A Mere Accident | Page 2

steep side. Then why the
anomaly of Italian urns and pilasters; why not red Elizabethan gables
and diamond casements?
Why not? Because at the beginning of the century, when Brighton was
being built, fragments of architectural gossip were flying about Sussex,
and one of these had found its way to, and had rested in, the heart of the
grandfather of the present owner: in a simple and bucolic way he had
been seized by a desire for taste and style, and the present building was
the result. Therefore it will be well to examine in detail the house
which young John Norton of '86 was so fond of declaring he could
never see without becoming instantly conscious of a sense of dislike, a
hatred that he was fond of describing as a sort of constitutional
complaint which he was never quite free from, and which any view of
the Rockery, or the pilasters of the French bow-window, or indeed of
anything pertaining to Thornby Place, called at once into an active
existence.
Thornby Place is but two stories high, and its spruce walls of Portland
stone and ashlar work rise sheer out of the green sward; in front, Doric
columns support a heavy entablature, and there are urns at the corners
of the building. The six windows on the ground floor are topped with
round arches, and coming up the drive the house seems a perfect square.
But this regularity of structure has on the east side been somewhat
interfered with by a projection of some thirty or forty feet--a billiard
room, in fine, which during John's minority Mrs Norton had thought
proper to add. But she had lived to rue her experiment, for to this young
man, with his fretful craving for beauty and exactness of proportion, it
is an ever present source of complaint; and he had once in a half
humorous, half serious way, gone so far as to avail himself of the
"eyesore," as he called it, to excuse his constant absence from home,
and as a pretence for shutting himself up in his dear college, with his
cherished Latin authors. It was partly for the sake of avenging himself
on his mother, whose decisive practicality jarred the delicate music of a
nature extravagantly ideal, that he so severely criticised all that she held

sacred; and his strictures fell heaviest on the bow window, looking
somewhat like a temple with its small pilasters supporting the rich
cornice from which the dwarf vaulting springs. The loggia, he admitted,
although painfully out of keeping with the surrounding country, was
not wholly wanting in design, and he admired its columns of a Doric
order, and likewise the cornice that like a crown encompasses the house.
The entrance is under the loggia; there are round arched windows on
either side, a square window under the roof, and the hall door is in solid
oak studded with ornamental nails.
On entering you find yourself in a common white-painted passage, and
on either side of the drawing-room and dining-room are four allegorical
female heads: Spring, Summer, Autumn, and Winter. Further on is the
hall, with its short polished oak stairway sloping gently to a balcony;
and there are white painted pillars that support the low roof, and these
pillars make a kind of entrance to the passage which traverses the house
from end to end. England--England clear and spotless! Nowhere do you
find a trace of dust or disorder. The arrangement of things is somewhat
mechanical. The curtains and wall-paper in the bedrooms are
suggestive of trades people and housemaids; no hastily laid aside book
or shawl breaks the excessive orderliness. Every piece of furniture is in
its appointed place, and nothing testifies to the voluntariness of the
occupant, or the impulse prompted by the need of the moment. On the
presses at the ends of the passages, where is stored the house linen,
cards are hung bearing this inscription: "When washing the woodwork
the servants are requested to use no soda without first obtaining
permission from Mrs Norton." This detail was especially distasteful to
John; he often thought of it when away, and it was one of the many
irritating impressions which went to make up the sum of his dislike of
Thornby Place.
Mrs Norton is now crying her last orders to the servants; and although
dressed elaborately as if to receive visitors, she has not yet laid aside
her basket of keys. She is in her forty-fifth year. Her figure is square
and strong, and not devoid of matronly charm. It approves a healthy
mode of life, and her quick movements are indicative of her sharp
determined mind. Her face is somewhat small for her shoulders, the

temples are narrow and high, the nose is long and thin, the cheek bones