Title:      Rogue Herries (1930)
Author:     Hugh Walpole
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Language:   English
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Date first posted:          January 2004
Date most recently updated: January 2004

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Production notes: Part 1 of "The Herries Chronicles"

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A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook

Title:      Rogue Herries (1930)
Author:     Hugh Walpole

Part 1 of "The Herries Chronicles"



A Novel




FOR A TRUSTED FRIEND

AND

IN LOVE OF CUMBERLAND




CONTENTS


PART I

THE CUCKOO IS NOT ENCLOSED


The Inn--The House

The Mountain

Family

The Devil

Chinese Fair

The Sea--Father and Son

Christmas Feast

Death of Margaret Herries


PART II

'FORTY-FIVE


Laughter of a Spaniel

Into the Cave

Witch

The Rocking Wood

Siege in Fog

The Prince


PART III

THE WILD MARRIAGE


Candlelight Respectability

The Wild Marriage

The Voice

Saga of David:  I. The Young Sarah

Saga of David:  II. The Fight above Wasdale

Herries in 1760

The Lover

Mirabell in Flight

Uldale:  I. Founding of a Family


PART IV

THE BRIGHT TURRETS OF ILION


Return of a Wanderer

Uldale:  II. Family Life

They meet in Penrith, Feb. 4, 1772

Phantasmagoria in the Hills

They are Alone and are Happy

Departure from Herries




Over this country, when the giant Eagle flings the shadow of his
wing, the land is darkened.  So compact is it that the wing covers
all its extent in one pause of the flight.  The sea breaks on the
pale line of the shore; to the Eagle's proud glance waves run in to
the foot of the hills that are like rocks planted in green water.

From Whinlatter to Black Combe the clouds are never still.  The
Tarns like black unwinking eyes watch their chase, and the colours
are laid out in patterns on the rocks and are continually changed.
The Eagle can see the shadows rise from their knees at the base of
Scawfell and Gable, he can see the black precipitous flanks of the
Screes washed with rain and the dark purple hummocks of Borrowdale
crags flash suddenly with gold.

So small is the extent of this country that the sweep of the
Eagle's wing caresses all of it, but there is no ground in the
world more mysterious, no land at once so bare in its nakedness and
so rich in its luxury, so warm with sun and so cold in pitiless
rain, so gentle and pastoral, so wild and lonely; with sea and lake
and river there is always the sound of running water, and its
strong people have their feet in the soil and are independent of
all men.

During the flight of the Eagle two hundred years are but as a day--
and the life of man, as against all odds he pushes toward
immortality, is eternal. . . .




PART I

THE CUCKOO IS NOT ENCLOSED



THE INN--THE HOUSE


A little boy, David Scott Herries, lay in a huge canopied bed, half
awake and half asleep.

He must be half awake because he knew where he was--he was in the
bedroom of the inn with his sisters, Mary and Deborah; they were in
the bed with him, half clothed like himself, fast sleeping.  Mary's
plump naked arm lay against his cheek, and Deborah's body was
curled into the hollow of his back and her legs were all confused
with his own.  He liked that because he loved, nay, worshipped, his
sister Deborah.

He knew also that he was awake because, lying looking up, he could
see the canopy that ran round the top of the bed.  It was a dull
faded green with a gold thread in it.  He could see the room too,
very large, with rough mottled white walls and a big open stone
fireplace; there was a roaring, leaping fire--the only light in the
room--and he could see very clearly the big, shining brass fire-
dogs with grinning mouths like dragons and stout curly tails.

He knew, too, that he was awake, because he could see Alice Press
sitting there, her clothes gathered up to her knees, warming her
legs.  He did not like Alice Press, but she always fascinated him,
and he wondered now of what she was thinking, so motionless, her
head with its red hair pushed forward, her naked neck above her
silver brocade.

He knew that he was awake, because he could hear the sounds of the
inn, voices calling, doors banging in the wind, steps on the stair,
and even the snap-snap of horses' hoofs on the cobbles of the yard.
He could hear the wind too, rushing up to the windows and shaking
the panes and tearing away again, and then he shivered, pleasantly,
luxuriously, because it was so warm and safe where he was and so
cold and dangerous outside.

Then he shivered again because he remembered that he, with the
others, must soon plunge out again into that same wind and mud and
danger.

He would like to stay thus, in this warm bed, for ever and ever.

But, although he was awake enough to know all these things, he must
be asleep also--asleep because, for one thing, the room would not
stay still, but leapt and rollicked with the fire.  All the things
in it moved; the fire-dogs grinned and yawned; over a large arm-
chair of faded red silk, oddly enough, some harness had been slung,
and it lay there in coils of silver and dark brown leather, and
these coils turned and stretched and slipped like snakes.  Then
against the wall there was a long, thin mirror in tarnished silver
and, in this, Alice Press was most oddly reflected, the side of her
face that was shown there being very thin and red, her hair tawny-
peaked like a witch's hat; her eyebrow jumped up and down in a
terrifying manner.

Only David was not afraid.  He was a very fearless boy.  But he
thought, as he lay there and watched, how ugly she was in the
mirror, and that if his father saw her thus he would not chuck her
beneath the chin and so make his mother unhappy.  And, although he
was not afraid, he was glad nevertheless that Mary's warm arm was
against his cheek and the round shape of Deborah's body against his
back.

Because it might be that after all Alice Press was a witch.  (He
had always had his secret suspicions.)  The way that she sat there
now, so motionless, bending forward, was just as though she were
making spells--and the silver harness blinked and the glass of the
mirror trembled as the flame of the fire rose and fell again.

Then, again, it must be that he was still asleep because, although
he knew that he was lying in his bed, he knew also that he was yet
bumping and tossing in the coach.  In that coach they had surely
been for weeks and weeks, or so at least it had seemed to his tired
and weary body.

At first when they had set out from Doncaster--how long ago?--he
had been all pride and pleasure.  It had been a fair and lovely
morning--one of the last of the late summer days.  The sun was
shining, the birds singing, such gay bustle about the cobbled
courtyard of the inn, the maids looking down from the windows, the
hostlers busy about the horses, the postilions polite and eager to
his father, all of them, Mother and Father Roche and Alice Press
and Mary and Deborah fitting so comfortably into the soft warm
inside of the coach, that had even pictures of hunting painted on
the walls and little windows with gold round the edges.

Yes, it had been all gay enough then, but how miserable it had soon
become!  He could not now divide the days and nights from one
another: moreover, he was still there in the coach, bumped up and
down, thrown here and there, sleeping, waking with cramp and pins
and needles, and Deborah crying and needing comforting, and Mary
cross, and his mother frightened, and Alice Press sulky.  Only
Father Roche, reading in his purple book, or looking steadily in
front of him, never perturbed nor upset nor unhappy, always grave
and kind, and miles and miles away from them all!

Then the Great North Road, which had sounded so fine and grand when
he had first heard of it, how different it was in reality!  Not
fine and grand at all, but full of deep ruts and mud so fearful
that again and again the coach was hopelessly stuck in it, and
everyone had to pull and push, cursing and swearing.  Once they
were almost upset.  The coach went right over on its side and the
horses went down, and they were all on the top one of another.  He,
David, had a bruise on his right leg, and his mother's cheek was
cut.

The further they went the colder it became.  They seemed, almost at
once, to leave summer right behind them.

Nor were the inns where they stopped fine and clean like the
Doncaster one, but cold, draughty, and the floors and walls often
crawling with spiders and other more evil things.

He seemed, lying there in the bed watching the leaping fire, to be
transferred suddenly back into one of the worst of them--where,
tired and bruised with the rough travelling, he had stumbled into
the low-ceilinged, ill-lighted, ill-smelling room, huddled with his
mother and sisters at a dirty table in a dim corner, and there
stared out into the rude, confused babble--men, women, children,
dogs, drinking, shouting and singing, the dogs waiting, mouths
agape, while the food was tossed to them, four men playing at some
game in a corner, a man with a fiddle and a monkey dressed in a
crimson jacket dancing in the middle of the sandy floor, the heated
damp of the room rising to the ceiling and trickling in wet smeary
streaks down the walls, a smell of straw and human breath and dung
and animals and tallow--and in the middle of this his father
standing, in his dark purple riding-coat, his high hat cocked, his
waistcoat of silver thread showing between the thick lapels of his
coat, his whip with the silver head in his hand--like a god, like a
king, demanding a private room, aweing at last the fat landlord,
round like a tub, causing all that coarse roomful to feel that a
great man had come among them.  There was little, tired though he
was, that David had not that night noticed, from the painting of
the King over the fireplace to a swinging gilt cage with a blue
bird, and a man who said he was from the wars and crept to their
table on his wooden stumps showing that his right hand had no
fingers. . . .

Yes, he remembered everything of that night (was not the man with
no legs and no fingers over there now by the fire watching Alice
Press, her back of stiff brocade?), because on that night a great
happiness had come to him.  He had slept with his father.  His
father and Father Roche and himself had slept in the one small,
dirty room, all three on the low, dirty bed.  At first it had been
almost terrible because his father had been in one of his rages,
cursing the place and the dirt and the cold, cursing his family,
too, for persuading him to the expense and danger of a private
coach, when they would all of them have been so much better on
horseback.

Then, seeing his little son straight and sturdy there in his
smallclothes, looking up and waiting for orders as to whether he
should go naked to bed or no, with one of his sudden gestures he
had caught him up and hugged him, then thrown off only his outer
clothing, then taken David and wrapped him, close up against
himself, in his great riding-coat--and the two of them stretched
out on the bed, Father Roche bodily beside them but spiritually a
world away.

How wonderful that night had been!  David had slept but little of
it.  He had lain close against his father's heart, his hands across
his father's breast, feeling the great beat of the heart and the
iron ribs beneath the thin shirt, his cheek against the smooth
softness of his father's neck.

That had been a great happiness, but after that night there had
been only trouble.  On the high ground towards Kendal they had
suffered a fearful storm of wind and rain.  It had seemed to them
that the end of the world had come; the coach had sunk into the mud
so that for hours they could not move it.  They had been warned, at
the last town, that they must beware of footpads, and at every
sound they had started.  Quite a crowd of travellers had been
accompanying them for safety--farmers, pedlars and other
pedestrians.  The weather perhaps had saved them.  All the footpads
were within doors, warm and cosy beside their fires.

In Kendal they had left the coach and had ridden the remainder of
their journey on horseback.  David, tired though he was, had found
that glorious, riding in front of his father, mounting the hills,
then dropping under the faint misted morning sun down beside the
miraculous waters and mountains, a land of faery such as David had
never dreamt of, sheets of white and silver, the mountains of rose
and amber and the trees thick with leaves of gold.

They had ridden into Keswick in the afternoon, quite a cavalcade of
them, with their possessions on pack-horses, the women and children
so desperately fatigued that they could scarcely keep their seats.
So, in a dream, to the inn, and the children stripped of their
outer clothing and flung into the great bed, the two little girls
at once dropping off into heavy slumber.

So should David have done, but instead he had lain there in this
strange state of waking sleep.  It was, possibly, that he was too
greatly excited.  For months past, in their home outside Doncaster,
he had been anticipating this journey.  He had not been happy in
the Doncaster home.  His father had been so much away, his mother
so unhappy, there had been no one save his sisters with whom he
could play.  He had hated the stuffy little house, the rooms
so small and dark, the country surrounding it so dull and
uninteresting.  And always there had been this unhappiness, his
father angry and rebellious, his mother often in tears, Alice
Press, whom he hated, supposedly looking after the children but
doing nothing for them, gentlemen arriving from Doncaster,
drinking, playing cards, singing and shouting all night long.  His
only interest had been his lesson with Father Roche, who, while
teaching him Latin and Greek, would talk to him about many
wonderful things, about London with its palaces and theatres and
gardens that ran down to the river, and Rome where England's
rightful King lived, and then of God and Heaven, and how one must
live to please God--to obey Father Roche in all things and to keep
secret in his heart everything that Father Roche told him.

The only other entertainment had been the times when he was with
Nathaniel and Benjamin, the men-servants.  Nathaniel taught him the
small-sword and cudgel, and Benjamin taught him to box and to
wrestle, and he had been twice with Nathaniel to a cock-fight and
once to the village to see a bear baited.

Nevertheless, had it not been for his father and Deborah the days
would have been heavy indeed.  He was a boy of passionate
affections and his whole heart was given to his father and his
sister.  His love for his father was worship and his love for
Deborah was protection.

His father was entirely a being from another world like St. Michael
or St. George who came in the Christmas plays.  His father who was
so handsome and splendid could do no wrong, although when he was
drunk he was hard to understand; when he beat Benjamin until the
blood ran down Benjamin's back David was sorry for the man, but yet
was certain that his father was in the right.

But Deborah was of his own flesh and blood.  So, too, was Mary, but
he did not care for Mary.  She, although she was so young, had
already her own independent fashion of living and, because she was
so pretty, could have her way when she pleased, which she very well
knew.  But Deborah was not pretty and was often afraid.  Deborah
believed that David could do anything, and she always came to him
when she was in trouble and trusted him to help her.  He could do
no wrong in Deborah's eyes, and so he loved her and guarded her as
well as he could from every harm.

At the thought of Deborah he turned a little and put his arm about
her, which she feeling, although deep in sleep, recognised by a
little dreamy murmur of pleasure.

