Wilfrid Cumbermede. George MacDonald
of the little entrance tower. To my joyous amazement, its walls were crowded with swords, daggers—weapons in endless variety, mingled with guns and pistols, for which I cared less. Some which had hilts curiously carved and even jewelled, seemed of foreign make. Their character was different from that of the rest; but most were evidently of the same family with the one sword I knew. Mrs Wilson could tell me nothing about them. All she knew was that this was the armoury, and that Sir Giles had a book with something written in it about every one of the weapons. They were no chance collection: each had a history. I gazed in wonder and delight. Above the weapons hung many pieces of armour—no entire suits, however; of those there were several in the hall below. Finding that Mrs Wilson did not object to my handling the weapons within my reach, I was soon so much absorbed in the examination of them that I started when she spoke.
‘You shall come again, Master Cumbermede,’ she said. ‘We must go now.’ I replaced a Highland broadsword, and turned to follow her. She was evidently pleased with the alacrity of my obedience, and for the first time bestowed on me a smile as she led the way from the armoury by another door. To my enhanced delight this door led into the library. Gladly would I have lingered, but Mrs Wilson walked on, and I followed through rooms and rooms, low-pitched, and hung with tapestry, some carpeted, some floored with black polished oak, others with some kind of cement or concrete, all filled with ancient furniture whose very aspect was a speechless marvel. Out of one into another, along endless passages, up and down winding stairs, now looking from the summit of a lofty tower upon terraces and gardens below—now lost in gloomy arches, again out upon acres of leads, and now bathed in the sweet gloom of the ancient chapel with its stained windows of that old glass which seems nothing at first, it is so modest and harmonious, but which for that very reason grows into a poem in the brain: you see it last and love it best—I followed with unabating delight.
When at length Mrs Wilson said I had seen the whole, I begged her to let me go again into the library, for she had not given me a moment to look at it. She consented.
It was a part of the house not best suited for the purpose, connected with the armoury by a descent of a few steps. It lay over some of the housekeeping department, was too near the great hall, and looked into the flagged court. A library should be on the ground-floor in a quiet wing, with an outlook on grass, and the possibility of gaining it at once without going through long passages. Nor was the library itself, architecturally considered, at all superior to its position. The books had greatly outgrown the space allotted to them, and several of the neighbouring rooms had been annexed as occasion required; hence it consisted of half-a-dozen rooms, some of them merely closets intended for dressing-rooms, and all very ill lighted. I entered it however in no critical spirit, but with a feeling of reverential delight. My uncle’s books had taught me to love books. I had been accustomed to consider his five hundred volumes a wonderful library; but here were thousands—as old, as musty, as neglected, as dilapidated, therefore as certainly full of wonder and discovery, as man or boy could wish.—Oh the treasures of a house that has been growing for ages! I leave a whole roomful of lethal weapons, to descend three steps into six roomfuls of books—each ‘the precious life-blood of a master-spirit’—for as yet in my eyes all books were worthy! Which did I love best? Old swords or old books? I could not tell! I had only the grace to know which I ought to love best.
As we passed from the first room into the second, up rose a white thing from the corner of the window-seat, and came towards us. I started. Mrs Wilson exclaimed:
‘La! Miss Clara! how ever—?
The rest was lost in the abyss of possibility.
‘They told me you were somewhere about, Mrs Wilson, and I thought I had better wait here. How do you do?’
‘La, child, you’ve given me such a turn!’ said Mrs Wilson. ‘You might have been a ghost if it had been in the middle of the night.’
‘I’m very sorry, Mrs Wilson,’ said the girl merrily. ‘Only you see if it had been a ghost it couldn’t have been me.’
‘How’s your papa, Miss Clara?’
‘Oh! he’s always quite well.’
‘When did you see him?’
‘To-day. He’s at home with grandpapa now.’
‘And you ran away and left him?’
‘Not quite that. He and grandpapa went out about some business—to the copse at Deadman’s Hollow, I think. They didn’t want my advice—they never do; so I came to see you, Mrs Wilson.’
By this time I had been able to look at the girl. She was a year or two older than myself, I thought, and the loveliest creature I had ever seen. She had large blue eyes of the rare shade called violet, a little round perhaps, but the long lashes did something to rectify that fault; and a delicate nose—turned up a little of course, else at her age she could not have been so pretty. Her mouth was well curved, expressing a full share of Paley’s happiness; her chin was something large and projecting, but the lines were fine. Her hair was a light brown, but dark for her eyes, and her complexion would have been enchanting to any one fond of the ‘sweet mixture, red and white.’ Her figure was that of a girl of thirteen, undetermined—but therein I was not critical. ‘An exceeding fair forehead,’ to quote Sir Philip Sidney, and plump, white, dimple-knuckled hands complete the picture sufficiently for the present. Indeed it would have been better to say only that I was taken with her, and then the reader might fancy her such as he would have been taken with himself. But I was not fascinated. It was only that I was a boy and she was a girl, and there being no element of decided repulsion, I felt kindly disposed towards her.
Mrs Wilson turned to me.
‘Well, Master Cumbermede, you see I am able to give you more than I promised.’
‘Yes,’ I returned; ‘you promised to show me the old house—’
‘And here,’ she interposed, ‘I show you a young lady as well.’
‘Yes, thank you,’ I said simply. But I had a feeling that Mrs Wilson was not absolutely well-pleased.
I was rather shy of Miss Clara—not that I was afraid of her, but that I did not exactly know what was expected of me, and Mrs Wilson gave us no further introduction to each other. I was not so shy, however, as not to wish Mrs Wilson would leave us together, for then, I thought, we should get on well enough; but such was not her intent. Desirous of being agreeable, however—as far as I knew how, and remembering that Mrs Wilson had given me the choice before, I said to her—
‘Mightn’t we go and look at the deer, Mrs Wilson?’
‘You had better not,’ she answered. ‘They are rather ill-tempered just now. They might run at you. I heard them fighting last night, and knocking their horns together dreadfully.’
‘Then we’d better not,’ said Clara. ‘They frightened me very much yesterday.’
We were following Mrs Wilson from the room. As we passed the hall-door, we peeped in.
‘Do you like such great high places?’ asked Clara.
‘Yes, I do,’ I answered. ‘I like great high places. It makes you gasp somehow.’
‘Are you fond of gasping? Does it do you good?’ she asked, with a mock-simplicity which might be humour or something not so pleasant.
‘Yes, I think it does,’ I answered. ‘It pleases me.’
‘I don’t like it. I like a quiet snug place like the library—not a great wide place like this, that looks as if it had swallowed you and didn’t know it.’
‘What a clever creature she is!’ I thought. We turned away and followed Mrs Wilson again.
I had expected to spend the rest of the day with her, but the moment we reached her apartment, she got out a bottle of her home-made wine and some cake, saying it was time for me to go home. I was much disappointed—the more that the pretty Clara remained behind; but what could I do? I strolled back to Aldwick with my head fuller than ever of fancies new and old. But Mrs Wilson had said nothing of going to see her again, and without an invitation I could not venture to revisit the Hall.
In