An hour later, the soup-tureen was placed on the table; and Magdalen stood alone behind the admiral’s empty chair, waiting her master’s first inspection of her, when he entered the dining-room.
A large bell rang in the lower regions – quick, shambling footsteps pattered on the stone corridor outside – the door opened suddenly – and a tall lean yellow old man, sharp as to his eyes, shrewd as to his lips, fussily restless as to all his movements, entered the room, with two huge Labrador dogs at his heels, and took his seat in a violent hurry. The dogs followed him, and placed themselves, with the utmost gravity and composure, one on each side of his chair. This was Admiral Bartram – and these were the companions of his solitary meal.
‘Ay! ay! ay! here’s the new parlour-maid to be sure!’ he began, looking sharply, but not at all unkindly, at Magdalen. ‘What’s your name, my good girl? Louisa, is it? I shall call you Lucy, if you don’t mind. Take off the cover, my dear – I’m a minute or two late to-day. Don’t be unpunctual to-morrow on that account; I am as regular as clockwork generally. How are you after your journey? Did my spring-cart bump you about much in bringing you from the station? Capital soup this –hot as fire – reminds me of the soup we used to have in the West Indies in the year Three. Have you got your half-mourning on? Stand there, and let me see. Ah, yes, very neat, and nice, and tidy. Poor Mrs Girdlestone! Oh, dear, dear, dear, poor Mrs Girdlestone! You’re not afraid of dogs are you, Lucy? Eh? What? You like dogs? That’s right! Always be kind to dumb animals. These two dogs dine with me every day, except when there’s company. The dog with the black nose is Brutus; and the dog with the white nose is Cassius. Did you ever hear who Brutus and Cassius were? Ancient Romans? That’s right – good girl. Mind your book and your needle; and we’ll get you a good husband one of these days. Take away the soup, my dear, take away the soup!’
This was the man whose secret it was now the one interest of Magdalen’s life to surprise! This was the man whose name had supplanted hers in Noel Vanstone’s will!
The fish and the roast meat followed; and the admiral’s talk rambled on – now in soliloquy, now addressed to the parlour-maid, and now directed to the dogs – as familiarly and as disconnectedly as ever. Magdalen observed with some surprise, that the companions of the admiral’s dinner had, thus far, received no scraps from their master’s plate. The two magnificent brutes sat squatted on their haunches, with their great heads over the table, watching the progress of the meal with the profoundest attention, but apparently expecting no share in it. The roast meat was removed, the admiral’s plate was changed, and Magdalen took the silver covers off the two made-dishes on either side of the table. As she handed the first of the savoury dishes to her master, the dogs suddenly exhibited a breathless personal interest in the proceedings. Brutus gluttonously watered at the mouth; and the tongue of Cassius, protruding in unutterable expectation, smoked again between his enormous jaws.
The admiral helped himself liberally from the dish; sent Magdalen to the side table to get him some bread; and, when he thought her eye was off him, furtively tumbled the whole contents of his plate into Brutus’s mouth. Cassius whined faintly as his fortunate comrade swallowed the savoury mess at a gulp. ‘Hush! you fool,’ whispered the admiral. ‘Your turn next!’
Magdalen presented the second dish. Once more, the old gentleman helped himself largely — once more he sent her away to the side table – once more, he tumbled the entire contents of the plate down the dog’s throat; selecting Cassius, this time, as became a considerate master and an impartial man. When the next course followed – consisting of a plain pudding and an unwholesome ‘cream’ – Magdalen’s suspicion of the function of the dogs at the dinner-table was confirmed. While the master took the simple pudding, the dogs swallowed the elaborate cream. The admiral was plainly afraid of offending his cook on the one hand, and of offending his digestion on the other – and Brutus and Cassius were the two trained accomplices who regularly helped him every day off the horns of his dilemma. ‘Very good! very good!’ said the old gentleman, with the most transparent duplicity. ‘Tell the cook, my dear, a capital cream!’
Having placed the wine and dessert on the table, Magdalen was about to withdraw. Before she could leave the room, her master called her back.
