To draw Mr Segundus’s thoughts away from Lady Pole and her supposed crime, Stephen said, “Sir Walter chose this establishment himself. I do not know whose advice he took. Have you been a madhouse-keeper long?”
Mr Segundus laughed. “No, not long at all. About two weeks in fact. Lady Pole will be my first charge.”
“Indeed!”
“I believe Sir Walter considers my lack of experience to be an advantage rather than otherwise! Other gentlemen in this profession are accustomed to exercise all sorts of authority over their charges and impose restraints upon them – something Sir Walter is very much opposed to in the case of his wife. But, you see, I have no such habits to break. Her ladyship will meet with nothing but kindness and respect in this house. And, apart from such little precautions as may suggest themselves to our good sense – such as keeping guns and knives out of her way – she will be treated as a guest in this house and we will strive to make her happy.”
Stephen inclined his head in acceptance of these proposals. “How did you come to it?” he asked.
“The house?” asked Mr Segundus.
“No, madhouse-keeping.”
“Oh! Quite by accident. Last September I had the great good fortune to meet a lady called Mrs Lennox, who has since become my benefactress. This house belongs to her. For some years she had tried to find a good tenant for it, but without success. She took a liking to me and wished to do me a kindness; so she determined upon establishing a business here and placing me in charge of it. Our first thought was a school for magicians, but …”
“Magicians!” exclaimed Stephen in surprize. “But what have you to do with magicians?”
“I am one myself. I have been one all my life.”
“Indeed!”
Stephen looked so very much affronted by this news that Mr Segundus’s natural impulse was to apologize to him – though what sort of apology one could offer for being a magician he did not know. He went on. “But Mr Norrell did not approve our plan for a school and he sent Childermass here to warn me against it. Do you know John Childermass, sir?”
“I know him by sight,” said Stephen. “I have never spoken to him.”
“At first Mrs Lennox and I had every intention of opposing him – Mr Norrell, I mean, not Childermass. I wrote to Mr Strange, but my letter arrived on the morning that his wife disappeared and, as I dare say you know, the poor lady died a few days later.”
For a moment Stephen looked as if he were about to say something, but then he shook his head and Mr Segundus continued. “Without Mr Strange to help us, it was clear to me that we must abandon the school. I travelled up to Bath to inform Mrs Lennox. She was full of kindness and told me we would soon fix on another plan. But I confess I left her house in a very despondent frame of mind. I had not gone many steps when I saw a strange sight. In the middle of the road was a figure in tattered black rags. His sore, reddened eyes were empty of all reason and hope. He dashed his arms against the phantoms that assaulted him and cried out, entreating them to have pity on him. Poor soul! The sick in body may sometimes find respite in sleep, but I knew instinctively that this man’s demons would follow him even into his dreams. I put a few coins into his hand and continued on my way. I am not aware that I thought of him particularly on the journey back, but as I stepped across the threshold of this house something very curious happened. I had what I think I must call a vision. I saw the madman in all his ravings standing in the hall – just as I had seen him in Bath – and I realized something. I realized that this house with its silence and its seclusion might be kind to persons distressed in mind. I wrote to Mrs Lennox and she approved my new plan. You said you did not know who had recommended me to Sir Walter. It was Childermass. Childermass had said he would help me if he could.”
Stephen said, “It might be best, sir, if you were to avoid any mention of your profession or of the school, at least at the beginning. There is nothing in the world – in this world or any other – that would give her ladyship greater pain than to find herself in thrall to another magician.”
“Thrall!” exclaimed Mr Segundus, in astonishment. “What an odd word that is! I sincerely hope that no one will ever consider themselves in thrall to me! Certainly not this lady!”
Stephen studied him for a moment. “I am sure you are a very different sort of magician from Mr Norrell,” he said.
“I hope I am,” said Mr Segundus, seriously.
