Lud-in-the-Mist (14 page)

T
here were days, however, when even the silent things did not sooth Master Nathaniel; when the condition described by Ranulph as the imprisoning of all one’s being into a space as narrow as a tooth, whence it irradiates waves of agony, became so overwhelming, that he was unconscious of the external world.

One late afternoon, a prey to this mood, he was mooning about the Fields of Grammary.

In the epitaphs on the tombstone one could read the history of Dorimarite sensibility from the quiet poignancy of those dating from the days of the Dukes — “Eglantine mourns for Endymion, who was Alive and now is Dead;” or “During her Life Ambrose often dreamed that Forget-Me-Not was Dead. This Time he woke up and found that it was True” — followed by the peaceful records of industry and prosperity of the early days of the Republic, down to the cheap cynicism of recent times — for instance, “Here lies Hyacinth Quirkscuttle, weaver, who stretched his life as he was wont to do the list of his cloth far beyond its natural limits, and, to the great regret of his family, died at the age of xcix.”

But, that afternoon, even his favorite epitaph, the one about the old baker, Ebeneezor Spike, who had provided the citizens of Lud-in-the-Mist with fresh sweet loaves for sixty years, was powerless to comfort Master Nathaniel.

Indeed, so strangled was he in the coils of his melancholy that the curious fact of the door of his family chapel being ajar caused in him nothing but a momentary, muffled surprise.

The chapel of the Chanticleers was one of the loveliest monuments of Lud. It was built of rose-colored marble, with delicately fluted pillars, and worked in low relief with the flowers and panic stricken fugitives, so common in the old art of Dorimare. Indeed, it looked like an exquisite little pleasure-house; and tradition said that this it had originally been — one of Duke Aubrey’s, in fact. And it certainly was in accordance with his legend to make a graveyard the scene of his revels.

No one ever entered except Master Nathaniel and his household to fill it with flowers on the anniversaries of his parents’ death. Nevertheless, the door was certainly ajar.

The only comment he made to himself was to suppose that the pious Hempie had been up that day to commemorate some anniversary, remembered only by herself, in the lives of her dead master and mistress, and had forgotten to lock it up again.

Drearily he wandered to the western wall and gazed down upon Lud-in-the-Mist, and so drugged was he with despair that at first he was incapable of reacting in the slightest degree to what his eyes were seeing.

Then, just as sometimes the flowing of the Dapple was reflected in the trunks of the beeches that grew on its banks, so that an element that looked as if it were half water, half light, seemed rippling down them in ceaseless zones — so did the objects he saw beneath him begin to be reflected in fancies, rippling down the hard, unyielding fabric of his woe; the red-roofed houses scattered about the side of the hill looked as if they were crowding helter-skelter to the harbor, eager to turn ships themselves and sail away — a flock of clumsy ducks on a lake of swans; the houses beyond the harbor seemed to be preening themselves preparatory to having their portrait taken. The chimneys were casting becoming velvet shadows on the high-pitched slanting roofs. The belfries seemed to be standing on tiptoe behind the houses — like tall serving lads, who, unbeknown to their masters, have succeeded in squeezing themselves into the family group.

Or, perhaps, the houses were more like a flock of barn-door fowls, of different shapes and sizes, crowding up at the hen wife’s “Chick! chick! chick!” to be fed at sunset.

Anyhow, however innocent they might look, they were the repositories of whatever dark secrets Lud might contain. Houses counted among the Silent People. Walls have ears, but no tongue. Houses, trees, the dead — they tell no tales.

His eye traveled beyond the town to the country that lay beyond, and rested on the fields of poppies and golden stubble, the smoke of distant hamlets, the great blue ribbon of the Dawl, the narrow one of the Dapple — one coming from the north, one from the west, but, for some miles beyond Lud-in-the-Mist, seeming to flow in parallel lines, so that their convergence at the harbor struck one as a geometrical miracle.

Once more he began to feel the balm of silent things, and seemed to catch a glimpse of that still, quiet landscape the future, after he himself had died.

And yet … there was that old superstition of the thralldom in Fairyland, the labor in the fields of gillyflowers.

No, no. Old Ebeneezor Spike was not a thrall in Fairyland.

H
e left the Fields of Grammary in a gentler mood of melancholy than the frost-bound despair in which he had gone there.

