Читать книгу The Dwarf's Chamber - Fergus Hume - Страница 9

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IT was with a certain feeling of uneasiness that Warwick looked forward to the arrival of Lord Lelanro, for he was well aware that his presence at the Manor House laid him open to disagreeable suspicion and weighty reproof. Though it was true that the immediate cause of his intrusion was accidental, yet it was difficult to explain how he had come to be in the vicinity of wall and stream, without confessing to an undignified curiosity. The path by the river led to no destination, and was far from the high-road, so Warwick could not account for his presence in the Lelanro lands on the pretext that he was pursuing his journey to London. If, therefore, as he expected, although on no reasonable grounds, Lord Lelanro proved to be a severe man, he would be likely to read this trespasser a sharp lecture, such as his pride could ill brook.

Fortunately Warwick was now fairly intimate with the good doctor, and, as this latter was likely to know the idiosyncrasies of his master, the young man resolved to consult him as to the best course to adopt. Hitherto he had not made a confidant of Pryce, owing to a certain amount of inherent reserve; but in this instance he broke through his natural distaste for talking of himself to a stranger, and related as much of his past as he thought fit; reserving the pith of the matter for the ear of Lelanro.

As usual, Pryce was in his study, an apartment of no very great extent, lined on all four sides with well-bound books. The roof was domed, and divided by narrow windows of stained glass, so that the daylight filtering through created a dim twilight, fitted for the monastic quiet of the place. An oriel window, emblazoned with family escutcheons, overlooked the domain of Madam Tot; and where the bookshelves ceased, the walls were draped with antique tapestry, woven with the loves of gods and goddesses. This apartment was luxuriously furnished, yet the tints of draperies and carpets and cushions were so subdued, and the atmosphere was so tenebrous, that the tone of the whole was such as to chill a stranger at the outset. A magician’s cave, an anchorite’s cell could not have inspired a greater spirit of discomfort.

To Warwick the study was not without a quiet charm of its own, for his imagination found food for dreams and. fancies in the sober brown atmosphere. And oftentimes when disposed to reflection, he would ensconce himself in the oriel depths with a tome of ancient learning at his elbow. But again a revulsion of feeling, a longing for wet wind and breezy down, and the memory of warm sunlight asleep on purple uplands, would send him out into the garden, there to fret at the narrow confines of his prison house. Then he would betake himself to his violin, and express this nostalgia of the wilds in capricious strains, passionate with longing and impatient desire. The passing of these fits of Nature-worship always sent him back to books and dreams.

“I hear,” said he, laying down his violin on the oriel seat, “that Miss Lelanro expects her brother to-morrow.”

“He will be here at noon,” replied Dr. Pryce, raising his eyes; “and, I have no doubt, he will at once listen to your explanation.”

“Is he a severe man, doctor?”

“He looks so, Mr. Warwick, but at heart he is exceedingly kind. I had not been here else.”

“You are a protégé of his?”

“Ay, lad,” responded the student with a sad smile; “born to a life of strife and temptation, with a nature that could ill withstand such things, I was fast being sucked into the vortex of destruction when Lelanro stretched out his hand and drew me to this safe-refuge.”

“It was good of him to do so. You have been here many years?”

“Over twenty, sir. When Dr. Gulder died it was necessary that another medical attendant should be obtained for the unfortunate little creature, and I was chosen. Here I have been since, and here I hope to die.”

“Do you not find it dull?”

“Ah, youth! youth! youth!” sighed Pryce, shaking his grey head, “how well I know what you feel. To your two-and-twenty years, Mr. Warwick, this quiet seems dull, this house appears a prison. I never thought so myself. The iron of the world had entered deeply into my heart before I sought refuge here, and I was willing to give up riches, ambition, love, friends, everything for the sake of peace. Some day you will feel as I.”

“I trust not,” replied Warwick, with a flush. “Movement and freedom are to me the breath of life, I like this quiet on occasions, but there are other times when I long for my former wandering life; to tramp across limitless moors, to listen to the waves breaking on rocky shores, to sleep in the moonlight to the lullaby of the nightingale. That is life—here existence is akin to death.”

“You have travelled much?”

“For the last few years, yes,” answered the youth carelessly; “and as poverty has made me acquainted with the rough side of the world, I have profited by its teaching.”

“You are indeed older than your years, Warwick. I have met with no lad at once so judicious and thoughtful.”

“Yet I was neither, to plant myself on the hither side of the stream, and meddle with matters which concerned me not.”