Just then he heard the door (which was behind the canopied bed so
that he could not see it) open, and an instant later it was all
that he could do to withhold a cry of pleasure.  For it was his
father who had entered, who was now standing quite close to them,
looking down upon them.  David closed his eyes--not because he
wanted to be deceitful, but because he knew that his father wished
that he should be asleep.

Nevertheless, one look had been enough.  His father was resplendent!
For days and nights now he had seen him soiled and disarrayed with
the storms and struggles of that awful journey, muddied and blown
and uncaring whether he were neatly kept or no. There were times
when his father seemed to prefer dirt and disorder, and they were
bad times too.  An unkempt wig, tarnished buckles and buttons, a
soiled cravat, and David had learnt to know that the disarray and
rebellion were more than physical.

Only an hour ago David had seen him striding about the courtyard of
the inn, mud-splashed to the thighs, raging and swearing.  That had
been his last thought before he had fallen into this half-slumber,
that his father was still out there in the wind and rain ordering
Benjamin and the rest, seeing to the horses that were to carry them
the final stage of their weary journey.  But now, how resplendent
in the white-walled fire-leaping room!  David in that one glance
had seen it all.

The fine curled chestnut wig, the beautiful claret-coloured, gold-
embroidered coat with the long spreading skirts, the claret-
coloured breeches and grey silk stockings, the fluted grey-silk
waistcoat stamped with red roses, the little sword at his side--ah!
glory upon glory, was anything in the world anywhere so glorious as
his father thus!  No, nothing in London or Rome of which Father
Roche had told him--nothing that China or India itself could show!

His heart swelling with pride and happiness he lay there,
pretending to be asleep, watching through half-closed eyes.  He saw
then an odd thing.  He saw his father, on tip-toe, approach the
fire, steal upon Alice Press, she motionless gazing into the flame,
lean forward, put then his hands, deep in their splendid white
ruffles, lightly about her face, closely across her eyes.  She gave
a little scream, but David knew that at once she was aware who this
was.

Laughing, Francis Herries withdrew his hands.  She looked up,
smiling that strange smile of hers, half pleasure, half rebellious
anger.

'Why, sir,' (she was, like David, greatly surprised at his
grandeur), 'what fine feathers we're wearing!'

'Hush,' he put his fingers to his lips, 'the children are
sleeping.'

'I fancy so.  They sound still enough.  Poor babies--after such a
devilish journey!'  She turned again from him and stared back into
the fire.  'You are dressed to meet your brother?'

'Why not to meet yourself, beautiful lady?'

He was laughing, that careless, jolly, kindly, good-to-all-the-
world laugh that, as David knew, came only when he was happy.  So
he was happy now!  David was glad.

'Myself?'  She turned to him fully, showing the deep swell of her
bosom beneath the brocaded vest.  'No, I think not.  God! that I
had not consented to come on this madcap journey.'

For answer he bent down and, still laughing, caught her head in his
hands, brought his mouth to hers, kissed her on the lips, the
cheeks, the eyes, then, almost violently, flung her away from him,
straightening his body as he did so.

'Do you like that better?  Does that make you more content with
your journey?'

'No, why should it?'  She shrugged her shoulders, turning back to
the fire.  'Do you love me?  No.  Then what is a kiss?'

'Love--and love.'  He laughed.  'I am no captive to it, if that's
your meaning.  I visit it, wish it good day, spend a pretty hour in
its company--so I am never weary of it nor it of me.  Love?  And
what do you mean by love?'

'I mean,' she answered fiercely, 'those foul, filthy, beggarly days
and nights of mud and dung and stinking beds; the pains and bruises
that I have known on this journey and the idiocies of your wife and
the wailings of your children and the evil dirty tempers of
yourself. . . .  And what do I receive in return for these things?'

She rose up suddenly and turned to him--a tall broad woman, with
scarlet hair and a white face, who would soon be stout.

David, watching her, had never seen her like this, so alive, her
big eyes with the fair, faint eyebrows staring, the big bosom under
the silver brocade heaving, the big mouth in the pale face half
open.

Francis Herries looked at her gently, kindly and with amusement.
'What do you get?' speaking low so that the children should not be
waked.  He put a hand on her shoulder, and she stood strong and
sturdy without moving.  David could see her full face now in the
mirror and he watched absorbed because it was so awake.  Always it
had been yawning, the lazy eyes half closed, the cheeks heavy with
indolence as she sleepily ate sugar-plums and cakes and sugar figs.

'What do you get? . . .  Something.  Nothing.  And what is there to
get?  A little hugging and fumbling, sweating and panting, and then
satiety.'  He looked at her even with more earnest study, as though
in truth he had never seen her before, and her eyes did not fall
before his.  'You elected to come--to the end of the world.  No
roads.  Savages.  A chill house with the rain always falling--and
the ghosts of all your sins, my dear.'

She, with a sudden movement that surprised him, caught him round
the cheek and with her white face against his ruddy brown one
whispered eagerly, furiously in his ear.  The fire leapt as though
in sympathy with her urgency, and the figures swayed and swelled in
the silver mirror.

Francis Herries withdrew from her slowly, carefully, as though he
would not hurt her, no, neither her body nor her soul.  But he was
many, many miles away from her as he answered:

'So that's the way of it. . . .  To leave them in the mud and rain
and find sunshine, the two of us, alone--alone.'  He smiled--a
beautiful smile, David, who did not understand the most of this
strange conversation, thought.  'Alone with me, Alice, you'd be in
despair in a half-hour.  No one has been alone with me ever and not
suffered the intensest weariness.  I have suffered it with myself,
recurring agonies of it.  And you are not made to be wearied.

'Nevertheless, you will be infinitely dull.  Days of rain and mud
in a half-tumbled house cut off from everything but the savages.
It's your own choice, my dear.  And only my body to comfort you.
My body without my soul, I fear.  My soul has flown.  I lost it a
week back.  I shall find it doubtless on a tree in Borrowdale.'

David saw that she did not understand him, that she gazed at him
with a look that he himself did not understand, a look of rage, of
love, of uncertainty, of disappointment.  She was not very clever,
Alice Press.  Young though he was, David already had an instinct of
that.

His father came softly to the bed and looked down on them.  David,
his eyes tightly closed, could nevertheless see him, the gold of
his coat, the white silk of the lapels, the curling splendour of
the chestnut wig.  It was as though his father were weaving a spell
over him--his eyes so fixedly closed that they burnt.  A spell, a
spell!  The crystal in the silver mirror turning, Alice Press
mounting her broomstick and riding through the dark heavy-hung
sky, and his father riding on a silver horse into the moon and
stars. . . .  A spell!  A spell!

'Wake up! wake up!'

It was Alice Press's soft white hand shaking his shoulder.  He
opened his eyes.  His father was gone as though he had never been.
They were to be up and have their clothes on and see their good
uncle and aunt--Uncle Pomfret and Aunt Jannice.

The two little girls, like little round fluffy owls bewildered by
their sleep, dazed with the strange light of the leaping fire,
fastened their own clothes.  Mary was eight years of age, and
Deborah seven, and they had been taught from a long time to do for
themselves.  They had been wearing their winter dresses these last
days, and Mary's had dark fur edging the green velvet and Deborah's
grey fur upon crimson.  David was dressed in a short yellow jacket
and long tight breeches, buff-colour, reaching down to his ankles.
He tied Deborah's ribbons and points and fastened her shoes.  She
was very frightened.  She was scarcely as yet awake.  She did not
know what this great room was nor where they were now going.  She
was terrified of her Uncle Pomfret and Aunt Jannice.  She was
weary, utterly weary after the days of the journey.  She wanted her
mother.  She, like David, hated Alice Press.  She was like a little
downy bird, her head covered with soft flaxen curls.  She stood
there biting her lips so that she would not cry.  Had David not
been there she MUST have cried.  But she stood near him looking up
into his face.  Where David was no harm could come.

It was now time for them to go down, but they had to delay because
Mary must have her horn-book to carry with her.  It was a fine one,
and its back was of gilded and embossed leather, crimson with
silver wire.  David knew at once why Mary must have it.  It was to
show off before Aunt Jannice that she might notice how exceptional
a child Mary was.

They searched here and there.  Mary had had it with her before she
fell asleep.  Alice Press swore and threatened.  It was of no use.
Mary had a marvellous obstinacy when the purpose was concerned with
herself.  The horn-book was found beneath one of the fire-dogs, and
Mary walked out, holding it virtuously by the handle, her head up
as though she were leading a procession.

They went down the wooden staircase, which was from Elizabeth's
time, very beautiful and broad, the newels thick and strong, the
handrails framed into the newels, the balustrade beautifully
arcaded, a lovely symmetry of delicacy and strength.  In the hall
below it was very dark, save in the doorway that looked out into
the street where the light of the afternoon still gleamed in pale
shadow against black cloud.  Great gusts of the gale blew into the
hall, at the end of which was a huge stone fireplace with a roaring
fire.  On broad tables candelabra held many candles that also blew
in the wind.

Across the shining floor servants, drawers, maids, men from the
kitchen were constantly passing into the wild light and out of it
again.  Uncertain though the light was, it was enough for David to
see his father, standing very stiff and upright, his mother also,
and a lady and gentleman who must, David knew, be his uncle and
aunt.

The children were brought up to their parents.  Mary at once went
to her mother, caught her mother's hand, and so stayed, looking
very pretty.  David kissed his aunt's hand, bowed to his uncle,
then stood straight and stiff beside his father.  His uncle Pomfret
was a big, broad, stout man with a very red face, large wide-open
eyes and a little snub nose.  He was dressed in rough country
clothes, his long boots were splashed with mud.  He smelt strongly
of wind, rain, liquor and the stables.  He seemed good-natured and
friendly, laughed much and struck his leg often with a riding-whip.
Aunt Jannice was thin and tall, with a peaked face and a big brown
wart in the middle of her cheek.  She wore a broad hat and had a
curly brown wig which sat oddly about her yellow leathern face.
She was very composed, dignified and superior.  She contrasted
strangely with David's mother, who was always so stout and red and
flustered and was given to breaking into odd little hummings of
tunes from simple nervousness.

David knew that there was nothing that irritated his father so much
as this habit of hers.  But David's attention was fixed upon his
father.  He wished desperately--although he did not know why he
wished--that his father had not dressed so grandly.  Only half an
hour before he had been so proud of his father's grandeur, now he
was ashamed of it.

He was sure that Uncle Pomfret and Aunt Jannice were laughing at
his father for being in such grand clothes.  Not that his father
would care, but he, David, cared for him.  Uncle Pomfret was much
older than his father (he was indeed twenty-two years older; he was
the eldest, as Francis Herries was the youngest, he fifty-two years
of age and Francis only thirty).  He looked as though he might be
David's grandfather.

There was indeed no physical resemblance between the two brothers.
David discovered also another thing--that they were all striving to
persuade his father of something, and his father was very
obstinate.  He knew how his father looked when he was obstinate, he
smiled and was haughty and said little.  So it was now.

They were trying to persuade him to stay in his brother's house at
least to-night and not to go on in the wind and wet and darkness
into Borrowdale.  But his father only smiled.  He had planned to be
in the house to-night and be in the house he would, and the others
should be there too.

David saw that his mother was very near to tears, her round mottled
face all puckered, and she bit continually at her lace handkerchief.
She was desperately weary, poor woman, and afraid and very unhappy.

'Why, blast you and damn you, brother,' said Uncle Pomfret very
heartily.  'You must stay with us to-night or prove yourself most
unbrotherly.  We had always expected it so--Had we not, Janny?
There's no road over to Herries.  You are going among the savages
there, brother.  I can swear you were dismayed enough at seeing
this griddling little inn after your great Doncaster houses, but
this is Paradise to what you're going to.  Don't say I didn't warn
you now.  Damn me for a curmudgeon, brother, if I bottomed you into
doing it--but to-night you shall stay with us.  There's your lady
sunk with weariness, and the babes too, damn me if they're not.'

He shouted all this as though across a windy common, and all that
Francis Herries said to it was:

'Herries sees us all to-night, and we'll take our luck with the
road.'

'You'll be the rest of this day on horseback,' his brother assured
him.  'There's not a cart in Borrowdale, brother, nor a road to
carry one.  It's all horseback round here.  Damn it, you're in
Chiney in Borrowdale, but never say I didn't warn you.  You wanted
cheap living and you've got it.  Naked bottom and bare soil! that's
life in Borrowdale.'

David had never heard so rough and coarse and hearty a voice, and
it seemed to him strange that this big red man should be his
father's brother.  He jumped, too, from the sharp contrast when a
moment later his aunt spoke:

'Come now, Francis.  Have some softness for the family.  The
children can scarce stand with their weariness.  Margaret, persuade
him.  There is room enough with us for so long as you please to
remain.'

Her voice was cold and thin like the steady trickle of a determined
pump.  When she spoke, she stared in front of her, looking neither
to right nor left, as though she were reciting a set piece.

David's mother, thus appealed to, very nervously and not looking at
her husband, answered:

'Indeed, it's very kindly of you, Jannice.  We are weary and 'tis
late.  To-morrow would be time enough.'

'There, brother!' Sir Pomfret broke in with a roar, 'have you no
tender parts?  Your wife and the children at least shall stay with
us.  You shall ride alone if you are resolved--you and the priest,'
he added, suddenly dropping his voice.

'There--that's sufficient,' Francis Herries answered sharply.  'My
wife will be thankful enough when she's there and settled.  In an
hour's time the horses will be moving and ourselves on them.  Thank
you for your goodwill, brother.  And now for a meal.  It is ready
and waiting.'

