Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (59 page)

Just then the two eminent physicians whom Mr Norrell had employed to attend Childermass entered the room. They were surprized to see Mr Norrell in the room — surprized and delighted. Their smiling countenances and bowing, bobbing forms said what a very pleasing instance of the great man’s condescension they thought it that he should pay this visit to his servant. They told him that they had rarely seen a household where the master was so careful of the health of his inferiors or where the servants were so attached to their master by ties, less of duty, than of respect and fond regard.

Mr Norrell was at least as susceptible to flattery as most men and he began to think that perhaps he was indeed doing something unusually virtuous. He extended his hand with the intention of patting Childermass’s hand in a friendly and condescending manner. However, upon meeting Childermass’s cold stare, he thought better of it, coughed and left the room.

Childermass watched him go.

All magicians lie and this one more than most
, Vinculus had said.

47
“A black lad and a blue fella -
that ought to mean summat.”

Late January 1816

Sir Walter Pole’s carriage was travelling along a lonely road in Yorkshire. Stephen Black rode on a white horse at its side.

On either hand empty moors the colour of a bruise stretched up to a dark sky that threatened snow. Grey, misshapen rocks were strewn about, making the landscape appear still more bleak and uncouth. Occasionally a low ray of sunlight would pierce the clouds, illuminating for a moment a white, foaming stream, or striking a pot-hole full of water that would suddenly become as dazzling as a fallen silver penny.

They came to a crossroads. The coachman halted the horses and stared gloomily at the place where, in his opinion, the fingerpost ought to have been.

“There are no milestones,” said Stephen, “nothing to say where any of these roads might lead to.”

“Always supposing they go anywhere at all,” said the coachman, “which I am beginning to doubt.” He took a snuff-box from his pocket and inhaled a large pinch of it.

The footman who sat on the box beside the coachman (and who was by far the coldest and most miserable of the three) comprehensively cursed Yorkshire, all Yorkshiremen and all Yorkshire roads.

“We ought to be travelling north or north-east, I think,” said Stephen. “But I have got a little turned around on this moor. Do you have any idea which way is north?”

The coachman, to whom this question was addressed, said that all the directions looked pretty northern to him.

The footman gave a short, uncheerful laugh.

Finding that his companions were of no help, Stephen did what he always did under such circumstances; he took the whole charge of the journey upon himself. He instructed the coachman to take one road, while he took another. “If I have success, I will come and find you, or send a messenger. If you have success, deliver your charge and do not worry about me.”

Stephen rode along, looking doubtfully at all the lanes and tracks he came to. Once he met with another lone rider and asked for directions, but the man proved to be a stranger to the moor like himself and had never heard of the place Stephen mentioned.

He came at last to a narrow lane that wound between two walls, built — as is the custom in that part of England — of dry stones without any mortar. He turned down the lane. On either hand a row of bare winter trees followed the line of the walls. As the first flakes of snow floated down he crossed a narrow packhorse bridge and entered a village of dour stone cottages and tumbledown walls. It was very quiet. There was scarcely more than a handful of buildings and he quickly found the one he sought. It was a long, low hall with a paved courtyard in front of it. He surveyed the low roofs, the old-fashioned casements and the moss-covered stones with an air of the deepest dissatisfaction. “Halloo!” he called. “Is there any one there?”

The snow began to fall thicker and faster. From somewhere at the side of the house two manservants came running. They were neatly and cleanly dressed, but their nervous expressions and clumsy air made Stephen wince, and wish that he had had the training of them.

For their part they stared to see a black man upon a milk-white mare in their yard. The braver of the two bobbed a sort of halfbow.

“Is this Starecross Hall?” asked Stephen.

“Yes, sir,” said the courageous servant.

“I am here on business for Sir Walter Pole. Go and fetch your master.”

The man ran off. A moment later the front door opened and a thin, dark person appeared.

“You are the madhouse-keeper?” inquired Stephen. “You are John Segundus?”

“Yes, indeed!” cried Mr Segundus. “Welcome! Welcome!”

Stephen dismounted and threw the reins to the servant. “This place is the very devil to find! We have been driving about this infernal moor for an hour. Can you send a man to bring her ladyship’s carriage here? They took the road to the left of this one at the crossroads two miles back.”

“Of course. At once,” Mr Segundus assured him. “I am sorry you have had difficulties. The house is, as you see, extremely secluded, but that is one of the reasons that it suits Sir Walter. His lady is well, I hope?”