An hour later a little commotion was heard in the yard. Stephen and Mr Segundus went out to receive her ladyship. The horses and carriage had been entirely unable to cross the packhorse bridge and Lady Pole had been obliged to walk the last fifty yards or so of her journey. She entered the courtyard of the Hall with some trepidation, glancing round at the bleak, snowy scene; and it seemed to Stephen that only the cruellest of hearts could look upon her, with all her youth, beauty and sad affliction, and not wish to offer her all the protection in their power. Inwardly he cursed Mr Norrell.
Something in her appearance seemed to startle Mr Segundus. He looked down at her left hand, but the hand was gloved. He recovered himself immediately and welcomed her to Starecross Hall.
In the drawing-room Stephen brought tea for them.
“I am told your ladyship has been greatly distressed by the death of Mrs Strange,” said Mr Segundus. “May I offer my condolences?”
She turned away her head to hide her tears. “It would be more to the point to offer them to her, not me,” she said. “My husband offered to write to Mr Strange and beg the favour of borrowing a picture of Mrs Strange, so that a copy might be made to console me. But what good would that do? After all, I am scarcely likely to forget her face when she and I attend the same balls and processions every night – and shall do for the rest of our lives, I presume. Stephen knows. Stephen understands.”
“Ah, yes,” said Mr Segundus. “Your ladyship has a horror of dancing and music, I know. Be assured that they will not be allowed here. Here we shall have nothing that is not cheerful, nothing that does not promote your happiness.” He spoke to her of the books he planned they should read together and the walks they could take in spring, if her ladyship liked.
To Stephen, occupied among the tea-things, it seemed the most innocuous of conversations – except that once or twice he observed Mr Segundus glance from her ladyship to himself and back again, in a sharp, penetrating manner that both puzzled him and made him uncomfortable.
The carriage, coachman, maid and footman were all to remain at Starecross Hall with Lady Pole; Stephen, however, was to return to Harley-street. Early the next morning, while her ladyship was at breakfast, he went in to take his leave of her.
As he bowed to her, she gave a laugh half-melancholy, half-amused. “It is very ridiculous to part so, when you and I both know that we will be together again in a few hours. Do not be concerned about me, Stephen. I shall be more comfortable here. I feel I shall.”
Stephen went out to the stable-yard where his horse stood waiting. He was just putting on his gloves when a voice came behind him. “I beg your pardon!”
Mr Segundus was there, as hesitant and unassuming as ever. “May I ask you something? What is the magic that surrounds you and her ladyship?” He put up his hand as if he intended to brush Stephen’s face with his fingertips. “There is a red-and-white rose at your mouth. And another at hers. What does that mean?”
Stephen put his hand up to his mouth. There was nothing there. But for a moment he had some wild notion of telling Mr Segundus everything – all about his enchantment and the enchantment of the two women. He pictured Mr Segundus somehow understanding him; Mr Segundus proving to be an extraordinary magician – much greater than Strange or Norrell – who would find a way to thwart the gentleman with the thistle-down hair. But these were very fleeting fancies. A moment later Stephen’s native distrust of Englishmen – and of English magicians in particular – reasserted itself.
“I do not understand you,” he said quickly. He mounted his horse and rode aw
ay without another word.
The winter roads that day were some of the worst he had ever seen. The mud had been frozen into ruts and ridges as hard as iron. Fields and roads were thickly covered with white frost and an icy mist added to the general gloom.
His horse was one of the gentleman’s innumerable gifts. She was a milk-white mare without so much as a single black hair anywhere. She was, besides, swift and strong, and as affectionately disposed towards Stephen as a horse can be to a man. He had named her Firenze and he doubted that the Prince Regent himself or the Duke of Wellington had a better horse. It was one of the peculiarities of his strange, enchanted life that it did not matter where he went, no one remarked upon the incongruity of a negro servant possessing the finest horse in the kingdom.
About twenty miles south of Starecross Hall he came to a small village. There was a sharp corner as the road passed between a large, elegant house and garden upon the right and a row of tumbledown stables upon the left. Just as Stephen was passing the entrance to the house, a carriage came suddenly out of the sweep and very nearly collided with him. The coachman looked round to see what had caused his horses to shy and forced him to rein them in. Seeing nothing but a black man, he lashed out at him with his whip. The blow missed Stephen but struck Firenze just above the right eye. Pained and startled, she reared up and lost her footing on the icy road.