It was now late for dining.  To the children, indeed, it would,
before this tremendous journey of theirs, have seemed an incredible
hour, for their dinner had been at three of the afternoon ever
since they could remember, but now all their customs and habits
were in ruin, and they accepted, poor things, blindly and without a
murmur what came to them.

They were, however, all three, too tired to have an appetite.  In
the little private room they were crowded about the small table.
David to his distress was next to his uncle, who roared and rattled
and laughed as he helped the food, so that it was like being seated
next an earthquake.

There was a good baked pie of a leg of mutton, and roasted chickens
with pease and bacon, and a fine fruit tart that would, at another
time, have made David's mouth water.  There was much wine, too, and
of this Uncle Pomfret began to drink very heartily indeed, and
shouted to the others to do the same.  The noisier he became the
more upright and magnificent was Aunt Jannice.

Very fine, especially, was she when she rose to wash her spoon in a
bowl of water behind the table, so that, having just used it for
pease and bacon, it should not now be soiled for the fruit tart.
David's mother, who had never seen anyone do this before, could not
hide her staring wonder.

David, in spite of his weariness which made everything around him
like a dream, fancied that his aunt was storing all things up in
her mind, so that for many weeks she would be able to retail to her
genteel friends all the strange things that this wild family had
done.  He did not love her the better for fancying this.

But he was in so dreamy a state that he could be sure of nothing.
He, in his half-dream, saw--and he knew that his mother saw this
too--that his father was drinking in a defiance of his stout red-
faced brother.  He knew what his father was like when he was
drunken, and he hated his uncle that he should tempt him.
Throughout this journey his father had been very fine, drinking
nothing, aware perhaps of the charge there was upon him.  And in
any case he drank little when Father Roche was there.

But in everything that he did, while his brother was present, there
was defiance.  There had been defiance in his grand clothes,
defiance in his refusing to stay in Keswick, defiance now in every
gesture.  David, because he adored his father, knew all this with a
wisdom beyond his years.  Meanwhile, in this dreamy state, it was
all that he could do with his wits to defend himself against his
uncle, who was pushing pieces of meat and of pie on to his plate
and even holding his head back and poking food into his mouth.  But
once when he was about to force some wine down his throat Francis
Herries called out quietly:

'Nay, brother, leave the boy alone.  He shall have wine when he
wishes for it.  It shan't be thrust on him.'  Pomfret broke out
into a flurry of magnificent and filthy oaths.  He then thrust
David in the ribs and cried at him:  'Why, damn thee, boy, dost
thou not follow thy father?  He's a lecherous foul-dealing knave
enough, I'll be bound--no Herries, an he ain't.  Drink thy uncle's
health, boy, and be damned to thy father!'

'Pomfret!' said Aunt Jannice.  It was enough.  The uncle was cowed
like a dog under a whip and took some sugar-plums from a plate and
swallowed them, three at a time, like a confused child.  David
looked across to his father.  It seemed to him then, as it was to
seem to him increasingly in the coming days, that they were younger
and elder brother, not father and son.  And, indeed, there was only
the difference of nineteen years between them.

In his dreamy state it seemed to him that he and his father were
circled round with light together, they two, and that his father's
crimson and gold shone, and the room burnt against its panelling
with a strange and sombre glow.

But his next thought was for Deborah.  With every attention that
his uncle had permitted him he had watched her and had seen that
she was very unhappy.  Poor child, with weariness and fear of her
relations and her seated distance from David, she was nearly
distraught.  She did not understand what had happened to her, but
it was something terrible.  She understood that more terrible
things were shortly to occur.  David, watching her, could at last
endure it no longer; her frightened eyes, the way that her head
bobbed and nodded and then bobbed again, her fashion of pretending
to eat and not eating, hurt him as though it were himself.

While his uncle was busy with a long and excited account of his
country sports and pastimes, with vociferous curses on the French
and praise of the Hanoverian succession, he stepped from his chair
and went to her side, bending forward and whispering to her.

But, alas, this kind attention was too much for her; she broke into
sobs, not loudly but with a soft titter-witter like a wounded bird.

Uncle Pomfret broke off his account of what he would do to a French
Papist an he caught him, to tumble into a bellow of laughter.

'Why, pox on it, here's a little master . . . comforting your
sister. . . .  Why, damn it, boy, but I like your heart.  There's a
good one for the ladies.  He knows a thing or two, I warrant.  But
come hither, little Deb.  Come to thy old uncle.  He'll buy thee a
baby, one of your china sorts with pink cheeks, none of your
stuffed rags.  Come to thy uncle, Deb, and he'll comfort thee.'

'David.'  It was his father's voice.  'Leave Deborah.  Come to me.'
He went up to his father, fearless, but not knowing whether a
caress or a blow was to be his fate.  Then he looked into his
father's eyes and saw that they were soft and humorous and knew
that all was well.

'Go, find Benjamin.  We must shortly be starting.'  Then, turning
to his brother, 'She has babies enough, Pomfret; she is weary, and
there's a bed at Herries waiting for her.'

He did not hear his uncle's retort, which was something fine and
free about beds and ladies and general courtship.  He was glad to
be away, he didn't care if he never saw his uncle or aunt again; he
hated them and Keswick and the inn.  But coming into the bustle of
the kitchen where serving-men and maids were shouting and pushing,
where dogs were waiting for chance pieces of food, and a man with a
feather in his broad hat was seated on the corner of a table
playing a fiddle, the stir and adventure of it all heartened him
and he was glad that he was alive and pushing, shoving forward into
this grand new world.  The kitchen smelt of everything in the world--
meat and drink and the heat of the great fire.  He looked around
him and found Benjamin seated in a corner near the fire, his arm
round a girl.  She was feeding him with pieces of meat off his
plate.

'Benjamin,' he said, ordering him as though he were a hundred years
his master, 'my father says that it's time for the horses.'

Many of them heard him and turned laughing, and a big woman with an
enormous bosom would have made him come to her, and a brawler
wanted him to drink, but he fixed his eyes on the stout Benjamin,
who put his plate down, gave the girl a kiss, and came without a
word.  So much power had Francis Herries over his servants.

Benjamin was plump and rosy; he should have been a fine figure of a
man, but he could eat all day without ceasing.  This was one of the
reasons that he was beaten by his master, but he bore his master no
grudge.  Everything that came his way he took, and over the bad he
shrugged his shoulders and over the good he laughed and grunted.

First or all he loved himself, then food, then women (all kinds,
young, old, ugly and fair--there was not the ugliest woman in the
country who was too ugly for him, and with his round, rosy cheeks,
merry eyes, broad shoulders and stout legs he could do what he
would), then cock-fighting, dog-fighting, football, bear-baiting,
rat-hunting, witch-hunting, all kinds of sport (he was himself not
a bad sportsman with the staff and cudgel, and boxing and running
and swimming), then every kind of a horse, then young David, for
whom he cared, perhaps, more than for any other single human being,
but not for him very deeply, only lazily and with easy good-nature.
He was from the South, and had, as yet, no good word for this
northern country.

He grumbled as they made their way into the dusky yard.  'Pox on
it,' he said, 'I'll pepper my own legs with shot, but I thought his
honour would give us another hour's quiet and plenty.  What's he
want riding on to-night for?  There's but few like the master for a
restless spirit. . . .  I'd match that white dog in the kitchen
there,' he went on irrelevantly, 'for a hundred guineas against the
grey bitch the master had in Doncaster.  There's a dog.  You could
see he never blinked a bird in his life.  And you needn't tell
master I was kissing Jenny neither!  They all say their name's
Jenny--'

'I shall not tell him,' said David proudly.

'How many miles is it from this Borrowdale to Keswick?' asked
Benjamin.

'Around seven, I fancy,' said David.

Benjamin nodded his head but said nothing.  'It's a little inn as
you might say, this,' he remarked.  'Small beside the south-country
inns.  Not much business in this little town.  Kendal's the way the
business runs.  Not but there won't be some sport in Borrowdale.  I
may be a poor man and not bred for writing and accounts, but I know
a dog when I see one.'

David missed many more of his remarks.  For one thing Benjamin was
always talking, not like the other man Nathaniel, who was a little
spare fellow, very silent and grim, and anyone who was often with
Nathaniel must accustom himself to think his own thoughts while
Benjamin chattered.  Besides this, David again was in his dream
state.  As he stood in the yard listening to the horses striking
the cobbles, hearing the curses of the hostlers, smelling the hay
and straw, catching the sharp cold of the breeze about his face, he
seemed to move, not on his own feet, but through the air, alighting
here and there and then up again, softly, breezily like the wind.

Thus dreaming he found himself standing with the others at the inn
door.  Father Roche was there, and Alice Press, his father, mother,
uncle, aunt, and his sisters--all dreamy and wavering together.  A
crowd had collected to watch their departure.  A great wind was
hurrying through the sky above the black gables and chimneys,
carrying soft grey clouds with it, and between the clouds once and
again a burning star stared and vanished.  The horses were stamping
and pulling at the heads.  Everything was ready for this last ride.

In the doorway stood the stout host of the inn, bowing as Francis
Herries very grandly thanked him for his courtesy.  Uncle Pomfret
laughed and shouted.  Then, as it seemed, a moment later one of
life's great happinesses had occurred, for David was sitting a
horse in front of his father.  He had expected that he would be in
front of Nathaniel, because all the way from Kendal he had been
with his father, and surely such luck would not come to him twice.
But here he was pressed against his father's body, and he could
feel the movement of his thighs and above his head the throb of his
heart, and in his face the wind was beating like a whip.

They were off, trotting over the cobbles, the horse slipping now
and then in the mud or refuse, his father stiffening as he pulled
at the reins, and at their side seen dimly his mother, pillion
behind Father Roche with Mary in her lap, Alice Press with Deborah
pillion behind Benjamin, the rest duskily in the rear.

The little town was very still; a light glimmered here and there
through a shutter, a watchman going from his warm room, perhaps, to
his night-duty passed them swinging his lamp, a chair in which a
lady highly muffled could just be seen went swiftly with its
bearers round the corner.  They turned out of the square to the
left, and the clatter that they made as they swept round the corner
drew some heads to the window and an aproned man with a candle in
his hand to the doorway.  Then as they began to clear the town
another thing occurred.  David was aware that certain figures were
running at their side and a man on a little nag was keeping pace
with them.  The same thing had happened to them on their way to
Kendal, when a number of farmers and others had gone with their
coach.  That had been because of footpads, and now this must be for
the same reason.

That made his heart beat faster.  They were passing out of the
guarded town and were running into dangerous country, dangerous
country that, although he did not know it, was to be his country
for many a year.  He had perhaps some sense of it there under the
biting wind, for he shivered a little and drew closer to his
father.

They pulled up a little hill and were aware now at once of the open
country, for the road beneath them was treacherous.  The horses
began to walk, and even so they slipped and stumbled in the mud.
In the centre the path (it was little more than a path) was hard
and well-trodden but on either side a quagmire.  There was a faint
silver misty light in the sky, but this shifted and trembled with
the driving clouds.  On the left of them there were thick trees,
but on the right the landscape sloped to the mere, and in front of
them were black shadows that waited like watchers for their coming,
and these, David knew, were the mountains.  He was aware then of a
further thing, that his father was drunk.  Not bestially drunk.
Not ferociously drunk.  Happily drunk.  His body closed a little
about his son as he sang softly the children's game:


     'Lady Queen Anne who sits in her stand,
      And a pair of green gloves upon her hand,
      As white as a lily, as fair as a swan,
      The fairest lady in a' the land.
      Come smell my lily, come smell my rose,
      Which of my maidens do you choose?
      I choose you one, and I choose you all,
      And I pray, Miss Jenny, yield up the ball.
      The ball is mine and none of yours.
      Go to the woods and gather flowers;
      Cats and kittens hide within;
      But all young ladies walk out and in.'


David knew the words very well, because, although this was a girls'
game, he had played it to please his sisters.  His father repeated
again:

'And I pray, Miss Jenny, yield up the ball--And I pray, Miss Jenny,
yield up the ball.'

Why had he chosen the name Jenny?  Was not that the name by which
Benjamin had called the kitchenmaid?  Did they, as Benjamin had
said, always cry Jenny for a name?  His father swayed slightly as
he sang, but the horse seemed to understand.  In any case they were
going slow enough.  No harm could come.  A little man trotting at
their side called up to them:

'I have a fiddle with me, your honour, and will play to you by your
fire.'

And Francis Herries answered him happily:  'I'll swear you have a
fiddle and know how to play on it too.'  Then he began to talk very
pleasantly to his young son.  The path now was bending down until
it almost touched the mere, and David could hear the little waves,
driven by the wind, slapping the shore and rippling away again into
space.

All his life he was to remember that moment; the clap of the
horses' hoofs on the path, the slap and ripple of the water, the
little panting breaths of the man running beside them, the warmth
and intimacy of his father's body, the dark woods above them, the
black hills in front of them, the fiercely moving sky, and the
gentle good-humoured voice in his ear.

'And so, David, we are passing into the perilous country where the
savages live, where there is only hay to eat and dirty water to
drink, where it rains for a hundred days.  Dost thou think there
will be bears there, David, my son?'

'I don't know, father.  I hope so,' said David.

'Bears of one family or another there will be, and snakes in the
grass and peacocks on the garden wall.  Is it not as though we were
escaping?  Escaping from what, think you?'

