CHAPTER XXIV.
THE FIRST GLIMPSE OF THE NEW WORLD.
In the long dark old room with the mullioned windows looking out on theocean, in the room that had been Charles's bedroom, study, andplay-room, since he was a boy, there sat Charles Ravenshoe, musing,stricken down with grief, and forlorn.
There were the fishing-rods and the guns, there were the books and thehomely pictures in which his soul had delighted. There was "TheSanctuary and the Challenge," and Bob Coombes in his outrigger. All werethere. But Charles Ravenshoe was not there. There was another man in hisplace, bearing his likeness, who sat and brooded with his head on hishands.
Where was the soul which was gone? Was he an infant in a new cycle ofexistence? or was he still connected with the scenes and people he hadknown and loved so long? Was he present? Could he tell at last the deeplove that one poor foolish heart had borne for him? Could he know nowthe deep, deep grief that tore that poor silly heart, because its ownerhad not been by to see the last faint smile of intelligence flutter overfeatures that he was to see no more?
"Father! Father! Where are you? Don't leave me all alone, father." Noanswer! only the ceaseless beating of the surf upon the shore.
He opened the window, and looked out. The terrace, the woods, thevillage, and beyond, the great unmeasurable ocean! What beyond that?
What was this death, which suddenly made that which we loved so well, soworthless? Could they none of them tell us? One there was who triumphedover death and the grave, and was caught up in His earthly body. Who isthis Death that he should triumph over us? Alas, poor Charles! There areevils worse than death. There are times when death seems to a man likegoing to bed. Wait!
There was a picture of Mary's, of which he bethought himself. One we allknow. Of a soul being carried away by angels to heaven. They call it St.Catherine, though it had nothing particular to do with St. Catherine,that I know of; and he thought he would go see it. But, as he turned,there stood Mary herself before him.
He held out his hands towards her, and she came and sat beside him, andput her arm round his neck. He kissed her! Why not? They were as brotherand sister.
He asked her why she had come.
"I knew you wanted me," she said.
Then she, still with her arm round his neck, talked to him about whathad just happened. "He asked for you soon after he was taken on thefirst day, and told Father Mackworth to send off for you. Cuthbert hadsent two hours before, and he said he was glad, and hoped that Oxfordwould win the race----"
"Charles," said Mary again, "do you know that old James has had a fit,and is not expected to live?"
"No."
"Yes, as soon as he heard of our dear one's death he was taken. It haskilled him."
"Poor old James!"
They sat there some time, hand in hand, in sorrowful communion, and thenCharles said suddenly--
"The future, Mary! The future, my love?"
"We discussed that before, Charles, dear. There is only one line of lifeopen to me."
"Ah!"
"I shall write to Lady Ascot to-morrow. I heard from Adelaide the otherday, and she tells me that young Lady Hainault is going to take chargeof poor Lord Charles's children in a short time; and she will want anursery governess; and I will go."
"I would sooner you were there than here, Mary. I am very glad of this.She is a very good woman. I will go and see you there very often."
"Are you going back to Oxford, Charles?"
"I think not."
"Do you owe much money there?"
"Very little, now. He paid it almost all for me."
"What shall you do?"
"I have not the remotest idea. I cannot possibly conceive. I mustconsult Marston."
There passed a weary week--a week of long brooding days and sleeplessnights, while outside the darkened house the bright spring sun floodedall earth with light and life, and the full spring wind sang pleasantlythrough the musical woods, and swept away inland over heather and crag.
Strange sounds began to reach Charles in his solitary chamber; soundswhich at first made him fancy he was dreaming, they were so mysteriousand inexplicable. The first day they assumed the forms of solitary notesof music, some almost harsh, and some exquisitely soft and melodious. Asthe day went on they began to arrange themselves into chords, and soundslightly louder, though still a long way off. At last, near midnight,they seemed to take form, and flow off into a wild, mournful piece ofmusic, the like of which Charles had never heard before; and then allwas still.
Charles went to bed, believing either that the sounds were supernaturalor that they arose from noises in his head. He came to the latterconclusion, and thought sleep would put an end to them; but, nextmorning, when he had half opened the shutters, and let in the blessedsunlight, there came the sound again--a wild, rich, triumphant melody,played by some hand, whether earthly or unearthly, that knew its workwell.
"What is that, William?"
"Music."
"Where does it come from?"
"Out of the air. The pixies make such music at times. Maybe it's thesaints in glory with their golden harps, welcoming Master and Father."
"Father!"
"He died this morning at daybreak; not long after his old master, eh? Hewas very faithful to him. He was in prison with him once, I've heardtell. I'll be as faithful to you, Charles, when the time comes."
And another day wore on in the darkened house, and still the angelicmusic rose and fell at intervals, and moved the hearts of those thatheard it strangely.
"Surely," said Charles to himself, "that music must sound louder in oneplace than another." And then he felt himself smiling at the idea thathe half believed it to be supernatural.
He rose and passed on through corridor and gallery, still listening ashe went. The music had ceased, and all was still.
