Chapter X: Compact and Acceptance

——Upon nearer view,
A spirit, yet a woman too!
And steps of virgin liberty—
Her household motions light and free
A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, and promises as sweet.
—WORDSWORTH (_Lyrical Poems_).

“Dear, dear,” said Master Simon, “what can have become of my ‘Woodville’?”

Ellinor looked up from the little packet of powdered herbs that for the last hour, in the stillness of the laboratory, she had been weighing and dividing.—Great had been her delight to find her help accepted without fresh demur, for she was bent on making herself indispensable.

“My ‘Woodville,’ child!” repeated Master Simon. “Ah, true, true, it has been taken back to the library. David is a good lad, but I could wish him less absolutely particular about his books. Books are made for use, not to show a pretty binding on a shelf! But stars and books—’tis all he cares for!”

Ellinor rose and slipped from the room. Well, she remembered the old “Woodville,” in its grey-tooled vellum with the thick bands and clasps. She knew its very resting-place, between “Master Parkinson,” in black gilt calf, and “Gerard’s Herbal,” in oaken boards.

Once outside she stretched her limbs after the cramping work and began humming the refrain of a little song that came back to her, she knew not how or why, as she plunged into the loneliness of the rambling corridors:

’Twas you, sir, ’twas you, sir!
I tell you nothing new, sir—
’Twas you kissed the pretty girl!

At a bend of the passage she stopped: she thought she heard a stealthy footfall behind, and her heart beat faster for the moment with a sense of long-forgotten child-terrors. Then the woman reasserted herself. Yet, as she took up the burden of her catch again and walked on steadily, Mrs. Marvel tossed her head in just the same defiant manner as had been the wont of the child Ellinor, who would have died rather than own to fear.

Dim was the library, but with a warm and golden dimness that was as far removed from gloom as the warm twilight of a golden day.

The scent of the burning wood upon the hearth mingled with the spice of the old leather—Persian, Russian, Morocco, Calf—with the pungency of the old parchment and of the old print upon ancient paper. The air was filled as with the breath of ages.

There is not one of our senses which so masterfully controls the well-springs of memory as that rather contemned and (in this our western hemisphere) uncultivated sense of smell. With a rush as of leaping waters, the founts of the past now fully opened upon Ellinor—bitter and sweet together, as the waters of memory always are. Here had she taken refuge many a time, in the days when nothing stirred in the library but the fire licking the logs, and (as she loved to fancy) the kind, honest spirits of the dead.

Every imaginative child has its bugbear, self-created, or imposed on its helplessness by the coward cruelty of some older person. Her childish dreams had been haunted by that perfectly respectable-looking and urbane bogey, Margery Nutmeg. Under the housekeeper’s sleek exterior she had instinctively felt an extraordinary power of malice, and had always recoiled from her most coaxing approach with a repulsion that nothing could conquer. Just now, as she came along the passage, she had vaguely thought, just as in the old days, that Margery might be secretly following her.

She laughed at herself as she closed the door; but the sound of the catching lock struck comfort in her heart, and so did the enclosed feeling of sanctuary, of protection.

“Oh, dear old room!” she said aloud. “Dear old books, dear friendly hearth! God grant this may indeed be home at last!”

She looked round, from the oriel window, purple-hung with its deep recess; from its shelves, seat, and screen, set apart like the side chapel of a cathedral for private devotion, to the high-carved ceiling where, in faded colours, the coat-of-arms of past Cheverals displayed honours that could never fade. She kissed her hand to the full length Reynolds of that Sir Everard Cheveral, whose daughter had been her own mother, empanelled above the stone mantelpiece. It was sweet to feel one of such a house.

Again she spoke, half to herself, half to the mellow, genial presentment of her ancestor:

“You would have said that no daughter of Bindon should seek refuge elsewhere but in the house of her fathers.”

“Please, ma’am,” said a low voice at her elbow.

Ellinor started. A woman whom life had taught to keep her nerves under control, it is doubtful whether anything but the old terrors of her childhood would have had the power to send the blood thus back to her heart. Mrs. Nutmeg was at her elbow—Mrs. Nutmeg hardly changed, with the same obsequious smile and deadly eye, dropping another curtsey of greeting as their glances met, and speaking in the familiar, purring manner:

“Mrs. Marvel, ma’am, begging you’ll forgive the liberty in offering you my respectful welcome! I made so bold as to follow you and trust you will excuse the intrusion.”

“How do you do?” said Ellinor.

This, of all possible greetings, was the one she least desired. She hated herself for her weakness; but as she held out her hand, she shrank inwardly from the remembered touch.

“How do you do, ma’am?” responded the other, with perfunctory humility. “I trust I see you well.”

“Thank you,” said Mrs. Marvel over her shoulder, more shortly than her wont, and turned to the shelf to look for her father’s book.