'We are not escaping,' answered David proudly.  His voice came in
little jolts.  They were now on harder ground and were moving more
swiftly.  'You would never run away.'

'No, would I not?  Art thou so sure, little son?  I have run from
the lions in my time and then again I have braved them.  But this
is the most perilous adventure of all.  We will not come from this
save with our naked skins; and if I am hard pressed will you always
stay by me, David?'

'Always,' said David, nodding his head.  'I could never be
frightened an you were there.'

'Couldst thou not, couldst thou not, my son?  Although the she-
devil with the silver hams and the glassy tongue came to down us
both?'

'I'm afeared of no woman,' David answered, but the trees now were
gathering about him very darkly, and it was cold.  In spite of
himself he shivered a little.

His father laughed, bent forward and touched ever so lightly with
his lips the boy's neck.

'So we are together, side by side, whatever the peril--for ever?'

David straightened his back.  'Yes, sir,' he answered proudly.

''Twas a maid in the inn said her name was Jenny when I kissed
her,' his father said, 'though she's no maid any more.  Not by my
doing, I had no time to test her virtue.  Eh, little son?'

David understood this only vaguely.  'I don't like women,' he said.

'Not your sister Deborah?'  His father laughed softly, deeply, as
though he were thinking of other things.

'I love Deborah,' David answered.

'And your Aunt Jannice?'

But David did not reply.  He could not.  He was fast asleep,
leaning back against his father's breast.

He woke again with a start to see that all the horses were at a
standstill and were gathered about a small stone bridge.  At that
same moment, as though it had been arranged, a round moon, cherry-
coloured, broke out from shadowy banks of cloud.

She stared down at them, and at once, as it seemed in his sleepy
half-wakened state to David, the clouds fled away; she sailed
gloriously in the sky of shining light scattered with stars.  The
world around them was like a world seen through glass, pale and
unreal, with the trees and hills of ebony sharpness.  A hamlet was
clustered beyond the bridge and the river, which was running full
and throwing up, under the moon, little white waves alive and
dancing.

After a consultation they moved on upwards over a little hill with
hills on their left side and the flooded gleaming river on their
right.  It was all very quiet and still.  The storm had altogether
died away.  No one spoke, and the only sound was the hoofs of the
horses, now soft, now sharp.  The scene was now to David, who had
only all his life seen flat and shallow country, incredibly
wonderful.

They were passing through a gateway of high rock into a little
valley, still as a man's hand and bleached under the moon, but
guarded by a ring of mountains that seemed to David gigantic.  The
moonlight made them larger and marked the shadows and lines of rock
like bands of jagged iron.  In colour they were black against the
soft lighted sky and the myriads of silver stars.  A little wind,
not sharp and cold as it had been before, but gentle and mild,
whispered across the valley.

As they advanced, the only live things in all the world, it seemed
that in a moment someone must break the strange moonlit silence
with a cry:  'Ahoy! ahoy! who comes to meet us?'

But not even an owl hooted from the listening trees.  After a while
one mountain detached himself from the skies, coming towards them--
large, sprawling, very dark and solid, with a ragged edge.  To the
left of this mountain there was a straight thin ledge like a tight-
rope, and on the right a very beautiful cluster of hills, in shape
like the grouped petals of an opening flower.

Then quite suddenly they stopped.  'That is the house on the left
of us,' someone said.  It was the first voice for half an hour, and
the hills seemed to repeat:  'Yes, that is the house.'  The horses
trotted over soft, rather boggy, grass, up a little hill, through a
thick group of trees, and at once they were all outside a rough
stone wall that guarded a ragged, grass-grown courtyard.  David
looked at the house and was sadly disappointed.  Under the black
hills it seemed so very small, and in the white moonlight so cold
and desolate.  It appeared to be two houses: on the right it was
high, with a gabled roof and thin latticed windows; then it dropped
suddenly to a low rough-seeming building with shaggy farm byres at
its hinder end.  He noticed, especially, the windows of the higher
house, because there were two little attic windows like eyebrows,
and he could see, because the moonlight made everything so clear,
that the door of this house had handsome carving.  But the other
building was low and shabby and forsaken.

While they waited at the gate three dogs came out furiously
barking, and directly they were followed by a broad thick-set man,
walking clumsily, who hurried down to meet them.

Then a light was in the doorway, but still the house watched, cold,
desolate, under the moon, with no greeting for them.

'So--we are home,' he heard his father murmur.

Then he felt himself picked up in his father's strong arms, lifted,
then carried across the courtyard.

His father set him down, and he ran over the threshold of the
doorway.  The hall where he stood was flooded with moonlight, and
opposite him were two shining suits of armour.  People were moving
and talking behind him, but he did not hear them.

He was first in the house.  As he stood there in the moonlight he,
who had been asleep so long, was suddenly awake.

And he made his compact with the house.



THE MOUNTAIN


Charles Francis Herries woke when the light of the fine new day was
throwing silver shadows across the misty fields.  Pushing back the
creaking diamond-paned window, standing there in his purple bed-
gown he looked down on the courtyard, the thick clustered yews that
guarded, as though with fingers on their lips, the house, the
ragged stone wall, then, beyond, the river, the thatched roofs of
the nearest yeoman's farm, the fields and the dark sombre hills.

He drew a deep breath, flung off the bed-gown and stood there
naked.  He did not feel the cold, nor the sharp crisped air; he was
at that time impervious to all physical pain and discomfort, a
magnificent creature in all bodily force and feeling.  He stared
out, then looked back into the little, thin, low-ceilinged room.
It was furnished scarcely at all--only a narrow truckle-bed on
which he and his son had been sleeping--David, his flushed cheek
against his arm, still lay there soaked in sleep--a big carved
chest with the date 1652 roughly cut upon it, a mirror on the
chest, and against the farther wall some old green tapestry (very
faded) that flapped and rustled now in the breeze from the open
window.  There was one high-backed and clumsy chair, and into this
his clothes had been carelessly flung.  David's little things,
carefully folded, were on the top of the chest.

He felt his body, punching it here and there, pinching it, kicking
out a leg, stretching an arm.  He might have been proud that he was
so handsome and in such splendid health--such marvellous health
indeed, considering the life that for ten years now he had led.
But he was scornful of that as he was of everything else.  What
good had his beauty, health, strength brought him?  Not so much
good as that silver moon setting now in a pale rosy sky beyond the
latticed window.

He stood there, the breeze blowing on his bare back and thighs,
looking down on his little son.  Here, too, he was scornful.  His
young son loved him, but would he love him as the years passed and
he grew to realise his father?  Would there not develop in him that
same withdrawal that seemed to come to every human creature after a
short contact with him--yes, even to so poor a thing as Alice
Press, who was already beginning to look at him with that strange,
surmising glance?  David at present trusted and adored him, and in
the centre of Herries' universal scorn, scorn of himself, of all
human beings, of the round world and all that moved in it, there
stayed this pleasure and pride that his young son so thought of
him.  That he could neither deny nor reject.  But for how long was
it to remain?  Would he take any steps to retain it?  He knew
himself too well to fancy that he would.

He turned again to look out of the window on to the scene that was
to be his now, he was determined, for evermore.  Whatever came of
this step that he had taken, whatever misery, ruin, disgrace, he
would hold by it.  It was final.  Only thirty years of age, he yet
seemed to see far, far into the future, and something told him that
at the very last these dark hills would encircle him.

The hill that chiefly his window faced seemed especially to tell
him this.  The houses of this time in this country were not built
that their tenants might look out on beautiful views, but rather
for safety and shelter, tucked tight in under the hill, guarded by
heavy yews.

Beyond the fields, in far distance, this humped, lumpish hill,
Glaramara, sprawled in the early morning light.  Herries knew well
its name.  For so long as he could remember he had known precisely
how this house must stand, and all its history.  In 1565, the year
following the founding of the Company of Mines Royal, Sir Francis
Herries, his great-great-grandfather, had come from his house
Seddon, north of Carlisle, in part charge of the 'Almaynes,' the
foreign miners, and built him a little house here, called it
Herries, and, at last, liking it and the country, had lived in it
altogether, giving up Seddon to his younger brother.

In all his young days at Seddon, Francis had heard of Herries, the
strange house in the strange country, shut in under the mountains
behind rocky barriers, cut off from all the world.  His grandfather,
Robert Herries, had tried for a while to live in it, but it had
been too isolated for him.  That, too, his father Matthew had
found, and had moved back to Seddon, and after this the old house
had been held by a yeoman, Satterthwaite, farm-buildings had been
added to it, and much of the older house had been allowed to fall
into ruin.

When Francis' elder brother, Pomfret, had made a fortune in
speculation (this largely by chance, because Pomfret was no
brilliant financier) he had built him his house in Keswick, caring
nothing for Herries, which, although so near to him, seemed yet at
the very world's end.

Satterthwaite, a clever yeoman above the abilities of his fellows,
had done well for himself, and built a farm-house over towards
Threlkeld.  It was then, after some years of desolate neglect, that
Herries had been suggested to Francis by his brother, and, driven
both by his romantic love for the notion of it and by his own
desperate circumstances, he had accepted with an eagerness that had
amazed the unimaginative Pomfret.  Yes, an eagerness that was
amazing even to himself.  What was it that had driven him?  That
part of him that loved to be alone, that loved to brood and dream
and enfold about him, ever closer and closer, his melancholy and
dark superstition and defiant hatred of the world.  That part of
him, too, that felt, as neither Pomfret nor Harcourt, his brothers,
felt, his passionate pride in his family.  Why that pride?  God
only knew.  There was no reason for it.  The Herries men had never
done great deeds nor supplied to the world famous figures.  For
hundreds of years they had been drunken, robbing Border freebooters;
only, in Elizabeth's time, his great-great-grandfather, Francis,
having some good fortune at the Court, had pushed up a little the
family fortunes.  That Francis had been a hard-headed fellow, a
flatterer, a time-server, a sycophant, but not ungenerous if he got
his way, and no fool at any time.  Elizabeth had a fancy for him,
would have kept him with her, and was none so well pleased when,
quite eagerly, he accepted the opportunity of surveying the foreign
miners who were sent to Keswick.

Something hurried him thither, that odd strain that was for ever
cropping up in every Herries generation, the strain of the dreamer,
the romanticist, the sigher for what was not, the rebel against
facts; and in that old Elizabethan Herries this romantic dreaming
went ill enough with hardness, his pushing ambitions, his desire
for wealth.

Between the two stools of temperament he fell to the ground, as
many another Herries had done before him.  This land in Borrowdale
caught his fancy; he stayed on and on there, losing at length his
interest in the mines, mooning, a dirty unlaced old man, behind the
rocks that bounded that valley, keeping company with the yeomen,
pursuing their daughters, drinking, riding, dicing--dying at last
in his old tumble-down house, a little soiled rat of a man with ale
dribbling at his ragged beard.

That was great-great-grandfather Herries.  The place had done
something to him, and Francis Herries, gazing now out of his
window, thought it an odd fancy that this same sprawling hill,
Glaramara, had looked across into that old man's eyes, seeing them
grow ever more bleary, more dim, more obstinately sodden.

And so it might be with him!  He had come even as that old man had
come, in the vigour of his prime and strength, and he had in him
those same things--that longing for what was not, dream of Paradise
round the corner, belief in a life that could never be.  And in him
also, riding him full strength, were lechery and drunkenness,
lasciviousness and cruelty.

As he stood there, idly gazing, he had a passionate family feeling.
Not for individuals.  He hated Pomfret, despised Harcourt, cared
nothing for his cousins, the children of his uncle Robert, who
lived London way, nor for his other two cousins, Humphrey and
Maurice Cards and their children, Dorothy, Jeremy, and Henry.
Humphrey Cards, a man a good deal the elder of Francis, lived now
at Seddon and was said to be a tight-lipped Quaker.  Francis had
never seen the Cards brothers; they inhabited London when he, as a
boy, lived at Seddon, but Pomfret knew them and despised them both.

No, there was not one of the family for whom Francis cared a rap,
neither agricultural Pomfret and his yellow-faced wife, nor
bachelor Harcourt, there on the edge of that dirty sea-coast at
Ravenglass, nor the purse-proud Kensington children of Uncle Robert
with their family coach and fine Queen Anne house and garden, nor
Humphrey at Seddon, nor ship-owning Maurice (his eyes, they said,
so deeply stuck into his business that he could see nothing else)
down at Portsmouth--not for a single one of them had he a warm
feeling or a kindly thought--they were all rogues and fools
together--and yet here he was, new-come to this tumbled old ruin,
gazing out on a couple of shabby hills and some grass-greasy
fields, and his heart was swelling at the thought of Herries and of
the Herries men and women before them, the Scotch and English blood
that had gone to the making of them, the English soil that had seen
the breeding of them.

He felt suddenly the cold, and with a shiver pulled to the window
and took on his bed-gown again.

There was a pump in the yard behind the house--he could hear the
handle going; he would go and soak his head under it.  He pulled on
a pair of breeches, thrust his feet into some slippers, and then
softly, lest he should wake his son, stole out.

The morning was deepening now, but the small heavily paned windows
let in little light.

The part of the old house that remained had not been ill designed,
the rooms lofty and the staircase wide enough for two to go
abreast, still something of a wonder in Queen Anne's day and
exceedingly unaccustomed in Elizabeth's.

