Ravenshoe

  CHAPTER XXVIII.

  FLIGHT.

  When William left Charles in his room at Ravenshoe, the latter sat downin his chair and began thinking.

  The smart of the blow, which had fallen so heavily at first, had becomeless painful. He knew by intuition that it would be worse on the morrow,and on many morrows; but at present it was alleviated. He began to dreadsleeping, for fear of the waking.

  He dreaded the night and dreams; and, more than all, the morrow and thedeparture. He felt that he ought to see Cuthbert again, and he dreadedthat. He dreaded the servants seeing him go. He had a horror of partingfrom all he had known so long, formally. It was natural. It would be somuch pain to all concerned; were it not better avoided? He thought ofall these things, and tried to persuade himself that these were thereasons which made him do what he had as good as determined to do anhour or two before, what he had in his mind when he called William backin the corridor--to go away alone, and hide and mope like a wounded stagfor a little time.

  It was his instinct to do so. Perhaps it would have been the best thingfor him. At all events, he determined on it, and packed up a portmanteauand carpet-bag, and then sat down again, waiting.

  "Yes," he said to himself, "it will be better to do this. I must getaway from William, poor lad. He must not follow my fortunes, for manyreasons."

  His dog had been watching him, looking, with his bright loving eyes,first at him and then at his baggage, wondering what journey they weregoing on now. When Charles had done packing, and had sat down again inhis chair, before the fire, the dog leapt up in his lap unbidden, andlaid his head upon his breast.

  "Grip, Grip!" said Charles, "I am going away to leave you for ever,Grip. Dogs don't live so long as men, my boy; you will be quietly underthe turf and at rest, when I shall have forty long years more to gothrough with."

  The dog wagged his tail, and pawed his waistcoat. He wanted somebiscuit. Charles got him some, and then went on talking.

  "I am going to London, old dog. I am going to see what the world islike. I sha'n't come back before you are dead, Grip, I expect. I havegot to win money and a name for the sake of one who is worth winning itfor. Very likely I shall go abroad, to the land where the stuff comesfrom they make sovereigns of, and try my luck at getting some of theyellow rubbish. And she will wait in the old house at Ranford."

  He paused here. The thought came upon him, "Would it not be morehonourable to absolve Adelaide from her engagement? Was he actinggenerously in demanding of her to waste the best part of her life inwaiting till a ruined man had won fortune and means?"

  The answer came. "She loves me. If I can wait, why not she?"

  "I have wronged her by such a thought, Grip. Haven't I, my boy?"--andso on. I needn't continue telling you the nonsense Charles talked to hisdog. Men will talk nonsense to their dogs and friends when they are inlove; and such nonsense is but poor reading at any time. To us who knowwhat had happened, and how worthless and false Adelaide was, it would bemerely painful and humiliating to hear any more of it. I only gave youso much to show you how completely Charles was in the dark, poor fool,with regard to Adelaide's character, and to render less surprising thefolly of his behaviour after he heard the news at Ranford.

  Charles judged every one by his own standard. She had told him that sheloved him; and perhaps she did, for a time. He believed her. As forvanity, selfishness, fickleness, calculation, coming in and conqueringlove, he knew it was impossible in his own case, and so he conceived itimpossible in hers. I think I have been very careful to impress on youthat Charles was not wise. At all events, if I have softened matters sofar hitherto as to leave you in doubt, his actions, which we shall haveto chronicle immediately, will leave not the slightest doubt of it. Ilove the man. I love his very faults in a way. He is a reality to me,though I may not have the art to make him so to you. His mad, impulsiveway of forming a resolution, and his honourable obstinacy in sticking tothat resolution afterwards, even to the death, are very great faults;but they are, more or less, the faults of men who have made a very greatfigure in the world, or I have read history wrong. Men with CharlesRavenshoe's character, and power of patience and application superadded,turn out very brilliant characters for the most part. Charles had notbeen drilled into habits of application early enough. Densil'sunthinking indulgence had done him much harm, and he was just the sortof boy to be spoilt at school--a favourite among the masters and theboys; always just up to his work and no more. It is possible that Etonin one way, or Rugby in another, might have done for him what Shrewsburycertainly did not. At Eton, thrown at once into a great, free republic,he might have been forced to fight his way up to his proper place,which, I believe, would not have been a low one. At Rugby he would havehad his place to win all the same; but to help him he would have had allthe traditionary school policy which a great man has left behind him asan immortal legacy. It was not to be. He was sent to a good and manlyschool enough, but one where there was for him too little ofcompetition. Shrewsbury is, in most respects, the third of the _old_schools in England; but it was, unluckily, not the school for him. Hewas too great a man there.