‘Stop, stop!’ said the admiral. ‘You don’t know the ways of the house yet, Lucy. Put another wine-glass here, at my right hand – the largest you can find, my dear. I’ve got a third dog, who comes in at dessert – a drunken old sea-dog who has followed my fortunes afloat and ashore, for fifty years, and more. Yes, yes; that’s the sort of glass we want. You’re a good girl – you’re a neat, handy girl. Steady, my dear! there’s nothing to be frightened at!’
A sudden thump on the outside of the door, followed by one mighty bark from each of the dogs, had made Magdalen start. ‘Come in!’ shouted the admiral. The door opened; the tails of Brutus and Cassius cheerfully thumped the floor; and old Mazey matched straight up to the right-hand side of his master’s chair. The veteran stood there, with his legs wide apart and his balance carefully adjusted, as if the dining-room had been a cabin, and the house a ship, pitching in a sea-way.
The admiral filled the large glass with port, filled his own glass with claret, and raised it to his lips.
‘God bless the Queen, Mazey,’ said the admiral.
‘God bless the Queen, your honour,’ said old Mazey, swallowing his port, as the dogs swallowed the made-dishes, at a gulp.
‘How’s the wind, Mazey?’
‘West and by Noathe, your honour.’
‘Any report to-night, Mazey?’
‘No report, your honour.’
‘Good evening, Mazey.’
‘Good evening, your honour.’
The after-dinner ceremony thus completed, old Mazey made his bow, and walked out of the room again. Brutus and Cassius stretched themselves on the rug to digest mushrooms and made gravies in the lubricating heat of the fire. ‘For what we have received, the Lord make us truly thankful,’ said the admiral. ‘Go downstairs, my good girl, and get your supper. A light meal, Lucy, if you take my advice – a light meal or you will have the nightmare. Early to bed, my dear, and early to rise, makes a parlour-maid healthy and wealthy and wise. That’s the wisdom of your ancestors – you mustn’t laugh at it. Good night.’ In those words Magdalen was dismissed; and so her first day’s experience of Admiral Bartram came to an end.
After breakfast, the next morning, the admiral’s directions to the new parlour-maid, included among them one particular order which, in Magdalen’s situation, it was especially her interest to receive. In the old gentleman’s absence from home that day, on local business which- took him to Ossory, she was directed to make herself acquainted with the whole inhabited quarter of the house, and to learn the positions of the various rooms, so as to know where the bells called her when the bells rang. Mrs Drake was charged with the duty of superintending the voyage of domestic discovery, unless she happened to be otherwise engaged – in which case, any one of the inferior servants would be equally competent to act as Magdalen’s guide.
At noon the admiral left for Ossory, and Magdalen presented herself in Mrs Drake’s room, to be shown over the house. Mrs Drake happened to be otherwise engaged; and referred her to the head housemaid. The head housemaid happened on that particular morning to be in the same condition as Mrs Drake; and referred her to the under-housemaids. The under-housemaids declared they were all behindhand and had not a minute to spare – they suggested, not too civilly, that old Mazey had nothing on earth to do, and that he knew the house as well, or better than he knew his A B C. Magdalen took the hint, with a secret indignation and contempt which it cost her a hard struggle to conceal. She had suspected, on the previous night, and she was certain now, that the women-servants all incomprehensibly resented her presence among them, with the same sullen unanimity of distrust. Mrs Drake, as she had seen for herself, was really engaged that morning over her accounts. But of all the servants und
er her who had made their excuses, not one had even affected to be more occupied than usual. Their looks said plainly, ‘We don’t like you; and we won’t show you over the house.’
She found her way to old Mazey, not by the scanty directions given her, but by the sound of the veteran’s cracked and quavering voice, singing in some distant seclusion, a verse of the immortal sea-song – ‘Tom Bowling’. Just as she stopped among the rambling stone passages on the basement story of the house, uncertain which way to turn next, she heard the tuneless old voice in the distance, singing these lines:
‘His form was of the manliest beau-u-u-uty,
His heart was ki-i-ind and soft;
Faithful below Tom did his duty,
But now he’s gone alo-o-o-o-oft –
But now he’s go-o-o-one aloft!’