When he got home he found Dame Marigold sitting dejectedly in the parlor, her hands lying limply on her lap, and she had had the fire already lighted although evening had not yet set in.

She was very white, and there were violet shadows under her eyes.

Master Nathaniel stood silently at the door for a few seconds watching her.

There came into his head the lines of an old song of Dorimare: —

And suddenly he saw her with the glamour on her that used to madden him in the days of his courtship, the glamour of something that is delicate, and shadowy, and far-away — the glamour that lets loose the lust of the body of a man for the soul of a woman.

“Marigold,” he said in a low voice.

Her lips curled in a little contemptuous smile: “Well, Nat, have you been out baying the moon, and chasing your own shadow?”

“Marigold!” and he came and leaned over the back of her chair.

She started violently. Then she cried in a voice, half petulant, half apologetic, “I’m sorry! But, you know, I can’t bear having the back of my neck touched! Oh, Nat, what a sentimental old thing you are!”

And then it all began over again — the vain repinings, the veiled reproaches; while the desire to make him wince struggled for the ascendancy with the habit of mercy, engendered by years of a mild, slightly contemptuous tenderness.

Her attitude to the calamity was one of physical disgust, mingled with petulance, a sense of ill-usage, and, incredible though it may seem, a sense of its ridiculous aspect.

Occasionally she would stop shuddering, to make some such remark as: “Oh, dear! I can’t help wishing that old Primrose herself had gone off with them, and that I could have seen her prancing to the fiddle and screeching like an old love-sick tabby cat.”

Finally Master Nathaniel could stand it no longer. He sprang to his feet, exclaiming violently: “Marigold, you
madden
me! You’re … you’re not a woman. I believe what you need is some of that fruit yourself. I’ve a good mind to get some, and force it down your throat!”

But it was an outrageous thing to have said. And no sooner were the words out of his mouth than he would have given a hundred pounds to have them unsaid.

What had taken his tongue! It was as if an old trusty watchdog had suddenly gone mad and bitten him.

But he could stay no longer in the parlor, and face her cold, disgusted stare. So, sheepishly mumbling an apology, he left the room.

Where should he go? Not to the pipe-room. He could not face the prospect of his own company. So he went upstairs and knocked at Hempie’s door.

However much in childhood a man may have loved his nurse, it is seldom that, after he has grown up, he does not feel ill at ease and rather bored when he is with her. A relationship that has become artificial, and connected, on one side, with a sense of duty rather than with spontaneous affection, is always an uncomfortable one.

And, for the nurse, it is particularly bitter when it is the magnanimous enemy — the wife — who has to keep her “boy” up to his duty.

For years Dame Marigold had had to say at intervals, “Nat,
have
you been up to see Hempie lately?” or “Nat, Hempie has lost one of her brothers.
Do
go and tell her you’re sorry.”

So, when Master Nathaniel found himself in the gay little room, he felt awkward and tongue-tied, and was too depressed to have recourse to the somewhat labored facetiousness with which he was in the habit of greeting the old woman.

She was engaged in darning his stockings, and she indignantly showed him a particularly big hole, shaking her head, and exclaiming, “There never was a man so hard on his stockings as you, Master Nat! I’d very much like to find out before I die what you do to them; and Master Ranulph is every bit as bad.”

“Well, Hempie, as I always say, you’ve no right to blame me if my stockings go into holes, seeing that it’s you who knitted them,” retorted Master Nathaniel automatically.

For years Hempie’s scolding about the condition in which she found his stockings had elicited this reply. But, after these days of nightmare, there was something reassuring in discovering that there were still people in the world sane enough, and with quiet enough minds, to be put out by the holes in a pair of worsted stockings.

Hempie had, indeed, taken the news of the Crabapple Blossoms very calmly. It was true she had never cared very much for Prunella, maintaining always that “she was just her mother over again.” All the same, Prunella remained Master Nathaniel’s daughter and Ranulph’s sister, and hence had a certain borrowed preciousness in the eyes of Hempie. Nevertheless she had refused to indulge in lamentations, and had preserved on the subject a rather grim silence.

His eye roved restlessly over the familiar room. It was certainly a pleasant one — fantastic and exquisitely neat. “Neat as a Fairy’s parlor” — the old Dorimarite expression came unbidden to his mind.

