CHAPTER XXVII.
THE COUP DE GRACE.
In the long watches of the winter night, when one has awoke from someevil dream, and lies sleepless and terrified with the solemn pall ofdarkness around one--on one of those deadly, still dark nights, when thewindow only shows a murky patch of positive gloom in contrast with thenothingness of the walls, when the howling of a tempest round chimneyand roof would be welcomed as a boisterous companion--in such still deadtimes only, lying as in the silence of the tomb, one realises that someday we shall lie in that bed and not think at all: that the time willcome soon when we must die.
Our preachers remind us of this often enough, but we cannot realise itin a pew in broad daylight. You must wake in the middle of the night todo that, and face the thought like a man, that it will come, and come toninety-nine in a hundred of us, not in a maddening clatter of musquetryas the day is won; or in carrying a line to a stranded ship, or in suchlike glorious times, when the soul is in mastery over the body, but inbed, by slow degrees. It is in darkness and silence only that we realisethis; and then let us hope that we humbly remember that death has beenconquered for us, and that in spite of our unworthiness we may defy him.And after that sometimes will come the thought, "Are there no evilsworse even than death?"
I have made these few remarks (I have made very few in this story, for Iwant to suggest thought, not to supply it ready-made) because CharlesRavenshoe has said to me in his wild way, that he did not fear death,for he had died once already.
I did not say anything, but waited for him to go on.
"For what," he continued, "do you make out death even at the worst? Aterror, then a pang, more or less severe; then a total severance of allties on earth, an entire and permanent loss of everything one has loved.After that, remorse, and useless regret, and the horrible torture ofmissed opportunities without number thrust continually before one. Themonotonous song of the fiends, 'Too late! too late!' I have suffered allthese things! I have known what very few men have known, andlived--despair; but perhaps the most terrible agony for a time was thefeeling of _loss of identity_--that I was not myself; that my wholeexistence from babyhood had been a lie. This at times, at times only,mind you, washed away from me the only spar to which I could cling--thefeeling that I was a gentleman. When the deluge came, that was the onlycreed I had, and I was left alone as it were on the midnight ocean, outof sight of land, swimming with failing strength."
I have made Charles speak for himself. In this I know that I am right.Now we must go on with him through the gathering darkness withoutflinching; in terror, perhaps, but not in despair as yet.
It never for one moment entered into his head to doubt the truth of whatFather Mackworth had set up. If he had had doubts even to the last, hehad none after Mackworth had looked him compassionately in the face, andsaid, "God judge between us if this paper be not true!" Though hedistrusted Mackworth, he felt that no man, be he never so profound anactor, could have looked so and spoken so if he were not telling what hebelieved to be the truth. And that he and Norah were mistaken he justlyfelt to be an impossibility. No. He was the child of Petre Ravenshoe'sbastard son by an Irish peasant girl. He who but half an hour before hadbeen heir to the proud old name, to the noble old house, the pride ofthe west country, to hundreds of acres of rolling woodland, to milebeyond mile of sweeping moorland, to twenty thriving farms, deep inhappy valleys, or perched high up on the side of lofty downs, was nowjust this--a peasant, an impostor.
The tenantry, the fishermen, the servants, they would come to know allthis. Had he died (ah! how much better than this), they would havemourned for him, but what would they say or think now? That he, thepatron, the intercessor, the condescending young prince, should be thechild of a waiting-woman and a gamekeeper. Ah! mother, mother, Godforgive you!
Adelaide: what would she think of this? He determined that he must goand see her, and tell her the whole miserable story. She was ambitious,but she loved him. Oh yes, she loved him. She could wait. There werelands beyond the sea, where a man could win a fortune in a few years,perhaps in one. There were Canada, and Australia, and India, where a manneeded nothing but energy. He never would take one farthing from theRavenshoes, save the twenty pounds he had. That was a determinationnothing could alter. But why need he? There was gold to be won, andforest to be cleared, in happier lands.
Alas, poor Charles! He has never yet set foot out of England, andperhaps never will. He never thought seriously about it but this once.He never had it put before him strongly by any one. Men only emigratefrom idleness, restlessness, or necessity; with the two first of thesehe was not troubled, and the last had not come yet. It would, perhaps,have been better for him to have gone to the backwoods or the diggings;but, as he says, the reason why he didn't was that he didn't. But atthis sad crisis of his life it gave him comfort for a little to thinkabout; only for a little, then thought and terror came sweeping backagain.