Magdalen followed in the direction of the quavering voice, and found herself in a little room, looking out on the back-yard. There sat old Mazey, with his spectacles low on his nose, and his knotty old hands blundering over the rigging of his model ship. There were Brutus and Cassius digesting before the fire again, and snoring as if they thoroughly enjoyed it. There was Lord Nelson on one wall, in flaming water-colours; and there on the other was a portrait of Admiral Bartram’s last flag-ship, in full sail on a sea of slate, with a salmon-coloured sky to complete the illusion.
‘What, they won’t show you over the house – won’t they?’ said old Mazey. ‘I will, then! That head housemaid’s a sour one, my dear – if ever there was a sour one yet. You’re too young and good-looking to please ’em – that’s what you are.’ He rose, took off his spectacles, and feebly mended the fire. ‘She’s as straight as a poplar,’ said old Mazey, considering Magdalen’s figure in drowsy soliloquy. ‘I say she’s as straight as a poplar; and his honour the admiral says so too! Come along, my dear,’ he proceeded, addressing himself to Magdalen again. ‘I’ll teach you your Pints of the Compass first. When you know your Pints, blow high, blow low, you’ll find it plain sailing all over the house.’
He led the way to the door – stopped, and suddenly bethinking himself of his miniature ship, went back to put his model away in an empty cupboard – led the way to the door again – stopped once more – remembered that some of the rooms were chilly – and pottered about, swearing and grumbling, and looking for his hat. Magdalen sat down patiently to wait for him. She gratefully contrasted his treatment of her with the treatment she had received from the women. Resist it as firmly, despise it as proudly as we may, all studied unkindness – no matter how contemptible it may be – has a stinging power in it which reaches to the quick. Magdalen only knew how she had felt the small malice of the female servants, by the effect which the rough kindness of the old sailor produced on her afterwards. The dumb welcome of the dogs, when the movements in the room had roused them from their sleep, touched her more acutely still. Brutus pushed his mighty muzzle companionably into her hand; and Cassius laid his friendly fore-paw on her lap. Her heart yearned over the two creatures as she patted and caressed them. It seemed only yesterday since she and the dogs at Combe-Raven had roamed the garden together, and had idled away the summer mornings luxuriously on the shady lawn.
Old Mazey found his hat at last; and they started on their exploring expedition, with the dogs after them.
Leaving the basement story of the house, which was entirely devoted to the servants’ offices, they ascended to the first floor, and entered the long corridor, with which Magdalen’s last night’s experience had already made her acquainted. ‘Put your back agin this wall,’ said old Mazey, pointing to the long wall – pierced at irregular intervals with windows looking out over a court-yard and fish-pond – which formed the right-hand side of the corridor, as Magdalen now stood. ‘Put your back here,’ said the veteran; ‘and look straight afore you. What do you see?’ – ‘The opposite wall of the passage,’ said Magdalen. – ‘Ay! ay! what else?’ – ‘The doors leading into the rooms.’ – ‘What else?’ – ‘I see nothing else.’ Old Mazey chuckled, winked and shook his knotty forefinger at Magdalen impressively. ‘You see one of the Pints of the Compass, my dear. When you’ve got your back agin this wall, and when you look straight afore your – you look noathe. If you ever get lost hereaway, put your back agin the wall, look out straight afore you, and say to yourself, “I look noathe!” You do that like a good girl, and you won’t lose your bearings.’
After administering this preliminary dose of instruction, old Mazey opened the first of the doors on the left-hand side of the passage. It led into the dining-room, with which Magdalen was already familiar. The second room was fitted up as a library; and the third, as a morning-room. The fourth and fifth doors – both belonging to dismantled and uninhabited rooms, and both. locked – brought them to the end of the north wing of the house, and to the opening of a second and shorter passage, placed at a right angle to the first. Here old Mazey, who had divided his time pretty equally, during the investigation of the rooms in talking of ‘his honour the Admiral’, and whistling to the dogs – returned with all possible expedition to the points of the compass; and gravely directed Magdalen to repeat the ceremony of putting her back against the wall. She attempted to shorten the proceedings, by declaring (quite correctly) that in her present position she knew she was looking east. ‘Don’t you talk about the east, my dear,’ said old Mazey, proceeding unmoved with his own system of instruction, ‘till you know the east first. Put your back agin this wall, and look straight afore you. What do you see?’ The remainder of the catechism proceeded as before. When the end was reached, Magdalen’s instructor was satisfied. He chuckled and winked at her once more. ‘Now you may talk about the east, my dear,’ said the veteran, ‘for now you know it.’
