In the Mayor's Parlour , livre ebook

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114 pages

English

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pubOne.info thank you for your continued support and wish to present you this new edition. Hathelsborough market-place lies in the middle of the town - a long, somewhat narrow parallelogram, enclosed on its longer side by old gabled houses; shut in on its western end by the massive bulk of the great parish church of St. Hathelswide, Virgin and Martyr, and at its eastern by the ancient walls and high roofs of its mediaeval Moot Hall. The inner surface of this space is paved with cobble-stones, worn smooth by centuries of usage: it is only of late years that the conservative spirit of the old borough has so far accommodated itself to modern requirements as to provide foot-paths in front of the shops and houses. But there that same spirit has stopped; the utilitarian of to-day would sweep away, as being serious hindrances to wheeled traffic, the two picturesque fifteenth-century erections which stand in this market-place; these, High Cross and Low Cross, one at the east end, in front of the Moot Hall, the other at the west, facing the chancel of the church, remain, to the delight of the archaeologist, as instances of the fashion in which our forefathers built gathering places in the very midst of narrow thoroughfares

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Publié par	Pub One Info
Date de parution	23 octobre 2010
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9782819914013
Langue	English

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CHAPTER I
THE MAYOR'S PARLOUR
Hathelsborough market-place lies in the middle ofthe town – a long, somewhat narrow parallelogram, enclosed on itslonger side by old gabled houses; shut in on its western end by themassive bulk of the great parish church of St. Hathelswide, Virginand Martyr, and at its eastern by the ancient walls and high roofsof its mediæval Moot Hall. The inner surface of this space is pavedwith cobble-stones, worn smooth by centuries of usage: it is onlyof late years that the conservative spirit of the old borough hasso far accommodated itself to modern requirements as to providefoot-paths in front of the shops and houses. But there that samespirit has stopped; the utilitarian of to-day would sweep away, asbeing serious hindrances to wheeled traffic, the two picturesquefifteenth-century erections which stand in this market-place;these, High Cross and Low Cross, one at the east end, in front ofthe Moot Hall, the other at the west, facing the chancel of thechurch, remain, to the delight of the archæologist, as instances ofthe fashion in which our forefathers built gathering places in thevery midst of narrow thoroughfares.
Under the graceful cupola and the flying buttressesof High Cross the countryfolk still expose for sale on market-daystheir butter and their eggs; around the base of the slender shaftcalled Low Cross they still offer their poultry and rabbits; onother than market-days High Cross and Low Cross alike make central,open-air clubs, for the patriarchs of the place, who there assemblein the lazy afternoons and still lazier eventides, to gossip overthe latest items of local news; conscious that as they are doing sotheir ancestors have done for many a generation, and that old asthey may be themselves, in their septuagenarian or octogenarianstates, they are as infants in comparison with the age of thestones and bricks and timbers about them, grey and fragrant withthe antiquity of at least three hundred years.
Of all this mass of venerable material, still soundand uncrumbled, the great tall-towered church at one end of themarket-place, and the square, heavily fashioned Moot Hall at theother, go farthest back, through association, into the mists of theMiddle Ages. The church dates from the thirteenth century and,though it has been skilfully restored on more than one occasion,there is nothing in its cathedral-like proportions that suggestsmodernity; the Moot Hall, erected a hundred years later, remainsprecisely as when it was first fashioned, and though it, too, haspassed under the hand of the restorer its renovation has only takenthe shape of strengthening an already formidably strong building.Extending across nearly the whole eastern end of the market-place,and flanked on one side by an ancient dwelling-house – once theofficial residence of the Mayors of Hathelsborough – and on theother by a more modern but still old-world building, long used as abank, Hathelsborough Moot Hall presents the appearance of amediæval fortress, as though its original builders had meant it tobe a possible refuge for the townsfolk against masterful Baron ormarauding Scot. From the market-place itself there is but oneentrance to it; an arched doorway opening upon a low-roofed stonehall; in place of a door there are heavy gates of iron, with asmaller wicket-gate set in their midst; from the stone hall a stonestair leads to the various chambers above; in the outer walls thewindows are high and narrow; each is filled with old painted glass.A strong, grim building, this; and when the iron gates are locked,as they are every night when the curfew bell – an ancientinstitution jealously kept up in Hathelsborough – rings from St.Hathelswide's tower, a man might safely wager his all to nothingthat only modern artillery could effect an entrance to its dark andgloomy interior.