Lord Saltire? He would be told of this by others. It would be Charles'sduty not to see Lord Saltire again. With his present position insociety, as a servant's son, there was nothing to prevent his askingLord Saltire to provide for him, except--what was it? Pride? Well,hardly pride. He was humble enough, God knows; but he felt as if he hadgained his goodwill, as it were, by false pretences, and that duty wouldforbid his presuming on that goodwill any longer. And would Lord Saltirebe the same to a lady's-maid's son, as he would to the heir presumptiveof Ravenshoe? No; there must be no humiliation before those stern greyeyes. Now he began to see that he loved the owner of those eyes moredeeply than he had thought; and there was a gleam of pleasure inthinking that, when Lord Saltire heard of his fighting bravelyunassisted with the world, he would say, "That lad was a brave fellow; agentleman after all."
Marston? Would this terrible business, which was so new and terrible asto be as yet only half appreciated--would it make any difference to him?Perhaps it might. But, whether or no he would humble himself there, andtake from him just reproaches for idleness and missed opportunities,however bitter they might be.
And Mary? Poor little Mary! Ah! she would be safe with that good LadyHainault. That was all. Ah, Charles! what pale little sprite was thatoutside your door now, listening, dry-eyed, terrified, till you shouldmove? Who saw you come up with your hands clutched in your hair, like amadman, an hour ago, and heard you throw yourself upon the floor, andhas waited patiently ever since to see if she could comfort you, were itnever so little? Ah, Charles! Foolish fellow!
Thinking, thinking--now with anger, now with tears, and now withterror--till his head was hot and his hands dry, his thoughts began torun into one channel. He saw that action was necessary, and he came to agreat and noble resolution, worthy of himself. All the world was on oneside, and he alone on the other. He would meet the world humbly andbravely, and conquer it. He would begin at the beginning, and find hisown value in the world, and then, if he found himself worthy, wouldclaim once more the love and respect of those who had been his friendshitherto.
How he would begin he knew not, nor cared, but it must be from thebeginning. And, when he had come to this resolution, he rose up andfaced the light of day once more.
There was a still figure sitting in his chair, watching him. It wasWilliam.
"William! How long have you been here?"
"Nigh on an hour. I came in just after you, and you have been lying onthe hearthrug ever since, moaning."
"An hour? Is it only an hour?"
"A short hour."
"It seemed like a year. Why, it is not dark yet. The sun still shines,does it?"
He went to the window and looked out. "Spring," he said, "early spring.Fifty more of them between me and rest most likely. Do I look older,William?"
"You look pale and wild, but not older. I am mazed and stunned. I wantyou to look like yourself and help me, Charles. We must get awaytogether out of this house."
"You must stay here, William; you are heir to the name and the house.You must stay here and learn your duty; I must go forth
and dree myweary weird alone."
"You must go forth, I know; but I must go with you."
"William, that is impossible."
"To the world's end, Charles; I swear it by the holy Mother of God."
"Hush! You don't know what you are saying. Think of your duties."
"I know my duty. My duty is with you."
"William, look at the matter in another point of view. Will Cuthbert letyou come with me?"
"I don't care. I am coming."
William was sitting where he had been in Charles's chair, and Charleswas standing beside him. If William had been looking at Charles, hewould have seen a troubled thoughtful expression on his face for onemoment, followed by a sudden look of determination. He laid his hand onWilliam's shoulder, and said--
"We must talk this over again. I _must_ go to Ranford and see Adelaideat once, before this news gets there from other mouths. Will you meet meat the old hotel in Covent Garden, four days from this time?"
"Why there?" said William. "Why not at Henley?"
"Why not at London, rather?" replied Charles. "I must go to London. Imean to go to London. I don't want to delay about Ranford. No; sayLondon."
William looked in his face for a moment, and then said,--
"I'd rather travel with you. You can leave me at Wargrave, which is onlyjust over the water from Ranford, or at Didcot, while you go on toRanford. You must let me do that, Charles."
"We will do that, William, if you like."
"Yes, yes!" said William. "It must be so. Now you must come downstairs."
"Why?"
"To eat. Dinner is ready. I am going to tea in the servant's hall."
"Will Mary be at dinner, William?"
"Of course she will."
"Will you let me go for the last time? I should like to see the dearlittle face again. Only this once."
"Charles! Don't talk like that. All that this house contains is yours,and will be as long as Cuthbert and I are here. Of course you must go.This must not get out for a long while yet--we must keep upappearances."
