Midnight is a Place (11 page)

"Then I suppose it is the Mill that must be sold," said Air. Throgmorton calmly.

"Are you mad, man? 'Ve you taken leave 'f your wits? Mill's m'only soursh—source 'f income—almosht only source," protested Sir Randolph. He spoke complainingly, but there was a cunning gleam in his eye. "If Mill goes, what'll I live on? What'll I shup—s'port dependents on?" His eye roved about and fixed on Lucas. "Pack 'f brats in th'house—mouths t'feed. Be off, you, whelp!" he suddenly shouted at Lucas. "This's none 'f your affairs. No, stay, 'fore you go, fetch me 'nother glass."

"No more—you have had enough to drink, Sir Randolph—quite enough," interposed Mr. Throgmorton. "Come, you had best go to your study and rest. Run along, boy, there is no need for you to remain."

Mr. Oakapple also jerked his head in dismissal, and Lucas began to walk away, feeling unfairly used. None of his business, indeed! Surely, if his father had been Sir Randolph's partner, and if he was supposed to inherit a half share of the Mill when he came of age, then the sale of it should be considered his business. But apparently neither the lawyer nor Mr. Oakapple thought so.

He was halfway to the schoolroom when he recollected that he had intended to fetch in a new supply of kindling for his fire. He decided to go out to the woodshed before it was too dark, and made his way through the kitchens and the servants' quarters—now mostly empty and bare—to the stableyard.

Emerging from the woodshed with his bundle of twigs, he was accosted by Garridge, who was just dismounting from a flea-bitten gray, one of the last horses in the stables. Horse and man were caked with snow.

"Eh, Mester Lucas! The very lad! Ye can run an errand for me to Sir Randolph, if ye will."

"Why should I?" inquired Lucas rather coldly. Garridge had never shown him any particular kindness; indeed he was usually rather surly and disagreeable.

"I can hardly go into t'master's study like this, can I? An' it'll save t'poor owd nag standing in t'snow. 'Tis only to deliver a message—I'm nobbut joost coom back from town."

"What happened there? Did they go on strike at the Mill?" demanded Lucas, his dislike of Garridge overborne by curiosity.

"Nay, there'll be no strike. Not this time, leastways. The sodjers arrived an' drove 'em all out, and they've stook a coople o' th' ringleaders in the pokey. All's quiet enow."

"Scatcherd? Did they put him in jail?"

"Aye, him an' anither o' his cullies."

"Oh well, Sir Randolph will be relieved to hear that."

"Ay, an' joost as well, for my t'oother message is like to leave him flaysome enow."

"What's that?"

"Tell him the white cock lost," Garridge said, swung a leg back over the gray and kicked him into a reluctant trot.

"Is that
all?
"

Garridge made no answer, but Lucas heard him grunt to himself with satisfaction, "An' that's saved me a bang on the lug, if I knaw owt aboot t'master. I'll gan off home now."

"The white cock lost," Lucas repeated, somewhat mystified, as he carried his wood to the schoolroom.

The front hall was empty once more, when he climbed the main staircase. How strange it was, he thought, that until yesterday he had hardly set foot here above three times, and now he seemed to be continually going up and down this way. For some reason the change made him uneasy. The white cock lost. What could that mean? It had an unchancy sound, he thought. Drat old Garridge and his haste to get away—riding Sir Randolph's horse, too!

He knocked at the study door.

"What now—who is it?" a voice said sharply, and Lucas had half a mind to retreat, for the voice was that of Mr. Oakapple, not Sir Randolph, and Lucas had a guilty feeling about his unfinished composition on Industry. Also, Mr. Oakapple might be annoyed, for all he knew, at his having been a witness to the fight with Mr. Gobthorpe and Sir Randolph's drunkenness. He was still hesitating when the door was flung open.

Mr. Oakapple stood in the doorway, looking impatient. Glancing past him, Lucas could see Sir Randolph seated at his desk, leaning forward with his head on his arms and evidently asleep, for he was snoring loudly.

"Oh, it's you," Mr. Oakapple said. "Why are you here? What do you want?"

"I have a message from Garridge, sir."

"He's no business to give you his messages. He should bring them himself. Well, what was it, then?"

"First, that the strike is off and that Scatcherd and another man have been put in jail."

