The group which Lord Ascot had seen through the glass doors, consisted of Charles, the coachman’s son, the coachman, and Mr. Sloane. Charles and the coachman’s son had got hold of a plan of the battle of Balaclava, from the Illustrated London News, and were explaining the whole thing to the two older men, to their great delight. The four got enthusiastic and prolonged the talk for some time; and, when it began to flag, Sloane said he must go home, and so they came down into the bar.
Here a discussion arose about the feeding of cavalry-horses, in which all four were perfectly competent to take part. The two young men were opposed in argument to the two elder ones, and they were having a right pleasant chatter about the corn or hay question in the bar, when the swing doors were pushed open, and a girl entered and looked round with that bold, insolent expression one only sees among a certain class.
A tawdry draggled-looking girl, finely enough dressed, but with everything awry and dirty. Her face was still almost beautiful; but the cheekbones were terribly prominent, and the hectic patch of red on her cheeks, and the parched cracked lips, told of pneumonia developing into consumption.
Such a figure had probably never appeared in that decent aristocratic public-house, called the Groom’s Arms, since it had got its licence. The four men ceased their argument and turned to look at her; and the coachman, a family man with daughters, said, “Poor tiling!”
With a brazen, defiant look she advanced to the bar. The barmaid, a very beautiful, quiet-looking, London-bred girl, advanced towards her, frightened at such a wild tawdry apparition, and asked her mechanically what she would please to take.
“I don’t want nothing to drink, miss,” said the girl; “leastways, I’ve got no money; but I want to ask a question. I say, miss, you couldn’t give a poor girl one of them sandwiches, could you 1 You w411 never miss it, you know.”
The barmaid’s father, the jolly landlord, eighteen stone of good humour, was behind his daughter now. "Give her a porkpie, Jane, and a glass of ale, my girl.”
“God Almighty bless you, sir, and keep her from the ark places where the devil lies awaiting. I didn’t come here to beg — it was only when I see them sandwiches that it come over me — I come here to ask a question. I know it ain’t no use. But you can’t see him — can’t see him — can’t see him,” she continued, sobbing wildly, “rattling his poor soul away, and do not do as he asked you. I didn’t come to get out for a walk. I sat there patient three days, and would have sat there till the end, but he would have me come. And so I came; and I must get back — get back.”
The landlord’s daughter brought her some food; and, as her eyes gleamed with wolfish hunger, she stopped speaking. It was a strange group. She in the centre, tearing at her food in a way terrible to see. Behind, the calm face of the landlord, looking on her with pity and wonder; and his pretty daughter, with her arm round his waist, and her head on his bosom, with tears in her eyes. Our four friends stood to the right, silent and curious — a remarkable group enough; for neither the duke’s coachman, nor Mr. Sloane, who formed the background, were exactly ordinary-looking men; and in front of them were Charles and the coachman’s son, who had put his head on Charles’s right shoulder, and was peering over his left at the poor girl, so that the two faces were close together — the one handsome and pale, with the mouth hidden by a moustache 3 the other,
Charles’s, wan and wild, with the lips parted in eager curiosity, and the chin thrust slightly forward.
In a few minutes the girl looked round on them. “I said I’d come here to ask a question; and I must ask it and get back. There was a gentleman’s groom used to use this house, and I want him. His name was Charles Horton. If you, sir, or if any of these gentlemen, know where I can find him, in God Almighty’s name tell me this miserable night.”
Charles was pale before, but he grew more deadly pale now; his heart told him something was coming. His comrade, the coachman’s son, held his hand tighter still on his shoulder, and looked in his face. Sloane and the coachman made an exclamation.
Charles said quietly, “My poor girl, I am the man you are looking for. What, in God’s name, do you want with me?” and, while he waited for her to answer, he felt all the blood in his body going towards his heart.
“Little enough,” she said. “Do you mind a little shoeblack boy as used to stand by St. Peter’s Church?”
“Do I?” said Charles, coming towards her. “Yes, I do. My poor little lad. You don’t mean to say that you know anything about him?”
“I am his sister, sir; and he is dying; and he says he won’t die not till you come. And I come off to see if I could find you. Will you come with me and see him?”
“Will I come!” said Charles. “Let us go at once. My poor little monkey. Dying, too!”
“Poor little man,” said the coachman. “A many times I’ve heard you speak of him. Let’s all go.” Mr. Sloane and his son seconded this motion. “You mustn’t come,” said the girl. “There’s a awful row in the court tonight; that’s the truth. He’s safe enough with me; but if you come, they’ll think a mob’s being raised. Now, don’t talk of coming.”
“You had better let me go alone,” said Charles. “I feel sure that it would not be right for more of us to follow this poor girl than she chooses. I am ready.”
And so he followed the girl out into the darkness; and, as soon as they were outside, she turned and said to him —
“You’d best follow me from a distance. I’ll tell you why: I expect the police wants me, and you might get into trouble from being with me. Remember, if I am took, it’s Marquis Court, Little Marjoram Street, and it’s the end house, exactly opposite you as you go in. If you stands at the archway, and sings out for Miss Ophelia Flanigan, she’U come to you. But if the row ain’t over, you wait till they’re quiet. Whatever you o, don’t venture in by yourself, however quiet it may Took: sing out for her.”
And so she fluttered away through the fog, and he followed, walking fast to keep her in sight.
It was a dreadful night. The fog had lifted, and a moaning wind had arisen, with rain from the south-west. A wild, dripping, melancholy night, without rain enough to make one think of physical discomfort, and without wind enough to excite one.
The shoeblacks and the crossing-sweepers were shouldering their brooms and their boxes, and were plodding homewards. The costermongers were letting their barrows stand in front of the public-houses, while they went in to get something to drink, and were discussing the price of vegetables there, and being fetched out by dripping policemen, for obstructing her Majesty’s highway. The beggars were gathering their rags together, and posting homewards; let us charitably suppose, to their bit of fish, with guinea-fowl and sea kale afterwards, or possibly, for it was not late in February, to their boiled pheasant and celery sauce. Every one was bound for shelter but the policemen. And Charles — poor, silly, obstinate Charles, with an earl’s fortune waiting for him, dressed as a groom, pale, wan, and desperate — was following a ruined girl, more desperate even than he, towards the bridge.
Yes; this is the darkest part of my whole story. Since his misfortunes he had let his mind dwell a little too much on these bridges. There are very few men without a cobweb of some sort in their heads, more or less innocent. Charles had a cobweb in his head now. The best of men might have a cobweb in his head after such a terrible breakdown in his affairs as he had suffered; more especially if he had three or four splinters of bone in his deltoid muscle, which had prevented his sleeping for three nights. But I would sooner that any friend of mine should at such times take to any form of folly (such even as having fifty French clocks in the room, and discharging the butler if they did not all strike at once, as one good officer and brave fellow did) rather than get to thinking about bridges after dark, with the foul water lapping and swirling about the piers. I have hinted to you about this crotchet of poor Charles for a long time; I was forced to do so. I think the less we say about it the better. I call you to witness that I have not said more about it than was necessary.
At the end of Arabella Row, the girl stopped, and looked back for him. The Mews’ clock was overhead, a broad orb of light in the dark sky. Ten minutes past ten. Lord Ascot was sitting beside Lord Saltire’s bed, and Lord Saltire had rung the bell to send for Inspector Field.
She went on, and he followed her along the Mali She walked fast, and he had hard work to keep her in sight. He saw her plainly enough whenever she passed a lamp. Her shadow was suddenly thrown at his feet, and then swept in a circle to the right, till it overtook her, and then passed her, and grew dim till she came to another lamp, and then came back to his feet, and passed on to her again, beckoning him on to follow her, and leading her — whither?
How many lamps were there? One, two, three, four; and then a man lying asleep on a bench in the rain, who said, with a wild, wan face, when the policeman roused him, and told him to go home, “My home is in the Tliames, friend; but I shall not go there tonight, or perhaps tomorrow.”
“His home was in the Thames.” The Thames, the dear old happy river. The wonder and delight of his boyhood. That was the river that slept in crystal green depths, under the tumbled boulders fallen from the chalk cliff, where the ivy, the oak, and the holly grew; and then went spouting, and raging, and roaring through the weirs at Casterton, where he and Welter used to bathe, and where he lay and watched kind Lord Ascot spinning patiently through one summer afternoon, till he killed the eight-pound trout at sundown.
That was the dear old Thames. But that was fifty iles up the river, and ages ago. Now, and here, the river had got foul, and lapped about hungrily among piles, and barges, and the buttresses of bridges. And lower down it ran among mud banks. And there was a picture of one of them, by dear old H. K. Browne, and you didn’t see at first what it was that lay among the sedges, because the face was reversed, and the limbs were —
They passed in the same order through Spring Gardens into the Strand. And then Charles found it more troublesome than ever to follow the poor girl in her rapid walk. There were so many like her there: but she walked faster than any of them. Before he came to the street which leads to Waterloo Bridge, he thought he had lost her; but when he turned the corner, and as the dank wind smote upon his face, he came upon her, waiting for him.
And so they went on across the bridge. They walked together now. Was she frightened, too?
When they reached the other end of the bridge, she went on again to show the way. A long way on past the Waterloo Station, she turned to the left. They passed out of a broad, low, noisy street, into other streets, some quiet, some turbulent, some blazing with the gas of miserable shops, some dark and stealthy, with only one or two figures in them, which disappeared round corners, or got into dark archways as they passed. Charles saw that they were getting into “ Queer Street.”
How that poor gaudy figure fluttered on! How it paused at each turning to look back for him, and then fluttered on once more I What innumerable turnings there were I How should he ever find his way back — back to the bridge?
At last she turned into a street of greengrocers, and marine storekeepers, in which the people were all at their house doors looking out: all looking in one direction, and talking so earnestly to one another, that even his top-boots escaped notice: which struck him as being remarkable, as nearly all the way from Waterloo Bridge a majority of the populace had criticised them, either ironically; or openly, in an unfavourable manner. He thought they were looking at a fire, and turned his head in the same direction; he only saw the poor girl, standing at the mouth of a narrow entry, watching for him.
He came up to her. A little way down a dark alley was an archway, and beyond there were lights, and a noise of a great many people shouting, and talking, and screaming. The girl stole on, followed by Charles a few steps, and then drew suddenly back. The whole of the alley, and the dark archway beyond, was lined with policemen.
A brisk-looking, middle-sized man, with intensely lack scanty whiskers, stepped out, and stood before them. Charles saw at once that it was the inspector of police,
“Now then, young woman,” he said, sharply, “what are you bringing that young man here for, eh?”
She was obliged to come forward. She began wringing her hands.
“Mr, Inspector,” she said, “sir, I wish I may be struck dead, sir, if I don’t tell the truth. It’s my poor little brother, sir. He’s a dying in number eight, sir, and he sent for this young man for to see him, sir. Oh! don’t stop us, sir. S’elp me — ”
“Pish!” said the inspector; “what the devil is the use of talking this nonsense to me? As for you, young man, you march back home double quick. You’ve no business here. It’s seldom we see a gentleman’s servant in such company in this part of the town.”
“Pooh! pooh! my good sir,” said Charles; “stuff and nonsense. Don’t assume that tone with me, if you will have the goodness. What the young woman says is perfectly correct. If you can assist me to get to that house at the further end of the court, where the poor boy lies dying, I shall be obliged to you. If you can’t, don’t express an opinion without being in possession of circumstances. You may detain the girl, but I am going on. You don’t know who you are talking to.”
How the old Oxford insolence flashed out even at the last.
The inspector drew back and bowed. “I must do my duty, sir. Dickson!”
Dickson, in whose beat the court was, as he knew by many a sore bone in his body, came forward. He said, “Well, sir, I won’t deny that the young woman is Bess, and perhaps she may be on the cross, and I don’t go to say that what with flimping, and with cly-faking, and such like, she mayn’t be wanted some day like her brother the Nipper was; but she is a good young woman, and a honest young woman in her way, and what she says this night about her brother is gospel truth.”