But the obnoxious presence was not so easily dismissed. It followed her to the shelves; it stood behind her; it breathed in her ear. After a minute of irritated endurance, during which her mind absolutely refused to work, Ellinor whisked round impatiently.

“Well?”

“Asking your pardon, ma’am. But, as you are aware, I was unable to attend to you last night, having only returned this morning from Devizes. I must beg your forgiveness for anything you might have to complain of, not having been made aware that you were coming.”

“Oh, everything was quite comfortable,” began Ellinor. Then suddenly remembering her raid over-night, she hesitated and fell silent.

“Yes, ma’am,” pursued the housekeeper, who, among other uncanny characteristics, possessed that of answering thoughts rather than words. “Yes, I was sorry indeed to hear that you had to get things for yourself. I am sure if Sir David knew, it would go near to make Mr. Giles lose his place, that a guest should be treated so—him that has the cellar key on trust, so to speak.”

“I shall explain to your master,” said Ellinor, after a perceptible pause.

“Thank you, ma’am. Mr. Giles and me would be obliged. No doubt my master will give me instructions. But I should be grateful—having to provide, and gentlemen liking different fare. (I ought to know their tastes by this time, ma’am.) But ladies being otherwise, and not proposing to lay before you what satisfies us humble servants—I should be grateful to you, ma’am, to let me know how many days your visit at the House is likely to be.”

Again there was silence. Ellinor stood looking down, struggling against the feeling of helplessness that seemed to be closing in upon her. Once more the undignified side of her position reasserted itself. But she fought against the thought. Why, between high-minded people of the same blood should this sordid question of give and take come to awaken false pride? Nay, could she not actually serve David by her presence? The hand and eye of a mistress were sorely needed here. Truly, she had heard enough from Madam Tutterville, seen enough herself on the previous night, to realise that Bindon House had become but as a vast cheese in the heart of which the rats preyed unrebuked.

“I cannot tell you yet,” said she steadily, though the ripe colour still mounted in her cheeks.

Margery blinked softly like a cat, and, like a cat with claws folded in, she stood. Her voice had a comfortably shocked note as she replied:

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“That will do,” cried Ellinor.

“Yes, ma’am, thank you. No doubt. But until my master gives me my instructions——”

She stopped; in the listening silence of the room a slight noise had caught her ear. She looked slowly round and Ellinor followed the direction of her eye. From the window recess Sir David himself had emerged, pen in hand, and now came towards them.

Mrs. Nutmeg passed the corner of her apron over her lips and dropped her curtsey. Ellinor stood, her head thrown back like a young deer, watching her cousin’s advance with a look of confidence, though beneath her folded kerchief her heart beat quick.

He took her hand, bent, and kissed it. Then retaining it in his, turned upon the housekeeper. Ellinor, with the clasp of his fingers going straight to her heart, was unable to shift her gaze from his face.

“You wish for instructions, Margery,” said he, “take them now. You shall obey this lady as you would myself. While she remains here you shall treat her as my honoured guest. Long may it be! And further, if she so pleases, Mr. Rickart’s daughter shall be looked upon as mistress at Bindon. And what she does or orders to be done shall be well done for me.”

Margery dipped humble acquiescence to each command.

Ellinor had not thought those dreamy eyes of David’s could give so cold and yet angry a flash. His brows were hardly knitted, and his voice, though raised to extra clearness, was singularly under control; yet she had a sudden revelation, not only of present anger in the man, but of an extraordinary capacity for strong emotion. And she thought that if ever an evil fate should bring her beneath his wrath, it would be more than she could bear.

“Go, now,” said Sir David, still addressing his servant, “but remember, and let the household remember, that though I prefer to watch the stars rather than your doings, I am not really blind to what goes on.”

“I am truly glad, sir, to be authorised to give the servants any message from you,” said Mrs. Nutmeg.

She reached the door, paused and threw one of her expressionless glances for no longer than a second or two towards Ellinor; raising her eyes, however, no higher than the knees. Then the door closed softly upon the retreating figure.

David’s slightly slackened grasp was tightened for a moment round his cousin’s fingers, then it relinquished them.

“Forgive me, Ellinor,” said he, “a bad master makes a bad host.”

“David,” said she, looking him bravely in the eyes, “I have hardly a guinea in the world.”

“Oh,” he cried quickly, “you humiliate me——”

She interrupted him in her turn, and as quickly:

“Oh, no, indeed do not think that because of what she said I should seek such protestation from you. But David, though I came here because it was the only refuge open to me, I could not stay unless I had a task to do. I saw last night—before I had been in dear old Bindon an hour—that sadly you want one honest servant here. Let me be that servant to your house; let me be at least now what Aunt Sophia was. I can do the work.”

She had flushed and paled as she spoke, but gained confidence towards the end; and she looked what she felt herself to be, a strong, capable woman.