This old house was of two floors, a most unusual thing in that
country, the court-room, the dining-hall, the withdrawing-room
leading one from the other.  Out of the court-room a stair led to a
loft that held the three bedrooms, two very small (in one of them
he had slept last night with David, in the other Alice Press with
the two little girls), and the other larger, containing a grand
bed, and in this his wife was still sleeping; Father Roche had a
small room below.

On the ground floor there was the entrance-hall and the kitchen,
and on to the kitchen abutted the farm-buildings rented by
Satterthwaite.  These were a diminutive example of the yeoman's
dwelling.  This building was slated, the ridge made of what were
known as 'wrestlers,' slates notched so as to interlock.  The rest
was primitive enough, the upper floor open to the oaken beams, an
oak partition portioning off the sleeping-place for master and
mistress.

Below was the house-place, the parlour and the kitchen.  A man and
his wife called Wilson had been caring for the house ever since the
Herries family had forsaken it.

Coming down the rickety stair from the loft in the dim light,
Francis Herries could see at once that their care had been neither
vigilant nor arduous.

He stood in the dining-hall and looked about him.  In that dim air
without a sound in the world it seemed forlorn and desolate enough.

At the withdrawing-room end there was a raised dais, and at the
court-room end, opposite the dais, some high oak screens,
intricately carved.

Along one wall hung a fine spread of tapestry, fresh and living
still, worked in colours of red, brown, amber, dark purple, its
subject a hunting-scene, so handsomely wrought that all the wall
seemed alive with straining hounds and noble horses, huntsmen
winding their horns, and for their background dark hills and
clustering trees.

This was a fine piece, and Herries, looking at it, wondered that it
should be so well preserved.  For the rest the hall was furnished
barely--one long oak table, some stiff-backed chairs, a carved
chest, and a portrait hanging above the dais.

It was this portrait that drew now Herries' attention.  In the dim
light it seemed marvellously alive.  He did not question but that
it was the portrait of old great-great-grandfather Herries himself.
It had been undoubtedly painted after his coming to Herries,
possibly by some wandering artist who had strayed into these wilds
or by some London friend passing through Kendal on his way to
Scotland--whoever had executed it, he was, in that wavering light,
alive and dominating.  An old man, his face wrinkled and seamed,
his head poked forward out of some dark furs, his eyes dimmed, half
closed, and one thin hand stretching forward out of the picture, as
though to seize some prize or arrest some attention.

What Francis Herries felt, looking at it, was that there was here
an odd resemblance to himself.  Was it in the eyes?  How could that
be when his own were so bright and eager?  Or the mouth?  But this
mouth was puffed and seemed as you looked at it to tremble.  Or the
skinny neck between the furs?  Or the grasping hand?  He looked at
it, nodded his head as though the sight of it had decided some
problem for him, and passed on down the stairs, through the shabby
little entrance-hall into the open.

Behind the house he found an old-fashioned pump, and leaning
against the wall, scratching his head and yawning, was Benjamin.

By the side of the pump was a wooden bucket.  He signed to Benjamin
to come and help him, stripped (this was the blind side of the
house, and in any case he did not care who might see him).
Benjamin splashed him.  The water was ice-cold.  He pulled on his
breeches again, bid Benjamin rub his chest and back.  He was in a
splendid glow.

Over the low wall he could see the lights of the sky clustering
about Glaramara's shoulders.  Long swaths of yellow lay across the
pale ivory, and the edge of the hills rippled with fire.  A bird
sang, a little uncertainly, from the yews, and in the fresh
stillness other birds could be heard beating their way through the
shining air.

Benjamin, his mouth open, stared at his master, waiting for orders.

'Strip, you devil,' Francis Herries said, laughing.  'You are
sodden with sleep.'  Benjamin stripped at once, and his plump,
stout body began to shiver and quake as the cold air caught his
flesh.  Francis laughed, then filled the bucket and splashed the
water over the man, who did not, however, flinch, but stood there,
shaking, but at attention.

'I will repay your courtesy,' Francis said, and seizing him, rubbed
his naked body with a ferocious vigour.  Then, giving him a kick
with his soft slippers, cuffed him on the cheek and bid him put on
his clothes.

'How does this place seem to you, Benjamin?'

Benjamin, pulling up his breeches, answered:

'We shall come to a handsome knowledge of one another's customs,
hidden here from the world--but 'tis a good place for horses.'

Francis Herries looked about him.  'I haven't seen so clear a water
nor smelt so fresh an air for years.  But you can leave me when you
will.  I'll have no man stay who's a grumbler.'

'If I would leave you, master,' Benjamin answered with that odd,
half-sulky, half-humorous speech that was so especially his, 'I'd
have left you long ago.  There's been often reason enough.'

'Why do you stay then?' asked Herries.

Benjamin, rubbing his wet head, answered:  'I can't tell.  There's
no reason for why I do things.'  He paused, then added:  'Where you
are, master, there's food and dogs and horses.  Day come, day go,
life is the same anywhere in the world, I fancy.'

'And when I beat you?'

'All men are beaten,' answered Benjamin, shuffling inside his
clothes.  'I'd sooner be beaten by you than another.'  He added,
looking about him at the hills as though he were seeing them for
the first time--'  The fellow in the house tells me there's fine
bull-baiting, wrestling and other games round these parts.  Life's
not over for us yet, master,' and, as he shuffled off with his fat
walloping walk he grinned at Herries, showing himself half servant,
half friend; half hireling, to be kicked, beaten, abused; half
equal, knowing secrets and sharing confidences that must breed
equal contact.

As he turned to go back into the house Herries saw, looking at him
from the corner of the house-wall, an old, bent, infinitely aged
woman.  She had long, white, ragged hair, and a thin, yellow face.
She stood without moving, looking at him.

'Who's that?' he asked Benjamin.

'The house-man's mother.'

The old woman raised her hand as though to feel the wind, then
disappeared.

He went into the house to see his wife.  The bedroom was dark.  He
pulled back the curtains and then stood by the window looking
across at her.  That was a fine bed in which she was lying, the
curtains of faded crimson velvet, the woodwork splendidly carved.
Crimson velvet, torn and shabby, was tacked also on to some of the
panelling of the walls.  There was a portrait of a young lady in a
green dress and a white ruff over the fireplace.

His wife was yet sleeping.  He came to the bed and stood there
watching.  There was something pathetic in poor Margaret Herries as
she lay there, happy for a while at least in dreamless slumber.
All the anxieties, woes and bewildered distresses that attacked, so
increasingly, her waking life were for the moment stilled.

She looked a fool as she slept.  She was a fool, she would always
be one, but there was something gentle, kindly, appealing in her
stout characterless features.  And it might be that there was more
character there than anyone, herself most certainly, at this time
knew.

Maybe Herries, as he looked at her, felt something of this.
Drawing his purple gown closely around him, he gazed at her, lost
in his own disappointed ironical thoughts.

Why in folly's name had he ever married her?  They had been young
enough, he eighteen, she seventeen.  They had been idiots enough,
he vain beyond all vanity, she adoring beyond all conceivable
adoration; she had been pretty, innocent and wealthy.  Her father,
Ephraim Harden, a very successful City merchant, had died a year
before their meeting, her mother being already long-time dead.  She
was an only child and sent to an aunt in Carlisle on a holiday.
They had met at a Carlisle ball, he handsome, without a penny,
loathing the dull life at Seddon, where he hung on because he had
no means wherewith to live in any other more lively place.

Seddon was still his brother Pomfret's at that time, and Francis
and his brother Harcourt were permitted to remain there on a kind
of tolerating sufferance.  How he had hated that place with its
dull grey walls, its poverty and greasy indolence.  You might say
that this place, Herries, to which he had now come was dull and
grey enough, but, from the first moment seen on that moonlit night,
he had thrilled to it.  It had touched, and he knew this
absolutely, some deep fundamental chord in him.

But Seddon and brother Harcourt!  Harcourt with his thin, shanky
frame, peering eyes and most exasperating cough, his passionate
absorption in his books, so that he was only happy when they were
piled high around him, sending up their dusty thick smell on every
side of him.  Harcourt who, in his twenties, had been a gay spark
in London, an acquaintance of Swift and Addison and Steele, who had
helped in the exposure of the great Psalmanazar, been present at
the trial of John Tutchin, and even spent an evening with the
infamous Mrs. Manley of the New Atalantis!

But as Harcourt had grown, his zeal for letters had grown with him;
he had abandoned the town, buried himself in Seddon with his books,
and then, at Francis' marriage, taken himself to the sea-coast,
near Ravenglass, where he lived, a contented hermit.

It had not been altogether Francis' desire for money that had
driven him into marriage with Margaret Harden.  His motives were
never unmixed in anything that he did, always there was nobility
with his greed, tenderness with his cruelty, humour with his
pessimism.  He cared for her prettiness and innocence.  He might
have had her without the marriage ceremony, her body and her money
too, she adoring him so that from the first moment she could deny
him nothing, and he did not.

Nor was it only his weariness with Seddon.  From the first he had
realised that it was likely that Margaret Harden would weary him
more than ever Seddon had done.  He had felt a tenderness (which he
might now allow was principally a weak sentiment) for this lonely
orphaned girl, tied, until some man should carry her away, to the
strings of a dumpy, frowzy aunt whose only interest was in cards
and the scandals of the country town.

He had been stung to the venture also by the sharp pleasures of
rivalry.  The neighbouring squires, the sparks of the little town,
even some of the graver, more aged officers of the garrison, had
seen in Miss Harden's pretty face and splendid fortune an exciting
prize.  But from the first moment of Francis Herries' appearance
there had been no chance for any other.  He had been for her, poor
silly fool, the god of all her dreams and maiden longings.

Yes, she had been cheated as vilely as he--nay, in the issue of it,
much more vilely.  She was no judge of men, poor thing, and had
thought him as noble in character as he was handsome in person.
The aunt, tired swiftly of the burden of this innocent girl for
whom cards were too intricate a pleasure and scandal too
distressing a pastime, was delighted to have her off her hands.

Herries had, indeed, considered the thing at some surprising length
for a boy so young, but even at that age he had no illusions about
himself, knew himself very well for what he was.  But he wanted the
money, her face pleased him, he had a certain kindness for her, and
so the thing had been.

Looking down at her now he could not believe that, so short a while
back, she had been that pretty, slender girl.  Marriage had at
least agreed so far with her that, in the very first year, she had
begun to thicken.  The three children that had come to her (the
only happiness the poor lady had known) had not assisted her
beauty; you could not believe that now she was but twenty-nine
years of age.

And he would swear that all their quarrels and distress had not
been his fault alone.  She had never tried at all to grow to his
taste and wishes; she had developed in nothing during the twelve
years of their life together.  She had no curiosity, no
inquisitiveness, no sensitiveness, no humour--only sentiment, a
liking for good food, a weak indulgence of the children and an
infinite capacity for tears.  Unfortunately all his ill-temper, his
infidelities, his squandering of her fortune had not caused her to
love him less; rather she adored him more to-day than when she had
married him.  Even this last insult, of carrying Alice Press to
this place with them, had not stirred her resentment.

It was that above all that irked him.  Although he had tried again
and again to kill it, he had deep shame at his treatment of her--a
shame that never drove him to better behaviour, but that for ever
irritated and vexed him.  Had she abused him, sworn at him, there
would have been some reason for him to despise himself less, but
this submission to his unkindness made him, when he was conscious
of it, hate her for his reproach of himself.

Not one of his mistresses had ever been anything to him, and Alice
Press the least of all.  He had taken them in a kind of impatient
scorn of their eagerness.  What did it matter, one thing more or
less, since all had gone so ill?

She was stirring.  She raised her arm, let it fall again, sighed in
her half-sleep, sighed again and woke.  Seeing him, she gave a
little cry.  He must have looked wild enough standing there in the
half-light, his shaven head with its short, bristling hairs, his
chest showing bare through the lapels of the bed-gown.

'Francis!' she said, and smiled that trusting, half-deprecating,
appealing smile that he so thoroughly detested.

'It is a fair morning,' he answered, 'and time you were about.'

'I know.'  She raised herself, putting her hand modestly over her
breasts.  'I was dreaming.  I dreamt that my aunt Hattie was here
again and her dog Pompey, and that she was giving it chocolate.'

'Thank God,' he answered grimly, 'that the reality is more
gracious.  You are at Herries, and the cesspool below this window
is in full odour, and there is a witch in the house.'

'A witch?' she cried, alarmed.  She was crammed with superstitions,
old wives' tales of warlocks and broomsticks, prophecies and magic
spells.

'A witch.  I saw her but now alight on her broomstick, scratch a
flea from her ear and whisper with her familiar hedgehog.'

Margaret Herries smiled that nervous smile with which she always
greeted his pleasantries, not knowing whether he were in jest or
earnest; whichever way her conclusion went she was always wrong.

Now she thought that he was jesting and tittered.  Also she was but
half awake and could not see his face clearly in the half-light.
He came nearer to the bed and bent over her.  He was moved by one
of those sudden and to himself most exasperating impulses of
compassion.

'You had best stay where you are,' he said.  'The last week has
been exhausting enough for a hide-bound alligator.'  He smiled, sat
down on the high bed's edge and touched her hand.

'Lie here, and the woman shall bring you some food.'

Margaret was awake enough now.  Any kindness from this adored
husband set her heart wildly beating, her cheeks flushing, her
tongue dry in her mouth.