There was a moment when everything seemed to tumble over. When Stephen was next able to comprehend what was happening, he found that he was on the ground. Firenze had fallen. He had been thrown clear, but his left foot was still caught in the stirrup and the leg was twisted in a most alarming way – he was sure it must be broken. He freed his foot and sat for a moment feeling sick and stunned. There was a sensation of something wet trickling down his face and his hands had been scraped raw by the fall. He tried to stand and found with relief that he could; the leg seemed bruised, but not broken.
Firenze lay snorting, her eyes rolling wildly. He wondered why she did not try to right herself or at least kick out. A sort of involuntary shuddering possessed her frame but apart from that she was still. Her legs were stiff and seemed to stick out at awkward angles to each other. Then it came to him: she could not move; her back was broken.
He looked at the gentleman’s house, hoping that someone would come and help him. A woman appeared for a moment at a window. Stephen had a brief impression of elegant clothes and a cold, haughty expression. As soon as she had satisfied herself that the accident had produced no harm to any one or any thing belonging to her she moved away and Stephen saw no more of her.
He knelt down by Firenze and stroked her head and shoulder. From out of a saddlebag he drew a pistol, a powder flask, a ramrod and a cartridge. He loaded and primed the pistol. Then he stood and drew the hammer back to full cock.
But he found he could go no further. She had been too good a friend to him; he could not kill her. He was on the point of giving up in despair when there was a rattle in the lane behind him. Around the corner came a cart drawn by a great, shambling, placid-looking horse. It was a carrier’s cart and in the cart sat the carrier himself, a big barrel-shaped man with a round, fat face. He was dressed in an ancient coat. When he saw Stephen, he reined in his horse. “Eh, lad! What’s to do?”
Stephen gestured at Firenze with the pistol.
The carrier climbed down from his cart and came over to Stephen. “She was a pretty beast,” he said in a kindly tone. He clapped Stephen on the shoulder and breathed sympathetic cabbage smells over him. “But, lad! Tha cannot help her now.”
He looked from Stephen’s face to the pistol. He reached out and gently raised the barrel until it pointed at Firenze’s shuddering head. When Stephen still did not fire, he said, “Shall I do it for thee, lad?”
Stephen nodded.
The carrier took the pistol. Stephen looked away. There was a shot – a horrible sound – followed immediately by a wild cawing and the rush of wings as all the birds in the neighbourhood took flight at once. Stephen looked back. Firenze convulsed once and then was still.
“Thank you,” he said to the carrier.
He heard the carrier walk away and he thought the man was gone, but in a moment he returned, nudged Stephen again and handed him a black bottle.
Stephen swallowed. It was gin of the roughest sort. He coughed.
Despite the fact that the cost of Stephen’s clothes and boots could have bought the carrier’s cart and horse twice over, the carrier assumed the cheerful superiority that white generally feels for black. He considered the matter and told Stephen that the first thing they must do was to arrange for the carcass to be removed. “She’s a valuable beast – dead or alive. Your master won’t be best pleased when he finds soom other fella has got t’horse and t’money.”
“She was not my master’s horse,” said Stephen, “She was mine.”
“Eh!” said the carrier. “Look at that!”
A raven had alighted upon Firenze’s milk-white flank.
“No!” cried Stephen and moved to shoo the bird away.
But the carrier stopped him. “Nay, lad! Nay! That’s lucky. I do not know when I saw a better omen!”
“Lucky!” said Stephen, “What are you talking about?”
“ ’Tis the sign of the old King, ain’t it? A raven upon summat white. Old John’s banner!”1
The carrier informed Stephen that he knew of a place close by where, he said, the people would for a price help Stephen make arrangements for disposing of Firenze. Stephen climbed upon the box and the carrier drove him to a farm.
