CHAPTER XII.
CONTAINING A SONG BY CHARLES RAVENSHOE, AND ALSO FATHER TIERNAY'SOPINION ABOUT THE FAMILY.
Charles and the good-natured Father Tiernay wandered out across the oldcourt-yard, towards the stables--a pile of buildings in the same styleas the house, which lay back towards the hill. The moon was full,although obscured by clouds, and the whole court-yard was bathed in asoft mellow light. They both paused for a moment to look at the fine oldbuilding, standing silent for a time; and then Charles startled thecontemplative priest by breaking into a harsh scornful laugh, as unlikehis own cheery Ha! Ha! as it was possible to be.
"What are you disturbing a gentleman's meditations in that way for?"said the Father. "Is them your Oxford manners? Give me ye'r cigar-case,ye haythen, if ye can't appreciate the beauties of nature and artcombined--laughing like that at the cradle of your ancestors too."
Charles gave him the cigar-case, and trolled out in a rich bass voice--
"The old falcon's nest Was built up on the crest Of the cliff that hangs over the sea; And the jackdaws and crows, As every one knows, Were confounded respectful to he, to he--e--e."
"Howld yer impudence, ye young heretic doggrel-writer; can't I see whatye are driving at?"
"But the falcon grew old, And the nest it grew cold, And the carrion birds they grew bolder; So the jackdaws and crows, Underneath his own nose, Gave both the young falcons cold shoulder."
"Bedad," said the good-natured Irishman, "some one got hot shoulderto-day. Aren't ye ashamed of yourself, singing such ribaldry, and allthe servants hearing ye?"
"Capital song, Father; only one verse more.
"The elder was quelled, But the younger rebelled; So he spread his white wings and fled over the sea. Said the jackdaws and crows, 'He'll be hanged I suppose, But what in the deuce does that matter to we?'"
There was something in the wild, bitter tone in which he sang the lastverse that made Father Tiernay smoke his cigar in silence as theysauntered across the yard, till Charles began again.
"Not a word of applause for my poor impromptu song? Hang it, I'd haveapplauded anything you sang."
"Don't be so reckless and bitter, Mr. Ravenshoe," said Tiernay, layinghis hand on his shoulder. "I can feel for you, though there is so littlein common between us. You might lead a happy peaceful life if you wereto come over to us; which you will do, if I know anything of my trade,in the same day that the sun turns pea-green. _Allons_, as we used tosay over the water; let us continue our travels."
"Reckless! I am not reckless. The jolly old world is very wide, and I amyoung and strong. There will be a wrench when the tooth comes out; butit will soon be over, and the toothache will be cured."
Tiernay remained silent a moment, and then in an absent manner sang thisline, in a sweet low voice--
"For the girl of my heart that I'll never see more."
"She must cast in her lot with me," said Charles. "Ay, and she will doit, too. She will follow me to the world's end, sir. Are you a judge ofhorses? What a question to ask of an Irishman! Here are the stables."
The lads were bedding down, and all the great building was alive withthe clattering of busy feet and the neighing of horses. The greatRavenshoe Stud was being tucked up for the night; and over that twothousand pounds' worth of horse-flesh at least six thousand pounds'worth of fuss was being made, under the superintendence of the studgroom, Mr. Dickson.
The physical appearance of Mr. Dickson was as though you had taken anaged Newmarket jockey, and put a barrel of oysters, barrel and all,inside his waistcoat. His face was thin; his thighs were hollow; calvesto his legs he had none. He was all stomach. Many years had elapsedsince he had been brought to the verge of dissolution by severetraining; and since then all that he had eaten, or drunk, or done, hadflown to his stomach, producing a tympanitic action in that organ,astounding to behold. In speech he was, towards his superiors, courteousand polite; towards his equals, dictatorial; towards his subordinates,abusive, not to say blasphemous. To this gentleman Charles addressedhimself, inquiring if he had seen William: and he, with a lofty, thoughcourteous, sense of injury, inquired, in a loud tone of voice, of thestablemen generally, if any one had seen Mr. Charles's pad-groom.
In a dead silence which ensued, one of the lads was ill-advised enoughto say that he didn't exactly know where he was; which caused Mr.Dickson to remark that, if that was all he had to say, he had better goon with his work, and not make a fool of himself--which the man did,growling out something about always putting his foot in it.
"Your groom comes and goes pretty much as he likes, sir," said Mr.Dickson. "I don't consider him as under my orders. Had he been so, Ishould have felt it my duty to make complaint on more than one occasion;he is a little too much of the gentleman for _my_ stable, sir."
"Of course, my good Dickson," interrupted Charles, "the fact of hisbeing my favourite makes you madly jealous of him; that is not thequestion now. If you don't know where he is, be so good as to hold yourtongue."