“Her ladyship is very much fatigued by the journey.”

“Everything is ready for her reception. At least …” Mr Segundus led the way inside. “I am aware that it must be very different from what she is accustomed to …”

At the end of a short stone passage they came to a room which was a pleasant contrast with the bleak and sombre surroundings. It spoke nothing but comfort and welcome. It had been fitted up with paintings and pretty furniture, with soft carpets and cheerfully glowing lamps. There were footstools for her ladyship’s feet if she felt weary, screens to protect her from a draught if she felt cold, and books to amuse her, should she wish to read.

“Is it not suitable?” asked Mr Segundus, anxiously. “I see by your face that it is not.”

Stephen opened his mouth to tell Mr Segundus that what he saw was quite different. He saw what her ladyship would see when she entered the room. Chairs, paintings and lamps were all quite ghostly. Behind them lay the far more substantial and solid forms of Lost-hope’s bleak, grey halls and staircases.

But it was no use trying to explain any of this. The words would have changed as he spoke them; they would have turned into some nonsense about beer brewed from anger and longings for revenge; or girls whose tears turned to opals and pearls when the moon waxed and whose footprints filled with blood when the moon waned. So he contented himself with saying, “No, no. It is perfectly satisfactory. Her ladyship requires nothing more.”

To many people this might have seemed a little cool — especially if they had worked as hard as Mr Segundus — but Mr Segundus made no objection. “So this is the lady whom Mr Norrell brought back from the dead?” he said.

“Yes,” said Stephen.

“The single act upon which the whole restoration of English magic is founded!”

“Yes,” said Stephen.

“And yet she tried to kill him! It is a very strange business altogether! Very strange!”

Stephen said nothing. These were not, in his opinion, fit subjects for the madhouse-keeper to ponder on; and it was most unlikely that he would hit upon the truth of the matter if he did.

To draw Mr Segundus’s thoughts away from Lady Pole and her supposed crime, Stephen said, “Sir Walter chose this establishment himself. I do not know whose advice he took. Have you been a madhouse-keeper long?”

Mr Segundus laughed. “No, not long at all. About two weeks in fact. Lady Pole will be my first charge.”

“Indeed!”

“I believe Sir Walter considers my lack of experience to be an advantage rather than otherwise! Other gentlemen in this profession are accustomed to exercise all sorts of authority over their charges and impose restraints upon them — something Sir Walter is very much opposed to in the case of his wife. But, you see, I have no such habits to break. Her ladyship will meet with nothing but kindness and respect in this house. And, apart from such little precautions as may suggest themselves to our good sense — such as keeping guns and knives out of her way — she will be treated as a guest in this house and we will strive to make her happy.”

Stephen inclined his head in acceptance of these proposals. “How did you come to it?” he asked.

“The house?” asked Mr Segundus.

“No, madhouse-keeping.”

“Oh! Quite by accident. Last September I had the great good fortune to meet a lady called Mrs Lennox, who has since become my benefactress. This house belongs to her. For some years she had tried to find a good tenant for it, but without success. She took a liking to me and wished to do me a kindness; so she determined upon establishing a business here and placing me in charge of it. Our first thought was a school for magicians, but …”

“Magicians!” exclaimed Stephen in surprize. “But what have you to do with magicians?”

“I am one myself. I have been one all my life.”

“Indeed!”

Stephen looked so very much affronted by this news that Mr Segundus’s natural impulse was to apologize to him — though what sort of apology one could offer for being a magician he did not know. He went on. “But Mr Norrell did not approve our plan for a school and he sent Childermass here to warn me against it. Do you know John Childermass, sir?”

“I know him by sight,” said Stephen. “I have never spoken to him.”

“At first Mrs Lennox and I had every intention of opposing him-Mr Norrell, I mean, not Childermass. I wrote to Mr Strange, but my letter arrived on the morning that his wife disappeared and, as I dare say you know, the poor lady died a few days later.”