The farmer had never seen a black man before and was quite astonished to find such an otherlandish creature in his yard. Despite all evidence to the contrary, he could not bring himself to believe that Stephen was speaking English. The carrier, who sympathized with the farmer in his confusion, stood beside Stephen, kindly repeating everything he said for the farmer’s better understanding. But it made no difference. The farmer took no notice of either of them, but merely gaped at Stephen and made remarks about him to one of his men who stood equally entranced. The farmer wondered whether the black came off when Stephen touched things and he made other speculations of an even more impertinent and disagreeable nature. All Stephen’s careful instructions concerning the disposal of Firenze’s carcass went for nothing, until the farmer’s wife returned from a nearby market. She was a very different sort of person. As far as she was concerned a man in good clothes with a costly horse (albeit a dead one) counted for a gentleman – let him be whatsoever colour he chose. She told Stephen of a cats-meat man who took the dead horses from the farm and who would dispose of the flesh and sell the bones and hooves for glue. She told him what the cats-meat man would pay and promised to arrange everything if she could keep one third of the money. To this Stephen agreed.
Stephen and the carrier came out of the farmyard into the lane.
“Thank you,” said Stephen. “This would have been much more difficult without your help. I will pay you for your trouble, of course. But I fear I must trouble you further. I have no means of getting home. I would be very much obliged if you could take me as far as the next post-inn.”
“Nay!” said the carrier. “Put th’ little purse away, lad, I’ll tek thee to Doncaster and it’ll cost thee nowt.”
In truth Stephen would have much preferred to go to the next post-inn, but the carrier seemed so pleased to have found a companion that it seemed kinder and more grateful to go with him.
The cart progressed towards Doncaster by degrees, travelling along country lanes and coming at inns and villages from odd directions, taking them by surprize. They delivered a bed-stead in this place, and a fruitcake in that place, and took up no end of oddly shaped parcels. Once they stopped at a very small cottage that stood by itself behind a high bare hedge in the middle of a wood. There they received from the hands of an ancient maid a bony, old, black-painted bird-cage containing a very small canary. The carrier informed Stephen that it had belonged to an old la
dy who had died and it was to be delivered to her great-niece south of Selby.
Not long after the canary had been secreted in the back of the carriage, Stephen was startled by a series of thunderous snores issuing unexpectedly from the same place. It seemed impossible that such a very loud noise should have come out of such a very small bird and Stephen concluded that there was another person in the cart, someone he had not yet been privileged to see.
The carrier produced from a basket a large pork pie and a hunk of cheese. He cut a piece off the pie with a large knife and seemed about to offer it to Stephen when he was struck by a doubt. “Do black lads eat the same as us?” he asked as if he thought they might possibly eat grass, or moonbeams.
“Yes,” said Stephen.
The carrier gave Stephen the piece of pie and some cheese.
“Thank you. Does not your other passenger want something?”
“He might. When he wakes. I took him up at Ripon. He’d no money. I thowt as how he’d be someone to talk to. He were chatty enough at first but he went to sleep at Boroughbridge and he’s done nowt else since.”
“Very tiresome of him.”
“I don’t mind it. I have you to talk to now.”
“He must be very tired,” mused Stephen. “He has slept through the shot that finished my horse, the visit to the foolish farmer, the bed-stead and the canary – all the events of the day in fact. Where is he going?”
“Him? Nowhere. He wanders about from place to place. He is persecuted by soom famous man in London and cannot stay long anywhere – or t’oother chap’s servant might catch up wi’ him.”
“Indeed?”
“He is blue,” remarked the carrier.
“Blue?” said Stephen, mystified.
The carrier nodded.
“What? Blue with cold? Or has he been beaten?”
“Nay, lad. He is as blue as thou art black. Eh! I have a black lad and a blue fella in my cart! I niver heard o’ anyone that did that before. Now if to see a black lad is good luck – which it must be, like cats – then to see a black lad and a blue fella together in one place ought to mean summat. But what?”
Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell Page 62