Charles was only now and then insolent and abrupt with servants, andthey liked him the better for it. It was one of Cuthbert's rules to becoldly, evenly polite, and, as he thought, considerate to the wholehousehold; and yet they did not like him half so well as Charles, whowould sometimes, when anything went wrong, "kick up," what anintelligent young Irish footman used to call "the divvle's own shindy."Cuthbert, they knew, had no sympathy for them, but treated them, as hetreated himself, as mere machines; while Charles had that infinitecapacity of goodwill which none are more quick to recognise thanservants and labouring people. And on this occasion, though Mr. Dicksonmight have sworn a little more than usual after Charles's departure, yethis feeling, on the whole, was that he was sorry for having vexed theyoung gentleman by sneering at his favourite.
But Charles, having rescued the enraptured Father Tiernay from thestable, and having listened somewhat inattentively to a long descriptionof the Curragh of Kildare, led the worthy priest round the back of thestables, up a short path through the wood, and knocked at the door of along, low keeper's lodge, which stood within a stone's throw of theother buildings, in an open, grassy glade, through which flowed amusical, slender stream of water. In one instant, night was hideous withrattling chains and barking dogs, who made as though they would tear theintruders to pieces; all except one foolish pointer pup, who was loose,and who, instead of doing his duty by barking, came feebly up, and casthimself on his back at their feet, as though they were the car ofJuggernaut, and he was a candidate for paradise. Finding that he was notdestroyed, he made a humiliating feint of being glad to see them, andnearly overthrew the priest by getting between his legs. But Charles,finding that his second summons was unanswered, lifted the latch, andwent into the house.
The room they entered was dark, or nearly so, and at the first momentappeared empty; but, at the second glance, they made out that a figurewas kneeling before the dying embers of the fire, and trying to kindle amatch by blowing on the coals.
"Hullo!" said Charles.
"William, my boy," said a voice which made the priest start, "where haveyou been, lad?"
At the same moment a match was lit, and then a candle; as the lightblazed up, it fell on the features of a grey-headed old man, who waspeering through the darkness at them, and the priest cried, "Good God!Mr. Ravenshoe!"
The likeness for one moment was very extraordinary; but, as the eye grewaccustomed to the light, one saw that the face was the face of a tallerman than Densil, and one, too, who wore the dress of a gamekeeper.Charles laughed at the priest, and said--
"You were struck, as many have been, by the likeness. He has been solong with my father that he has the very trick of his voice, and thelook of the eye. Where have you been to-night, James?" he added,affectionately. "Why do you go out so late alone? If any of those miningrascals were to be round poaching, you might be
killed."
"I can take care of myself yet, Master Charles," said the old man,laughing; and, to do him justice, he certainly looked as if he could.
"Where is Norah?"
"Gone down to young James Holby's wife; she is lying-in."
"Pretty early, too. Where's Ellen?"
"Gone up to the house."
"See, Father, I shall be disappointed in showing you the belle ofRavenshoe; and now you will go back to Ireland, fancying you can competewith us."
Father Tiernay was beginning a story about five Miss Moriartys, who weresupposed to rival in charms and accomplishments any five young ladies inthe world, when his eye was attracted by a stuffed hare in a glass case,of unusual size and very dark colour.
"That, sir," said James, the keeper, in a bland, polite, explanatorytone of voice, coming and leaning over him, "is old Mrs. Jewel, thatlived in the last cottage on the right-hand side, under the cliff. Ialways thought that it had been Mrs. Simpson, but it was not. I shotthis hare on the Monday, not three hundred yards from Mrs. Jewel'shouse; and on the Wednesday the neighbours noticed the shutters hadn'tbeen down for two days, and broke the door open; and there she was, sureenough, dead in her bed. I had shot her as she was coming home from someof her devilries. A quiet old soul she was, though. No, I never thoughtit had been she."
It would be totally impossible to describe the changes through which thebroad, sunny face of Father Tiernay went during the above astoundingnarration; horror, astonishment, inquiry, and humour were so strangelyblended. He looked in the face of the old gamekeeper, and met theexpression of a man who had mentioned an interesting fact, and hadcontributed to the scientific experience of the listener. He looked atCharles, and met no expression whatever; but the latter said--
"Our witches in these parts, Father, take the form of some inferioranimal when attending their Sabbath or general meetings, which I believeare presided over by an undoubted gentleman, who is not generally namedin polite society. In this case, the old woman was caught sneaking homeunder the form of a hare, and promptly rolled over by James; and hereshe is."
Father Tiernay said, "Oh, indeed!" but looked as if he thought the more.