“Flimping ” is a style of theft which I have never practised, and, consequently, of which I know nothing. “Cly-faking” is stealing pocket-handkerchiefs. I never practised this either, never having had sufficient courage or dexterity. But, at all events, Police-constable Dickson’s notion of “an honest young woman in her way” seems to me to be confused and unsatisfactory in the last degree.
The inspector said to Charles, “Sir, if gentlemen disguise themselves they must expect the police to be somewhat at fault till they open their mouths. Allow me to say, sir, that in putting on your servant’s clothes on have done the most foolish thing you possibly could. You are on an errand of mercy, it appears, and I will do what I can for you. There’s a doctor and a Scripture reader somewhere in the court now, so our people say. They can’t get out. I don’t think you have much chance of getting in.”
“By Jove!” said Charles, “do you know that you are a deuced good fellow? I am sorry that I was rude to you, but I am in trouble, and irritated. I hope you’ll forgive me.”
“Not another word, sir,” said the inspector. “Come and look here, sir. You may never see such a sight again. Our people daren’t go in. This, sir, is, I believe, about the worst court in London.”
“I thought,” said Charles, quite forgetting his top-boots, and speaking “de haut en bas” as in old times — “I thought that your Rosemary Lane carried off the palm as being a lively neighbourhood?”
“Lord bless you,” said the inspector, “nothing to this; — look here.”
They advanced to the end of the arch, and looked in. It was as still as death, but it was as light as day, for there were candles burning in every window.
“Why,” said Charles, “the court is empty. I can run across. Let me go; I am certain I can get across.”
“Don’t be a lunatic, sir,” said the inspector, holding him tight; “wait till I give you the word, unless you want six months in Guy’s Hospital.”
Charles soon saw the inspector was right, There were three houses on each side of the court. The centre one on the right was a very large one, which was approached on each side by a flight of three steps, guarded by iron railings, which, in meeting, formed a kind of platform or rostrum. This was Mr. Malone’s house, whose wife chose, for family reasons, to call herself Miss Ophelia Flanigan.
The court was silent and hushed, when, from the door exactly opposite to this one, there appeared a tall and rather handsome young man, with a great frieze coat under one arm, and a fire-shovel over his shoulder.
This was Mr, Dennis Moriarty, junior. He advanced to the arch, so close to Charles and the inspector that they could have touched him, and then walked down the centre of the court, dragging the coat behind him, lifting his heels defiantly high at every step, and dexterously beating a “chune on the bare head of um wid the fire-shovel. Hurroo!”
He had advanced half-way down the court without a soul appearing, when suddenly the enemy poured out on him in two columns, from behind two doorways, and he was borne back, fighting like a hero with his fire-shovel, into one of the doors on his own side of the court.
The two columns of the enemy, headed by Mr. Phelim O’Neill, uniting, poured into the doorway after him, and from the interior of the house arose a hubbub, exactly as though people were fighting on the stairs.
At this point there happened one of those mistakes which so often occur in warfare, which are disastrous at the time, and inexplicable afterwards. Can anyone explain why Lord Lucan gave that order at Balaclava? No. Can anyone explain to me, why, on this occasion, Mr. Phelim O’Neill headed the attack on the staircase in person, leaving his rear struggling in confusion in the court, by reason of their hearing the fun going on inside, and not being able to get at it? I think not. Such was the case, however, and, in the midst of it, Mr. Malone, howling like a demon, and horribly drunk, followed by thirty or forty worse than himself, dashed out of a doorway close by, and before they had time to form line of battle, fell upon them hammer and tongs.
I need not say that after this surprise in the rear, Mr. Phelim O’Neill’s party had very much the worst of it. In about ten minutes, however, the two parties were standing opposite one another once more, inactive from sheer fatigue.
At this moment Miss Ophelia Flanigan appeared from the door of No. 8 — the very house that poor Charles was so anxious to get to — and slowly and majestically advanced towards the rostrum in front of her own door, and, ascending the steps, folded her arms and looked about her.
She was an uncommonly powerful, red-faced Irish-woman; her arms were bare, and she had them akimbo, and was scratching her elbows.
Every schoolboy knows that the lion has a claw at the end of his tail with which he lashes himself into fury. When the experienced hunter sees him doing that, he, so to speak, “hooks it.” When Miss Manigan’s enemies saw her scratching her elbows, they generally did the same. She was scratching her elbows now. There was a dead silence.
One woman in that court, and one only, ever offered battle to the terrible Miss Ophelia: that was young Mrs. Phaylim O’Neill. On the present occasion she began slowly walking up and down in front of the expectant hosts. While Miss Flanigan looked on in contemptuous pity, scratching her elbows, Mrs. O’Neill opened her fire.
“Pussey, pussey!” she began, “kitty, kitty, kitty. Miaow, miaow!” (Mr. Malone had accumulated property in the cats’ meat business.) “Morraow, ye little tabby divvle, don’t come anighst her, my Kitleen Avourneen, or yill be convarted into sassidge mate, and sowld to keep a drunken one-eyed ould rapparee, from he county Cark, as had two months for bowling his barrer sharp round the corner of Park Lane over a ould gineral officer, in a white hat and a green silk umbereller; and as married a red-haired woman from the county Waterford, as calls herself by her maiden name, and never feels up to fighting but when the licker’s in her, which it most in general is, pussey; and let me see the one of Malone’s lot or Moriarty’s lot ather, for that matter, as will deny it. Miaow!”
Miss Ophelia Flanigan blew her nose contemptuously. Some of the low characters in the court had picked her pocket.
Mrs. O’Neill quickened her pace and raised her voice. She was beginning again, when the poor girl who was with Charles ran into the court and cried out, “Miss Flanigan! I have brought him; Miss Flanigan!”
In a moment the contemptuous expression faded from Miss Flanigan’s face. She came down off the steps and advanced rapidly towards where Charles stood. As she passed Mrs. O’Neill she said, “Whist now, Biddy O’Nale, me darlin. I ain’t up to a shindy tonight. Ye know the rayson.”
And Mrs. O’Neill said, “Ye’re a good woman, Ophelia Sorra a one of me would have loosed tongue on ye this night, only I thought it might cheer ye up a bit after yer watching. Don’t take notice of me, that’s a dear.”
Miss Flanigan went up to Charles, and, taking him by the arm, walked with him across the court. It was whispered rapidly that this was the young man who had been sent for to see little Billy Wilkins, who was dying in No. 8. Charles was as safe as if he had been in the centre of a square of the Guards. As he went into the door they gave him a cheer; and, when the door closed behind him, they went on with their fighting again.
Charles found himself in a squalid room, about which there was nothing remarkable but its meanness and dirt. There were four people there when he came in — a woman asleep by the bed, two gentlemen who stood aloof in the shadow, and the poor little wan and wasted boy in the bed.
Charles went up and sat by the bed; when the boy saw him he made an effort, rose half up, and threw his arms round his neck. Charles put his arm round him nd supported him — as strange a pair, I fancy, as you ill meet in many long days’ marches.
“If you would not mind. Miss Flanigan,” said the octor, “stepping across the court with me, I shall be eeply obliged to you. You, sir, are going to stay a ittle longer.”
“Yes, sir,” said the other gentleman, in a harsh, npleasant voice; “I shall stay till the end.”
“You won’t have to stay very long, my dear sir,” said the doctor. “Now, Miss Flanigan, I am ready. Please to call out that the doctor is coming through the court, and that, if any man lays a finger on him, he will exhibit Croton and other drastics to him till he wishes he was dead, and after that, throw in quinine till the top of his head comes off. Allons, my dear madam.”
With this dreadful threat the doctor departed. The other gentleman, the Scripture reader, stayed behind, and sat in a chair in the further corner. The poor mother was sleeping heavily. The poor girl who had brought Charles, sat down in a chair and fell asleep with her head on a table.
The dying child was gone too far for speech. He tried two or three times, but he only made a rattle in his throat. After a few minutes he took his arms from round’ Charles’s neck, and, with a look of anxiety, felt for something by his side. When he found it he smiled, and held it towards Charles. Well, well; it was only the ball that Charles had given him —
Charles sat on the bed, and put his left arm round the child, so that the little death’s head might lie upon his breast. He took the little hand in his. So they remained. How long?
I know not. He only sat there with the hot head against his heart, and thought that a little life, so strangely dear to him, now that all friends were gone, was fast ebbing away, and that he must get home again that night across the bridge.
The little hand that he held in his relaxed its grasp, and the boy was dead. He knew it, but he did not move. He sat there still with the dead child in his arms, with a dull terror on him, when he thought of his homeward journey across the bridge.
Some one moved and came towards him. The mother and the girl were still asleep — it was the Scripture reader. He came towards Charles, and laid his hand upon his shoulder. And Charles turned from the dead child, and looked up into his face — into the face of John-Marston.
With the wailing mother’s voice in their ears, those two left the house. The court was quiet enough now. The poor savages who would not stop their riot lest they should disturb the dying, now talked in whispers lest they should awaken the dead.
They passed on quickly together. Not one word had been uttered between them — not one — but they pushed rapidly through the worst streets to a better part of the town, Charles clinging tight to John Marston’s arm, but silent. When they got to Marston’s lodgings, Charles sat down by the fire, and spoke for the first time. He did not burst out crying, or anything of that sort. He only said quietly —
“John, you have saved me. I should never have got home this night.”
But John Marston, who, by finding Charles, had dashed his dearest hopes to the ground, did not take hings quite so quietly. Did he think of Mary now? Did he see in a moment that his chance of her was gone? And did he not see that he loved her more deeply than ever?
“Yes,” I answer to all these three questions. How did he behave now?
Why, he put his hand on Charles’s shoulder, and he said, “Charles, Charles, my dear old boy, look up and speak to me in your dear old voice. Don’t look wild like that. Think of Mary, my boy. She has been wooed by more than one, Charles; but I think that her heart is yours yet.”
“John,” said Charles, “that is what has made me hide from you all like this. I know that she loves me above all men. I dreamt of it the night I left Ravenshoe. I knew it the night I saw her at Lord Hainault’s. And partly that she should forget a penniless and disgraced man like myself, and partly (for I have been near the gates of hell tonight, John, and can see many things) from a silly pride, I have spent all my cunning on losing myself — hoping that you would believe me dead, thinking that you would love my memory, and dreading lest you should cease to love Me.”
“We loved your memory well enough, Charles. You will never know how well, till you see how well we love yourself. We have hunted you hard, Charles. How ou have contrived to avoid us, I cannot guess. You do not know, I suppose, that you are a rich man?”
“A rich man?”
“Yes. Even if Lord Saltire does not alter his will, you come into three thousand a year. And, besides, you are undoubtedly heir to Ravenshoe, though one link is still wanting to prove that.”
“What do you mean?”
“There is no reasonable doubt, although we cannot prove it, that your grandfather Petre was married previously to his marriage with Lady Alicia Staunton, that your father James was the real Ravenshoe, and that Ellen and yourself are the elder children, while poor Cuthbert and William — ”
“Cuthbert! Does he know of this? I will hide again; I will never displace Cuthbert, mind you.”
“Charles, Cuthbert will never know anything about it. Cuthbert is dead. He was drowned bathing last August.”
Hush! There is something, to me, dreadful in a man’s tears, I dare say that it was as well, that night, that the news of Cuthbert’s death should have made him break down and weep himself into quietness again like a child. I am sure it was for the best. But it is the sort of thing that good taste forbids one to dwell upon or handle too closely.
When he was quiet again, John went on:
“It seems incredible that you should have been able to elude us so long. The first intelligence we had of you was from Lady Ascot, who saw you in the Park.”
“Lady Ascot? I never saw my aunt in the Park.”
“I mean Adelaide. She is Lady Ascot now. Lord Ascot is dead.”
“Another of them!” said Charles. “John, before you go on, tell me how many more are gone.”
“No more. Lady Ascot and Lord Saltire are alive and well. I was with Lord Saltire today, and he was talking of you. He has left the principal part of his property to Ascot. But, because none of us would believe you dead, he has made a reservation in your favour of eighty thousand pounds.”
