CHAPTER XXIII.[2]
THE LAST GLIMPSE OF THE OLD WORLD.
Putney Bridge at half an hour before high tide; thirteen or fourteensteamers; five or six thousand boats, and fifteen or twenty thousandspectators. This is the morning of the great University race, aboutwhich every member of the two great Universities, and a very largesection of the general public, have been fidgeting and talking for amonth or so.
The bridge is black, the lawns are black, every balcony and window inthe town is black; the steamers are black with a swarming, eagermultitude, come to see the picked youths of the upper class try theirstrength against one another. There are two friends of ours nearlyconcerned in the great event of the day. Charles is rowing three in theOxford boat, and Marston is steering. This is a memorable day for bothof them, and more especially for poor Charles.
Now the crowd surges to and fro, and there is a cheer. The men aregetting into their boats. The police-boats are busy clearing thecourse. Now there is a cheer of admiration. Cambridge dashes out, swingsround, and takes her place at the bridge.
Another shout. Oxford sweeps majestically out and takes her place byCambridge. Away go the police-galleys, away go all the Londonclub-boats, at ten miles an hour down the course. Now the course isclear, and there is almost a silence.
Then a wild hubbub; and people begin to squeeze and crush against oneanother. The boats are off; the fight has begun! then the thirteensteamers come roaring on after them, and their wake is alive once morewith boats.
Everywhere a roar and a rushing to and fro. Frantic crowds upon thetowing-path, mad crowds on the steamers, which make them sway and rockfearfully. Ahead Hammersmith Bridge, hanging like a black bar, coveredwith people as with a swarm of bees. As an eye-piece to the picture, twosolitary flying boats, and the flashing oars, working with the rapidityand regularity of a steam-engine.
"Who's in front?" is asked by a thousand mouths; but who can tell? Weshall see soon. Hammersmith Bridge is stretching across the water not ahundred yards in front of the boats. For one half-second a light shadowcrosses the Oxford boat, and then it is out into the sunlight beyond. Inanother second the same shadow crosses the Cambridge boat. Oxford isahead.
The men with light-blue neckties say that, "By George, Oxford can't keepthat terrible quick stroke going much longer;" and the men withdark-blue ties say, "Can't she, by Jove?" Well, we shall know all aboutit soon, for here is Barnes Bridge. Again the shadow goes over theOxford boat, and then one, two, three, four seconds before the Cambridgemen pass beneath it. Oxford is winning! There is a shout from the peopleat Barnes, though the [Greek: polloi] don't know why. Cambridge has madea furious rush, and drawn nearly up to Oxford; but it is useless. Oxfordleaves rowing, and Cambridge rows ten strokes before they are level.Oxford has won!
Five minutes after, Charles was on the wharf in front of the Ship Inn atMortlake, as happy as a king. He had got separated from his friends inthe crowd, and the people round him were cheering him, and passingflattering remarks on his personal appearance, which caused Charles tolaugh, and blush, and bow, as he tried to push through his good-naturedpersecutors, when he suddenly, in the midst of a burst of laughtercaused by a remark made by a drunken bargeman, felt somebody clasp hisarm, and, turning round, saw William.
He felt such a shock that he was giddy and faint. "Will," he said, "whatis the matter?"
"Come here, and I'll tell you."
He forced his way to a quieter place, and then turned round to hiscompanion,--"Make it short, Will; that's a dear fellow. I can stand theworst."
"Master was took very bad two days ago, Master Charles; and MasterCuthbert sent me off for you at once. He told me directly I got toPaddington to ask for a telegraph message, so that you might hear thelast accounts; and here it is."
He put what we now call a "telegram" into Charles's hand, and the burdenof it was mourning and woe. Densil Ravenshoe was sinking fast, and allthat steam and horse-flesh could do would be needed, if Charles wouldsee him alive.
"Will, go and find Mr. Marston for me, and I will wait here for you. Howare we to get back to Putney?"
"I have got a cab waiting."
William dashed into the inn, and Charles waited. He turned and looked atthe river.
There it was winding away past villa and park, bearing a thousand boatsupon its bosom. He looked once again upon the crowded steamers and thebusy multitude, and even in his grief felt a rush of honest pride as hethought that he was one of the heroes of the day. And then he turned,for William was beside him again. Marston was not to be found.