"And there's another of them out now, sir," said the keeper; "and,Master Charles, dear, if you're going to take the greyhounds outto-morrow, do have a turn at that big black hare under Birch Tor----"
"A black hare!" said Father Tiernay, aghast.
"Nearly coal-black, your reverence," said James. "She's a witch, yourreverence, and who she is the blessed saints only know. I have seen herthree or four times. If the master was on terms with Squire Humby toHele, we might have the harriers over and run her down. But that can'tbe, in course. If you take Blue-ruin and Lightning out to-morrow, MasterCharles, and turn her out of the brambles under the rocks, and leave theMaster and Miss Mary against the corner of the stone wall to turn herdown the gully, you must have her."
The look of astonishment had gradually faded from Father Tiernay's face.It is said that one of the great elements of power in the Roman Catholicpriesthood is that they can lend themselves to any little bit of--well,of mild deception--which happens to be going. Father Tiernay was up tothe situation. He looked from the keeper to Charles with a bland andstolid expression of face, and said--
"If she is a witch, mark my words, the dogs will never touch her. Theway would be to bite up a crooked sixpence and fire at her with that. Ishall be there to see the sport. I never hunted a witch yet."
"Has your reverence ever seen a white polecat?" said the keeper.
"No, never," said the priest; "I have heard of them though. My friend,Mr. Moriarty, of Castledown (not Mountdown Castle, ye understand; thatis the sate of my Lord Mountdown, whose blessed mother was a Moriarty,the heavens be her bed), claimed to have seen one; but, bedad, no oneelse ever saw it, and he said it turned brown again as the season cameround. May the--may the saints have my sowl if I believe a word of it."
"_I_ have one, your reverence; and it is a rarity, I allow. Stoats turnwhite often in hard winters, but polecats rarely. If your reverence andyour honour will excuse me a moment, I will fetch it. It was shot by myLord Welter when he was staying here last winter. A fine shot is mylord, your reverence, for so young a man."
He left the room, and the priest and Charles were left alone together.
"Does he believe all this rubbish about witches?" said Father Tiernay.
"As firmly as you do the liquefaction of the blood of----"
"There, there; we don't want all that. Do you believe in it?"
"Of course I don't," said Charles; "but why should I tell him so?"
"Why do you lend yourself to such humbug?"
"Why do you?"
"Begorra, I don't know. I am always lending. I lent a low-browed,hang-jawed spalpeen of a Belgian priest two pound the other day, andsorra a halfpenny of it will me mother's son ever see again. Hark!"
There were voices approaching the lodge--the voices of two uneducatedpersons quarrelling; one that of a man, and the other of a woman. Theyboth made so much out in a moment. Charles recognised the voices, andwould have distracted the priest's attention, and given those withoutwarning that there were strangers within; but, in his anxiety to catchwhat was said, he was not ready enough, and they both heard this.
The man's voice said fiercely, "You did."
The woman's voice said, after a wild sob, "I did not."
"You did. I saw you. You are a liar as well as----"
"I swear I didn't. Strike me dead, Bill, if there's been anythingwrong."
"No. If I thought there had, I'd cut his throat first and yours after."
"If it had been _him_, Bill, you wouldn't have used me like this."
"Never you mind that."
"You want to drive me mad. You do. You hate me. Master Charles hates me.Oh, I wish I was mad."
"I'd sooner see you chained by the waist in the straw than see what Isaw to-night." Then followed an oath.
The door was rudely opened, and there entered first of all our oldfriend, Charles's groom, William, who seemed beside himself withpassion, and after him a figure which struck the good Irishman dumb withamazement and admiration--a girl as beautiful as the summer morning,with her bright brown hair tangled over her forehead, and an expressionof wild terror and wrath on her face, such as one may conceive the oldsculptor wished to express when he tried, and failed, to carve the faceof the Gorgon.
She glared on them both in her magnificent beauty only one moment. Yetthat look, as of a lost soul of another world, mad, hopeless, defiant,has never past from the memory of either of them.
She was gone in an instant into an inner room, and William was standinglooking savagely at the priest. In another moment his eyes had wanderedto Charles, and then his face grew smooth and quiet, and he said--
"We've been quarrelling, sir; don't you and this good gentleman sayanything about it. Master Charles, dear, she drives me mad sometimes.Things are not going right with her."
Charles and the priest walked thoughtfully home together.
"Allow me to say, Ravenshoe," said the priest, "that, as an Irishman, Iconsider myself a judge of remarkable establishments. I must sayhonestly that I have seldom or never met with a great house with so manyqueer elements about it as yours. You are all remarkable people. And, onmy honour, I think that our friend Mackworth is the most remarkable manof the lot."