'If you think it wise--' she stammered.  She had a desperate
impulse to press his hand, even to put her arm up, pull his head
towards her and embrace him, but she knew by bitter experience how
dangerous those actions would be.  Her hand lay pulsing in his.

'Margaret,' he said, 'if you find that I have done you wrong to
bring you here, if you cannot endure the remoteness of the place
and the savagery of the inhabitants, you must go for intervals of
every year to some town.  York is not so far--even Scotland.  There
is Carlisle . . .'  He broke off, remembering certain old scenes in
Carlisle.

'And you shall take the children with you.  Only you shall not keep
David too long.  I have done wrong to bring you to this forsaken
country.'

The flush yet on her cheeks, she answered:

'Whilst you care to have me here, Francis, I care to stay.'

It was the most aggravating thing that she could have said.  It
called up in its train a thousand stupidities, placidities,
nervousnesses, follies that had, in their time, driven him crazy
with irritation.  Never a mind of her own, always this maddening
acquiescence and sentimental fear of him.

He drew his hand away.

'The rocks that hem us in are not more implacable than your
amiability, my dear.  I remember that your aunt, prophesying (how
truly!) our wedded bliss, said that you had a nature, mild,
trustful and clinging.  With what knowledge of human character she
spoke!  Cards and the frailties of her neighbours yielded her human
wisdom.  Then you shall not go--you shall stay and love and cherish
your husband, caring nothing for the odour of the cesspool, the
machinations of the household witch, the rustic brutalities of the
neighbouring yeomen!  I will see that some food comes to you.'

He got up from the bed with that abrupt, impatient movement that
she knew so well.  She recognised, poor lady, that she had already
lost her momentary advantage, how she could not tell.

She looked at him, loving his every feature, then said:

'Yes, Francis, I thank you.'

She was an exasperating woman.  As he went from her room he felt
that he did not care how unhappy she might be in this desolation to
which she had come.  She might make friends with the pigs for all
that he cared, and good luck to her.  And she was but twenty-nine
and growing fatter with every hour!  Was ever man so cursed?



And yet once again, as, later in the day, he rode out on his black
horse, Mameluke, he was affected by his compassion.  He had escaped
them all; he had not stayed for the meal which now that it was past
three o'clock would soon be on the table.  He must be alone and
facing his own strange thoughts.

At first, as Mameluke trotted quietly along the rough path, he did
not notice the country round him.  He saw for a while nothing but
himself and he saw himself in a mirror, his features caricatured by
the distorting glass, his body lengthened to a hideous leanness,
his forehead peaked to a white cone-shaped dome.  Well, thus he was--
and thus.  This sudden quiet, this hush of the fields and sharp,
refreshing coldness of the air seemed to bring the issue of the
situation before him in sharper form than it had taken for many
months.

The issue was this--that unlike all the men and women that he knew,
the squires and boon-companions of Doncaster, the women, loose and
otherwise--alone of them all he longed for something that he could
not touch.  He had a vision, a vision that took, when he was with
Father Roche, a religious shape, when he was with Alice Press a
fleshly, with little David a pride in family, with the beauty of
landscape and fine stuffs and rare pieces a poetic, but all these
only forms and vestures of a vision that was none of them, but of
which thing all were.  And with this vision there was the actuality
of his life--his life wasteful, idle, cruel, sensual, selfish,
vain.  He did not, as he rode now on Mameluke, turn his head away
from a single aspect of it.

He had once dreamed a dream.  It was some five years back at the
end of a race-meeting in Doncaster.  He had stayed in an inn in the
town for the night.  Drinking heavily, he was yet not drunk as were
his companions.  He had shared a room with one of them, pulled his
boots off him, flung him down on his bed, where he lay loathsomely
snoring.  Himself he had gone to the window, pushed it open and
stared out on a splendid night flaming with stars.

And there, it had seemed, propped forward on a little chair, his
head almost through the window (so that he might easily have
tumbled on to the cobbles below), he had fallen asleep.  Had he
slept or no?  How many times since then he had asked himself that
question!  In any case, through his dream he had seemed to hear the
sounds of the night.  The slow, lazy call of the watchman, the love
duet of cats, the rumbling of a country cart on distant cobbles,
the snores of his neighbour, these had been behind and through his
dream.

His eyes open, he would have sworn, staring into the stars he had
beheld a vision.  He was in a region of vast, peaked, icy
mountains.  Their fierce and lonely purity, as silver-pointed they
broke the dark sky, caused him to cry out with wonder.  The sky was
dark; the mountains glittering white, they ringed round a small
mere or tarn, black as steel in shadow.

There was absolute silence in this world.  Then as he looked he saw
a great white horse, glorious beyond any ever beheld by man, come,
tossing his great white mane, to the edge of the mere.  He
hesitated, lifting his noble head as though listening, then plunged
in.  He swam superbly, tossing his mane, and Francis could see
silver drops glistening in the icy air.  He swam to the farther
edge; and then Francis was seized with an agonising terror lest he
should not be able to climb, out of the mere, up the icy sides of
the cliff that ran sheer into the water.  That moment of suspense
was fearful and compounded of a great love for the splendid horse,
a great tenderness, a great reverence and an anguish of
apprehension.

Then, tossing his mane once more, the beautiful horse mounted out
of the mere, strode superbly across the ice and vanished.  Then,
again, there was great loneliness.

Waking from this dream and staring back at the little room, stuffy
and smelling of drink, the floor tumbled with clothes, his thick,
open-mouthed, red-faced companion, he knew an instant of acute,
terrible disappointment.  For a moment he thought that he would
throw himself out, end everything, so as to kill the disappointment;
and perhaps it would have been as well had he done so, because,
since then, that disappointment had been always with him.

The more that he had hated the noise and filth and confusion of his
life in Doncaster, the more he had plunged into it.  Now, as he
slowly passed along the darkening path that was leading him
gradually into the shadow of the hills, he saw one incident after
another of the Doncaster life, stretching out their hands to him as
though they were figures that kept pace with him.  The foolish duel
with young Soltery, a quarrel about nothing when they were both
drunk, Soltery who was terrified, and then more terrified yet that
he should seem terrified.  He saw young Soltery's eyes now, as they
faced one another in the early morning light on the fields outside
Doncaster, eyes of a frightened, bewildered child--and he had shot
away one of young Soltery's ears, so that he would be disfigured
for life.

Or fat Maitchison the surgeon with his brilliance, his obscenity,
his odd beliefs in magic and other humbug--that foolish night in
Maitchison's rooms when they had defied the Devil, smashed the
mirror, stripped Maitchison's mistress naked and painted her
yellow.  He could see now the room, furniture overturned, the glass
of the big mirror scattered over the floor, and fat Maitchison with
gusts of drunken laughter painting the naked back of the swearing
girl. . . .  And the sudden opening of the door, the breeze blowing
in from the street, the candles going out, and someone crying that
bats were hanging on the ceiling. . . .

Yes, the races, the cock-fights, the bull and bear baiting, the
debauchery and smells and noise--a roaring in his ears, a stink at
his nostrils, and always in his heart this longing for the icy
peaks of his dream, the black tarn, the splendid horse with the
snow-white mane.

He was young, and should do something with his talents.  That he
was talented he knew.  They all told him so.  He had infinite
courage, splendid physique, an interest and curiosity in many
things.  What should it be?  Which way should he go?  And meanwhile
the years slipped by, and now, obeying some mad, mysterious
impulse, he had cut himself right off, hidden himself among the
savages.

Was he to laze here, slouching about, making familiars of the
yeomen, riding with them, chaffing their wives, perhaps seducing
their daughters?

For what had he come here?  He only knew that already the place was
working into his veins--the silence, the air with an off-scent of
ice in it, the hills that were perhaps only little hills and yet
had so strong a power--witchcraft hills, hiding in their corners
and wrinkles magic and spells.  As he rode on, the outside world
was beginning to slip ever farther and farther away from him.  His
was the only figure in the landscape; the whole country, as the
afternoon shadows lengthened, seemed naked.  Above the clustered
group of mountains at the end of the valley a little minaret of
pale grey clouds was forming, one cloud stealing upon another as
though with some quiet purpose; a purple shadow fell over these
hills as though a cloak had been suddenly dropped over them.

He saw on his right then a group of buildings.

His empty world was in a moment peopled with life.  Near him at the
fork of the road was a small crowd gathered about a pedlar who had
slung his box off his neck and rested it on a flat stone.  Herries
drew nearer and, sitting his horse, watched quietly.

The scene that had been a moment before wild and haunted was now
absolutely domestic.  Three healthy, red-faced girls stood there,
their arms about one another's necks, laughing and giggling, one
stout yeoman, some farm boys, and a little man, tow-coloured like a
wisp of hay, who, by his drab dress, should be one of those
itinerant parsons and schoolmen who went from house to house in
country districts, taking odd services of a Sunday and teaching the
children.

The pedlar was a tall, thin scarecrow of a man, having on his head
a peaked faded purple hat, and round his neck some of the coloured
ribbons that he was for selling.  By his speech, which was
cultivated, he was no native, and, indeed, with his sharp nose and
bright eyes he seemed a rascal of unusual intelligence.

The little scene was charming in its peace and security.  Some
cattle were being brought across the long field, two dogs at their
heels; a voice calling in rising and falling cadence sounded, as it
seemed, from the hills, and in the foreground there was the sharp
humorous note of the pedlar, the laughter of the girls and young
men and, once and again, the deep Cumbrian accents of the yeoman.

At first they had not noticed Herries, but when one of the girls,
looking up, gave a cry of surprise, they were not disturbed, and
after a glance went on with their private affairs, governed by a
certain dignity and independence of their own.

The pedlar, however, was aware of him although he continued his
patter.  He had 'Fine thread satins both striped and plain, Persia
nets, anterines, silks for scarves and hoods, shalloons, druggets,
and some Scotch plaids.'  On his tray there were some pieces of
fine bone lace, Chinese boxes, necklaces, gold rings set with
vermilions, several gold buttons, and red watch bottles ribbed with
gold--or he said it was gold.  And some books.  Chap-books and
calendars, Poor Robin, The Ladies' Diary, some old sheets of the
London Gazette, and some bound volumes of Plays.  These things of
fashion looked strange in the open fields before the little country
group, who fingered and laughed and fingered again.  The jewellery,
indeed, had a false air, but the ribbons and lace were pretty, and
above, Herries must fancy, the purses of the locals.  Herries
noticed, too, that the pedlar did not seem too intent upon his
sales or purchases, and that his sharp eyes went everywhere, and
especially to Herries and his horse.

He thought to himself that this would not be the last time that he
would see that pedlar.

The shadows of the hills now covered the valley; the light flashed
palely above Glaramara and then fell.  Herries turned his horse
towards home.  As he moved away the little tow-haired parson
detached himself from the others and approached him.

His long parson's coat was green with age, shabby and stained, and
his breeches were tied about the knees with string, his bony
fingers purple with cold, his nose red; but he had about him a very
evident dignity.  He bowed, but not subserviently.

'It has been a fine afternoon,' he said, keeping pace with
Mameluke's gentle step.

Herries, impressionable ever to the moment's atmosphere, his spirit
touched now by some quiet and happiness, answered, as he could when
he so pleased, with charm and courtesy.

'The day falls quickly in these valleys.'

'And the light is for ever changing,' the little clergyman answered
with pleased eagerness.  'You are newly arrived here, sir?'

'But yesterday.'

'I know everyone in this neighbourhood--man, woman and child.  You
are the gentleman who has come to Herries by Rosthwaite?'

'I am,' answered Herries.

'There has been much interest in your coming, sir.  It will be the
wish of everyone that you will find it pleasant here, and stay with
us.'

'Do you also belong here?' asked Herries.

'I do the Lord's will and go whither He sends me.  For some years
now I have taught the children of these villages, assisted at
services, done what the Lord has bidden me.'

'You are not a native of Cumberland then?'

'No, sir, I am from the South.  I was born in Bideford in Devon.
For many years I was chaplain to the Earl of Petersham.'

'Why, then, have you come here?  It must seem a severe exile to
you.'

'The Lord spoke to me in a dream and ordered me to go North.  I was
to walk forward until I saw a naked man tied to a tree, and in that
place to abide and do His will.'

'Where saw you your naked man?'

'After many months, begging and preaching my way through the
country, I came at last to the village of Grange on a summer
evening.  And above the river where the bridge is, I saw a man
naked and bound with ropes to a tree.  The men of the village were
throwing stones at him: he was near death.  He had been caught
robbing a yeoman of the place of two hens.  I urged them to release
him, the Lord prevailed, and afterward I lodged in his house.  I
lodge there yet.'

'And what, then, do you teach the children?' asked Herries,
entertained by this simplicity.

'The Lord's Word, the Catechism, and, when they wish it, Greek and
Latin.'

'You have no family?'

'My wife is with God.'

The dark was falling more swiftly now, and it was difficult to see
the path.  Herries jumped off his horse and walked beside the
clergyman.

'What is your name?' he asked him.

'Robert Finch.'

'How shall I like this place?  It is cut off from the world.'

There was a sudden odd note of scorn in the little man's voice as
he answered:

'It IS the world, sir.  Here within these hills, in this space of
ground is all the world.  I thought while I was with my lord
Petersham that the world was there, but in every village through
which I have passed since then I have found the complete world--all
anger and vanity and covetousness and lust, yes, and all charity
and goodness and sweetness of soul.  But most of all, here in this
valley, I have found the whole world.  Lives are lived here
completely without any thought of the countries more distant.  The
mountains close us in.  You will find everything here, sir.  God
and the Devil both walk on these fields.'