The east passage, after leading them on for a few yards only, terminated in a vestibule, with a high door in it which faced them as they advanced. The door admitted them to a large and lofty drawing-room, decorated, like all the other apartments, with valuable old-fashioned furniture. Leading the way across this room, Magdalen’s conductor pushed back a heavy sliding door, opposite the door of entrance. ‘Put your apron over your head,’ said old Mazey. ‘We are coming to the Banketing Hall, now. The floor’s mortal cold, and the damp sticks to the place like cockroaches to a collier. His honour the admiral calls it the Arctic Passage. I’ve got my name for it, too. I call it, Freeze-your-Bones.’
Magdalen passed through the doorway, and found herself in the ancient Banqueting-Hall of St Crux.
On her left hand, she saw a row of lofty windows, set deep in embrasures, and extending over a frontage of more than a hundred feet in length. On her right hand, ranged in one long row from end to end of the opposite wall, hung a dismal collection of black begrimed old pictures, rotting from their frames, and representing battle-scenes by sea and land. Below the pictures, midway down the length of the wall, yawned a huge cavern of a fireplace, surmounted by a towering mantelpiece of black marble. The one object of furniture (if furniture it might be called) visible far or near in the vast emptiness of the place, was a gaunt ancient tripod of curiously chased metal, standing lonely in the middle of the hall, and supporting a wide circular pan, filled deep with ashes from an extinct charcoal fire. The high ceiling, once finely carved and gilt, was foul with dirt and cobwebs; the naked walls at either end of the room were stained with damp; and the cold of the marble floor struck through the narrow strip of matting laid down, parallel with the windows, as a footpath for passengers across the wilderness of the room. No better name for it could have been devised than the name which old Mazey had found. ‘Freeze-your-Bones’ accurately described in three words, the Banqueting-Hall at St Crux.
‘Do you never light a fire in this dismal place?’ asked Magdalen.
‘It all depends on which side of Freeze-your-Bones his honour the admiral lives,’ said old Mazey. ‘His honour likes to shift his quarters, sometimes to one side of the house, sometimes to the other. If he lives noathe of Freeze-your-Bones – which is where you’ve
just come from – we don’t waste our coals here. If he lives south of Freeze-your-Bones – which is where we are going to next – we light the fire in the grate and the charcoal in the pan. Every night, when we do that, the damp gets the better of us: every morning, we turn to again, and get the better of the damp.’
With this remarkable explanation, old Mazey led the way to the lower-end of the Hall, opened more doors, and showed Magdalen through another suite of rooms, four in number; all of moderate size, and all furnished in much the same manner as the rooms in the northern wing. She looked out of the windows, and saw the neglected gardens of St Crux, overgrown with brambles and weeds. Here and there, at no great distance in the grounds, the smoothly curving line of one of the tidal streams peculiar to the locality, wound its way, gleaming in the sunlight, through gaps in the brambles and trees. The more distant view ranged over the flat eastward country beyond, speckled with its scattered little villages; crossed and re-crossed by its network of ‘backwaters’, and terminated abruptly by the long straight line of seawall which protects the defenceless coast of Essex from invasion by the sea.
‘Have we more rooms still to see?’ asked Magdalen, turning from the view of the garden, and looking about her for another door.
‘No more, my dear – we’ve run aground here, and we may as well wear round and put back again,’ said old Mazey. ‘There’s another side to the house – due south of you as you stand now – which is all tumbling about our ears. You must go out into the garden, if you want to see it; it’s built off from us by a brick bulkhead, t’other side of this wall here. The monks lived due south of us, my dear, hundreds of years afore his honour the admiral was born or thought of; and a fine time of it they had, as I’ve heard. They sang in the church all the morning, and drank grog in the orchard all the afternoon. They slept off their grog on the best of featherbeds; and they fattened on the neighbourhood all the year round. Lucky beggars! lucky beggars!’
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