CHAPTER XLII.
RAVENSHOE HALL, DURING ALL THIS.
The villagers at Ravenshoe, who loved Charles, were very much puzzledand put out by his sudden disappearance. Although they had little or noidea of the real cause of his absence, yet it was understood to be atruth, not to be gainsayed, that it was permanent. And as it was aheavily-felt misfortune to them, and as they really had no idea why hewas gone, or where he was gone to, it became necessary that they shouldcomfort themselves by a formula. At which time Master Lee up to Slarrow,erected the theory, that Master Charles was gone to the Indies--whichwas found to be a doctrine so comfortable to the souls of those thatadopted it, as being hazy and vague, and as leaving his return an openquestion, that it was unanimously adopted; and those who ventured todoubt it, were treated as heretics and heathens.
It was an additional puzzle to them to find that William had turned outto be a gentleman, and a Ravenshoe, a fact which could not, of course,be concealed from them, though the other facts of the case werecarefully hushed up--not a very difficult matter in a simple feudalvillage, like Ravenshoe. But, when William appeared, after a shortabsence, he suffered greatly in popularity, from the belief that he hadallowed Charles to go to the Indies by himself. Old Master James Lee ofTor Head, old Master James Lee of Withycombe Barton, and old MasterJames Lee up to Slarrow, the three great quidnuncs of the village, weresunning themselves one day under the wall which divides part of thevillage from the shore, when by there came, talking earnestly together,William and John Marston.
The three old men raised their hats, courteously. They were in nodistinguishable relation to one another, but, from similarity of nameand age, always hunted in a leash. (Sporting men will notice a confusionhere about the word "leash," but let it pass.) When no one was by, Ihave heard them fall out and squabble together about dates, or suchlike; but, when others were present, they would, so to speak, trump oneanother's tricks to any amount. And if, on these occasions, any one ofthe three took up an untenable position, the other two would lie him outof it like Jesuits, and only fall foul of him when they were alonetogether--which, to say the least of it, was neighbourly and decent.
"God save you, gentlemen," said old Master Lee up to Slarrow, who wasallowed to commit himself by the other two, who were waiting to be "downon him" in private. "Any news from the Indies lately?"
William and Marston stopped, and William said--
"No, Master Lee, we have not heard from Captain Archer for seven months,or more."
"I ask your pardon," said Lee up to Slarrow; "I warn't a speaking of he.I was speaking of our own darling boy, Master Charles. When be hea-coming back to see we?"
"When, indeed!" said William. "I wish I knew, Master Lee."
"They Indies," said the old man, "is well enough; but what's he there nomore than any other gentleman? Why don't he come home to his own. Who'sa-keeping on him away?"
William and John Marston walked on without answering. And then the twoother Master Lees fell on to Master Lee up to Slarrow, and verballyill-treated him--partly because he had got no information out ofWilliam, and partly because, having both sat quiet and given him plentyof rope, he had not hanged himself. Master Lee up to Slarrow had eviltimes of it that blessed spring afternoon, and ended by "dratting" bothhis companions, for a couple of old fools. After which, they adjournedto the public-house and hard cider, sent them to drink for their sins.
"They'll never make a scholar of me, Marston," said William; "I will goon at it for a year, but no more, I shall away soon to hunt up Charles.Is there any police in America?"
Marston answered absently, "Yes; he believed so;" but was evidentlythinking of something else.
They had gone sauntering out for a walk together. Marston had come downfrom Oxford the day before (after an examination for an Exeterfellowship, I believe) for change of air; and he thought he would liketo walk with William up to the top of the lofty promontory, whichbounded Ravenshoe Bay on the west, and catch the pleasant summer breezecoming in from the Atlantic.
On the loftiest point of all, with the whispering blue sea on threesides of them, four hundred feet below, there they sat down on the shortsheep-eaten turf, and looked westward.
Cape after cape stretched away under the afternoon sun, till the lastseemed only a dark cloud floating on the sea. Beyond that cape there wasnothing but water for three thousand weary miles. The scene wasbeautiful enough, but very melancholy; a long coastline trending awayinto dim distance, on a quiet sunny afternoon, is very melancholy.Indeed, far more melancholy than the same place in a howling gale: whenthe nearest promontory only is dimly visible, a black wall, echoing thethunder of bursting waves, and when sea, air, and sky, like the threefuries, are rushing on with mad, destructive unanimity.
