“God bless you, Horrie,” cried Clive, spying my philosophick friend, “God bless you for bringing us Dr. Johnson. Sure I love to sit next to Dr. Johnson; he always entertains me.”
So saying, she greeted the philosopher with a hearty buss, which Dr. Johnson, who esteemed himself for his gallant attentions to the ladies, returned with interest.
I was assessing Mistress Clive’s ample frame, her broad red nose shining like the sun in her broad red face, her brocade gown as red, when turning to me she greeted me with a great smacking kiss. She smelled of otto and sillabubs.
In the hubbub of greeting the Clive, who must perforce buss every man present, the Duchess of Argyle slipped quietly into the gallery. She wore pale grey, her colour was high, she greeted no one.
“The boy?” asked the Duke quietly.
The little mouse feet of age were clearly visible at the Duchess’s eyes.
“He mends,” she said, “he has purged, and he mends.”
From the gallery we passed into the Tribune, which lay by the Round Tower. As the gentlemen stood back to bow the ladies through the door, Lady Mary, who stood nighest, made as if to enter. The Duchess touched her sleeve. Lady Mary stood still the length of a heart beat. Then the colour stained her throat, and she drew back with downcast eyes to give her sister-in-law precedence. A little sigh escaped her lips. Behind the Duchess Kitty Clive flounced through with her blunt nose at an even sharper angle than the beautiful Duchess’s chiselled one, burlesque in every waggle of her draperies. Dr. Johnson permitted himself a faint smile, Walpole looked pinched, and Orford guffawed; but the Campbells ignored the little scene.
The Tribune was a curious barroco room, shaped like a square, with four bays. A star of yellow glass centered the ceiling. Here were housed many of our host’s choicest objects of curiosity. We gazed upon the dagger of Henry VIII, the silver-studded comb of Mary Queen of Scots, and the red hat of Cardinal Wolsey. In a glazed china cabinet we came upon the Black Stone of Dr. Dee. Everyone, Campbells included, crowded about to stare at it. Mr. Walpole was exalted as a showman.
“ ’Tis my newest treasure,” said he, “the generous gift of the Duke of Argyle by his brother, Lord Frederic—” the brothers acknowledged his bow — “You must know, Dr. Johnson, that Dee was an alchemist, and made gold for the King of Bohemia; and into this gazing-glass he was wont to call his spirits.”
On the side of the leather case a slip of paper was untidily affixed. Mr. Walpole untrussed the points and displayed to our curious eyes a polished black sphere, which rolled and came to rest on the china cabinet shelf.
“Pray, Mr. Walpole,” said Dr. Johnson, “will not you place this object in a place of safety?”
“Sir,” said Walpole, “Strawberry Hill is a place of safety. We are not plagued, as Fleet Street, by light-fingered gentry.”
“Or,” said I, “Arlington Street.”
I had for reply a freezing stare, as Walpole replaced the stone and conducted the party to the library.
We were forced to admire this spacious chamber. A large window looked east, topped with stained glass, with a rose window at each side. The room was lined with books, arranged in Gothick arches of pierced work. To them my learned friend devoted his attention, blinking at the titles in the candle-light.
I picked up from a bureau a book lying by itself, richly bound in morocco and stamped with the Walpole arms.
“Well, Mr. Boswell,” came the thin voice of our host at my elbow, “what say you to my little Gothick romance?”
“Why, sir,” I replied, “nothing, for I have never read it.”
Walpole smiled sourly.
“This, Mr. Boswell, is an ignorance not invincible. You shall have the reading of this very copy.”
“Do,” says Clive, “for you’ve never read it’s like. It consists of ghosts and enchantments; pictures walk out of their frames; armour is heard to clank, and helmets drop from the moon. Horrie says, it came to him in a dream, and sure I fancy ’twas a dream when he had some feverish disposition on him.”
I accepted of the volume eagerly. With such a prospect in store, I regretted having pledged myself to take a hand at loo; I was in haste to be at it. Dr. Johnson excused himself. He never plays at cards, preferring to supply the vacuity of life with conversation; which failing, he betook himself to the book-cases.
We sat down, therefore, seven at the table, to our game. I was out more money than I liked, and feeling as bored as the Duke by the curiosities, when our game was cut short by a distressing incident. Lord Orford was in ill luck. He sat mum-chance, losing steadily, taking his breath noisily through his teeth as he saw his guineas swept away. Luck was all with Lord Frederic.
“Pam be civil,” said he, leading the ace of trumps.
Lord Orford held Pam, the all-conquering knave of clubs, and was thus debarred by the custom of the game from taking the trick with it. He scowled with fury; a moment later he took a distressing revenge.
With a sudden roar he leaned forward and seemed to draw an ace from Lord Frederic’s sleeve. Lord Frederic leaped to his feet, his bluff countenance purple with fury.
“What kind of jugglery is this, my Lord?” he demanded angrily. “I should call you out for this.”
“Pray, sir,” said Walpole hastily, “be so candid as to overlook my nephew, you know his weakness.” Still roaring with laughter, Lord Orford was hustled away, and in perturbed silence the party broke up. The carriage rolled off with the ducal party, Lord Frederic ’squired the Clive in her homeward walk across the moonlit mead. Dr. Johnson was already retired to the Red Bedchamber with Barrow’s quarto of Archimedes. Walpole mounted to his two-pair-of-stairs bedroom, and I was left alone by the fire in the great gallery to read
Having once opened it, I was powerless to lay it down. Long after all were wrapped in slumber, I sat in the shadowy gallery and read by the light of a single candle.
Through the stained glass window-arch the full moon spilled blood upon the floor, while a shaft of cold green assailed but could not conquer the shadows of the passage into the Round Tower. I liked the shadows little, and less as I read Mr. Walpole’s tale. ’Tis of just such a castle, most dismally haunted, at once by the vices of its chatelain and the avenging spirits of his ancestors. ’Twas from the wicked lust of Manfred that the Lady Isabella fled. I read entranced:
“Where conceal herself? How avoid pursuit?
“As these thoughts passed rapidly through her mind, she recollected a subterraneous passage which led from the vaults of the castle to the church of St. Nicholas. Could she reach the altar before she was overtaken, she knew even Manfred’s violence would not dare profane the sacredness of the place. She seized a lamp that burned at the foot of the staircase, and hurried towards the secret passage.”
Brave, intrepid soul!
“The lower part of the castle was hollowed into several intricate cloisters; and it was not easy for one under so much anxiety to find the door that opened into the cavern. An awful silence reigned throughout those subterraneous regions—”
A silence as thick reigned in the shadowy gallery. I permitted myself an uneasy glance about me, before I read on:
“— except now and then some blasts of wind that shook the doors she had passed—”
Was that the wind in the battlements of the Round Tower?
“— and which, grating on the rusty hinges, were re-echoed through that long labyrinth of darkness.”
I could have sworn that somewhere a hinge creaked. I reproved myself for phantasy, and read on:
“She trod as softly as impatience would give her leave, yet frequently stopped and listened to hear if she was followed. In one of those moments she thought she heard a step—”