So Charles went down into the drawing-room. It was nearly dark; and atfirst he thought there was no one there, but, as he advanced towards thefireplace, he made out a tall, dark figure, and saw that it wasMackworth.
"I am come, sir," he said, "to dinner in the old room for the last timefor ever."
"God forbid!" said Mackworth. "Sir, you have behaved like a brave manto-day, and I earnestly hope that, as long as I stay in this house, youwill be its honoured guest. It would be simply nonsensical to make anyexcuses to you for the part I have taken. Even if you had notsystematically opposed your interest to mine in this house, I had noother course open. You must see that."
"I believe I owe you my thanks for your forbearance so long," saidCharles; "though that was for the sake of my father more than myself.Will you tell me, sir, now we are alone, how long have you known this?"
"Nearly eighteen months," said Father Mackworth, promptly.
Mackworth was not an ill-natured man when he was not opposed, and, beinga brave man himself, could well appreciate bravery in others. He hadknowledge enough of men to know that the revelation of to-day had beenas bitter a blow to a passionate, sensitive man like Charles, as hecould well endure and live. And he knew that Charles distrusted him, andthat all out-of-the-way expressions of condolence would be thrown away;and so, departing from his usual rule of conduct, he spoke for once in away naturally and sincerely, and said: "I am very, very sorry. I wouldhave done much to avoid this."
Then Mary came in and the Tiernays. Cuthbert did not come down. Therewas a long, dull dinner, at which Charles forced himself to eat, havinga resolution before him. Mary sat scared at the head of the table, andscarcely spoke a word, and, when she rose to go into the drawing-roomagain, Charles followed her.
She saw that he was coming, and waited for him in the hall. When he shutthe dining-room door after him she ran back, and putting her two handson his shoulders, said--
"Charles! Charles! what is the matter?"
"Nothing, dear; only I have lost my fortune; I am penniless."
"Is it all gone, Charles?"
"All. You will hear how, soon. I just come out to wish my bird good-bye.I am going to London to-morrow."
"Can't you come and talk to me, Charles, a little?"
"No; not to-night. Not to-night."
"You will come to see me at Lady Hainault's in town, Charles?"
"Yes, my love; yes."
"Won't you tell me any more, Charles?"
"No more, my robin. It is good-bye. You will hear all about it soonenough."
"Good-bye."
A kiss, and he was gone up the old staircase towards his own room. Whenhe gained the first landing he turned and looked at her once more,standing alone in the centre of the old hall in the light of a solitarylamp. A lonely, beautiful little figure, with her arms drooping at hersides, and the quiet, dark eyes turned towards him, so lovingly! Andthere, in his ruin and desolation, he began to see, for the first time,what others, keener-eyed, had seen long ago. Something that might havebeen, but could not be now! And so, saying, "I must not see her again,"he went up to his own room, and shut the door on his misery.
Once again he was seen that night. William invaded the still-room, andgot some coffee, which he carried up to him. He found him packing hisportmanteau, and he asked William to see to this and to that for him, ifhe should sleep too long. William made him sit down and take coffee andsmoke a cigar, and sat on the footstool at his feet, before the fire,complaining of cold. They sat an hour or two, smoking, talking of oldtimes, of horses and dogs, and birds and trout, as lads do, till Charlessaid he would go to bed, and William left him.
He had hardly got to the end of the passage, when Charles called himback, and he came.
"I want to look at you again," said Charles; and he put his two hands onWilliam's shoulders, and looked at him again. Then he said, "Goodnight," and went in.
William went slowly away, and, passing to a lower storey, came to thedoor of a room immediately over the main entrance, above the hall. Thisroom was in the turret above the porch. It was Cuthbert's room.
He knocked softly, and there was no answer; again, and louder. A voicecried querulously, "Come in," and he opened the door.
Cuthbert was sitting before the fire with a lamp beside him and a bookon his knee. He looked up and saw a groom before him, and said,angrily--
"I can give no orders to-night. I will not be disturbed to-night."
"It is me, sir," said William.
Cuthbert rose at once. "Come here, brother," he said, "and let me lookat you. They told me just now that you were with our brother Charles."
"I stayed with him till he went to bed, and then I came to you."
"How is he?"
"Very quiet--too quiet."
"Is he going away?"
"He is going in the morning."
"You must go with him, William," said Cuthbert, eagerly.
"I came to tell you that I must go with him, and to ask you for somemoney."
"God bless you. Don't leave him. Write to me every day. Watch and seewhat he is inclined to settle to, and then let me know. You must getsome education too. You will get it with him as well as anywhere. Hemust be our first care."