'And if I believe neither in God nor the Devil?'

'You are a young man for such confident disbelief.  God was
speaking to me now, and has told me that you will find everything
that you need for the growth of your soul here in this valley.  You
have come to your own place, sir.  You are young and strong, but
the day will come when you will remember my words.'

Herries looked back down the path.  In the dusk he could see it
point like a pale, crooked finger straight at the heavy black hump
of Glaramara that was dark against lighter dark.  Again he felt ice
in the air and shivered.

'They are little hills by your foreign sort,' he said, 'and yet
they impress.'

The small voice beside him answered:

'They are the loveliest hills in all God's world.'  Then it
continued, taking another tone, very mild and a little anxious:
'You have children, sir?'

'Three,' answered Herries.

'If you were in need--' he hesitated.  'My Greek and Latin are
good, and I have authority with children.  If I could serve you--'

Herries laughed.

'I must warn you,' he said, 'there is a priest in the house.'

There was a pause while the wind, rising, began to blow fiercely,
swaying the branches and turning the dead leaves about their feet.

The voice began again:  'He instructs your children?'

'A little.'

'Your own religion--?'

'Nay, I am no Catholic.  I have told you I have no religion.  How
think you, Mr. Finch?  In this drunken, debauched world what is
your God engaged upon?  He is busy elsewhere improving some other
planet.'

'Christ died upon the Cross suffering a worse bewilderment.'

Herries laughed again.

'Well, you shall try your luck upon them.  But we are a wild house,
Mr. Finch, and may, in this desolate country, become yet wilder.'

They had come to the gate that led to Herries.'  They paused.  To
Francis' surprise the little man laid his hand on his arm.

'You are young, sir.  I have ten years' advantage of you.  I fancy
your wildness does not frighten me.'

'On thy head be it then,' Herries cried, as he led Mameluke up the
path.  The way here was very rough, and he began to curse as he hit
the loose stones, plunged into mud, fearing that his horse might
stumble and damage his knees.  His mood was changing with the
swiftness that belonged to his moods.  Oddly enough his mind had
turned to Father Roche.  The little clergyman had reminded him.
Why was he burdened with this priest and the risks and penalties
connected with his presence?  It was true that just now there was a
lull in the Catholic agitation, but it might burst out again at any
instant.  Herries did not doubt but that Roche was busied in a
thousand intrigues both political and religious, and they were
intrigues with which he had no sort of sympathy.  Jacobitism made
no appeal to him--he hated the French influence behind it.  He
wanted no king for England who would be ruled by French money and
ambition.  Moreover, he took in any case but little interest in
politics, and had no romantic feeling for that world.  Nor had the
Catholic religion attraction for him; he despised what seemed to
him its mummery, the child's play, as he saw it, of its tinkling
bells and scented air.  But Roche's influence over him was strong
and subtle.  Ever since his first meeting with the man some five
years before, it had persisted.  And for what reason?  Roche was
stern, unsympathetic to all Herries' pleasures, showed no warmth of
feeling to Herries (no warmth of feeling to anyone, indeed, save
little David), used Herries' house quite openly for his own private
purposes, had carried on in Doncaster, as Herries well knew, a
network of plans and plots with an odd audacity and defiance.  When
he spoke intimately with Herries it was to rebuke him.  And yet
Herries would endure from him things that from another he would
most furiously resent.  Where lay Roche's power?  In the continued
suggestion that he held somewhere a solution for Herries' sickness
of soul?  Not in any dogma lay that solution, but in something
deeper, something far more profound. . . .

But (and here the house with its lighted windows loomed suddenly up
before him as though it had been pushed up through the rough
ground) was the priest to remain?  Why?  He and Alice Press should
both be sent packing.  One must start fair in this new place--and
for a moment before he pushed back the heavy door he had a picture
before his eyes of the country group in the fading afternoon light,
the coloured scene, the quiet and the animals and the purple-shaded
hills.  Here in this good land there should be no place for the
priest and the woman. . . .  Here in this good land--and a moment
later he was caught into one of his dark, bestial, frantic rages.

He had left his horse outside the door and, calling Benjamin,
pressed up the staircase to the little tapestried dining-hall.  A
high, thick-clustered candelabrum was burning on the table, all the
candles blowing in the winds that came from the floor-cracks, the
slits in wall, roof and window.

At the table his wife was seated crying.  Alice Press, very gay in
a crimson gown, was turning scornfully away from her, even as he
entered.  The three children were playing together by the oak
chest.  Over all the room there was a frantic disorder.  Some of
the boxes, brought by the pack-horses the night before, were there,
and scattered about were suits, gowns, china, stuffs, linen,
children's toys.

A strange thick scent of burning wax, damp straw and odours from
the neighbouring cesspool lay heavy about the candle-shine.  He had
ordered that the boxes were not to be touched until the morrow,
when he could supervise the opening of them.

By whom had he been disobeyed?  Both women began to chatter, his
wife wailing, Alice Press loud and shrill and defiant.  The little
girls began to cry.  At that moment Benjamin, a foolish smile on
his chubby face, appeared at the stair-head.

Francis Herries caught him by the neck, then, raising the riding-
whip that was still in his hand, cried:

'What said I to these boxes?  Hast thou no wit, thou lubber-pated
bastard?'

Benjamin shouted something; everyone began to call aloud at once.
The room, the house, the world was filled with shouting and stink
and a raging anger.

To come thus, from an afternoon so quiet and promising, to this
vileness!  Anger boiled in his heart, choking him.  He had
Benjamin's coat off his back, struck the bare flesh again and
again, lashed him about the head, the legs, the thighs, and when
suddenly the man hung his head and began to droop in his arms he
let fall his whip and began to beat him with his hands, letting him
at last drop, a huddled, half-naked heap.

The man had fainted.  Raising Benjamin's head, Herries was suddenly
remembering how that morning in the fresh air by the pump he had
rubbed in friendliness the man's body while the birds wheeled
through the sky.

A sickness caught him at the heart.  He told David to run for some
water, but before the boy had returned the man was reviving.  He
was lying back, his head on his master's knee.  He looked up, then,
flicking his eyelids, said:

'It was not by my word, master, that the boxes were opened.'

Clumsily he rose to his feet; he caught his coat to his bare chest--

'I'll be rubbing the horse down,' he said, and stumbled down the
staircase.



FAMILY


Pomfret Herries lived at this time in one of the most beautiful
houses in Keswick.  It was beautiful, not by his own taste or
fancy, but because he wished to have a better house than any one of
his neighbours.

This has always been a habit with certain of the Herries.  Desiring
this, he chose for architect that strange, saturnine hermit, old
John Westaway, known in Keswick for a madman and the best architect
in the North, a desperate traveller who knew Italy as you might
know Skiddaw, who had been invited again and again to London, but
preferred to live in his little house above the river, seeing no
one, liking no one, buried in his books and art treasures.  All
over the North Westaway's fame ran.  He was an old man now, had
been, it was said, in his youth the friend and intimate of
Chesterman and Van der Vaart and Vanbrugh, a curmudgeon, a surly
bachelor, in league, some whispered, with the Devil himself,
pottering about that house, with its pictures and statuary, and his
dark Italian servant--a devil, but the finest architect, it might
be, in England.

He had made Pomfret pay for his fancy, and when it was done Pomfret
had grumbled so that you might hear him from John o' Groat's to
Land's End--but it was a beautiful house.  People came from Kendal
and Carlisle and Penrith to look at it, so that at the last Pomfret
and his wife had grown proud of it and spoke of it as entirely
their doing.

In fine proportion, its roof covered with red tiles, the wrought
ironwork across its front showing like lace against the stone, the
house was oblong without gables.  The windows were for their period
most modern.  They were sash windows, a great rarity, and they were
beautifully spaced.  The doorway had fluted columns and over it
there was a charming and delicate fanlight.

The house was outside the town near to Crosthwaite Church, and the
gardens ran down to the weeds and rushes of the lake-end.  The
garden held lime trees and the lawn was bordered with tubs of
orange and bay trees.  There was a little terrace and a rosy wall
of red brick, and beyond the formal garden a meadow, the lake and
the rising hills.  To the right some greenhouses, a flower garden
and a kitchen garden.

Inside, the house was wide, spacious and full of light.  First a
pillared hall, on the right the parlour, on the left a fine, wide
staircase opening into a splendid saloon.  Beyond the parlour a
large bedroom leading to a greenhouse.  On the upper floor other
bedrooms.

Pomfret's chief pride was the saloon, the decoration of which
Westaway had designed and executed--the subject was Paris awarding
the apple.  Lady Herries had been disturbed by the naked goddesses
until it was seen that no one else minded.

In this fine house Pomfret inhabited only one room, a dusky
apartment crowded with guns, stuffed animals and fishing-rods.
Here he drank merrily with his friends.

Lady Herries' home was the parlour, where she read her medicine
books, scolded the maids, suffered in a bitter silence that ancient
lady, Pomfret's aunt, fed a screaming macaw, and gave her
neighbours tea and chocolate.  The three children had their own
room far away at the top of the house.

There was a great array of domestics, from Mrs. Bellamy the
housekeeper to little Peter the black boy, who had been purchased
in London, shivered in the cold, and stole everything that he, with
safety, might.

Mrs. Bellamy was of the family of Mrs. Slipslop, and made all the
mischief both in the house and in the neighbourhood that time and
talents permitted her.

They could scarcely be called a united family, for they were never
together.  Pomfret diced, drank, rode, hunted with his masculine
friends, who liked his company because he was stupid enough for
them to rob him at will.  Jannice, his wife, bullied him when she
was with him, forgot him when she was not.  She loved him only when
he was ill, and this was often enough, for his intemperate habits
and his swinish feeding caused him constant attacks of biliousness
and vertigo.  There was nothing that Jannice Herries loved like a
medical treatise; her familiar and, after Mrs. Bellamy, most
constant companion was old Dr. Ellis, who would discuss with her by
the hour the whole works of that excellent practical physician, Dr.
Thomas Sydenham!

She experimented on her staff, her family and any neighbours who
would permit her.  Little Peter, who was sick every other day from
stealing confitures from the store-room, was her most unhappy
patient.  And yet, of course, this is not all that can be said
about Pomfret and his lady.  At heart they were kindly and well-
dispositioned.  Only they had no imagination, and had been covered
with a thin skin of wealth that, like a rash upon their souls,
discomforted them, made them uneasy, suspicious, unhappily proud.

Pomfret loved his children, but did not know how to approach them.
He cuffed them and spoiled them and cuffed them again.  He was
generous-natured and desired that his friends should be happy, but
he suspected that they laughed at him, and so was pompous and grand
when he wished to be easy and familiar.

His money he had made, as he well knew, from his obedience to the
advice of a London friend, Hartwell, who, at a certain moment, had
directed his affairs.

Although his companions robbed him he had wisdom sufficient to
leave his affairs in Hartwell's hands.  He pretended to a knowledge
of commerce and exchange; it was, as he knew in his heart, a bare
pretence.  He did nothing well, rode badly, shot badly, fished
badly.  He knew moments of great unhappiness.

Jannice Herries was also without imagination.  She was acrimonious
and bitter, but she knew that this was not her real life.
Somewhere real feeling was hidden, but day succeeded day and
nothing was done.  She knew that she was unpopular among the ladies
of Keswick, but she swallowed every compliment that Mrs. Bellamy
gave her, and at the end was more lonely than before.

After her interest in medicine her most active passion was her
hatred for Pomfret's Aunt Maria, that very ancient lady, who, born
in 1645 and for a time in the fashionable world, was now a hideous
remnant of a dead and musty past.  She longed for this old lady to
die, and would have poisoned her ere this, but alone of the
household Aunt Maria refused all of her niece's drugs.  She was now
eighty-five years of age.

Finally with both Pomfret and his lady there remained a constant
uneasiness about their wealth.  It had come so oddly, without any
true justification.  It might go as oddly again.  They had
witnessed in the last twenty years a series of financial panics.
Now with the abominable French ready for any villainy, all this new-
fangled independence of servants and labourers, who knew what the
next event might be?  The Catholics were listening at every window.
Why, here was Francis Herries coming to live in the neighbourhood
and bringing with him quite openly a rascally priest.  Although
Walpole and the Whigs were in, who knew how strong was their power?

Jannice Herries' favourite remark to Mrs. Bellamy was:  'Things are
not as they were.'

To which Mrs. Bellamy with a shudder would reply:  'No, my lady.
If I know my own mind there was never a truer word spoken.'

'And what will you do, Bellamy, if your master is ruined?'

'Heaven strike me dead if I ever desert you, my lady!  Marry come
up, don't I know a virtuous place when I see one?'

But Bellamy had been lining her pocket for many a year, and being
Mrs. Bellamy only by courtesy had her eye on a handsome victualler
in Kendal, whose hearth and home she proposed to encompass and
govern on the first signs of distress in the Herries country.

The three children, Anabel, Raiseley and Judith, lived in their own
world.  They, like their father, were Herries of the unimaginative,
matter-of-fact breed.  They took things as they came, and each, in
his or her own fashion, worked quietly and obstinately for personal
profit.  Anabel was good-natured, plump and easy.  Raiseley was
clever.  It would not be true of him to say that he was without
imagination, but it was imagination of an educational kind.