"Oh. Well, I daresay Sir Randolph will be glad enough to hear that, when he wakes. What else?"

"And, sir, Garridge said to say that the white cock lost."

Mr. Oakapple had been absently looking through a leather portfolio of papers, as they spoke; Lucas had noticed that a bureau which stood against the wall was open, and that an untidy heap of documents lay on its front flap. Now, with a furious exclamation, the tutor flung the portfolio down onto Sir Randolph's desk.

"Damned old fool! Miserable old sot! I suppose that's where the fifty pounds went!"

"What fifty pounds?" Lucas asked, bewildered.

"Dear knows he gets little enough in the way of rents. Most of the farms were sold off long ago. But the Artingstalls at High Wick still pay rent faithfully, and I had reckoned that would do to give the servants their wages and buy a few provisions—no wonder I couldn't find it! He's gone and laid it on some cankered molting old rooster that probably couldn't even hop across the cockpit—"

He was so angry that the words dried in his throat; he stared down at the snoring, red-faced Sir Randolph as if he longed to wake and shake him. But then, "Oh, what's the use?" he murmured wearily, and began picking up the scattered papers, setting them straight with absent-minded precision.

Lucas, helping as best he could, asked in a subdued voice, "Do you mean that it was a wager, sir? Had Gar ridge put the money on a cockfight for him?"

"Yes. That's to say, if Garridge ever got as far as the cockfight and didn't pocket the stake himself," Mr. Oakapple said bitterly, "And if he did, doubtless he had some right. Lord knows when
hid
wages were last paid."

"Is that why Sir Randolph is so far behind with his taxes? Because he loses all his money on bets?"

"Of course! I doubt if he has won above five bets in the last five years—to judge by the papers in there." He jerked his head
toward the bureau. "Bookmakers, horse races, prizefights, moneylenders—thousands and thousands squandered on dice games, steeplechases, card games—any kind of stake—even croquet matches." Furiously Mr. Oakapple scanned a crumpled old receipt—Lucas could just see the words, Worshipful Company of Bakers' Hot Cross Bun Eating Contest—and then tore it in half. "He'll spend all that on gambling, and yet he's too mean to have a decent fire anywhere in the house, or get the roof mended—"

"I see," Lucas murmured. Many things that he had been vaguely aware of during the past months now became intelligible to him. He was surprised, not so much at these disclosures about Sir Randolph as at the revelation of Mr. Oakapple's violent feelings on the matter. The tutor had hitherto seemed such a silent, unemotional, taciturn individual that it was a shock to see him in such a passion.

"I thought you liked Sir Randolph?" Lucas ventured.

"I can't imagine why you should imagine any such thing!" snapped the tutor. "It was not very observant of you." Then, making an attempt to recover his usual rather dry manner, he added, "However,
my
feelings are of no concern. We must just make the best of things."

"But if Sir Randolph has to sell this house"—Lucas did not love Midnight Court, but the thought of being obliged to quit was frightening—"where should we go?"

"We'd have to find somewhere else—some house without half a hundred wasted rooms. I, for one, would have little objection.... Run along now; it must be your suppertime. I daresay you may have it with Anna-Marie if you prefer her company."

Lucas did not prefer it. He had another question; it embarrassed him to ask it, but he felt he must. Nervous but resolute, he stammered, "Mr. Oakapple, d-does Sir Ralph pay
your
wages?"

A glance at the tutor's face gave him his answer.

"Then how do you manage?"

The tutor laughed shortly. "From hand to mouth!"

"But," Lucas persisted, more and more puzzled, "in that case, why do you stay here?"

Mr. Oakapple's continued stay at the Court, he felt, certainly could not be through fondness of the position, or of his pupil. Some expression of this thought perhaps showed in his face, for the tutor laughed again and patted him on the shoulder in a more friendly manner than he had ever shown before.

"Never mind why I stay! I have my reasons. Perhaps I'll tell you someday. Go now, before Sir Randolph wakes. Have you finished your task?"

"No, sir," Lucas replied, coming out with the truth more boldly than he might have done two days ago.

"Well, it has been a trying day. You may leave it till tomorrow morning if you make sure to do it then. In the meantime, do as you please. Amuse yourself. Perhaps you may like to go and play some game with Anna-Marie."

The tutor retired inside the study and closed the door.