“I am all abroad,” said Charles. “How is William?”
“He is very well, as he deserves to be. Noble fellow! He gave up everything to hunt you through the world like a bloodhound and bring you back. He never ceased his quest till he saw your grave at Varna.”
“At Varna,” said Charles; “why, we were quartered at Devna.”
“At Devna! Now, my dear old boy, I am but mortal; do satisfy my curiosity. What regiment did you enlist in?”
“In the 140th.”
“Then how, in the name of all confusion,” cried John Marston, “did you miss poor Hornby?”
“I did not miss Hornby,” said Charles, quietly. “I had his head in my lap when he died. But now tell me, how on earth did you come to know anything about him?”
“Why, Ascot told us that you had been his servant. And he came to see us, and joined in the chase with the best of us. How is it that he never sent us any intelligence of you?”
“Because I never went near him till the film of death was on his eyes. Then he knew me again, and said a few words which I can understand now. Did he say anything to any of you about Ellen?”
“About Ellen?”
“Yes. Did Ascot ever say anything either?”
“He told Lord Saltire, what I suppose you know — ”
“About what?”
“About Ellen?”
“Yes, I know it all.”
“And that he had met you. Now tell me what you have been doing.”
“When I found that there was no chance of my remaining perdu any longer, and when I found that Ellen was gone, why, then I enlisted in the 140th . . . .”
He paused here, and hid his face in his hands for some time. When he raised it again his eyes were wilder, and his speech more rapid.
“I went out with Tom Sparks and the Roman-nosed bay horse; and we ran a thousand miles in sixty-three hours. And at Devna we got wood-pigeons; and the cornet went down and dined with the 42d at Yarna; and I rode the Roman-nosed bay, and he carried me through it capitally, I ask your pardon, sir, but I am only a poor discharged trooper. I would not beg, sir, if I could help it; but pain and hunger are hard things to bear, sir.”
“Charles, Charles, don’t you know me?”
“That is my name, sir. That is what they used to call me. I am no common beggar, sir. I was a gentleman once, sir, and rode a-horseback after a blue greyhound, and we went near to kill a black hare. I have a character from Lord Ascot, sir. I was in the light cavalry charge at Balaclava. An angry business. They shouldn’t get good fellows to fight together like that. I killed one of them, sir. Hornby killed many, and he is a man who wouldn’t hurt a fly. A sad business!”
“Charles, old boy, be quiet.”
“When you speak to me, sir, of the distinction between the upper and lower classes, I answer you, hat I have had some experience in that way of late, and have come to the conclusion that, after all, the gentleman and the cad are one and the same animal. Now that I am a ruined man, begging my bread about the streets, I make bold to say to you, sir, hoping that your alms may be none the less for it, that I am not sure that I do not like your cad as well as your gentleman, in his way. If I play on the one side such cards as my foster-brother William and Tom Sparks, you, of course, trump me with John Marston and the cornet. You are right; but they are all four good fellows. I have been to death’s gate to learn it. I will resume my narrative. At Devna the cornet, besides woodpigeons, shot a francolin — ”
It is just as well that this sort of thing did not come on when Charles was going home alone across the bridge; that is all I wished to call your attention to. The next morning. Lord and Lady Hainault, old Lady Ascot, William, Mary, and Father Tiernay, were round his bed, watching the hot head rolling from side to side upon the pillow, and listening to his half-uttered delirious babble, gazing with a feeling almost of curiosity at the well-loved face which had eluded them so long.
“Oh, Hainault! Hainault!” said Lady Ascot, “to find him like this after all! And Saltire dead without eeing him! and all my fault, my fault. I am a wicked old woman; God forgive me!”
Lord Hainault got the greatest of the doctors into a corner, and said:—
“My dear Dr. B, will he die?”
“Well, yes,” said the doctor; “to you I would sooner say yes than no, the chances are so heavy against him. The surgeons like the look of things still less than the physicians. You must really prepare for the worst.”
Of course, he did not die; I need not tell you that.
B and P. H pulled him through, and shook heir honest hands over his bed. Poor B is reported to have winked on this occasion; but such a proceeding was so unlike him, that I believe the report must have come round to us through one of the American papers — probably the same one which represented the Prince of Wales hitting the Duke of Newcastle in the eye with a champagne cork.
However, they pulled him through; and, in the pleasant springtime, he was carried down to Casterton. Things had gone so hard with him, that the primroses were in blossom on the southern banks before he knew that Lord Saltire was dead, and before he could be made to understand that he was a rich man.
From this much of the story we may safely deduce this moral, “That, if a young gentleman gets into difficulties, it is always as well for him to leave his address with his friends.” But, as young gentlemen in difficulties generally take particularly good care to remind their friends of their whereabouts, it follows that this story has been written to little or no purpose. Unless, indeed, the reader can find for himself another moral or two; and I am fool enough to fancy that he may do that, if he cares to take the. trouble.
Casterton is built on arches, with all sorts of offices and kitchens under what would naturally be the ground floor. The reason why Casterton was built on arches (that is to say, as far as you and I are concerned) is this: that Charles, lying on the sofa in Lord Hainault’s study, could look over the valley and see the river; which, if it had been built on the ground, he could not have done. From this window he could see the great -weirs spouting and foaming all day; and, when he was carried up to bed, by William and Lord Hainault, he could hear the roar of them rising and sinking, as the night-wind came and went, until they lulled him to sleep.
He lay here one day, when the doctors came down from London. And one of them put a handkerchief over his face, which smelt like chemical experiments, and somehow reminded him of Dr. Daubeny. And, he fell asleep; and when he awoke, he was suffering pain in his left arm — not the old dull grinding pain, but sharper; which gradually grew less as he lay and watched the weirs at Casterton. They had removed the splinters of bone from his arm.
He did not talk much in this happy quiet time. William and Lady Ascot were with him all day. William, dear fellow, used to sit on a footstool, between his sofa and the window, and read the Times to him. William’s education was imperfect, and he read very badly. He would read Mr. Eussell’s correspondence till he saw Charles’s eye grow bright, and hear his breath quicken, and then he would turn to the list of bankrupts. If this was too sad, he would go on to the share list, and pound away at that, till Charles went to sleep, which he generally did pretty quickly.
About this time — that is to say, well in the spring — Charles asked two questions:— The first was, whether or no he might have the window open; the next, whether Lord Hainault would lend him an opera-glass?
Both were answered in the affirmative. The window was opened, and Lord Hainault and William came in, bearing, not an opera-glass, but a great brass telescope, on a stand — a thing with an eight-inch object-glass, which had belonged to old Lord Hainault, who was a Cambridge man, and given to such vanities.
This was very delightful. He could turn it with a ove of his hand on to any part of the weirs, and see almost every snail which crawled on the burdocks. The very first day he saw one of the men from the paper-mill come to the fourth weir, and pull up the paddles to ease the water. The man looked stealthily round, and then raised a wheel from below the apron, full of spawning perch. And this was close time! Oho!
Then, a few days after, came a tall, grey-headed gentleman, spinning a bleak for trout, who had with him a lad in top-boots, with a landing-net. And this gentleman sent his bait flying out here and there across the water, and rattled his line rapidly into the palm of his hand in a ball, like a consummate master, as he was. (King among fishermen, prince among gentlemen, you will read these lines, and you will be so good as to understand that I am talking of you.) And this gentleman spun all day and caught nothing.
But he came the next day to the same place, and spun again. The great full south-westerly wind was roaring up the valley, singing among the budding trees, and carrying the dark, low, rainless clouds swiftly before it. At two, just as Lady Ascot and William had gone to lunch, and after Charles had taken his soup and a glass of wine, he, lying there, and watching this gentleman diligently, saw his rod bend, and his line tighten.
The lad in the top-boots and the landing-net leaped np from where he lay; there was no doubt about it now. The old gentleman had got hold of a fish, and a big one.
The next twenty minutes were terrible. The old gentleman gave him the but, and moved slowly down along the camp-shuting, and Charles followed him with the telescope, although his hand was shaking with excitement. After a time, the old gentleman began to wind up his reel, and then the lad, top-boots, and landing-net, and all, slipped over the camp-shooting (will anybody tell me how to spell that word? Camps-heading won’t do, my dear sir, all things considered) and lifted the fish (he was nine pound), up among the burdocks at the old gentleman’s feet.
Charles had the whole group in the telescope — the old gentleman, the great trout, and the dripping lad, taking off his boots and emptying the water out of them. But the old gentleman was looking to his right at somebody who was coming, and immediately there came into the field of the telescope a tall man in a velvet coat, with knee breeches and gaiters, and directly afterwards, from the other side, three children, and a young lady. The gentleman in the knee breeches bowed to the young lady, and then they all stood looking at the trout.
Charles could see them quite plainly. The gentleman in velveteen and small-clothes was Lord Ascot, and the young lady was Mary.
He did not look through the telescope any more; he lay back, and tried to think. Presently afterwards old Lady Ascot came in, and settled herself in the window, with her knitting.
“My dear,” she said, “I wonder if I fidget you with my knitting-needles? Tell me if I do, for I have plenty of other work.”
“Not at all, dear aunt; I like it. You did nineteen rows this morning, and you would have done twenty-two if you had not dropped a stitch. When I get stronger I shall take to it myself There would he too much excitement and over exertion in it, for me to begin just now.”
Lady Ascot laughed; she was glad to see him trying even such a feeble joke. She said —
“My dear, Mr. Jackson has killed a trout in the weirs just now, nine pounds.”
“I know,” said Charles; ‘ “I did not know the weight, but I saw the fish. Aunt, where is Welter — I mean, Ascot?”
“Well, he is at Ranford. I suppose you know, my dear boy, that poor James left him nearly all his fortune. Nearly five hundred thousand pounds’ worth, with Cottingdean and Marksworth together. All the
Ranford mortgages are paid off, and he is going on very well, my dear. I think they ought to give him his marquisate. James might have had it ten times over of course, but he used to say, that he had made himself the most notorious viscount in England, and that if he took an earldom, people would forget who he was.”
“I wish he would come to see me, aunt. I am very fond of Welter.”
I can’t help it; he said so. Remember how near death’s door he had been. Think what he had been through. How he had been degraded, and kicked about from pillar to post, like an old shoe; and also remember the state he was in when he said it. I firmly believe that he had at this time forgotten, everything, and that he only remembered Lord Ascot as his old boy love, and his jolly college companion. You must make the best of it, or the worst of it for him, as you are inclined. He said so. And in a very short time Lady Ascot found that she wanted some more wool, and hobbled away to get it.
After a time, Charles heard a man come into the room. He thought it was William; but it was not. This man came round the end of the sofa, and stood in the window before him. Lord Ascot.
He was dressed as we know, having looked through Charles’s telescope, in a velveteen coat, with knee reeches and leathern gaiters. There was not much change in him since the old times, only his broad, hairless face seemed redder, his lower jaw seemed coarser and more prominent, his great eyebrows seemed more lowering, his vast chest seemed broader’ and deeper, and altogether he looked rather more like a mighty, coarse, turbulent blackguard than ever.
“Well, old cock,” he said, “so you are on your back, hey?”
“Welter,” said Charles, “I am so glad to see you again. If you would help me up, I should like to look at you.”
“Poor old boy,” said Lord Ascot, putting his great arm round him, and raising him, “So! there you are, my pippin. What a good old fellow you are, by Gad! So you were one of the immortal six hundred, hey? I thought you would turn up somewhere in Queer Street, with that infernal old hook nose of yours. I wish I had taken to that sort of thing, for I am fond of fighting. I think, now I am rich and respectable, I shall subsidize a prizefighter to pitch into me once a fortnight, I wish I had been respectable enough for the army; but I should always have been in trouble with the commander-in-chief for dicing and brawling, I suppose. Well, old man, I am devilish glad to see you again. I am in possession of money which should have been yours. I did all I could for you, Charles; you will never know how much. I tried to repair the awful wrong I did you unconsciously. I did a thing in your favour I tremble to think of now, but which, God help me, I would do again. You don’t know what I mean. If old Saltire had not died so quick, you would have known.”