  At Oxford, too, he hardly had a fair chance. Lord Welter was therebefore him, and had got just such a set about him as one would expectfrom that young gentleman's character and bringing up. These men wereCharles's first and only acquaintances at the University. What chancewas there among them for correcting and disciplining himself? None. Thewonder was, that he came out from among them without being greatlydeteriorated. The only friend Charles ever had who could guide him onthe way to being a man was John Marston. But John Marston, to say thetruth, was sometimes too hard and didactic, and very often rousedCharles's obstinacy through want of tact. Marston loved Charles, andthought him better than the ninety and nine who need no repentance; butit did not fall to Marston's lot to make a man of Charles. Some one tookthat in hand who never fails.

  This is the place for my poor apology for Charles's folly. If I hadinserted it before, you would not have attended to it, or would haveforgotten it. If I have done my work right, it is merely a statement ofthe very conclusion you must have come to. In the humiliating sceneswhich are to follow, I only beg you to remember that Charles Horton wasCharles Ravenshoe once; and that, while he was a gentleman, the peopleloved him well.

  Once, about twelve o'clock, he left his room, and passed through thehouse to see if all was quiet. He heard the grooms and footmen talkingin the servants' hall. He stole back again to his room, and sat beforethe fire.

  In half an hour he rose again, and put his portmanteau and carpet-bagoutside his room door. Then he took his hat, and rose to go.

  One more look round the old room! The last for ever! The presentovermastered the past, and he looked round almost without recognition. Idoubt whether at great crises men have much time for recollecting oldassociations. I looked once into a room, which had been my home, eversince I was six years old, for five-and-twenty years, knowing I shouldnever see it again. But it was to see that I had left nothing behind me.The coach was at the door, and they were calling for me. Now I coulddraw you a correct map of all the blotches and cracks in the ceiling, asI used to see them when I lay in bed of a morning. But then, I only shutthe door and ran down the passage, without even saying "good-bye, oldbedroom." Charles Ravenshoe looked round the room thoughtlessly, andthen blew out the candle, went out, and shut the door.

  The dog whined and scratched to come after him; so he went back again.The old room bathed in a flood of moonlight, and, seen through the openwindow, the busy chafing sea, calling to him to hasten.

  He took a glove from the table, and, laying it on the hearthrug, toldthe dog to mind it. The dog looked wistfully at him, and lay down. Thenext moment he was outside the door again.

  Through long moonlit corridors, down the moonlit hall, through darkpassages, which led among the sleeping household, to the door in thepriest's tower. The household slept, old men and young men, maids andmatrons, quietly, and dreamt of this and of that. And he, who
wasyesterday nigh master of all, passed out from among them, and stoodalone in the world, outside the dark old house, which he had called hishome.

  Then he felt the deed was done. Was it only the night-wind from thenorth that laid such a chill hand on his heart? Busy waves upon theshore talking eternally--"We have come in from the Atlantic, bearingmessages; we have come over foundered ships and the bones of drownedsailors, and we tell our messages and die upon the shore."

  Shadows that came sweeping from the sea, over lawn and flower-bed, andwrapped the old mansion like a pall for one moment, and then left itshining again in the moonlight, clear, pitiless. Within, warm rooms,warm beds, and the bated breath of sleepers, lying secure in the lap ofwealth and order. Without, hard, cold stone. The great world aroundawaiting to devour one more atom. The bright unsympathising stars, andthe sea, babbling of the men it had rolled over, whose names shouldnever be known.

  Now the park, with herds of ghostly startled deer, and the sweet scentof growing fern; then the rush of the brook, the bridge, and the vistaof woodland above; and then the sleeping village.