“The natural curiosity of youth,” responded Pryce composedly; “tell my lord the truth, and I do not think you will find him over severe.”

“He is old, is he not?”

“Ay! He bears the weight of eighty years. A wise and renowned gentleman, sir, one who has lived in cities and courts; who has borne his part in the councils of kings and in the wars of the nations. Such a one, Mr. Warwick, is not likely to judge hastily of your youthful folly.”

“I hope not,” said Warwick, slightly reddening; “and when he hears my story I trust he will find even more excuse. You know,” added he after a reflective pause, “that I came advisedly to Dalesford.”

“Indeed. It is an out-of-the-way village, certainly.”

“I seek in London a man called Ballard,” resumed Warwick, paying no attention to the remark, “and as I have reason to believe he comes from this hamlet, I thought it advisable to see the place for myself on my way to town. By taking a slight detour I managed to strike it, and, to my surprise, I slept at an inn kept by a landlady of the same name.”

“That will be Mistress Sally. Did you remark on the coincidence?” said the doctor, a trifle embarrassed.

“No, To tell you the truth, I did not think of it until I had left the inn, and was fiddling under the Manor wall. I intended to have returned and questioned Mistress Sally, but that Fate interposed and placed me within these walls.”

“Would it be an impertinence on my part to ask your reason for seeking Ballard?”

Warwick hesitated, and drummed fretfully on the table with his fingers, an anxious look clouding his brow. At length he made up his mind to answer in the affirmative.

“I seek him as one who knows my birth and—”

“And parentage,” finished Pryce, seeing him hesitate again.

“No. I am aware of my parentage. There is no need to mention that now. When I tell all to Lord Lelanro I will include you as a listener. My father did not know whence he sprang, but he believed firmly that this man Ballard was possessed of such knowledge. Therefore I wish to find him, and if possible to learn the truth.”

“You have no clue to your birth?”

“Only this.”

Warwick placed before the student the paper inscribed with his name and the date of his father’s birth.

“You see, doctor, that bears the name ‘Algernon’ and the date ‘24 December, 1857.’ The name is that of my father, and the date presumably that of his birth—though, indeed, I have my doubts as to the latter being correct. Herein, said my father before he died, is concealed the mystery of our race and station.”

“A name, a date,” said Pryce, examining this scanty clue. “I can make nothing of it. Wherever did your father obtain it?”

“I cannot tell you that, for I don’t know.”

“H’m! It is a slight guide for so great a matter. You have tried to unravel it?”

“Hundreds of times; but always without success.”

“You should give it to Madam Tot,” said Pryce, smiling, “she is passionately devoted to charades, and riddles, and cryptograms. She, if any one, will discover the solution of this. To my mind the junction of letters, and figures, hints at a cryptogram; that is,” added the student pedantically, “a secret writing wherein the letters are purposely thrown into confusion in order to conceal a secret.”

“I have thought so myself,” replied Warwick, restoring the paper to his pocket-book; “but it cannot be so, for, as you can see for yourself, there is no confusion. Date and name are both intelligible enough, I think.”

“Very true, Mr. Warwick,” answered Pryce, drawing his brows together. “Nevertheless in anagrams, for instance, a readable and intelligent sentence can be composed by transposing the letters of a name. In this case it is not impossible that, by placing the letters of the name Algernon in a certain order, another name may be evolved—possibly that of the family to which you belong. However, I am no adept in such literary mysteries. Madam Tot is more likely to unriddle the puzzle than I.”

“Good! I shall put Madam Tot’s capabilities to the test. Nature often puts great wits in little heads. And now, Dr, Pryce,” added Warwick hurriedly, “I have told you so much of my story as suffices for the present. In return let me hear of the Lelanro family, and especially of the head of the house, so that I may know how I stand. You say that Lord Lelanro is eighty years of age, and that he is lenient in his judgments. What more?”

“He has a grand-daughter.”

“So said Mistress Sally, who showed me her portrait. A very charming young lady, with rather a sad expression.”

“Ah!” sighed Pryce, shaking his head. “Can you wonder that she is sad, knowing what we know of Madam Tot?”

“Frankly speaking, I do wonder. There is nothing repulsive about the dwarfish lady that should make her relations shudder. And to speak frankly, doctor,” continued Warwick decisively, “I see no need to shut up the little creature as though she were a monstrosity.”