They lay, these two, on the short turf, looking westward; and, after atime, John Marston broke silence. He spoke very low and quietly, andwithout looking at William.
"I have something very heavy on my mind, William. I am not a fool, witha morbid conscience, but I have been very wrong. I have done what Inever can undo. I loved that fellow, William!"
William said "Ay."
"I know what you would say. You would say, that every one who ever knewCharles loved him; and you are right. He was so utterly unselfish, soentirely given up to trying to win others, that every one loved him, andcould not help it. The cleverest man in England, with all hiscleverness, could not gain so many friends as Charles."
William seemed to think this such a self-evident proposition, that hedid not think it worth while to say anything.
"And Charles was not clever. And what makes me mad with myself is this.I had influence over him, and I abused it. I was not gentle enough withhim. I used to make fun of him, and be flippant, and priggish, anddictatorial, with him. God help me! And now he has taken some desperatestep, and, in fear of my ridicule, has not told me of it. I felt sure hewould come to me, but I have lost hope now. May God forgive me--Godforgive me!"
In a few moments, William said, "If you pause to think, Marston, youwill see how unjust you are to yourself. He could not be afraid of me,and yet he has never come near me."
"Of course not," said Marston. "You seem hardly to know him so well asI. He fears that you would make him take money, and that he would be aburthen on you. I never expected that he would come back to you. Heknows that you would never leave him. He knows, as well as you knowyourself, that you would sacrifice all your time and your opportunitiesof education to him. And, by being dependent on you, he would bedependent on Father Mackworth--the only man in the world he dislikes anddistrusts."
William uttered a form of speech concerning the good father, which isconsidered by foreigners to be merely a harmless national _facon deparler_--sometimes, perhaps, intensive, when the participle is used, butin general no more than expletive. In this case, the speaker was, Ifear, in earnest, and meant what he said most heartily.
Marston never swore, but he certainly did not correct William forswearing, in this case, as he should have done. There was a silence fora time. After a little, William laid his hand on Marston's shoulder, andsaid--
"He never had a truer friend than you. Don't you blame yourself?"
"I do; and shall, until I find him."
"Marston," said William, "what _has_ he done with himself? Where thedeuce is he gone?"
"Lord Saltire and I were over the same problem for two hours the othernight, and we could make nothing of it, but that he was gone to Americaor Australia. He hardly took money enough with him to keep him till now.I can make nothing of it. Do _you_ think he would be likely to seek outWelter?"
"If he were going to do so, he would have done so by now, and we musthave heard of it. No," said William.
"He was capable of doing very odd things," said Marston. "Do youremember that Easter vacation, when he and Lord Welter and Mowbray wentaway together?"
"Remember!" said William. "Why I was with them; and glorious fun it was.Rather fast fun though--too fast by half. We went up and lived on
theSevern and Avon Canal, among the bargeman, dressing accordingly. Charleshad nothing to do with that folly, beyond joining in it, and spendingthe day in laughing. That was Lord Welter's doing. The bargees nicknamedLord Welter 'the sweep,' and said he was a good fellow, but a terribleblackguard. And so he was--for that time, at all events."
Marston laughed, and, after a time, said, "Did he ever seem to careabout soldiering? Do you think he was likely to enlist?"
"It is possible," said William; "it is quite possible. Yes, he has oftentalked to me about soldiering. I mind--I remember, I should say--that heonce was hot about going into the army, but he gave it up because itwould have taken him away from Mr. Ravenshoe too much."
They turned and walked homewards, without speaking a word all the way.On the bridge they paused and leant upon the coping, looking into thestream. All of a sudden, William laid his hand on Marston's arm, andlooking in his face, said--
"Every day we lose, I feel he is getting farther from us. I don't knowwhat may happen. I shall go and seek him. I will get educated at myleisure. Only think of what may be happening now! I was a fool to havegiven it up so soon, and to have tried waiting till he came to us. Hewill never come. I must go and fetch him. Here is Cuthbert, too, goodfellow, fretting himself to death about it. Let us go and talk to him."
And John Marston said, "Right, true heart; let us go."
Of all their acquaintances, there was only one who could have given themany information--Lord Welter; and he, of all others, was the very lastthey dreamt of going to. You begin to see, I dare say, that, whenCharles is found, my story will nearly be at an end. But my story is notnear finished yet, I assure you.