He was referring to his having told Lord Saltire that he had seen Charles. In doing that, remember he had thought that he was throwing half a million to the winds. I only tell you that he was referring to this, for fear you should not gather it from his own brutal way of speaking.
I wonder how the balance will stand against Lord Ascot at last? Who ever could have dreamt that his strong animal affection for his old friend could have led him to make a sacrifice which many a more highly organized man would have evaded, glossing over his conscience by fifty mental subterfuges?
“However, my dear fellow,” he continued, “it comes to this: I have got the money; I shall have no children; and I shall make no will; therefore it all comes to you, if you outlive me. About the title I can’t say. The lawyers must decide about that. ‘No one seems to know whether or not it descends through he female branch. By-the-by, you are not master of Ravenshoe yet, though there seems no doubt that grandma is right, and that the marriage took place. However, whether the estate goes to you, or to William, I offer the same advice to both of you: if you get my money, don’t spend it in getting the title. You can get into the House of Commons easy enough, if you seem to care about that sort of fun; and fellows I know, tell me that you get much better amusement there for your money than in the other place. I have never been to the House of Lords since the night I took my seat. It struck me as being slow. The fellows say that there is never any chaff, or personalities, or calling to order, or that sort of thing there, which seem to me to be half the fun of the fair. But, of course, you know more about this than I.”
Charles, in a minute, when he had ineffectually tried to understand what Lord Ascot had been saying, collected his senses sufficiently to say:
“Welter, old boy, look here, for I am very stupid. Why did you say that you should have no children?”
“Of course I can’t; have they told you nothing?”
“Is Adelaide dead. Welter?” asked Charles, plucking at the buttons of his coat nervously.
“They ought to have told you, Charles,” said Lord Ascot, turning to the window. “Now tell me something. Have you any love left for her yet?”
“Not one spark,” said Charles, still buttoning and unbuttoning his coat. “If I ever am a man again, I shall ask Mary Corby to marry me. I ought to have done so sooner, perhaps. But I love your wife. Welter, in a way; and I should grieve at her death,, for I loved her once. By Gad I yes; you know it. When did she die?”
“She is not dead, Charles.”
“Now, don’t keep me like this, old man; I can’t stand it. She is no more to me than my sister — not so much. Tell me what is the matter at once; it can’t be worse than what I think.”
“The truth is very horrible, Charles,” said Lord Ascot, speaking slowly. “She took a fancy that I should buy back her favourite old Irish mare, ‘ Molly Asthore,’ and I bought it for her; and we went out hunting together, and we were making a nick, and I was getting the gate open for her, when the devil rushed it; and down they came on it, together. And she broke her back — Oh, God! oh, God 1 — and the doctor says she may live till seventy, but that she will never move from where she lies — and just as I was getting to love her so dearly — ”
Charles said nothing; for with such a great, brutal blackguard as Lord Ascot, sobbing passionately at the window, it was as well to say nothing; but he thought, “Here’s work to the fore, I fancy, after a life of laziness. I have been the object of all these dear souls’ anxiety for a long time. She must take my place now.”
That afternoon Charles said nothing more, but lay and looked out of the window at the rhododendrons just bursting into bloom, at the deer, at the rabbits, at the pheasants; and beyond, where the park dipped down so suddenly, at the river which spouted and foamed away as of old; and to the right at the good old town of Casterton, and at the blue smoke from its chimneys, drifting rapidly away before the soft south-westerly wind; and he lay and looked at these and thought.
And before sundown an arch arose in the west which grew and spread; an arch of pale green sky, which grew till it met the sun, and then the wet grass in the park shone out all golden, and the topmost cedar boughs began to blaze like burnished copper.
And then he spoke. He said, ”William, my dear old friend — loved more deeply than any words can tell — come here, for I have something to say to you.”
And good William came and stood beside him. And
William looked at him and saw that his face was animated, and that his eyes were sparkling. And he stood and said not a word, but smiled and waited for him to go on.
And Charles said, “Old boy, I have been looking through that glass today, and I saw Mr. Jackson catch the trout, and I saw Welter, and I saw Mary, and I want you to go and fetch Mary here.”
And William straightway departed; and as he went up the staircase he met the butler, and he looked so happy, so radiant, and so thoroughly kind-hearted and merry, that the butler, a solemn man, found himself smiling as he drew politely aside to let him pass.
I hope you like this fellow, William. He was, in reality, only a groom, say you. Well, that is true enough. A fellow without education or breeding, though highly born. But still, I hope you like him. I was forgetting myself a little though. At this time he is master of Ravenshoe, with certainly nine, and probably twelve, thousand a year — a most eminently respectable person. One year’s income of his would satisfy a man I know, very well, and yet I am talking of him apologetically. But then we novel writers have an unlimited command of money, if we could only realize it.
However, this great capitalist went up stairs towards the nursery; and here I must break off, if you please, nd take up the thread of my narrative in another place (I don’t mean the House of Lords).
In point of fact, there had been a shindy (I use the word advisedly, and will repeat it) — a shindy, in the nursery that evening. The duty of a story-teller is to stick in a moral reflection wherever he can, and so at this place I pitchfork in this caution to young governesses, that nothing can be more incautious or reprehensible, than to give children books to keep them quiet without first seeing what these books are about.
Mary was very much to blame in this case (you see I tell the truth, and spare nobody). Gus, Flora, and Archy had been out to walk with her, as we know, and had come home in a very turbulent state of mind. They had demanded books as the sole condition on which they would be good; and Mary being in a fidget about her meeting with Lord Ascot, over the trout, and being not quite herself, had promptly supplied Gus with a number of Blackwood's Magazine, and Flora with a “Shakspeare.”
This happened early in the afternoon. Remember this; for if we are not particular in our chronology, we are naught.
Gus turned to the advertisements. He read among other things a testimonial to a great corn-cutter, from a potentate who keeps a very small army, and don’t mean any harm:—
“(translation.)
“Professor Homberg has cut my corns with a dexterity ruly marvellous.
(Signed) “Napoleon.”
From a country baronet:—
“I am satisfied with Professor Homberg.
(Signed) “Pitchceoft Cockpole, Bart.”
From a bishop in the South Sea Islands:—
“Professor Homberg has cut my corns in a manner which does equal honour to his head and his heart.
(Signed) “Eangehaieta.”
(His real name is Jones, but that is neither here nor there); and in the mean time Flora had been studying a certain part of “King Lear.”
Later in the afternoon it occurred to Gus, that he would like to be a corn-cutter and have testimonials. He proposed to cut nurse’s corns, but she declined, assigning reasons. Failing here, he determined to cut Flora’s doll’s corns, and, with this view, possessed himself of her person during Flora’s temporary absence.
He began by snicking the corner of her foot off with nurse’s scissors. Then he found that the sawdust ribbled out at the orifice. This was very delightful. He shook her and it dribbled faster. Then he cut the other foot off and shook her again. And she, not having any stitches put in about the knee (as all dolls should), lost, not only the sawdust from her legs, but also from her stomach and body, leaving nothing but collapsed calico and a bust, with an undisturbed countenance of wax above all.
At this time Flora had rushed in to the rescue; she felt the doll’s body and she saw the heap of sawdust; whereupon she, remembering her “King Lear,” turned on him and said scornfully:
“Nero is an angler in the lake of darkness.” At this awful taunt, Gus butted her in the stomach, and she got hold of him by the hair. Archy, excited for the first time in his life, threw a box of ninepins at them, which exploded. Mary rushed in to separate them, and at the same moment in came William with a radiant face, and he quietly took Mary round the waist (like his impudence), and he said, “My dear creature, go down to Charles, and leave these Turks to me.”
And she left these Turks to him. And he sat on a chair and administered justice; and in a very few minutes, under the influence of that kind, happy, sunny face of his, Flora had kissed Gus, and Archy had cuddled up on his knee, and was sucking his thumb in peace.
And going down to the hall, he found Lady Ascot hobbling up and down, taking her afternoon’s exercise, and she said to him, “Ravenshoe, you best and kindest of souls, she is there with him now. My dear, we had better not move in this matter any more. I tried to dispossess you before I knew your worth and goodness, but I will do nothing now. He is rich, and perhaps it is better, my dear, that Ravenshoe should be in Papist hands — at least, in such hands as yours.”
He said, “My dear madam, I am not Ravenshoe. I feel sure that you are right. We must find Ellen.”
And Mary came out and came toward them; and she said, “Lady Ascot and Mr. Ravenshoe, Charles and I are engaged to be married.”
How near the end we are getting, and yet so much to come. Never mind. We will tell it all naturally and straightforwardly, and then there will be nothing to offend you.
By-and-by it became necessary that Charles should have air and exercise. His arm was well Every splinter had been taken out of it, and he must lie on the sofa no longer.
So he was driven out through pleasant places, through the budding spriag, in one of Lord Hainault’s carriages. AU the meadows had been bush-harrowed and rolled long ago, and now the orchises and fritillaries were begianing to make the grass look purple. Lady Hainault had a low carriage, and a pair of small cobs, and this was given up to Charles; and Lady Hainault’s first coachman declined to drive her ladyship out in the daytime, for fear that the second coachman (a meritorious young man of forty) should frighten Charles by a reckless and inexperienced way of driving.
Consequently Lady Hainault went a buying flannel petticoats and tliat sort of thing, for the poor people in Casterton and Henley, driven by her second coachman; and Charles was trundled all over the country by the first coachman, in a low carriage with the pair of cobs. But Lady Hainault was as well pleased with the arrangement as the old coachman himself, and so it is no business of ours. For the curious thing was, that no one who ever knew Charles, would have hesitated for an instant in giving up to him, his or her, bed, or dinner, or carriage, or any other thing in this world. For people are great fools, you know.
Perhaps the reason of it was that every one who made Charles’s acquaintance, knew by instinct that he would have cut off his right hand to serve them. I don’t know why it was. But there is the fact.
Sometimes Lady Ascot would go with him, and sometimes William. And one day, when William was with him, they were bowling quietly along a by-road on the opposite side of the water from Hurley. And in a secret place, they came on a wicked old gentleman, breaking the laws of his country, and catching perch in close time, out of a punt, with a chair, and a stone bottle, and a fisherman from Maidenliead, who shall be nameless, but who must consider himself cautioned.
The Eajah of Ahmednuggur lives close by there; nd he was reading the Times, when Charles asked the coachman to pull up, that he might see the sport. The Eajah’s attention was caught by seeing the carriage stop; and he looked through a double-barrelled opera glass, and not only saw Charles and William in the carriage, but saw, through the osiers, the hoary old profligate with his paternoster pulling the perch out as fast as he could put his line in. Fired by a virtuous indignation (I wish every gentleman on the Thames would do likewise), he ran in his breeches and slippers down the lawn, and began blowing up like Old Gooseberry.
The old gentleman who was fishing looked at the rajah’s red-brick house, and said, “If my face was as ugly as that house, I would wear a green veil; “but he ordered the fisherman to take up the rypecks, and he floated away down stream.
And as Charles and William drove along, Charles said, “My dear boy, there could not be any harm in catching a few roach. I should so like to go about among pleasant places in a punt once more.”
When they got home, the head keeper was sent for. Charles told him that he would so much like to go fishing, and that a few roach would not make much difference. The keeper scornfully declined arguing about the matter, but only wanted to know what time
Mr. Ravenshoe would like to go, adding that any one who made objections would be brought up uncommon short.
So William and he went fishing in a punt, and one day Charles said, “I don’t care about this punt-fishing much. I wish — I wish I could get back to the trout at Ravenshoe.”
“Do you really mean that?” said William.
“Ah, Willy!” said Charles. “If I could only see it again!”
“How I have been waiting to hear you say that!” said William. “Come to your home with me; why, the people are wondering where we are. My darling bird will be jealous, if I stay here much longer. Come down to my wedding.”
“When are you to be married, William?”
“On the same day as yourself,” said William sturdily.
