved the little lady, chattering shrilly as was her custom when excited.

“Yonder,” said she, pointing with her staff, “is the ring of the good neighbours. Pryce—a sceptic, my dear—says it is but a discoloration of the grass; but I know better. He has no rowan-tree twig by which to see things as they are; but I, akin to the people of peace, have a clearer vision, and I can see that here my kinsfolk hold their solemnities.”

With this speech, made in all good faith, she showed Warwick a circular patch at the side of the lawn; and skipped round it in emulation of the faeries till she was out of breath.

“I am old now, my dear,” she said pathetically, “and cannot dance as I used to. But a little time and the little people will carry me back to faery land, where I shall see a great deal of company. I should like to take you with me, Mr. Warwick.”

“What, Madam Tot, would you lead me captive thither like a second True Thomas?”

But the dwarf’s attention was already distracted by the sight of the gardener, who advanced towards them, towering over Warwick as much as the youth did over Madam Tot. Simon was a good-natured, stupid sort of creature, greatly given to grumbling, as, despite the high wage he received, he did not care about being penned up in the Manor House. His mistress saluted him with much vivacity, complimented him on his restoration of her summer-house, and then related his history to Warwick, with as much impertinence as though he were not present.

“Simon is a good creature,” she said, digging at the legs of the huge man with her cane, “but very stupid, very dull, like all giants. My brother saw him at a fair, where he earned his living in a caravan, and thinking he was tall enough to protect me, hired him as a guardian to my domain. I call him Blunderbore because he is so great an oaf. Here he gets good food, a good bed, he has a kind mistress, and his beer, yet he wants to go out into the wide world.”

“There’s ne’er a lass here,” growled the giant sulkily.

“There, you see,” snapped Madam Tot, prodding him with fresh vigour, “this Polyphemus is in love; he wants a wife. Indeed, no, Blunderbore. I’m not going to let you marry, and people my garden with mountains of flesh; noisy children who would crush my flowers. Get along with you. If you want to talk to some one, there’s Mrs. Vard.”

Blunderbore growled out something to the effect that Mrs. Vard was an old hag, then moved away to attend to his work; while Madam Tot, seizing her last idea, was all on the alert to see Mrs. Vard, and, followed by Warwick, she skipped up the path like a restless doll. At the door of the house they were met by the nurse, a motherly old creature, with a kind, withered face, and white hair. Immediately the dwarf rambled into a history of this last of the beings who populated her world.

“My nurse, Mrs. Vard, is eighty years of age, Mr. Warwick. She was with me when I was born, and has been by my side ever since. I am only sixty, quite a child beside her. I’m afraid she’ll die soon,” cried the dwarf, bursting into tears, “and then I shall be all alone.”

“Don’t cry, my dear little one,” said Mrs. Vard, picking her up as she would a child, “I’ll last a long time yet.”

“Till I go back to faeryland, then,” sobbed Madam Tot, who always spoke of her death in this ambiguous fashion, “but not before—not before. Who would put me to bed, and sing me songs, and tell me stories, but you, Moggy Vard? I want no one but you. I am extremely attached to you, dear. Send that person away.”

This allusion was to Warwick, who, thus ungratefully dismissed, returned to the library, and left the dwarf to recover her smiles in the arms of the faithful Moggy.