He was studious, priggish, aloof and cold, rarely roused to anger
but unforgetful of the slightest injury.  He had the wise,
calculating side of the Herries blood; he was studious, honest to
chilliness, and despised both his father and his mother.  Judith
would be beautiful; she was dark and slender and already cherished
her beauty as her most important asset.

These three were all typical Herries on the stony side of the
family character.  They saw everything in front of their noses and
nothing beyond.  They did not mind in the least their social
isolation.  They might contemn one another, but united at once in
condemnation of all other children.

They were waiting now in their high, chilly room for the visit that
their cousin in Borrowdale was to pay them.  Only the little boy,
they understood, was coming with his father and mother.  They had
already gathered from the conversation of their elders that Uncle
Francis was a disgrace.

Of the three of them at this time it may be said that Raiseley and
Judith held out no hope of later humanity; for Anabel, because of
her good-nature and a certain carelessness that went with it, there
were possibilities.

On this afternoon the three children were in their chill room
quietly busy.  Judith was seated motionless in a high chair, a
collar round her neck, a board tied to her back.  This was for her
figure.  She was watching the grandfather clock in the corner.
Five minutes of her daily half-hour remained.  This half-hour was
valued greatly by her, because she knew that this discipline was
for the benefit of her beauty.  She was only nine years of age, but
had already a grave and considered air.  Anabel, who was thirteen,
was curled up in the window-seat looking at the pictures of some
chap-books, Babes in the Wood, Bluebeard, Little Tom Thumb.  But
she was not reading.  She knew the old stories by heart.  She was
wondering what her little cousin would be like.

She, unlike her brother and sister, was sometimes lonely.  She
confessed it to no one, but she loved parties and fun.  Maybe this
little boy would be agreeable.

Raiseley was yawning over his Virgil.  Mr. Montgomery, who came
every day to teach him Latin and Greek, had but just now gone.

'Jam pater Aeneas . . .' murmured Raiseley, and fingered a little
box in which he had a cocoon concealed.  He hid this from his
parents and Mr. Montgomery, because they would disapprove if they
knew.  But soon the cocoon would be liberated.  No one told him any
of the things that he wanted to know about animals, about the
stars.  Now, when he thought of these things, a new expression came
into his eyes.  He was suddenly alive with a questioning,
investigating alertness.  His cold, pale, pointed features gained
an interesting sharpness.  The book fell from his hand.  There were
many things that he would know one day; they should not stop him
pursuing his knowledge.  Mr. Montgomery with his sing-song voice,
his perpetual cold at the nose, his eagerness to please, how
Raiseley despised him!

He would like to see Mr. Montgomery whipped as little Peter was
whipped, or standing as the man they had seen one day in the
pillory in the market, his face smeared with the mud and the yellow
of the eggs that people had thrown at him.  And, as he thought of
these things, his face achieved an added sharpness, coldly,
intellectually speculative--'Jam pater Aeneas. . . .'

He looked at the little pile of books beside him--A Guide to the
English Tongue, by Thomas Dyche, schoolmaster in London; Paul's
Scholars' Copy-Book, by John Raynor; The Use of the Globes.

He did not look at them resentfully.  He would extract from them
everything that they had to give him.

'Judith,' he said, 'I should know more than Mr. Montgomery knows in
a year or two.  I would think it fine to see him in the pillory as
a week back we saw that man.'

Judith, motionless, her eyes on the clock, answered:  'We are to go
downstairs when our uncle and aunt come.  I am to wear the grey-
blue.'

Anabel, from the window, said:  'I like David for a boy's name.'

'I heard them say,' went on Raiseley, 'that Uncle Francis is always
drunken and beats Aunt Margaret.'

'But he is very handsome,' said Judith.  'He was wearing such fine
clothes the other day that father was shabby beside him.'

'Fine clothes,' said Raiseley scornfully, 'and they living in mud
and dirt up to their elbows!  They say that Borrowdale is full of
witches and giants--wolves too.  I would like mightily to see a
wolf.  I shall ask Uncle Francis to take me.'

The clock struck the half-hour.  Judith very carefully separated
herself from her board and collar.  At that same moment the door
opened.  They were told that it was time for them to dress.

David and his mother had indeed already arrived.

Poor Margaret Herries had been for weeks dreading this visit.  It
was now a month since they had come to Herries, and the weather had
been so terrible that the ride to Keswick had been impossible.  It
had rained and rained; not as it rained in Doncaster, with gusts
and flurries and pauses and whispering, but in a drenching flood,
falling from the grey, lowering sky like sheets of steel.

And the mountains had crept closer and closer, and the cold stolen
into the very webbing of the sheets, the torn tapestries beating
against the wall, and the mice boldly running for comfort to the
peat fire.  A horrible month it had been, but with all the courage
at her command she had faced the rain, the isolation, her loathing
for Alice Press, gathered her children round her as she might and
made what she could out of the situation.

Oddly enough she had not been unhappy.  Francis had been ever close
at hand.  He did not go off for nights at a time as he had done at
Doncaster.  That might come later--but at present it was as though
the place cast a spell upon him.  He pottered about the house, rode
out to Stye Head, walked up Glaramara and the neighbouring hills,
wandered along the lake by Manesty and Cat Bells, made himself
known to some of the neighbouring yeomen, was silent often enough,
drunken at times, angry once and again, but on the whole more her
companion than he had been since their first marriage year.

And so there had increased in her heart her ever-constant loyalty
to him.  What she had suffered watching the degradation of his
reputation during these past years no one would ever know.  She
would never tell.  Here it was as though he had begun a new life.
Stories long commonplace round Doncaster would here not be known.
He would start again, and she would do everything in her power to
assist him.  Only his brother's family could spoil this fair
beginning; she had seen and heard enough already to feel that
Pomfret and his wife were Francis' detractors and would from the
first take care to be dissociated from any scandal.

She was as fiercely prepared to fight her brother- and sister-in-
law as any lioness in defence of her cubs, but her trouble was that
she was not a lioness.  She was a coward; while she was riding
pillion behind her husband and her son, she was aware that at the
first sight of Jannice in her own domain she would lose courage,
she would tremble, she would show faint-heartedness.  Francis had
things that he must do in Keswick.  He would come later to his
brother's house to fetch her.  She must face Pomfret and Jannice
alone.

So she stood, David at her side, in the little hall with its
rounded pillars, its stone floor in black and white squares, its
fine picture of an Italian scene, with dim greys and purple for
colour, hanging on the right of the staircase.

They were ushered into the parlour.  It was lit with candles, and
David had never seen such a room.  But before he could examine the
room he must be startled by the persons in it, by his aunt Jannice,
who was dressed superbly in a high wig mounted over a cushion and
decorated with roses and daisies, her hoop spread about her, the
outer skirt of crimson velvet and the front of her dress white and
silver.  On one brown cheek she wore a black patch.  She was
grander than any lady that he had ever seen; no one who came to
their house in Doncaster had dressed like that.  Young though he
was, he realised that her thin, meagre figure and brown complexion
ill suited such finery.

But his childish attention was soon drawn from his aunt to the
terrific figure who sat in a high chair under the window.  This was
his great-aunt Maria.

He would never have believed, had he not seen it with his own eyes,
that any person could be so old and yet live.  Her wig of a bright
brown colour was arranged in a fashion of fifty years ago, falling
about her strange mask of a powdered, painted face in long curled
ringlets.  Over one eye was a black patch.  Her green bodice was
peaked, and her full, open sleeves were caught together with
jewelled clasps.  Her wide skirt was of purple satin.  Her fingers,
so thin that they were like the ivory sticks of a fan, were loaded
with jewels.

On her lap was a small King Charles spaniel.

She appeared a painted image.  Except for her one visible eye
nothing in her face moved.  David was a polite little boy, but
again and again he had to stare.  Here was a portent, a revelation
in his young life.

The little black boy was standing behind Lady Herries' chair, and
as soon as greetings had been exchanged they all sat down.  The
little black boy handed chocolate; a bright purple macaw in a gilt
cage by the window screamed.

For a little while there was a terrible silence.  The room was very
hot; there was a large log fire.  The sky beyond the window was
bright with a silver glow.

When the talk had started David could look more easily about him.

He was indeed enchanted with the softness and beauty of everything.
Beyond the wide window he could see the trim hedges, the paved
path, the fountain with a strange stone bird, long-necked and
violent-beaked, rising out of it, and beyond the fountain the line
of trees guarding the waters of the lake.

Within the room there were countless objects that he longed to
examine more closely, a screen worked in gold thread, a silver
casket, a clock with the sun, moon and stars on its face.  But more
than these, the terrible old woman with her strange ringlets, her
painted face, the cascades of her bright purple dress, the sharp-
pointed fingers weighted with flashing jewellery. . . .

'Indeed,' his aunt was saying, 'I wonder at Mr. Flammery.  'Tis a
poor child that doesn't know its own father, and there's a
multitude of his own poor children must be in a fine confusion.'

This puzzled David, who, looking first at his aunt and then at his
flustered mother sweating in the face with the heat of the room and
the agitation of this her first so important visit, wondered how it
could be that any child should not know its own father.  He of a
certainty knew his well enough.

'Yes, indeed,' his aunt continued, looking, as he was even now old
enough to discern, with an odd mixture of curiosity and contempt at
his mother.  'You must be well aware, Margaret, of the world into
which you have come.  In winter I doubt that you'll be able to move
a step.  You live in the heart of savages, and when the lake is too
wild for passage and the roads all of a muck to your armpits the
civilised world will be as distant from you as the Indies.'

'I don't doubt,' said Margaret, flushing and perspiring the more,
for she knew that it was at her own abandoned Francis that these
remarks were made, 'but that the days will pass.  There's
sufficient to do about the house to take a month of winters. . . .'

David then was aware that his great-aunt's eye had turned in his
direction.  He was fixed by it as a rabbit by the eye of a
snake. . . .  It was as though he, sitting on the edge of his
chair, and this very ancient lady, both of them motionless, were
holding some strange secret communication.  Then he was aware of
something further--that his great-aunt was about to speak.

In an odd, cracked but exceedingly piercing tone she said:  'God
save His Gracious Majesty.'

The worst had happened.  The old woman was silent often enough for
days together, and this was well, because she was a burning
fanatical Jacobite.  The terrors into which her dangerous political
opinions had again and again plunged Pomfret and his wife were both
ludicrous and tragic.  Sometimes for weeks she kept to her room,
and on every occasion that saw her enter that sanctuary everyone
about her breathed the hope that it would be for the last time, but
her powers of revival were incredible, and down once more she would
come to sit and watch and await her awful moment.

She had been born on the 14th of June 1645, the day of the battle
of Naseby, but her great days had been during the last years of
Queen Anne, when she had known Godolphin and Marlborough and been
received by Lady Masham, having her feet planted in both camps.

But she had been nevertheless, heart and soul, Jacobite, and, it
was said, played some part in the intrigues of those last dramatic
months.  The Elector of Hanover had been for her the Devil himself,
and when his cause had been definitely won she had retired from
London, professed openly her Jacobite sentiments and chattered and
prayed for the coming of the Day.

No one had much regarded her; she had lived in a small house in
Winchester, until, her brain softening, Pomfret, driven by one of
the kindest and gentlest impulses of his life, had given her
shelter and protection.

How many thousands of times since then he had longed for her
decease was a secret between himself and his Maker.

Now with terror and dismay Jannice Herries heard her speak.  Here
was their skeleton clattering straight out from the cupboard and
before that fool Margaret Herries.  But Margaret was too deeply
buried in the warmth of her confusion to pay much regard.  Only the
little boy felt the power of those few cracked words; something
spoke in his heart, some strange sympathy that he suddenly felt, to
which he quite blindly and unknowingly responded.  He was to
remember at a later time this queer muffled moment.

The situation was immediately saved for Jannice Herries by the
entrance of her children.  The children had beautiful manners.
Mrs. Bellamy in black silk, her hands folded across her stomach,
stood behind them--the boy bowed, the little girls curtsied.
Anabel's eyes smiled at David.  He was quick enough at once to
perceive that the other girl was thinking of her own looks.  She
was like his own sister Mary in that.

And then the eyes of the two boys met, and they knew one another at
once for foes.  David had as friendly a heart as any boy in the
kingdom, but he realised an enemy when he saw one.  One straight
look at Raiseley's cold reserve and proud consequence and something
within him said:  'I hate my cousin.'  Just as the cracked voice of
the old woman speaking to him five minutes before out of an ancient
past was to return to him with significance in years to come, so
that first glance exchanged with Raiseley was to influence the
Herries family fortunes for many future generations.

Looking at Anabel, David thought to himself:  'That's a friendly
girl.'  He was uncomfortable among these grown-up persons, and
hoped that it would be suggested that he should go with his cousins
to see the garden or their toys.  He would like finely to inspect
more closely that fountain of the beaked bird or to hunt among the
reeds at the water's edge.

But no suggestion was made.  He too was standing now, his hands
stiffly at his side as his father had taught him.  The room grew
ever hotter and hotter, and with every moment he felt more
indignantly Raiseley's scornful eyes upon him.

Margaret Herries must talk to her nephew and nieces.  She was never
at her ease with children.

'Fine children,' she said nervously to her sister-in-law, 'and
seemingly in grand health.'

The word 'health' was the trumpet to sound the charge to Jannice
Herries, who answered proudly:  'Fine and sound they are, sister.
Six months last sennight Judith here was sorely threatened with the
Falling Sickness--hast thou heard of th