On a certain April evening, the time being within anhour of curfew – which, to be exact, is rung in Hathelsboroughevery night, all the year round, sixty minutes after sunset,despite the fact that it is nowadays but a meaningless iftime-honoured ceremony – Bunning, caretaker and custodian of theMoot Hall, stood without its gates, smoking his pipe and lookingaround him. He was an ex-Army man, Bunning, who had seen service inmany parts of the world, and was frequently heard to declare thatalthough he had set eyes on many men and many cities he had neverfound the equal of Hathelsborough folk, nor seen a fairer prospectthan that on which he now gazed. The truth was that Bunning was aHathelsborough man, and having wandered about a good deal duringhis military service, from Aldershot to Gibraltar, and Gibraltar toMalta, and Malta to Cairo, and Cairo to Peshawar, was well contentto settle down in a comfortable berth amidst the familiar scenes ofhis childhood. But anyone who loves the ancient country towns ofEngland would have agreed with Bunning that Hathelsboroughmarket-place made an unusually attractive picture on a springevening. There were the old gabled houses, quaintly roofed andtimbered; there the lace-like masonry of High Cross; there theslender proportions of Low Cross; there the mighty bulk of thegreat church built over the very spot whereon the virgin saintsuffered martyrdom; there, towering above the gables on the northside, the well-preserved masonry of the massive Norman Keep ofHathelsborough Castle; there a score of places and signs with whichBunning had kept up a close acquaintance in youth and borne in mindwhen far away under other skies. And around the church tower, andat the base of the tall keep, were the elms for which the town wasfamous; mighty giants of the tree world, just now bursting intoleaf, and above them the rooks and jackdaws circling and callingabove the hum and murmur of the town.
To Bunning's right and left, going away from theeastern corner of the market-place, lay two narrow streets, calledrespectively River Gate and Meadow Gate – one led downwards to thelittle river on the southern edge of the town; the other rantowards the wide-spread grass-lands that stretched on its northernboundary. And as he stood looking about him, he saw a man turn thecorner of Meadow Gate – a man who came hurrying along in hisdirection, walking sharply, his eyes bent on the flags beneath hisfeet, his whole attitude that of one in deep reflection. At sightof him Bunning put his pipe in his pocket, gave himself thesoldier's shake and, as the man drew near, stood smartly toattention. The man looked up – Bunning's right hand went up to hiscap in the old familiar fashion; that was how, for many a long yearof service, he had saluted his superiors.
There was nothing very awe-compelling about theperson whom the caretaker thus greeted with so much punctiliousceremony. He was a little, somewhat insignificant-looking man – atfirst sight. His clothes were well-worn and carelessly put on; thecollar of his under-coat projected high above that of his overcoat;his necktie had slipped round towards one ear; his linen wasfrayed; his felt hat, worn anyway, needed brushing; he wore cottongloves, too big for him. He carried a mass of papers and booksunder one arm; the other hand grasped an umbrella which had growngreen and grey in service. He might have been all sorts ofinsignificant things: a clerk, going homeward from his work; atax-gatherer, carrying his documents; a rent-collector, anxiousabout a defaulting tenant – anything of that sort. But Bunning knewhim for Mr. Councillor John Wallingford, at that time Mayor ofHathelsborough. He knew something else too – that Wallingford, inspite of his careless attire and very ordinary appearance, was aremarkable man. He was not a native of the old town; although hewas, for twelve months at any rate, its first magistrate, andconsequently the most important person in the place, Hathelsboroughfolk still ranked him as a stranger, for he had only been amongstthem for some twelve years. But during that time he had made hismark in the town – coming there as managing clerk to a firm ofsolicitors, he had ultimately succeeded to the practice which hehad formerly managed for its two elderly partners, now retired. Atan early period of his Hathelsborough career he had taken keen anddeep interest in the municipal affairs of his adopted town and hadsucceeded in getting a seat on the Council, where he had quicklymade his influence felt. And in the previous November he had beenelected – by a majority of one vote – to the Mayoralty and had sobecome the four hundred and eighty-first burgess of the ancientborough to wear the furred mantle and gold chain which symbolizedhis dignity. He looked very different in these grandeurs to what hedid in his everyday attire, but whether in the Mayoral robes or inhis carelessly worn clothes any close observer would have seen thatWallingford was a sharp, shrewd man with all his wits about him – aclose-seeing, concentrated man, likely to go through, no matterwhat obstacles rose in his path, with anything that he took inhand.
Bunning was becoming accustomed to these eveningvisits of the Mayor to the Moot Hall. Of late, Wallingford had comethere often, going upstairs to the Mayor's Parlour and remainingthere alone until ten or eleven o'clock. Always he brought booksand papers with him; always, as he entered, he gave the custodianthe same command – no one was to disturb him, on any pretextwhatever. But on this occasion, Bunning heard a different order."Oh, Bunning," said the Mayor, as he came up to the iron gatesbefore which the ex-sergeant-major stood, still at attention, "Ishall be in the Mayor's Parlour for some time to-night, and I'm notto be disturbed, as usual. Except, however, for this – I'mexpecting my cousin, Mr. Brent, from London, this evening, and Ileft word at my rooms that if he came any time before ten he was tobe sent on here. So, if he comes, show him up to me. But nobodyelse, Bunning." "Very good, your Worship," replied Bunning. "I'llsee to it. Mr. Brent, from London." "You've see