William said yes. He must be their first care. He had suffered aterrible wrong.
"We must get to be as brothers to one another, William," said Cuthbert."That will come in time. We have one great object in common--Charles;and that will bring us together. The time was, when I was a fool, that Ithought of being a saint, without human affections. I am wiser now.People near death see many things which are hidden in health and youth."
"Near death, Cuthbert!" said William, calling him so for the first time."I shall live, please God, to take your children on my knee."
"It is right that you should know, brother, that in a few short yearsyou will be master of Ravenshoe. My heart is gone. I have had an attackto-night."
"B
ut people who are ill don't always die," said William. "Holy Virgin!you must not go and leave me all abroad in the world like a lost sheep."
"I like to hear you speak like that, William. Two days ago, I was movingheaven and earth to rob you of your just inheritance."
"I like you the better for that. Never think of that again. DoesMackworth know of your illness?"
"He knows everything."
"If Charles had been a Catholic, would he have concealed this?"
"No; I think not. I offered him ten thousand pounds to hush it up."
"I wish he had taken it. I don't want to be a great man. I should havebeen far happier as it was. I was half a gentleman, and had everything Iwanted. Shall you oppose my marrying when Charles is settled?"
"You must marry, brother. I can never marry, and would not if I could.You must marry, certainly. The estate is a little involved; but we cansoon bring it right. Till you marry, you must be contented with fourhundred a year."
William laughed. "I will be content and obedient enough, I warrant you.But, when I speak of marrying, I mean marrying my present sweetheart."
Cuthbert looked up suddenly. "I did not think of that. Who is she?"
"Master Evans's daughter, Jane."
"A fisherman's daughter," said Cuthbert. "William, the mistress ofRavenshoe ought to be a lady."
"The master of Ravenshoe ought to be a gentleman," was William's reply."And, after your death (which I don't believe in, mind you), he won'tbe. The master of Ravenshoe then will be only a groom; and what sort ofa fine lady would he buy with his money, think you? A woman who woulddespise him and be ashamed of him. No, by St. George and the dragon, Iwill marry my old sweetheart or be single!"
"Perhaps you are right, William," said Cuthbert; "and, if you are not, Iam not one who has a right to speak about it. Let us in future be honestand straightforward, and have no more miserable _esclandres_, in God'sname. What sort of a girl is she?"
"She is handsome enough for a duchess, and she is very quiet and shy."
"All the better. I shall offer not the slightest opposition. She hadbetter know what is in store for her."
"She shall; and the blessing of all the holy saints be on you! I must gonow. I must be up at dawn."
"Don't go yet, William. Think of the long night that is before me. Sitwith me, and let me get used to your voice. Tell me about the horses, oranything--only don't leave me alone yet."
William sat down with him. They sat long and late. When at last Williamrose to go, Cuthbert said--
"You will make a good landlord, William. You have been always a patient,faithful servant, and you will make a good master. Our people will getto love you better than ever they would have loved me. Cling to the oldfaith. It has served us well so many hundred years. It seems as if Godwilled that Ravenshoe should not pass from the hands of the faithful.And now, one thing more; I must see Charles before he goes. When you goto wake him in the morning, call me, and I will go with you. Goodnight!"
In the morning they went up together to wake him. His window was open,and the fresh spring air was blowing in. His books, his clothes, hisguns and rods, were piled about in their usual confusion. His dog waslying on the hearthrug, and stretched himself as he came to greet them.The dog had a glove at his feet, and they wondered at it. The curtainsof his bed were drawn close. Cuthbert went softly to them and drew themaside. He was not there. The bed was smooth.
"Gone! gone!" cried Cuthbert. "I half feared it. Fly, William, for God'ssake, to Lord Ascot's, to Ranford; catch him there, and never leave himagain. Come, and get some money, and begone. You may be in time. If weshould lose him after all--after all!"
William needed no second bidding. In an hour he was at Stonnington. Mr.Charles Ravenshoe had arrived there at daybreak, and had gone on in thecoach which started at eight. William posted to Exeter, and at eleveno'clock in the evening saw Lady Ascot at Ranford. Charles Ravenshoe hadbeen there that afternoon, but was gone. And then Lady Ascot, weepingwildly, told him such news as made him break from the room with an oath,and dash through the scared servants in the hall and out into thedarkness, to try to overtake the carriage he had discharged, and reachLondon.
The morning before, Adelaide had eloped with Lord Welter.