Lucas walked slowly away, thinking that Mr. Oakapple could hardly have given him a more difficult order. Amuse himself! In Midnight Court! How?

Passing the open door of one of the empty bedrooms, he caught the sound of somebody singing, and looked in.

Anna-Marie was sitting on the floor with a large basket of pine cones that she had procured from somewhere; she was forming the cones into patterns on the bare boards and humming to herself in an unusually clear, true little voice. The place and occupation seemed rather cheerless.

"Hello," said Lucas. She looked up at him calmly but said nothing. "Would you like to come down to my schoolroom? You could bring those cones, and we could draw out a board with squares and use them to play checkers. Or we might toast bread at the fire."

"No, thank you," said Anna-Marie politely. "I am quite content with myself. Thank you," she said again with dignity, gave him a long, considering look, and turned back to her pattern.

Lucas went downstairs and finished his composition.

During the next fourteen days, nothing out of the way happened. Lucas woke every morning quite certain that bailiffs or constables must arrive that day who would turn them all out of house and home. But this did not occur. Life went on as before. A message arrived from Mr. Smallside to say that Lucas might resume his visits to the Mill. Anna-Marie displayed no further wish to accompany him, but stayed at home and occupied herself as best she could, spending a good deal of time with old Gabriel Towzer, who let her play with his tools and put up a swing for her in the stables. She also studied English with Mr. Oakapple, and Lucas was bound to admit that she made rapid progress. He was puzzled by Mr. Oakapple's manner toward Anna-Marie. The tutor showed her no especial favor and maintained his customary dry way with her, yet his eye lingered on her and followed her often; there was a new expression on his face when he watched her, as if he were waiting for her to do or say something, as if presently his reserve might crack and some different feeling show through.

Relations between Lucas and Anna-Marie continued very up and down. She took pains to make it clear that she was not particularly anxious for his presence and could manage quite well on her own. He, for his part, wanted it to be clearly understood that he could derive no pleasure from the company of a girl hardly more than half his age, that if he spent any time with her it was purely due to his kindness of heart.

If he did go along to the Oak Chamber and offer to tell her a story or play cat's cradle, she was likely to say, "You have only come here because Monsieur Towzir makes me a better fire than you have in your room."

So he did not go very often.

With Mr. Oakapple, Lucas now felt much more comfortable and at ease. Although the tutor's manner had not changed toward him any more than toward Anna-Marie, Lucas, knowing more of Mr. Oakapple's difficulties, wondering more and more about his reasons for staying on at Midnight Court, began to understand that the tutor's curt, short way was merely an indication of his feeling that the world was an awkward place in general, and was not intended unkindly toward Lucas in particular.

Indeed, sometimes, when Mr. Oakapple commented with a brief smile on some improvement in his schoolwork, Lucas felt that a kind of warmth was growing between him and his teacher.

Anna-Marie certainly showed Mr. Oakapple a confidence and respect that she displayed toward no one else; she would run up to him and swing on his hand if they chanced to meet in the park, and although he did not return these demonstrations, he did not rebuff them. Lucas was amazed to see her stop by Mr. Oakapple's chair once and give his head an affectionate, rumpling pat, as he sat knitting his forehead over some bills in the bare, dusty library; he nodded acknowledgment of the caress without looking up.

"Do not worry yourself so much!" she admonished him.

"
II a du fonds;
he has bottom, that one," she remarked later to Lucas; this seemed to be her greatest term of praise. Bottom? Lucas wondered what she meant. But Mr. Oakapple was deep, that was certain; there was more to him than met the eye.

The weather became bitterly cold. Snow fell, and more snow. The gray clouds hung lower and thicker each morning. On their drives down into Blastburn, Lucas and Mr. Oakapple wrapped themselves in their thickest clothes; they took old sacks and the carriage blanket; they put hot bricks and a pile of straw in the bottom of the trap to keep their feet from freezing; but still they reached their destination chilled through and through, with numb feet and blue fingers. Now Lucas looked forward to the heat from the great furnaces and the steam from the glue caldrons.

But the atmosphere at the Mill remained uneasy and threatening. Outwardly, things were back to normal; the men and women went silently about their work. The troops had appeared and arrested Scatcherd and his companion so speedily that their example seemed to have deterred other would-be strikers. Protest about the wage cut had been nipped in the bud.