Standing where they were on the bridge, they could look along thevillage street. It was as neat a street as one ever sees in a fishingvillage; that is to say, rather an untidy one, for of all humanemployments, fishing involves more lumber and mess than any other.Everything past use was "hit," as they say in Berkshire, out into thestreet; and of the inorganic part of this refuse, that is to say, tiles,bricks, potsherds, and so on, the children built themselves shops andbazaars, and sold one another the organic orts, that is to say,cabbage-stalks, fish-bones, and orange-peel, which were paid for inmussel-shells. And, as Marston and William looked along this street, asone may say, at high market time, they saw Cuthbert come slowly ridingalong among the children, and the dogs, and the pigs, and theherring-bones, and brickbats.
He was riding a noble horse, and was dressed with his usual faultlessneatness and good taste, as clean as a new pin from top to toe. As hecame along, picking his way gently among the children, the fishermen andtheir wives came out right and left from their doors, and greeted himkindly. In olden times they would not have done this, but it had gotabout that he was pining for the loss of his brother, and their heartshad warmed to him. It did not take much to make their hearts warm to aRavenshoe; though they were sturdy, independent rogues enough at times.I am a very great admirer of the old feudal feeling, when it is notabused by either party. In parts of Australia, where it, or somethingnear akin to it, is very strong indeed, I have seen it act on high andlow most beneficially; giving to the one side a sense of responsibility,and to the other a feeling of trust and reliance. "Here's 'CaptainDash,' or 'Colonel Blank,' or 'Mr. So-and-So,' and he won't see mewronged, I know. I have served him and his father for forty year, andhe's a _gentleman_, and so were his father before him." That is a sortof thing you will hear often enough in Australia. And even on thediggings, with all the leaven of Americanism and European Radicalism onefinds there, it is much easier for a warden to get on with the diggersif he comes of a known colonial family, than if he is an unknown man.The old colonial diggers, the people of the greatest real weight, talkof them, and the others listen and mark. All people, prate as they may,like a guarantee for respectability. In the colonies, such a guaranteeis given by a man's being tolerably well off, and "come of decentpeople." In England, it is given, in cases, by a man and a man'sforefathers having been good landlords and honest men. Such a guaranteeis given by such people as the Ravenshoes, but that is not the wholesecret of _their_ influence. That comes more from association--a feelingstrong enough, as one sees, to make educated and clever men use theirtalents and eloquence towards keeping a school in a crowded unhealthyneighbourhood, instead of moving it into the country; merely because, asfar as one can gather from their speeches, they were educated at itthemselves, twenty years ago. Hereby visiting the sins of the fathers onthe children with a vengeance!
"Somewhat too much of this." It would be stretching a point to say thatCuthbert was a handsome man, though he was very near being so, indeed.He was tall, but not too slender, for he had developed in chest somewhatsince we first knew him. His face was rather pale, but his complexionperfectly clear; save that he had a black mark round his eyes. Hisfeatures were decidedly marked, but not so strongly as Charles's; andthere was an air of stately repose about him, showing itself in his wayof carrying his head perfectly upright, and the firm, but not harsh,settling of his mouth, with the lower lip slightly pouting, which wasvery attractive. He was a consummate horseman, too, and, as I said,perfectly dressed; and, as he came towards them, looking apparently atnothing, both William and Marston thought they had never seen a finerspecimen of a gentleman.
He had strangely altered in two months. As great a change had come overhim as comes over a rustic when the drill-sergeant gets him and makes asoldier of him. There is the same body, the same features, the same hairand eyes. Bill Jones is Bill Jones, if you are to believe his mother.But Bill Jones the soldier is not Bill Jones the ploughboy. He is quitea different person. So, since the night when Charles departed, Cuthberthad not been the Cuthbert of former times. He was no longer wayward andirritable; he was as silent as ever, but he had grown so staid, sostudiously courteous to every one, so exceedingly humble-minded andpatient with every one, that all save one or two wondered at the changein him.
He had been passionately fond of Charles, though he had seldom shown it,and was terribly cut up at his loss. He had greatly humiliated himselfto himself by what was certainly his felonious offer to FatherMackworth; and he had found the estate somewhat involved, and haddetermined to set to work and bring it to rights. These three causes hadmade Cuthbert Ravenshoe a humbler and better man than he had ever beenbefore.
"William," he said, smiling kindly on him, "I have been seeing afteryour estate for you. It does me good to have some one to work for. Youwill die a rich man."