“The Lelanros do not like to own that they have such a freak in their family. They are very proud, Mr. Warwick.”

“And very cruel! I think it is foolish to be sad on account of the pigmy, and to imprison her.”

“Every one has his own way of looking at things,” responded the doctor dryly, “and the Lelanros think these monstrous births a great infliction. Each member of the family is told of the secret when he or she reaches the age of twenty, and as Miss Celia was informed of it this year, naturally she thinks a great deal about the matter.”

“And looks sad on that account. Strange that a sensible human being should be so foolish.”

“You do not seem to feel any repulsion at the sight of a dwarf.”

“No. Why should I?” answered Warwick frankly. “Madam Tot is beautifully formed, and is a most engaging little creature. Moreover, I have seen—But there,” he added abruptly, “you will hear my principal reason later on. What more of the Lelanro family? Mistress Sally tells me that when the present lord dies his estates and title go to a distant relative.”

“True enough, Mr. Warwick. The direct line ends with my patron. He had a son, a fine young man, who was killed in the hunting field many years ago. His widow afterwards gave birth to a posthumous child—to Miss Celia, and died also. Lord Lelanro was much affected at the death of his heir, and he was greatly grieved when the child proved to be a girl, knowing thereby that the title would pass to his distant relation.”

“Why did he not marry again?”

“Ah, that I can’t tell you!” answered Pryce dubiously; “but no doubt he has a reason for continuing a widower.”

“Had he no other children but the son who died?”

The doctor looked oddly at Warwick as he asked this question, and did not answer for some few moments. When he did so it was in an evasive manner, which was in direct contrast to his ordinarily straightforward speech.

“There may have been others, Mr. Warwick; but if so they died.”

“H’m! I wonder if there were any dwarfs?” muttered the young man to himself.

Pryce rose from his chair with a frown, and swung off sharply towards the window. Seeing that he was unwilling to speak further on the subject, Warwick forbore to make any comment on this silence; but nevertheless he reflected that here was another secret connected with this strange family. An odd idea had entered his brain, to which he hardly dared to give credence, yet there it stayed, and there it ripened to fruition many weeks later. The germ was planted that day in the study, when Pryce so awkwardly evaded a plain answer to a plain question.

“Mr. Warwick,” said the doctor, coming towards him with the violin, “now that we have had our talk, play me a tune on this. If all other means fail to propitiate my lord, fiddle yourself into his good graces, for he is as fond of music as is his poor little sister yonder.”

Warwick mechanically placed the instrument under his chin, and grasped the bow as he moved towards the open window. A breath of scented air, borne over the wall from the distant country, floated into the room, and carried with it that imperative longing for fragrant meadows and dimpling streams which seized him at times. Filled with this nostalgia of the woods, he drew the bow across the strings, and forthwith there leaped out a silvery strain telling of his rustic desires. The flutter of butterflies, the piping of birds at dawn, the dew-sprinkled meads, blent themselves in that pure melody. Carried away by the music rippling from the violin, Warwick closed his eyes, and let his soul float in pursuit of homely dreams; the clink of the milk-pails, the blithe song of the home-coming peasant, swaths lying yellow in the hot harvest sun; again he felt the odour of mown hay in his nostrils, he heard the drowsy hum of the mill-wheel, and listened to the gurgle of the water amid the rustling reeds. Ah! it was a peaceful and beautiful dream transmuted into sound.

A rapid patter of little feet, and Madam Tot, attracted from afar by the music, trotted into the room. In silence she looked up at the musician with a serious face, and in his turn he opened his eyes, to find the little creature at his knee. To please her he tuned a merry country dance fit for blowsy wench and stalwart haymaker; but such rusticity did not please the ethereal soul of the changeling. With a frown she lifted a tiny hand.

“No yokel dance for me,” she cried impulsively. “I want neither rustic strain nor harvest revelry. Think of the little people in the moonshine, who whirl in wavering circles round and round. The owls hoot, the wind rustles the leaves, and the faeries clad in green hold high solemnity. Play for the elves; no rustic round for the peaceful neighbours.”

Wherewith Warwick drew from his instrument a strain so fantastically beautiful that she uttered a cry of surprise, and as the wild music waxed louder and more elfish under the sweeping bow, she picked up her green skirts and footed it merrily. With bound and whirl she spun in the sunlight, and still the strains echoed through the room.

“My dear,” cried she, sinking exhausted to the floor, “you must play in the moonshine. Were I queen of the elves you should be my music-maker.”