Said Charles, “Put the punt ashore, will you?” And they did. And Charles, with his nose in the air, and his chest out, walked beside William across the spring meadows, through the lengthening grass, through the calthas, and the orchises, and the ladies’ slippers, and the cowslips, and the fritillaries, through the budding flower garden which one finds in spring among the English meadows, a hale strong man. And when they had clomb the precipitous slope of the deer-park,
Charles picked a rhododendron flower, and put it in his buttonhole, and turned round to William, with the flush of health on his face, and said —
“Brother, we will go to Ravenshoe, and you will be with your love. Shall we be married in London?”
“In St. Petersburgh, if you like, now I see you looking your old self again. But why?”
“A fancy of mine. When I remember what I went through in London through my own obstinacy, I should like to take my revenge on the place, by spending the happiest day of my life there. Do you agree?”
“Of course.”
“Ask Lady Ascot and Mary and the children down to Ravenshoe. Lady Hainault will come too, but he can’t. And have General Mainwaring and the Tiernays. Have as many of the old circle as we can get.”
“This is something like life again,” said William. “Remember, Charles, I am not spending the revenues of Ravenshoe. They are yours. I know it. I am spending about 400?. a year. When our grandfather’s marriage is proved, you will provide for me and my wife, I know that. Be quiet. But we shall never prove that till we find Ellen.”
“Find Ellen!” exclaimed Charles, turning round. “I will not go near Ellen yet.”
“Do you know where she is?” asked William, eagerly.
“Of course I do.” said Charles. “She is at Hackney. Hornby told me so when he was dying. But let her be or a time.”
“I tell you,” said William, “that I am sure that she knows everything. At Hackney!”
The allied powers, General Mainwaring, Lady Ascot, Lord Hainault, and William, were not long before they searched every hole and corner of Hackney, in and out. There was only one nunnery there, but, in that nunnery, there was no young lady at all resembling Ellen. The priests, particularly Father Mackworth’s friend Butler, gave them every assistance in their power. But it was no good.
As Charles and William were in the railway carriage going westward, Charles said —
“Well, we have failed to find Ellen. Mackworth, poor fellow, is still at Ravenshoe.”
“Yes,” said William, “and nearly idiotic. All his fine-spun cobwebs cast to the winds. But he holds the clue to this mystery, or I am mistaken. The younger Tiernay takes care of him. He probably won’t know you. But Charles, when you come into Ravenshoe, keep a corner for Mackworth.”
“He ought to be an honoured guest of the house as long as he lives,” said Charles. “You still persist in saying that Ravenshoe is mine.”
“I am sure it is,” said William.
And, at this same time, William wrote to two other people telling all about the state of affairs, and asking them to come and join the circle. And John Marston came across into my room and said, “Let us go.” And I said, “My dear John, we ought to go. It is not every day that we see a man, and such a man, risen from the dead, as Charles Ravenshoe.”
And so we went.
Father Mackworth puts the finishing touch on his great piece of embroidery.
And so we went. At Ravenshoe were assembled General Mainwaring, Lady Ascot, Mary, Gus, Elora, Archy, and nurse, William, Charles, Father Tiernay and Father Murtagh Tiernay, John Marston, and Tommy Cruse from Clovelly, a little fisherboy, cousin of Jane Evans’s — Jane Evans who was to be Mrs. Ravenshoe.
It became necessary that Jane Evans should be presented to Lady Ascot. She was only a fisherman’s daughter, but she was wonderfully beautiful, and gentle, and good. William brought her into the hall one evening, when every one was sitting round the fire; and he said, “My dear madam, this is my wife that is to be.” Nothing more.
And the dear old woman rose and kissed her, and said, ” My love, how wonderfully pretty you are. You must learn to love me, you know, and you must make aste about it, because I am a very old woman, and I sha’n’t live very long.”
So Jane sat down by Mary, and was at borne, tbougb a little nervous. And General Mainwaring came and sat beside ber, and made bimseif as agreeable as very few men beside him know bow to. And tbe fisherboy got next to William, and stared about with his great black eyes, like a deer in a flower-garden. (You caught that face capitally, Mr. Hook, if you will allow me to say so — best painter of the day!)
Jane Evans was an immense success. She had been to school six months at Exeter, and had possibly been drilled in a few little matters: such as how to ask a gentleman to hold her fan; how to sit down to the piano when asked to sing (which she couldn’t do); how to marshal her company to dinner; how to step into the car of a balloon; and so on. Things absolutely necessary to know, of course, but which had nothing to do with her success in this case; for she was so beautiful, gentle, and winning, that she might have done anything short of eating with her knife, and would have been considered nice.
Had she a slight Devonshire accent? “Well, well! Do you know, I rather like it. I consider it aqually so good with the Scotch, my dear.
I could linger and linger on about this pleasant pring at old Ravenshoe, but I must not. You have been my companion so long that I am right loth to part with you. But the end is very near.
Charles had his revenge upon the trout. The first day after he had recovered from his journey, he and William went out and did most terrible things. William would not carry a rod, but gave his to the servant, and took the landing-net. That Ravenshoe stream carries the heaviest fish in Devonshire. Charles worked up to the waterfall, and got nineteen, weighing fourteen pounds. Then they walked down to the weir above the bridge, and then Charles’ evil genius prompted him to say, “William, have you got a salmon fly in your book?” And William told him that he had, but solemnly warned him of what would happen.
Charles was reckless and foolish. He, with a twelve foot trout rod, and thirty yards of line, threw a small salmon fly under the weir above the bridge. There was a flash on the water. Charles’ poor little reel began screaming, and the next moment the line came “flick ” home across his face, and he said, “By gosh, what a fool I was,” and then he looked up to the bridge, and there was Father Mackworth looking at him.
“How d’ye do, my dear sir?” said Charles. “Glad to see you out. I have been trying to kill a salmon with trout tackle, and have done quite the other thing.”
Father Mackworth looked at him, but did not speak a word. Then he looked round, and young Murtagh Tiernay came up and led him away; and Charles got up on the road and watched the pair going home. And as he saw the tall narrow figure of Father Mackworth creeping slowly along, dragging his heels as he went, he said, “Poor old fellow, I hope he will live to forgive me.”
Father Mackworth, poor fellow, dragged his heels homeward; and when he got into his room in the priests’ tower, Murtagh Tiernay said to him, “My dear friend, you are not angry with me? I did not tell you that he was come back, I thought it would agitate you.”
And Father Mackworth said slowly, for all his old decisive utterance was gone, “The Virgin bless you, you are a good man.”
And Father Mackworth spoke truth. Both the Tiernays were good fellows, though papists.
“Let me help you off with your coat,” said Murtagh, for Mackworth was standing in deep thought.
“Thank you,” said Mackworth. “Now, while I sit here, go and fetch your brother.”
Murtagh Tiernay did as he was told. In a few inutes our good jolly old Irish friend was leaning over Mackworth’s chair.
“Ye’re not angry that we didn’t tell ye there was company?” he said.
“No, no,” said Mackworth. “Don’t speak to me, that’s a good man. Don’t confuse me. I am going. You had better send Murtagh out of the room.”
Father Murtagh disappeared.
“I am going,” said Mackworth. “Tiernay, we were not always good friends, were we?”
“We are good friends, any way now, brother,” said Tiernay.
“Ay, ay, you are a good man. I have done a wrong. I did it for the sake of the Church, partly, and partly — well. I was very fond of Cuthbert. I loved that boy, Tiernay. And I spun a web. But it has all got confused. It is on this left side, which feels so heavy. They shouldn’t make one’s brain in two halves, should they?”
“Begorra no. It’s a burnin’ shame,” said Father Tiernay, determining, like a true Irishman, to agree with every word said, and find out what was coming.
“That being the case, my dear friend,” said poor Mackworth, “give me the portfolio and ink, and we will let our dear brother Butler know, de profandis clamavi, that the time is come.”
Father Tiernay said, “That will be the proper course,” and got him pen and ink, fully assured that another fit was coming on, and that he was wandering in his mind; but still watching to see whether he would let out anything. A true Irishman.
Mackworth let out nothing. He wrote as steadily as he could, a letter of two lines, and put it in an envelope. Then he wrote another letter of about three lines, and inclosed the whole in a larger envelope, and closed it. Then he said to Father Tiernay, “Direct it to Butler, will you, my dear friend; you quite agree that I have done right?”
Father Tiernay said that he had done quite right; but wondered what the dickens it was all about. We soon found out. But we walked, and rode, and fished, and chatted, and played billiards, and got up charades with Lady Ascot for an audience; not often thinking of the poor paralytic priest in the lonely tower, and little dreaming of the mine which he was going to spring under our feet.
The rows (there is no other expression) that used to go on between Father Tiernay and Lady Ascot were as amusing as anything I ever heard. I must do Tiernay the justice to say that he was always perfectly well bred, and also, that Lady Ascot began it. Her good temper, her humour, and her shrewdness were like herself; I can ay no more. Tiernay dodged, and shuffled, and went from pillar to post, and was as witty and good-humoured as an Irishman can be; but I, as a staunch Protestant, am of opinion that Lady Ascot, though nearly ninety, had the best of it. I daresay good Father Tiernay don’t agree with me.
The younger Tiernay was always in close attendance on Mackworth. Every one got very fond of this young priest. We used to wait until Father Mackworth was reported to be in bed, and then he was sent for. And generally we used to make an excuse to go into the chapel, and Lady Ascot would come, defiant of rheumatism, and we would get him to the organ.
And then — Oh, Lord! how he would make that organ speak, and plead, and pray, till the prayer was won. And then, how he would send aggregated armies of notes, marching in vast battalions one after another, out into space, to die in confused melody; and then, how he would sound the trumpet to recal them, and get no answer but the echo of the roof Ah! well. I hope you are fond of music, reader.
But one night we sent for him, and he could not come. And later we sent again, but he did not come; and the man we had sent, being asked, looked uneasy, and said he did not know why. By this time the ladies had gone to bed. General Mainwaring, Charles, William,
John Marston, and myself, were sitting over the fire in the hall, smoking, and little Tommy Cruse was standing between William’s knees.
The candles and the fire were low. There was light outside from a clouded moon, so that one could see the gleam of the sea out of the mullioned windows. Charles was stooping down, describing the battle of the Alma on the hearthrug, and William was bending over, watching him, holding the boy between his knees, as I said. General Mainwaring was puffing his cigar, and saying, “Yes, yes; that’s right enough; ” and Marston and I were, like William, looking at Charles.
Suddenly the boy gave a loud cry, and hid his face in William’s bosom. I thought he had been taken with a fit. I looked up over General Mainwaring’s head, and I cried out, “My God! what is this?”
We were all on our legs in a moment, looking the same way. At the long low mullioned window which had been behind General Mainwaring. The clouded moonlight outside showed us the shape of it. But between us and it there stood three black figures, and as we looked at them, we drew one towards the other, for we were frightened. The general took two steps forward.
One of the figures advanced noiselessly. It was dressed in black, and its face was shrouded in a black ood. In that light, with that silent even way of approaching, it was the most awful figure I ever saw. And from under its hood came a woman’s voice, the sound of which made the blood of more than one to stand still, and then go madly on again. It said:—
“I am Ellen Ravenshoe. My sins and my repentance are known to some here. I have been to the war, in the hospitals, till my health gave way, and I came home but yesterday, as it were, and I have been summoned here. Charles, I was beautiful once. Look at this.”
And she threw her hood back, and we looked at her in the dim light. Beautiful once! Ay, but never so beautiful as now. The complexion was deadly pale, and the features were pinched, but she was more beautiful than ever. I declare I believe that if we had seen a ring of glory round her head at that moment none of us would have been surprised. Just then, her beauty, her nun’s dress, and the darkness of the hall, assisted the illusion, probably; but there was really something saint-like and romantic about her, for an instant or so, which made us all stand silent. Alas! there was no ring of glory round her head. Poor Ellen was only bearing the cross, she had not won the crown.
