Ravenshoe

  CHAPTER II.

  SUPPLEMENTARY TO THE FOREGOING.

  The second Mrs. Ravenshoe was the handsome dowerless daughter of aWorcester squire, of good standing, who, being blessed with anextravagant son, and six handsome daughters, had lived for several yearsabroad, finding society more accessible, and consequently, thematrimonial chances of the "Petersham girls" proportionately greaterthan in England. She was a handsome proud woman, not particularlyclever, or particularly agreeable, or particularly anything, exceptparticularly self-possessed. She had been long enough looking after anestablishment to know thoroughly the value of one, and had seen quiteenough of good houses to know that a house without a mistress is nohouse at all. Accordingly, in a very few days the house felt herpresence, submitted with the best grace to her not unkindly rule, and ina week they all felt as if she had been there for years.

  Father Clifford, who longed only for peace, and was getting very old,got very fond of her, heretic as she was. She, too, liked the handsome,gentlemanly old man, and made herself agreeable to him, as a woman ofthe world knows so well how to do. Father Mackworth, on the other hand,his young coadjutor since Father Dennis's death, an importation of LadyAlicia's from Rome, very soon fell under her displeasure. The firstSunday after her arrival, she drove to church, and occupied the greatold family pew, to the immense astonishment of the rustics, and, afterafternoon service, caught up the old vicar in her imperious off-handway, and will he nil he, carried him off to dinner--at which meal he washorrified to find himself sitting with two shaven priests, who talkedLatin and crossed themselves. His embarrassment was greatly increased bythe behaviour of Mrs. Ravenshoe, who admired his sermon, and spoke ondoctrinal points with him as though there were not a priest within amile. Father Mackworth was imprudent enough to begin talking at him, andat last said something unmistakably impertinent; upon which Mrs.Ravenshoe put her glass in her eye, and favoured him with such a glanceof haughty astonishment as silenced him at once.

  This was the beginning of hostilities between them, if one can give thename of hostilities to a series of infinitesimal annoyances on the oneside, and to immeasurable and barely concealed contempt on the other.Mackworth, on the one hand, knew that she understood and despised him,and he hated her. She on the other hand knew that he knew it, butthought him too much below her notice, save now and then that she mightput down with a high hand any, even the most distant, approach to atangible impertinence. But she was no match for him in the arts ofpetty, delicate, galling annoyances. There he was her master; he hadbeen brought up in a good school for that, and had learnt his lessonkindly. He found that she disliked his presence, and shrunk from hissmooth, lean face with unutterable dislike. From that moment he wasalways in her way, overwhelming her with oily politeness, rushing acrossthe room to pick up anything she had dropped, or to open the door, tillit required the greatest restraint to avoid breaking through all formsof politeness, and bidding him begone. But why should we go on detailingtrifles like these, which in themselves are nothing, but accumulated areunbearable?

  So it went on, till one morning, about two years after the marriage,Mackworth appeared in Clifford's room, and, yawning, threw himself intoa chair.

  "Benedicite," said Father Clifford, who never neglected religiousetiquette on any occasion.

  Mackworth stretched out his legs and yawned, rather rudely, and thenrelapsed into silence. Father Clifford went on reading. At lastMackworth spoke.

  "I'll tell you what, my good friend, I am getting sick of this; I shallgo back to Rome."

  "To Rome?"

  "Yes, back to Rome," repeated the other impertinently, for he alwaystreated the good old priest with contemptuous insolence when they werealone. "What is the use of staying here, fighting that woman? There isno more chance of turning her than a rock, and there is going to be nofamily."

  "You think so?" said Clifford.

  "Good heavens, does it look like it? Two years, and not a sign; besides,should I talk of going, if I thought so? Then there would be a careerworthy of me; then I should have a chance of deserving well of theChurch, by keeping a wavering family in her bosom. And I could do it,too: every child would be a fresh weapon in my hands against that woman.Clifford, do you think that Ravenshoe is safe?"

  He said this so abruptly that Clifford coloured and started. Mackworthat the same time turned suddenly upon him, and scrutinised his facekeenly.

  "Safe!" said the old man; "what makes you fear otherwise?"

  "Nothing special," said Mackworth; "only I have never been easy sinceyou told me of that London escapade years ago."

  "He has been very devout ever since," said Clifford. "I fear nothing."

  "Humph! Well, I am glad to hear it," said Mackworth. "I shall go toRome. I'd sooner be gossiping with Alphonse and Pierre in the cloistersthan vegetating here. My talents are thrown away."

  He departed down the winding steps of the priest's turret, which led tothe flower garden. The day was fine, and a pleasant seat a shortdistance off invited him to sit. He could get a book he knew from thedrawing-room, and sit there. So, with habitually noiseless tread, hepassed along the dark corridor, and opened the drawing-room door.

  Nobody was there. The book he wanted was in the little drawing-roombeyond, separated from the room he was in by a partly-drawn curtain. Thepriest advanced silently over the deep piled carpet and looked in.

  The summer sunlight, struggling through a waving bower of climbingplants and the small panes of a deeply mullioned window, fell upon twopersons, at the sight of whom he paused, and, holding his breath, stood,like a black statue in the gloomy room, wrapped in astonishment.

  He had never in his life heard these twain use any words beyond those ofcommon courtesy towards one another; he had thought them the mostindifferent, the coldest pair, he had ever seen. But now! now, thehaughty beauty was bending from her chair over her husband, who sat on astool at her feet; her arm was round his neck, and her hand was in his;and, as he looked, she parted the clustering black curls from hisforehead and kissed him.

  He bent forward and listened more eagerly. He could hear the surf on theshore, the sea-birds on the cliffs, the nightingale in the wood; theyfell upon his ear, but he could not distinguish them; he waited only forone of the two figures before him to speak.

  At last Mrs. Ravenshoe broke silence, but in so low a voice that evenhe, whose attention was strained to the uttermost, could barely catchwhat she said.

  "I yield, my love," said she; "I give you this one, but mind, the restare mine. I have your solemn promise for that?"

  "My solemn promise," said Densil, and kissed her again.

  "My dear," she resumed, "I wish you could get rid of that priest, thatMackworth. He is irksome to me."

  "He was recommended to my especial care by my mother," was Densil'sreply. "If you could let him stay I should much rather."

  "Oh, let him stay!" said she; "he is too contemptible for me to annoymyself about. But I distrust him, Densil. He has a lowering looksometimes."

  "He is talented and agreeable," said Densil; "but I never liked him."

  The listener turned to go, having heard enough, but was arrested by hercontinuing--

  "By the by, my love, do you know that that impudent girl Norah has beensecretly married this three months?"

  The priest listened more intently than ever.

  "Who to?" asked Densil.

  "To James, your keeper."

  "I am glad of that. That lad James stuck to me in prison, Susan, whenthey all left me. She is a fine, faithful creature, too. Mind you giveher a good scolding."

  Mackworth had heard enough apparently, for he stole gently away throughthe gloomy room, and walked musingly upstairs to Father Clifford.

  That excellent old man took up the conversation just where it had leftoff.

  "And when," said he, "my brother, do you propose returning to Rome?"

  "I shall not go to Rome at all," was the satisfactory reply, followed bya deep silence.

  In a few months,
much to Father Clifford's joy and surprise, Mrs.Ravenshoe bore a noble boy, which was named Cuthbert. Cuthbert wasbrought up in the Romish faith, and at five years old had just begun tolearn his prayers of Father Clifford, when an event occurred equallyunexpected by all parties. Mrs. Ravenshoe was again found to be in acondition to make an addition to her family.