"I should like to have seen him again," he said; "but we must fly, Will,we must fly!"
Had he known under what circumstances he was next to see a greatconcourse of people, and under what circumstances he was next to meetMarston, who knows but that in his ignorance and short-sightedness hewould have chosen to die where he stood in such a moment of triumph andhonour?
In the hurry of departure he had no time to ask questions. Only when hefound himself in the express train, having chosen to go second-classwith his servant, and not be alone, did he find time to ask how it hadcome about.
There was but little to be told. Densil had been seized after breakfast,and at first so slightly that they were not much alarmed. He had beenput to bed, and the symptoms had grown worse. Then William had beendespatched for Charles, leaving Cuthbert, Mary, and Father Mackworth athis bedside. All had been done that could be done. He seemed to be in nopain, and quite contented. That was all. The telegraph told the rest.Cuthbert had promised to send horses to Crediton, and a relay fortymiles nearer home.
The terrible excitement of the day, and the fact that he had eatennothing since breakfast, made Charles less able to bear up against thenews than he would otherwise have been. Strange thoughts and fears beganto shape themselves in his head, and to find voices in the monotonousjolting of the carriage.
Not so much the fear of his father's death. That he did not fear,because he knew it would come; and, as to that, the bitterness of deathwas past, bitter, deeply bitter, as it was; but a terror lest his fathershould die without speaking to him--that he should never see those dearlips wreathe into a smile for him any more.
Yesterday he had been thinking of this very journey--of how, if they wonthe race, he would fly down on the wings of the wind to tell them, andhow the old man would brighten up with joy at the news. Yesterday he wasa strong, brave man; and now what deadly terror was this at his heart?
"William, what frightens me like this?"
"The news I brought you, and the excitement of the race. And you havebeen training hard for a long time, and that don't mend a man's nerves;and you are hungry."
"Not I."
"What a noble race it was! I saw you above a mile off. I could tell theshape of you that distance, and see how you was pulling your oarthrough. I knew that my boy was going to be in the winning boat, Lordbless you! before the race was rowed. And when I saw Mr. C---- come inwith that tearing, licking quick stroke of his, I sung out for oldOxford, and pretty nearly forgot the photograph for a bit."
"Photograph, Will? what photograph?"
"Telegraph, I mean, It's all the same."
Charles couldn't talk, though he tried. He felt an anxiety he had neverfelt before. It was so ill-defined that he could not trace it to itssource. He had a right to feel grief, and deep anxiety to see his fatheralive; but this was sheer terror, and at what?
At Swindon, William got out and returned laden with this and with that,and forced Charles to eat and drink. He had not tasted wine for a longtime; so he had to be careful with it; but it seemed to do him no good.But, at last, tired nature did something for him, and he fell asleep.
When he awoke it was night, and at first he did not remember where hewas. But rapidly his grief came upon him; and up, as it were out of adark gulf, came the other nameless terror and took possession of hisheart.
There was a change at Exeter; then at Crediton they met with their firstrelay of horses, and, at ten o'cloc
k at night, after a hasty supper,started on their midnight ride. The terror was gone the moment Charleswas on horseback.
The road was muddy and dark, often with steep banks on each side; but adelicious April moon was overhead, and they got on bravely. At Bow therewas a glimpse of Dartmoor towering black, and a fresh puff of westerlywind, laden with scents of spring. At Hatherleigh, there were freshhorses, and one of the Ravenshoe grooms waiting for them. The man hadheard nothing since yesterday; so at one o'clock they started on again.After this, there were none but cross-country roads, and dangerous steeplanes; so they got on slowly. Then came the morning with voice of tenthousand birds, and all the rich perfume of awaking nature. And thencame the woods of home, and they stood on the terrace, between the oldhouse and the sea.
The white surf was playing and leaping around the quiet headlands; thesea-birds were floating merrily in the sunshine; the April clouds wereracing their purple shadows across the jubilant blue sea; but the oldhouse stood blank and dull. Every window was closed, and not a sound washeard.
For Charles had come too late. Densil Ravenshoe was dead.