Charles was the first who spoke or moved; he went up to her, and kissed her, and said, “My sweet sister, I new that if I ever saw you again I should see you in these weeds. My dear love, I am so glad to see you. And oh, my sister, how much more happy to see you dressed like that — ”
(Of course he did not use exactly those words, but words to that effect, only more passionate and even less grammatical. I am not a shorthand writer. I only give you the substance of conversations in the best prose I can command.)
“Charles,” she said, “I do right to wear weeds, for I am the widow of — (Never mind what she said; that sort of thing very properly jars on Protestant ears.) I am a sister of the Society of Mercy of St. Bridget, and I have been to the East, as I told you: and more than once I must have been into the room where you lay, to borrow things, or talk with English Catholic ladies, and never guessed you were there. After Hornby had found me at Hackney, I got leave from Father Butler to join an Irish sisterhood; for our mother was Irish in speech and in heart, you remember, though not by birth. I have something to say — something very important. Father Mackworth, will you come here? Are all here intimate friends of the family? Will you ask any of them to leave the hall, Charles?”
“Not one,” said Charles. “Is one of those dark figures which have frightened us so much, Father Mackworth? My dear sir, I am so sorry. Come to the fire; and who is the other?”
“Only Murtagh Tiernay,” said a soft voice.
“Why did you stand out there these few minutes? Father Mackworth, your arm.”
William and Charles helped him in towards the fire. He looked terribly ill and ghastly. The dear old general took him from them, and sat him down in his own chair by the fire; and there he sat looking curiously around him, with the light of the wood fire and the candles strong on his face, while Ellen stood behind him, with her hood thrown back, and her white hands folded on her bosom. If you have ever seen a stranger group than we were, I should be glad to hear of it.
Poor Mackworth seemed to think that it was expected of him to speak. He looked up to General Mainwaring, and he said —
“I hope you are the better of your wound, sir. I have had a sharp stroke of paralysis, and I have another coming on, sir, and my memory is going. When you meet my Lord Saltire, whom I am surprised to find absent tonight, will you tell him that I presented my compliments, and thought that he had used me very well on the whole. Had she not better begin, sir? or it may be too late ) unless you would like to wait for Lord Saltire.” ather Murtagh Tiernay knelt down and whispered to him.
“Ay! ay!” he said, “Dead — ay! so he is, I had forgotten. We shall all he dead soon. Some of us will to hell, General, and some to heaven, and all to purgatory. I am a priest, sir. I have been bound body and soul to the Church from a child, and I have done things which the Church will disapprove of when they are told, though not while they are kept secret; and I tell them because the eyes of a dead man, of a man who was drowned bathing in the bay, haunt me day and night, and say, speak out! — Murtagh!”
Little Tiernay was kneeling beside him, and called his attention to him.
“You had better give me the wine; for the end is getting very near. Tell her to begin.”
And while poor Mackworth was taking some wine (poor fellow, it was little enough he had taken in his life-time), Ellen began to speak. I had some notion that we should know everything now. We had guessed the truth for a long while. We had guessed everything about Petre Ravenshoe’s marriage. We believed in it. We seemed to know all about it, from Lady Ascot. No link was wanting in the chain of proof, save one, the name of the place in which that marriage took place-That had puzzled every one. Lady Ascot declared it as a place in the north of Hampshire, as you will remember, but every register had been searched there, without result. So conceive how we all stared at poor Ellen, when she began to speak, wondering whether she knew as much as ourselves, or even more.
“I am Miss Ravenshoe,” she said quietly. “My brother Charles there is heir to this estate; and I have come here tonight to tell you so.”
There was nothing new here. We knew all about that. I stood up and put my arm through Charles Ravenshoe’s, and William came and laid his hand upon my shoulder. The general stood before the fire, and Ellen went on.
“Petre Ravenshoe was married in 1778 to Maria Dawson, and his son was James Ravenshoe, my father, who was called Horton, and was Densil Ravenshoe’s gamekeeper. I have proof of this.”
So had we. We knew all this. What did she know more 1 It was intolerable that she was to stop just here, and leave the one awful point unanswered. I forgot my good manners utterly; I clutched Charles’s arm tighter, and I cried out —
“We know about the marriage, Miss Ravenshoe; we have known of it a long while. But where did it take place, my dear young lady? Where V
She turned on me and answered, wondering at my agerness. I had bronglit out the decisive words at last, the words that we had been dying to hear for six months; she said —
“At Finchampstead, in Berkshire; I have a copy of the certificate with me.”
I let go of Charles’s arm, and fell back in my chair. My connexion with this story is over (except the trouble of telling it, which I beg you won’t mention, for it has given me as much pleasure as it has you; and that, if you look at it in a proper point of view, is quite just, for very few men have a friend who has met with such adventures as Charles Ravenshoe, who will tell them all about it afterwards). I fell back in my chair, and stared at poor Father Mackworth as if he were a copper disk, and I was trying to get into a sufficiently idiotic state to be electrobiologized.
“I have very little more to tell,” said Ellen. “I was not aware that you knew so much. From Mr. William Marston’s agitation, I conclude that I have supplied the only link which was missing. I think that Father Mackworth wishes to explain to you why he sent for me to come here tonight. If he feels himself able to do so now, I shall be glad to be dismissed.”
Father Mackworth sat up in his chair, and spoke at once. He had gathered himself up for the effort, and ent through it well, though with halting and difficult speech.
“I knew of Petre Ravenshoe’s marriage from Father Clifford, with all the particulars. It had been confessed to him. He told it to me the day Mrs. Ravenshoe died, after Densil Ravenshoe had told me that his second son was to be brought up to the Protestant faith. I went to him in a furious passion, and he told me about this previous marriage which had been confessed to him, to quiet me. It showed me, that if the worst were to happen, and Cuthbert were to die, and Ravenshoe go to a Protestant, I could still bring in a Catholic as a last resource. For if Cuthbert had died, and Norah had not confessed about the changing of the children, I should have brought in James, and after him William, both Catholics, believing him to be the son of James and Norah. Do you understand?
“Why did I not? I loved that boy Cuthbert. And it was told under seal of confession, and must not be used save in deadly extremity, and William was a turbulent boy. Which would have been the greater crime at that time? It was only a choice of evils, for the Church is very dear to me.
“Then Norah confessed to me about the change of children, and then I saw, that by speaking of Petre Ravenshoe’s marriage, I should only bring in a Protestant heir. But I saw, also, that by using her confession only, I could prove Charles Ravenshoe to be merely a gamekeeper’s son, and turn him out into the world, and so I used it, sir. You used to irritate and insult me, sir,” he said, turning to Charles, “and I was not so near death then as now. If you can forgive me, in God’s name say so.”
Charles went over to him, and put his arm round him. “Forgive you?” he said; “dear Mackworth, can you forgive me?”
“Well, well!” he continued, “what have I to forgive, Charles? At one time, I thought if I spoke that it would be better, because Ellen, the only daughter of the house, would have had a great dower, as Ravenshoe girls have. But I loved Cuthbert too well And Lord Welter stopped my even thinking of doing so, by coming to Ravenshoe. And — and — we are all gentlemen here. The day that you hunted the black hare, I had been scolding her for writing to him. And William and I made her mad between us, and she ran away to him. And she is with the army now, Charles. I should not fetch her back, Charles. She is doing very good work there.”
By this time she had drawn the black hood over her face, and was standing behind him, motionless.
“I will answer any more questions you like tomorrow. Petre Ravenshoe’s marriage took place at rinchampstead, remember. Charles, my dear boy, would you mind kissing me? I think I always loved you, Charles. Murtagh Tiernay, take me to my room.”
And so he went tottering away through the darkness. Charles opened the door for him. Ellen stood with her hood over her face, motionless.
“I can speak like this with my face hidden,” she said. “It is easy for one who has been through what I have, to speak. What I have been you know, what I am now is — (she used one of those Roman Catholic forms of expression, which are best not repeated too often). I have a little to add to this statement. William was cruel to me. You know you were. You were wrong. I will not go on. You were awfully unjust — you were horribly unjust. The man who has just left the room had some slight right to upbraid me. You had none. You were utterly wrong. Mackworth, in one way, is a very high-minded honourable man. You made me hate you, William. God forgive me. I have forgiven you now.”
“Yes; I was wrong,” said William, “I was wrong. But Ellen, Ellen! before old friends, only with regard to the person.”
“When you treated me so ill, I was as innocent as your mother, sir. Let us go on. This man Mackworth new more than you. We had some terrible scenes together about Lord Welter. One day he lost his temper, and became theatrical. He opened his desk and showed me a bundle of papers, which he waved in the air, and said that they contained my future destiny. The next day, I went to the carpenter’s shop and took a chisel. I broke open his desk, and possessed myself of them. I found the certificate of Petre Ravenshoe’s marriage. I knew that you, William, as I thought, and I were the elder children. But I loved Cuthbert and Charles better than you or myself, and I would not speak. When, afterwards, Father Butler told me, while I was with Lord Welter, before I joined the sisters, of the astounding fact of the change of children, I still held my peace, because I thought Charles would be the better of penance for a year or so, and because I hesitated to throw the power of a house like this into heretic hands, though it were into the hands of my own brother. Mackworth and Butler were to some extent enemies, I think; for Butler seems not to have told Mackworth that I was with him for some time, and I hardly know how he found it out at last. Three days ago I received this letter from Mackworth, and after some hesitation I came. Tor I thought that the Church could not be helped by wrong, and I wanted to see that he concealed nothing. Here it is. I shall say no more.”
And she departed, and I have not seen her since. Perhaps she is best where she is. I got a sight of the letter from Father Mackworth. It ran thus ——
“Come here at once, I order you. I am going to tell the truth. Charles has come back. I will not bear the responsibility any longer.”
Poor Mackworth! He went back to his room, attended by the kind-hearted young priest, who had left his beloved organ at Segur, to come and attend to him. Lord Segur pished and pshawed, and did something more, which we won’t talk about, for which he had to get absolution. But Murtagh Tiernay stayed at Ravenshoe, defying his lordship, and his lordship’s profane oaths, and making the Ravenshoe organ talk to Father Mackworth about quiet churchyards and silent cloisters; and sometimes raging on until the poor paralytic priest began to see the great gates rolled back, and the street of the everlasting city beyond, crowded with glorious angels. Let us leave these two to their music. Before we went to town for the wedding, we were sitting one night, and playing at loo, in the hall. (Not guinea unlimited loo, as they used to play at Lord Welter’s, but penny loo, limited to eighteen pence.) General Mainwaring had been looed in miss four times running, making six shillings (an almost impossible circumstance, but true), and Lady Ascot had been laughing at him so, that she had to take off her spectacles and wipe them, when Murtagh Tiernay came into the hall, and took away Charles, and his brother Father Tiernay.
The game was dropped soon after this. At Ravenshoe there was an old-fashioned custom of having a great supper brought into the hall at ten. A silly old custom, seeing that every one had dined at seven. Supper was brought in, and every one sat down to table. All sorts of things were handed to one by the servants, but no one ate anything. No one ever did. But the head of the table was empty, Charles was absent.
After supper was cleared away, every one drew in a great circle round the fire, in the charming old-fashioned way one sees very seldom now, for a talk before we went to bed. But nobody talked much. Only Lady Ascot said, “I shall not go upstairs till he comes back. General, you may smoke your cigar, but here I sit.”
General Mainwaring would not smoke his cigar, even up the chimney. Almost before he had time to say so, Charles and Father Tiernay came into the room without saying a word, and Charles, passing through the circle, pushed the logs on the hearth together with his foot.
“Charles,” said Lady Ascot, “has anything happened?”
“Yes, aunt.”
“Is he dead?”
“Yes, aunt.”
“I thought so,” said Lady Ascot, “I hope he has forgiven me any hard thoughts I had of him. I could have been brought to love that man in time. There were a great many worse men than he, sir,” she added in her old clear ringing tones, turning to Father Tiemay. “There were a great many worse men than he.”