There was a bowl of autumn roses on the table, faintly scenting the air with the hospitable, poetic perfume that is like a welcome to a little house with green shutters and gay chintzes and lavender-scented sheets. But the host who welcomes you is dead, the house itself no longer stands except in your memory — it is the cry of the cock turned into perfume. Are there bowls of roses in the Fairies’ parlors?

“I say, Hempie, these are new, aren’t they?” he said, pointing to a case of shells on the chimneypiece — very strange shells, as thin as butterfly’s wings and as brightly colored. And, as well, there were porcelain pots, which looked as if they had been made out of the petals of poppies and orchids, nor could their strange shapes ever have been turned on a potter’s wheel in Dorimare.

Then he gave a low whistle, and, pointing to a horse-shoe of pure gold, nailed on to the wall, he added, “And that, too! I’ll swear I’ve never seen it before. Has your ship come in, Hempie?”

The old woman looked up placidly from her darning: “Oh! these came when my poor brother died and the old home was broken up. I’m glad to have them, as I never remember a time when they weren’t in the old kitchen at home. I often think it’s strange how bits of chiney and brittle stuff like that lives on, long after solid flesh and bone has turned to dust. And it’s a queer thing, Master Nat, as one gets old, how one lives among the dumb. Bits of chiney … and the Silent People,” and she wiped a couple of tears from her eyes.

Then she added, “Where these old bits of things came from I never rightly knew. I suppose the horse-shoe’s valuable, but even in bad harvests my poor father would never turn it into money. He used to say that it had been above our door in his father’s time, and in his grandfather’s time, and it had best stay there. I shouldn’t wonder if he thought it had been dropped by Duke Aubrey’s horse. And as for the shells and pots … when we were children, we used always to whisper that they came
from beyond the hills.”

Master Nathaniel gave a start, and stared at her in amazement.

“From beyond the hills?”
he repeated, in a low, horrified voice.

“Aye, and why not?” cried Hempie, undaunted. “I was country-bred, Master Nat, and I learned not to mind the smell of a fox or of a civet cat … or of a Fairy. They’re mischievous creatures, I daresay, and best left alone. But though we can’t always pick and choose our neighbors, neighborliness is a virtue all the same. For my part, I’d never have chosen the Fairies for my neighbors — but they were chosen for me. And we must just make the best of them.”

“By the Sun, Moon, and Stars, Hempie!” cried Master Nathaniel in a horrified voice, “you don’t know what you’re talking about, you …”

“Now, Master Nat, don’t you try on your hoity-toity-his-Worship-the-Mayor-of-Lud-in-the-Mist-knock-you-down-and-be-thankful-for-small-mercies ways with
me!”
cried Hempie, shaking her fist at him. “I know very
well
what I’m talking about. Long, long ago I made up my mind about certain things. But a good nurse must keep her mind to herself — if it’s not the same as that of her master and mistress. So I never let on to you when you were a little boy, nor to Master Ranulph neither, what I thought about these things. But I’ve never held with fennel and such like. If folks know they’re not wanted, it just makes them all the more anxious to come— be they Fairies or Dorimarites. It’s just because we’re all so scared of our neighbors that we get bamboozled by them. And I’ve always held that a healthy stomach could digest anything — even fairy fruit. Look at my boy, now, at Ranulph — young Luke writes he’s never looked so bonny. No, fairy fruit nor nothing else can poison a clean stomach.”

“I see,” said Master Nathaniel dryly. He was fighting against the sense of comfort that, in spite of himself, her words were giving him. “And are you quite happy, too, about Prunella?”

“Well, and even if I’m not,” retorted Hempie, “where’s the good of crying, and retching, and belching, all day long, like your lady downstairs? Life has its sad side, and we must take the rough with the smooth. Why, maids have died on their marriage eve, or, what’s worse, bringing their first baby into the world, and the world’s wagged on all the same. Life’s sad enough, in all conscience, but there’s nothing to be frightened about in it or to turn one’s stomach. I was country-bred, and as my old granny used to say, ‘There’s no clock like the sun and no calendar like the stars.’ And why? Because it gets one used to the look of Time. There’s no bogey from over the hills that scares one like Time. But when one’s been used all one’s life to seeing him naked, as it were, instead of shut up in a clock, like he is in Lud, one learns that he is as quiet and peaceful as an old ox dragging the plough. And to watch Time teaches one to sing. They say the fruit from over the hills makes one sing. I’ve never tasted so much as a sherd of it, but for all that I can sing.”