His eye dwelt upon her, not as last night in exaltation that amounted to hallucination, but as one whose deep and restless sadness finds an unsought peace.

“Will you, indeed?” he said at last. “Will you indeed take under your gracious care my poor, neglected house?”

Their eyes met again. It was a silent compact. After a little pause:

“Do you not think I am very brave to be ready to face Margery?” she asked, with a mischievous dimple.

At this his rare smile flashed out—that smile before which she felt, as she had already over-night, that, in her heart, she abdicated.

“Oh, I know Margery well,” he said, “but her husband was my father’s faithful man, and to keep her was a promise to his dying ears. She knows it and trades on it. I am not—do not believe it,” he added, “quite the lunatic cousin Simon would make me out. At least, I have my lucid moments. This is one. I have profited by it.”

“So have I,” said Ellinor with a lovely smile of gratitude that robbed the words of any flippancy.

They turned together, tall woman behind tall man, the crest of her copper curls on a level with his eyes. Thus they traversed together the great length of the room. Once she paused, mechanically to draw a bunch of dead roses from a dried-up vase—roses placed there, God knows how many summers ago! He marked the action by a glance. Almost unconsciously she lifted the powdering flowers to her lips, inhaling their faint, ghostly fragrance.

As they passed the window recess where, unknown to the new-comers, he had been sitting at his work, he stopped in his turn to lay a paper-weight on the loose sheets that were scattered on the table. A great map, from Hevelius’s Atlas of the Stars, lay outspread, and displayed its phantom-like constellation figures. Ellinor bent down to look.

“See,” said he gravely, placing his finger on the regal crown that the genial old astronomer had lovingly designed for _Corona Borealis_—“see, it is there that the new star has come into being; a fresh gem to the Crown of the North, fairer even, with its sapphire glance, than Margarita the pearl——”

She looked up, inquiringly:

“Your star?”

“My star,” he answered.

Her words pleased him, and he marked the earnest brilliancy of her blue eyes. His answering look, though unconsciously, was tender as a caress; and she felt it most sweetly. The crumbling rose-leaves scattered themselves in powder upon his papers. She brushed them impatiently away with a superstitious feeling that the past was already too much with her, too much with him. And as she leaned over the table, the live, real, blushing rose that she had gathered in the courtyard that morning loosened itself from her bosom and fell softly on the outmost sheet of the manuscript notes. Here David’s hand had sketched boldly the wreath-like constellation that had borne him an unexpected blossom.

Ellinor saw her flower lie upon it with pleasure.

“Could Hevelius have seen his crown so enriched—but it is given to few to chronicle a name in the Heavens! A star may appear and then wane, but not this one, not this one!” He spoke half to himself.

“When was the last great star born?” she asked.

“Before this old Hevelius’ day,” said David. He drew another map from under the tossed book and flung it open for her, never heeding that it rested on the petals of her rose. “But see here, 1660—on a day of rejoicing for England—the King had returned to his own—what seemed to many to be a new star appeared, brightly burning. Flamsteed named it, out of the joy of the people, _Cor Caroli_—the Heart of Charles.”

“The heart of Charles,” she repeated. “It is pretty. What will you call yours?”

“I dare not name it yet,” he said.

“Dare not?” she echoed astonished.

“Lest it should belie me—fade and leave me the poorer,” he answered.

There came a silence. The clock punctuated the fitful rushing sound of the wind round the house, ticked off a minute of life for Ellinor as full of thought and as pregnant of possibility, as sweet and as rich in promise as any she had ever passed in her already eventful life.

She had the impression of some extraordinary happiness that might be hers; that yet was so elusive, so high, so shy a thing, that it would melt away in the grasp of human hands. She had, too, a little unreasonable foreboding, because her rose lay crushed under his astronomy. With a sigh at last, chiding herself for folly and dreams unworthy of her new life—she who had offered herself, and been accepted as his servant, no more—she moved away from the table.

The action roused him. He went with her. On the way to the door he made another halt, and indicated by a slight gesture the urbane countenance of that common ancestor whom Ellinor had addressed and who now, lighted up by a capricious ray, seemed to look down upon them with a living eye of favour. She stood confused as she remembered how boldly, as if by right of kinship, she had claimed aloud in that silent room the hospitality of Bindon.

“I only represent him here,” said he, divining her thought.

“Ah, cousin David,” said she, “say what you will, my father and I will always be deeply in your debt.”

He turned and looked at her gravely.

“Surely,” he answered, after a pause, “a man’s inheritance is not solely his own. It is but a trust. It is to be used and passed on. Those that come after me,” added he musingly, “will not be the poorer, but the richer for my unwonted mode of life. Yet, meanwhile, Ellinor, you can help me to put to better purpose the wealth yearly expended in this house. For there are abuses in a household which only a woman’s hand can reach.”

“They shall be reached then,” said she.