“There were a great many worse men, Lady Ascot,” said Father Tiernay. “There have been many worse men with better opportunities. He was a good man brought up in a bad school. A good man spoilt. General Mainwaring, you who are probably more honoured than any man in England just now, and are worthy of it; you who can’t stop at a street corner without a crowd getting together to hurrah to you; you, the very darling of the nation, are going to Oxford to be made an honorary Doctor of Laws. And when you go into that theatre, and hear the maddening music of those boys’ voices cheering you: then, general, don’t get insane with pride like Herod, but think what you might have been with Mackworth’s opportunities.”
I think we all respected the Irishman for speaking up for his friend, although his speech might be extravagant. But I am sure that no one respected him more sincerely than our valiant, humble, old friend, General Mainwaring.
Gus and Flora are Naughty in Church, and the Whole Business Comes to an End.
Charles’ purpose of being married in London held good. And I need not say that William’s held good too.
Shall I insult your judgment by telling you that the whole story of Petre Ravenshoe’s marriage at Finchampstead was true? I think not. The register was found, the lawyers were busy down at Ravenshoe, for every one was anxious to get up to London, and have the two marriages over before the season was too far advanced.
The memorabilia about this time at Ravenshoe, were — The weather was glorious. (I am not going to give you any more about the two capes, and that sort of thing. You have had those two capes often enough. And I am reserving my twenty-ninth description of the Ravenshoe scenery for the concluding chapter.) The weather, I say, was glorious. And I was always being fetched in from the river, smelling fishy, and being made to witness deeds. I got tired of writing my name. I may have signed away the amount of the national debt in triplicate, for anything I know (or care. Tor you can’t get blood out of a stone). I signed some fifty of them, I think. But I signed two, which gave me great pleasure.
The first was a rent-charge on Ravenshoe of two thousand a year, in favour of William Ravenshoe. The second was a similar deed of five hundred a year in favour of Miss Ravenshoe. We will now have done with all this sordid business, and go on.
The ladies had all left for town, to prepare for the ceremony. There was a bachelors’ house at Ravenshoe for the last time. The weather was hot. Charles Ravenshoe, General Mainwaring, and the rest, were all looking out of the dining-room windows towards the sea, when we were astonished by seeing two people ride up on to the terrace, and stop before the porch.
A noblelooking old gentleman, in a blue coat and brass buttons, knee-breeches and gaiters, on a cob, and a beautiful boy of sixteen on a horse. I knew well enough who it was, and I said Ho! But the others wondered. William would have known, had he been looking out of the window just then, but by the time he got there, the old gentleman and the boy were in the porch, and two of Charles’s men were walking the horses up and down.
“Now, who the deuce is this?” said Charles. “They haven’t come far; but I don’t know them. I seem to know the old man, somehow; but I can’t remember.”
We heard the old gentleman’s heavy step along the hall, and then the door was thrown open, and the butler announced, like a true Devonshire man —
“Mr. Humby to Hele!”
The old gentleman advanced with a frank smile and took Charles’s hand, and said, “Welcome home, sir; welcome to your own; welcome to Ravenshoe. A Protestant at Ravenshoe at last. After so many centuries.”
Everybody had grown limp and faint when they heard the awful name of Humby, that is to say, every one but me. Of course 1 had nothing to do with fetching him over. Not at all. This was the first time that a Humby had had friendly communication with a Ravenshoe, for seven hundred and eighty-nine years. The two families had quarrelled in 1066, in consequence of John Humby having pushed against Kempion Ravenshoe, in the grand rush across the Senlac, at the battle of Hastings. Kempion Ravenshoe had asked John Humby where he was shoving to, and John Humby had expressed a msh to punch Kempion Ravenshoe’s head (or do what went for the same thing in those times. I am no antiquarian). The wound was never healed. The two families located themselves on adjoining estates in
Devonshire immediately after the conquest, but never spoke till 1529, when Lionel Humby bit his thumb at our old friend, Alured Ravenshoe, in Cardinal Wolsey’s antechamber, at Hampton, and Alured Ravenshoe asked him, what the devil be meant by that. Tbey fought in Twickenham meadow, but held no relations for two hundred and fourteen years, that is to say, till 1745, when Ambrose Ravenshoe squeezed an orange at Chichester Humby at an election dinner in Stonnington, and Boddy Fortescue went out as second to Chichester Humby, and Lord Segur to Ambrose Ravenshoe. After this the families did not speak again for one hundred and ten years, that is to say, till the time we are speaking of, the end of April, 1855, when James Humby to Hele frightened us all out of our wits, by coming into the dining-room at Ravenshoe, in a blue coat and brass buttons, and shaking hands with Charles, and saying, beside what I have written above —
“Mrs. Humby and my daughters are in London for the season, and I go to join them the day after tomorrow. There has been a slight cloud between the two houses lately” (that is to say, as we know it, for seven hundred and eighty-nine years. But what is time?) ” and I wish to remove it. I am not a very old man, but I have my whimsies, my dear sir. I wish my daughters to appear among Miss Corby’s bridesmaids. nd do you know, I fancy when you get to London, that you will find the whole matter arranged.”
Who was to resist this? Old Humby went up in the train with all of us the next day but one. And if I were asked to pick out the most roystering, boisterous, jolly old county member in England, Scotland, or Ireland, I should pick out old Humby of Hele. What fun he made at the stations where the express stopped! The way he allowed himself to be fetched out of the refreshment room by the guard, and then, at the last moment, engaged him in a general conversation about the administration of the line, until the station-master was mad, and an accident imminent, was worthy of a much younger man, to say the least. But then, in a blue coat and brass buttons, with drab small clothes, you may do anything. They are sure to-take you for a swell. If I, William Marston, am ever old enough, and fat enough, and rich enough, I shall dress like that myself, for reasons. If my figure does not develop, I shall try black br — ch — s and gaiters, with a shovel hat, and a black silk waistcoat buttoned up under my throat. That very often succeeds. Either are better than pegtops and a black bowler hat, which strike no awe into the beholders.
When we all got to town, we were, of course, very busy. There was a great deal of millinery business.
Old Humby insisted on helping at it. One day he went to Madame Tulle’s, in Conduit Street, with his wife and two daughters, and asked me to come too, for which I was sorry at first, for he behaved very badly, and made a great noise. We were in a great suite of rooms on tbe first floor, full of crinolines and that sort of thing, and there were a great many people present. I was trying to keep him quiet, for he was cutting a good many clumsy jokes, as an old-fashioned country squire will. Everybody was amused with him, and thoroughly appreciated his fun, save his own wife and daughters, who were annoyed; so I was trying to keep him quiet, when a tall, brown-faced, handsome young man came up to me and said —
“I beg a thousand pardons; but is not your name Marston?”
I said, “Yes.”
“You are a first cousin of John Marston, are you not? — of John Marston, whom I used to meet at Casterton?”
I said, “Yes; that John Marston was my cousin.” But I couldn’t remember my man, for all that.
“You don’t remember me! I met you once at old Captain Archer’s, at Lashbrook, for ten minutes. My wife has come here to buy fal-lals for Charles Ravenshoe’s wedding. He is going to marry my cousin. My ame is George Corby. I have married Miss Ellen Hockstrop, daughter of Admiral Blockstrop, Her eldest sister married young Captain Archer of the merchant service.”
I felt very faint, but I congratulated him. The way those Australians do business shames us old-country folk. To get over a heavy disappointment and be married in two months and a week is very creditable.
“We bushmen are rough fellows,” he said. (His manners were really charming. I never saw them beaten.) “But you old-country fellows must excuse us. Will you give me the pleasure of your acquaintance? I am sure you must be a good fellow, for your cousin is one of the best fellows I ever knew.”
“I should be delighted.” And I spoke the truth.
“I will introduce you to my wife directly,” he said; “but the fact is, she is just now having a row with Madame Tulle, the milliner here. My wife is a deuced economical woman, and she wants to show at the Ravenshoe wedding in a white mou’e-antique, which will only cost fifty guineas, and which she says will do for an evening dress in Australia afterwards. And the Frenchwoman won’t let her have it for the purpose, because she says it is incorrect. And I hope to Gad the Frenchwoman will win, because my wife will get quite as good a gown to look at for twenty guineas or so.”
Squire Humby begged to be introduced. Which I did.
“I am glad, sir,” he said, “that my daughters have not heard your conversation. It would have demoralised them, sir, for the rest of their lives. I hope they have not heard the argument about the fifty-guinea gown. If they have, I am a ruined man. It was one of you Australians who gave twelve hundred guineas for the bull ‘Master Butterfly,’ the day before yesterday?”
“Well, yes,” said George Corby, “I bought the bull He’ll pay, sir, handsomely, in our part of the world.”
“The devil he will,” said Squire Humby. “You don’t know an opening for a young man of sixty-five, with a blue coat and brass buttons, who understands his business, in your part of the country, do you?”
And so on. The weddings took place at St. Peter’s, Eaton Square. If the ghost of the little shoeblack had been hovering round the wall where he had played fives with the brass button, he might have almost heard the ceremony performed. Mary and Charles were not a handsome couple. The enthusiasm of the population was reserved for William and Jane Evans, who certainly were. It is my nature to be a Jack-of-all-trades, and so I was entrusted with old Master Evans, Jane’s father, a magnificent old sea-king, whom we have met before. We two preferred to go to church quietly before the others, and he, refusing to go into a pew, found himself place in the free seats, and made himself comfortable. So I went out into the porch, and waited till they came.
I waited till the procession had gone in, and then I found that the tail of it was composed of poor Lord Charles Herries’ children, Gus, Flora, and Archy, with their nurse.
If a bachelor is worth his salt, he will make himself useful. I saw that nurse was in distress and anxious, so I stayed with her.
Archy was really as good as gold till he met with his accident. He walked up the steps with nurse as quiet as possible. But even at first I began to get anxious about Gus and Flora. They were excited. Gus wouldn’t walk up the steps; but he put his two heels together, and jumped up them one at a time, and Flora walked backwards, looking at him sarcastically. At the top step but one Gus stumbled; whereupon Flora said, “Goozlemy, goozlemy, goozlemy.”
And Gus said, “You wait a minute, my lady, till we get into church,” after which awful speech I felt as if I was smoking in a powder magazine.
I was put into a pew with Gus, and Flora, and Archy. Nurse, in her modesty, went into the pew behind us.
I am sorry to say that these dear children, with hom I had had no previous acquaintance, were very naughty. The ceremony began by Archy getting too near the edge of his hassock, falling off, pitching against the pew door, bursting it open, and flying out among the free seats, head foremost. Nurse, a nimble and dexterous woman, dashed out, and caught him up, and actually got him out of the church door before he had time to fetch his breath for a scream. Gus and Flora were left alone with me.
Flora had a great scarlet and gold church service. As soon as she opened it, she disconcerted me by saying aloud, to an imaginary female friend, “My dear, there is going to be a collection; and I have left my purse on the piano.”
At this time, also, Gus, seeing that the business was well begun, removed to the further end of the pew, sat down on the hassock, and took from his trousers’ pocket a large tin trumpet.
I broke out all over in a cold perspiration as I looked at him. He saw my distress, and putting it to his lips, puffed out his cheeks. Flora administered comfort to me. She said, “You are looking at that foolish boy. Perhaps he won’t blow it, after all. He mayn’t if you don’t look at him. At all events, he probably won’t blow it till the organ begins; and then it won’t matter so much.”
Matters were so hopeless with me that I looked at old Master Evans. He had bent down his head on to the rail of the bench before him. His beautiful daughter had been his only companion at home for many years, for his wife had died when Jane was a little bare-legged thing, who paddled in the surf It had been a rise in life for her to marry Mr. Charles Ravenshoe’s favourite pad-groom. And just now she had walked calmly and quietly up the aisle, and had stopped when she came to where he sat, and had pushed the Honiton-lace veil from her forehead, and kissed his dear old cheek: and she would walk back directly as Mrs. William Ravenshoe. And so the noble old privateer skipper had bent down, and there was nothing to be seen there, but a grey head and broad shoulders, which seemed to shake.