He went on through parts of the house he had not been in since a boy.This part of the house was very much deserted; some of the rooms helooked into were occupied as inferior servants' bedrooms; some wereempty, and all were dark. Here was where he, Cuthbert, and William wouldplay hide-and-seek on wet days; and well he remembered each nook andlair. A window was open in one empty room, and it looked into thecourt-yard. They were carrying things into the chapel, and he walkedthat way.
In the dark entrance to the dim chapel a black figure stood aside to lethim pass; he bowed, and did so, but was barely in the building when avoice he knew said, "It is Charles," and the next moment he was claspedby both hands, and the kind face of Father Tiernay was beaming beforehim.
"I am so glad to see you, Father Tiernay. It is so kind of you to come."
"You look pale and worn," said the good man; "you have been fretting. Iwon't have that, now that I am come. I will have you out in the air andsunshine, my boy, along the shore----"
The music again! Not faint and distant as heretofore, but closeoverhead, crashing out into a mighty jubilate, which broke itselfagainst rafter and window in a thousand sweet echoes. Then, as the nobleechoes began to sink, there arose a soft flute-like note, which grewmore intense until the air was filled with passionate sound; and ittrilled and ran, and paused, and ran on, and died you knew not where.
"I can't stand much of that, Father Tiernay," said Charles. "They havebeen mending the organ, I see. That accounts for the music I have heard.I suppose there will be music at the funeral, then."
"My brother Murtagh," said Father Tiernay, "came over yesterday morningfrom Lord Segur's. He is organist there, and he mended it. Bedad he isa sweet musician. Hear what Sir Henry Bishop says of him."
There came towards them, from the organ-loft, a young man, wearing along black coat and black bands with white edges, and having of his ownone of the sweetest, kindliest faces eye ever rested on. Father Tiernaylooked on him with pride and affection, and said--
"Murty, my dear brother, this is Mr. Charles Ravenshoe, me very goodfriend, I hope you'll become acquaintances, for the reason that two goodfellows should know one another."
/> "I am almost afraid," said the young man, with a frank smile, "thatCharles Ravenshoe has already a prejudice against me for thedisagreeable sounds I was making all day yesterday in bringing the oldorgan into work again."
"Nay, I was only wondering where such noble bursts of melody came from,"said Charles. "If you had made all the evil noises in Pandemonium, theywould have been forgiven for that last piece of music. Do you know thatI had no idea the old organ could be played on. Years ago, when we wereboys, Cuthbert and I tried to play on it; I blew for him, and he soundedtwo or three notes, but it frightened us, and we ran away, and neverwent near it again."
"It is a beautiful old instrument," said young Tiernay; "will you standjust here, and listen to it?"
Charles stood in one of the windows, and Father Tiernay beside him. Heleant his head on his arm, and looked forth eastward and northward, overthe rolling woods, the cliffs, and the bright blue sea.
The music began with a movement soft, low, melodious, beyond expression,and yet strong, firm, and regular as of a thousand armed men marching tovictory. It grew into volume and power till it was irresistible, yetstill harmonious and perfect. Charles understood it. It was the life ofa just man growing towards perfection and honour.
It wavered and fluttered, and threw itself into sparkling sprays andeddies. It leapt and laughed with joy unutterable, yet still through allthe solemn measure went on. Love had come to gladden the perfect life,and had adorned without disturbing it.
Then began discords and wild sweeping storms of sound, harsh always, butnever unmelodious: fainter and fainter grew the melody, till it wasalmost lost. Misfortunes had come upon the just man, and he was bendingunder them.
No. More majestic, more grand, more solemn than ever the melodyre-asserted itself: and again, as though purified by a furnace, marchedsolemnly on with a clearness and sweetness greater than at first. Thejust man had emerged from his sea of troubles ennobled. Charles felt ahand on his shoulder. He thought it had been Father Tiernay. FatherTiernay was gone. It was Cuthbert.
"Cuthbert! I am so glad you have come to see me. I was not surprisedbecause you would not see me before. You didn't think I was offended,brother, did you? I know you. I know you!"
Charles smoothed his hair and smiled pleasantly upon him. Cuthbert stoodquite still and said nothing.
"Cuthbert," said Charles, "you are in pain. In bodily pain I mean."
"I am. I spent last night on these stones praying, and the cold has gotinto my very bones."
"You pray for the dead, I know," said Charles. "But why destroy thehealth God has given you because a good man has gone to sleep?"
"I was not praying for him so much as for you."
"God knows I want it, dear Cuthbert. But can you benefit me by killingyourself?"
"Who knows? I may try. How long is it since we were boys together,Charles?"
"How long? Let me see. Why, it is nineteen years at least since I canfirst remember you."
"I have been sarcastic and distant with you sometimes, Charles, but Ihave never been unkind."
"Cuthbert! I never had an unkind word or action from you. Why do you saythis?"
"Because----Charles, do you remember the night the _Warren Hastings_came ashore?"
"Ay," said Charles, wonderingly.
"In future, when you call me to mind, will you try to think of me as Iwas then, not as I have been lately? We slept together, you remember,through the storm, and he sat on the bed. God has tried me very hard.Let us hope that heaven will be worth the winning. After this you willsee me no more in private. Good-bye!"
Charles thought he knew what he meant, and had expected it. He would notlet him go for a time.