For a moment Stephen looked as if he were about to say something, but then he shook his head and Mr Segundus continued. “Without Mr Strange to help us, it was clear to me that we must abandon the school. I travelled up to Bath to inform Mrs Lennox. She was full of kindness and told me we would soon fix on another plan. But I confess I left her house in a very despondent frame of mind. I had not gone many steps when I saw a strange sight. In the middle of the road was a figure in tattered black rags. His sore, reddened eyes were empty of all reason and hope. He dashed his arms against the phantoms that assaulted him and cried out, entreating them to have pity on him. Poor soul! The sick in body may sometimes find respite in sleep, but I knew instinctively that this man’s demons would follow him even into his dreams. I put a few coins into his hand and continued on my way. I am not aware that I thought of him particularly on the journey back, but as I stepped across the threshold of this house something very curious happened. I had what I think I must call a vision. I saw the madman in all his ravings standing in the hall — just as I had seen him in Bath — and I realized something. I realized that this house with its silence and its seclusion might be kind to persons distressed in mind. I wrote to Mrs Lennox and she approved my new plan. You said you did not know who had recommended me to Sir Walter. It was Childermass. Childermass had said he would help me if he could.”

Stephen said, “It might be best, sir, if you were to avoid any mention of your profession or of the school, at least at the beginning. There is nothing in the world — in this world or any other — that would give her ladyship greater pain than to find herself in thrall to another magician.”

“Thrall!” exclaimed Mr Segundus, in astonishment. “What an odd word that is! I sincerely hope that no one will ever consider themselves in thrall to me! Certainly not this lady!”

Stephen studied him for a moment. “I am sure you are a very different sort of magician from Mr Norrell,” he said.

“I hope I am,” said Mr Segundus, seriously.

An hour later a little commotion was heard in the yard. Stephen and Mr Segundus went out to receive her ladyship. The horses and carriage had been entirely unable to cross the packhorse bridge and Lady Pole had been obliged to walk the last fifty yards or so of her journey. She entered the courtyard of the Hall with some trepidation, glancing round at the bleak, snowy scene; and it seemed to Stephen that only the cruellest of hearts could look upon her, with all her youth, beauty and sad affliction, and not wish to offer her all the protection in their power. Inwardly he cursed Mr Norrell.

Something in her appearance seemed to startle Mr Segundus. He looked down at her left hand, but the hand was gloved. He recovered himself immediately and welcomed her to Starecross Hall.

In the drawing-room Stephen brought tea for them.

“I am told your ladyship has been greatly distressed by the death of Mrs Strange,” said Mr Segundus. “May I offer my condolences?”

She turned away her head to hide her tears. “It would be more to the point to offer them to her, not me,” she said. “My husband offered to write to Mr Strange and beg the favour of borrowing a picture of Mrs Strange, so that a copy might be made to console me. But what good would that do? After all, I am scarcely likely to forget her face when she and I attend the same balls and processions every night — and shall do for the rest of our lives, I presume. Stephen knows. Stephen understands.”

“Ah, yes,” said Mr Segundus. “Your ladyship has a horror of dancing and music, I know. Be assured that they will not be allowed here. Here we shall have nothing that is not cheerful, nothing that does not promote your happiness.” He spoke to her of the books he planned they should read together and the walks they could take in spring, if her ladyship liked.

To Stephen, occupied among the tea-things, it seemed the most innocuous of conversations — except that once or twice he observed Mr Segundus glance from her ladyship to himself and back again, in a sharp, penetrating manner that both puzzled him and made him uncomfortable.

The carriage, coachman, maid and footman were all to remain at Starecross Hall with Lady Pole; Stephen, however, was to return to Harley-street. Early the next morning, while her ladyship was at breakfast, he went in to take his leave of her.

As he bowed to her, she gave a laugh half-melancholy, half-amused. “It is very ridiculous to part so, when you and I both know that we will be together again in a few hours. Do not be concerned about me, Stephen. I shall be more comfortable here. I feel I shall.”

Stephen went out to the stable-yard where his horse stood waiting. He was just putting on his gloves when a voice came behind him. “I beg your pardon!”

Mr Segundus was there, as hesitant and unassuming as ever. “May I ask you something? What is the magic that surrounds you and her ladyship?” He put up his hand as if he intended to brush Stephen’s face with his fingertips. “There is a red-and-white rose at your mouth. And another at hers. What does that mean?”

Stephen put his hand up to his mouth. There was nothing there. But for a moment he had some wild notion of telling Mr Segundus everything — all about his enchantment and the enchantment of the two women. He pictured Mr Segundus somehow understanding him; Mr Segundus proving to be an extraordinary magician — much greater than Strange or Norrell — who would find a way to thwart the gentleman with the thistle-down hair. But these were very fleeting fancies. A moment later Stephen’s native distrust of Englishmen — and of English magicians in particular — reasserted itself.