And so I looked up to the east end. And I saw the two couples kneeling before the clergyman. And when I, knowing everything as I did, saw Charles kneeling beside Mary Corby, with Lord Ascot, great burly, brutal giant, standing behind him, I said something which is not in the marriage service of the Church of England. After it all, to see him and her kneeling so quietly there together! “We were all happy enough that day. But I don’t think that any one was much happier than T. For I knew more than any one. And also, three months rom that time, I married my present wife, Eliza Humby. And the affair had only been arranged two days. So I was in good spirits.
At least I should have been, if it had not been for Lord Charles Herries’ children. I wish those dear children (not meaning them any harm) had been, to put it mildly, at play on the village green, that blessed day.
When I looked at Gus again, he was still on the hassock, threatening propriety with his trumpet. I hoped for the best. Flora had her prayer-book open, and was playing the piano on each side of it, with her fingers. After a time she looked up at me, and said out loud —
“I suppose you have heard that Archy’s cat has kittened?”
I said, “No.”
“Oh, yes, it has,” she said. “Archy harnessed it to his meal cart, which turns a mill, and plays music when the wheels go round; and it ran downstairs with the cart; and we heard the music playing as it went; and it kittened in the wood-basket immediately afterwards; and Alwright says she don’t wonder at it; and no more do I; and the steward’s-room boy is going to drown some. But you mustn’t tell Archy, because, if you do, he won’t say his prayers; and if he don’t say his prayers, he will, &c. &c.” Very emphatically, and in a lond tone of voice.
This was very charming. If I could only answer for Gus, and keep Flora busy, it was wildly possible that we might pull through. If I had not been a madman, I should have noticed that Gus had disappeared.
He had. And the pew door had never opened, and I was utterly unconscious. Gus had crawled up, on all fours, under the seat of the pew, until he was opposite the calves of his sister’s legs, against which calves, horresco referens, he put his trumpet and blew a long shrill blast. Flora behaved very well and courageously. She only gave one long, wild shriek, as from a lunatic in the padded cell in Bedlam, and then, hurling her prayer-book at him, she turned round and tried to kick him in the face.
This was the culminating point of my misfortunes. After this, they behaved better. I represented to them that every one was just coming out of the vestry, and that they had better fight it out in the carriage, going home. Gus only made an impertinent remark about Flora’s garters, and Flora only drew a short, but trenchant, historical parallel between Gus and Judas Iscariot; when the brides and bridegrooms came down the aisle, and we all drove off to Charles’s house in Eaton Square.
And so, for the first time, I saw altogether, with my wn eyes, the principal characters in this story. Only one was absent. Lord Saltire. I had seen him twice in my life, and once had the honour of a conversation with him. He was a man about five feet eleven, very broad shouldered, and with a very deep chest. As far as the animal part of him went, I came to the conclusion, from close and interested examination for twenty minutes, that he had, fifty or sixty years before, been a man with whom it would have been pleasanter to argue than to box. His make was magnificent. Phrenologically speaking, he had a very high square head, very flat at the sides: and, when I saw him, when he was nearly eighty, he was the handsomest old man I had ever seen. He had a florid, pure complexion. His face was without a wrinkle. His eyebrows were black, and his hair seemed to refuse to be grey. There was as much black as grey in it to the last. His eye was most extraordinary — a deep blue-grey. I can look a man as straight in the face as any one; but when Lord Saltire turned those eyes on me three or four times in the course of our interview, I felt that it was an effort to meet them. I felt that I was in the presence of a man of superior vitality to my own. We were having a talk about matters connected with Charles Ravenshoe, which I have not mentioned, because I want to keep myself, William Marston, as much out of this story as possible. And whenever this terrible old man looked at me, asking a question, I felt my eyebrows drawing together, and knew that I was looking defiantly at him. He was the most extraordinary man I ever met. He never took office after he was forty. He played with politics. He was in heart, I believe (no one knows), an advanced Whig. He chose to call himself Tory. He played the Eadical game very deep, early in life, and, I think, he got disgusted with party politics. The last thing the old Eadical atheist did ia public life was to rally up to the side of the Duke in opposition to the Reform Bill. And another fact about him is, that he had always a strong personal affection for Sir Francis.
He was a man of contradictions, if one judges a man by Whig and Tory rules; but he was a great loss to the public business of the country. He might have done almost anything in public life with his calm clear brain. My cousin John thinks that Lord Barkham’s death was the cause of his retirement.
So much about Lord Saltire. Of the other characters mentioned in this story, I will speak at once, just as I saw them sitting round the table at Charles and William Ravenshoe’s wedding.
I sat beside Eliza Humby. She was infinitely the most beautiful, clever, and amiable being that the world ver produced. (But that is my business, not yours.) Charles Ravenshoe sat at the head of the table, and I will leave him alone for a minute. I will give you my impressions of the other characters in this story, as they appeared to me.
Mary was a very charming-looking little person indeed, very short, and with small features. I had never seen her before, and had never heard any one say that she was pretty. I thought her very pretty indeed.
Jane Evans was an exceedingly beautiful Devonshire girl. My eye did not rest very long on her. It came down the table to William, and there it stopped.
I got Eliza Humby to speak to him, and engage him in conversation while I looked at him. I wanted to see whether there was anything remarkable in his face, for a more remarkable instance of disinterested goodwill than his determining to find Charles and ruin himself, I never happened to have heard of.
Well, he was very handsome and pleasing, with a square determined look about the mouth, such as men brought up among horses generally have. But I couldn’t understand it, and so I spoke to him across Lizzie, and I said, casting good manners to the winds, “I should think that the only thing you regretted today was, that you had not been alongside of Charles at Balaclava;” and then I understood it, for when I mentioned Charles nd Balaclava, I saw for one instant not a groom but a poet. Although, being a respectable and well-conducted man, he has never written any poetry, and probably never will.
Then I looked across the table at Lady Ascot. They say that she was never handsome. I can quite believe that. She was a beautiful old woman certainly, but then all old women are beautiful. Her face was very square, and one could see that it was capable of very violent passion; or could, knowing what one did, guess so. Otherwise there was nothing very remarkable about her, except that she was a remarkably charming old lady. She was talking to General Mainwaring, who was a noblelooking old soldier.
Nothing more. In fact, the whole group were less remarkable and tragical-looking than I thought they would have been. I was disappointed, until I came to Lord Ascot, and then I could not take my eyes off him.
There was tragedy enough there. There was coarse brutality and passion enough, in all conscience. And yet that man had done what he had done. Here was a puzzle with a vengeance.
Lord Ascot, as I saw him now, for the first time, was simply a low-bred and repulsive-looking man. In stature he was gigantic, in every respect save eight. He was about five feet nine, very deep about the chest. His hair was rather dark, cut close. His face was very florid, and perfectly hairless. His forehead was low. His eyes were small, and close together. His eyebrows were heavy, and met over his nose, which was short and square. His mouth was large; and when you came to his mouth, you came to the first tolerable feature in his face. When he was speaking to no one in particular, the under lip was set, and the whole face, I am very sorry to say, was the sort of face which is quite as often seen in the dock, as in the witness-box (unless some gentleman has turned Queen’s evidence). And this was the man who had risked a duke’s fortune, because “There were some things a fellow couldn’t do, you know.”
It was very puzzling till he began to speak to his grandmother, and then his lower lip pouted out, his eyebrows raised, his eyes went apart, and he looked a different man. Is it possible that if he had not been brought up to cock-fighting and horse-racing, among prizefighters and jockeys, that he might have been a different man? I can’t say, I am sure.
Lord and Lady Hainault were simply a very high-bred, very handsome, and very charming pair of people. I never had the shghtest personal acquaintance with either of them. My cousin knows them both very ntimately, and he says there are not two better people in the world.
Charles Ravenshoe rose to reply to General Mainwaring’s speech, proposing the brides and bridegrooms, and I looked at him very curiously. He was pale, from his recent illness, ancl he never was handsome. But his face was the face of a man, whom I should fancy most people would get very fond of. When we were schoolfellows at Shrewsbury, he was a tall dark-haired boy, who was always laughing, and kicking up a row, and giving his things away to other fellows. Now he was a tall, dark, melancholy-looking man, with great eyes, and lofty eyebrows. His vivacity, and that carriage which comes from the possession of great physical strength, were gone; and while I looked at him, I felt ten years older. Why should I try to describe him further? He is not so remarkable a man as either Lord Ascot or William. But he was the best man I ever knew.
He said a few kind hearty words and sat down, and then Lord Ascot got up. And I took hold of Lizzie’s hand with my left; and I put my right elbow on the table and watched him intensely, with my hand shading my face. He had a coat buttoned over his great chest, and as he spoke he kept on buttoning and unbuttoning it with his great coarse hand. He said —
“I ain’t much hand at this sort of thing. I suppose those two Marstons, confound them, are saying to themselves that I ought to be, because I am in the House of Lords. That John Marston is a most impudent beggar, and I shall expect to see his friend tomorrow morning. He always was, you know. He has thwarted me all through my life. I wanted Charles Ravenshoe to go to the deuce, and I’ll be hanged if he’d let him. And it is not to be borne.”
There was a general laugh at this, and Lord Ascot stretched his hand across General Mainwaring, and shook hands with my cousin.
“You men just go out of the room, will you?” (the servants departed, and Lord Ascot went to the door to see they were not listening. I thought some revelation was coming, but I was mistaken). “You see I am obliged to notice strangers, because a fellow may say things among old friends which he don’t exactly care to before servants.
“It is all very well to say I’m a fool. That is very likely, and may be taken for granted. But I am not such a fool as not to know that a very strong prejudice exists against me in the present society.”
Every one cried out, “No! no!” Of all the great wedding breakfasts that season, this was certainly the most remarkable. Lord Ascot went on. He was getting the savage look on his face now.
“Well, well! let that pass. Look at that man at the head of the table — the bridegroom. Look at him. You wonder that I did what I did. I’ll tell you why-I love that fellow. He is what I call a man, General Mainwaring. I met that fellow at Twyford years ago, and he has always been the same to me since. You say I served him badly once. That is true enough. You insulted me once in public about it, Hainault. You were quite right. Say you, I should not talk about it today. But when we come to think how near death’s gates some of us have been since then, you will allow that this wedding-day has something very solemn about it.
“My poor wife has broken her back across that infernal gate, and so she could not come. I must ask you all to think kindly of that wife of mine. You have all been very kind to her since her awful accident. She has asked me to thank you.
“I rose to propose a toast, and I have been carried away by a personal statement, which, at every other wedding breakfast I ever heard of, it would be a breach of good manners to make. It is not so on this occasion. Terrible things have befallen every one of us here present. And I suppose we must try all of us to — hey! — to — hah! — well, to do better in future.
“I rose, I said, to propose a toast. I rose to propose the most blameless and excellent woman I ever knew. I propose that we drink the health of my grandmother, Lady Ascot.”
And oh! but we leapt to our feet and drank it. Manners to the winds, after what we had gone through. There was that solemn creature. Lord Hainault, with his champagne glass in his hand, behaving like a schoolboy, and giving us the time. And then, when her dear grey head was bent down over the table, buried in her hands, my present father-in-law, Squire Humby, leapt to his feet like a young giant, and called out for three times three for Lord Ascot. And we had breath enough left to do that handsomely, I warrant you. The whole thing was incorrect in the highest degree, but we did it. And I don’t know that any of us were ashamed of it afterwards.
And while the carriages were getting ready, Charles said, would we walk across the square. And we all came with him. And he took us to a piece of dead white wall, at the eastend of St. Peter’s Church, opposite the cab-stand. And then he told us the story of the little shoeblack, and how his comical friendship or that boy had saved him from what it would not do to talk about.
But there is a cloud on Charles Ravenshoe’s face even now. I saw him last summer lying on the sand, and playing with his eldest boy. And the cloud was on him then. There was no moroseness, no hardness in the expression; but the face was not the merry old face I knew so well at Shrewsbury and Oxford. There is a dull, settled, dreaming melancholy there still. The memory of those few terrible months has cast its shadow upon him. And the shadow will lie, I fancy, upon that forehead, and will dim those eyes, until the forehead is smoothed in the sleep of death, and the eyes have opened to look upon eternity.
Goodbye.
The End