William said nothing. One of Cuthbert's fixed notions was, that he woulddie young and childless. He claimed to have a heart-complaint, though itreally appeared without any foundation. It was a fancy which William hadcombated at first, but now acquiesced in, because he found it useless todo otherwise.
He dismounted and walked with him. "Cuthbert," said William, "we havebeen thinking about Charles."
"I am always thinking about him," said Cuthbert; "is there no way offinding him?"
"I am going. I want you to give me some money and let me go."
"You had better go at once, William. You had better try if the policecan help you. We are pretty sure that he has gone to America, unless hehas enlisted. In either case, it is very possible we may find him. AuntAscot would have succeeded, if she had not lost her temper. Don't youthink I am right, my dear Marston?"
"I do, indeed, Ravenshoe," said Marston. "Don't you think now, Mr.Mackworth, that, if a real push is made, and with judgment, we may findCharles again?"
They had reached the terrace, and Father Mackworth was standing in frontof the porch. He said he believed it was perfectly possible. "Nay," hesaid, "possible! I am as sure of seeing Charles Horton back here againas I am that I shall eat my dinner to-day."
"And I," said Cuthbert, "am equally sure that we shall see poor Ellenback some day. Poor girl! she shall have a warm welcome."
Father Mackworth said he hoped it might be so. And the lie did not chokehim.
"We are going to send William away again to look after him,
Father,"said Cuthbert.
"He had much better stay at home and mind his education," saidMackworth.
William had his back towards them, and was looking out to sea,whistling. When the priest spoke he turned round sharply, and said--
"Hey? what's that?"
The priest repeated it.
"I suppose," said William, "that that is more my business than yours, isit not? I don't intend to go to school again, certainly not to you."
Cuthbert looked from one to the other of them, and said nothing. A fewdays before this William and the priest had fallen out; and Mackworth,appealing, had been told with the greatest kindness and politeness byCuthbert that he could not interfere. That William was heir toRavenshoe, and that he really had no power over him whatever. Mackworthhad said nothing then, but now he had followed Cuthbert into thelibrary, and, when they were alone, said--
"Cuthbert, I did not expect this from you. You have let him insult metwice, and have not corrected him."
Cuthbert put his back against the door, and said--
"Now you don't leave this room till you apologise for these wickedwords. My dear old fellow, what a goose you are! Have not you and healways squabbled? Do fight it out with him, and don't try and force meto take a side. I ain't going to do it, you know, and so I tell youplainly. Give it to him. Who can do it so well as you? Remember what analtered position he is in. How can you expect me to take your partagainst him?"
Father Mackworth cleared his brow, and said, laughing, "You are right,Cuthbert. I'll go about with the rogue. He is inclined to kick over thetraces, but I'll whip him in a little. I have had the whip-hand of everyRavenshoe I have had to deal with yet, yourself included, and it's hardif I am to be beat by this new whipper-snapper."
Cuthbert said affectionately to him, "I think you love me, Mackworth.Don't quarrel with him more than you can help. I know you love me." Andso Cuthbert went to seek John Marston.
Love him! Ay, that he did. John Mackworth could be cruel, hard, false,vindictive. He could cheat, and he could lie, if need were. He washeartless and ambitious. But he loved Cuthbert. It was a love which hadtaken a long time growing, but there it was, and he was half ashamed ofit. Even to himself he would try to make out that it was mereselfishness and ambition--that he was gentle with Cuthbert, because hemust keep his place at Ravenshoe. Even now he would try to persuadehimself that such was the case--perhaps the more strongly because hebegan to see now that there was a soft spot in his heart, and thatCuthbert was master of it. Since the night when Cuthbert had offered himten thousand pounds, and he had refused it, Cuthbert had never been thesame to him. And Mackworth, expecting to find his influence increased,found to his astonishment that from that moment it was _gone_.Cuthbert's intensely sensitive and proud nature revolted from thedomination of a man before whom he had so lowered himself; and firmly,though humbly now, for he was altered by seeing how nearly he had been avillain, he let him see that he would walk in future in his ownstrength. Father Mackworth saw soon that Ravenshoe was a comfortablehome for him, but that his power was gone. Unless!
And yet he knew he could exercise a power little dreamt of. It is in thepower, possibly, of a condemned man to burn the prison down, andpossibly his interest; but he has compunctions. Mackworth tried topersuade himself that the reason he did not use his power was that itwould not be advisable. He was a cipher in the house, and knew byinstinct that he would never be more. But in reality, I believe, he lethis power sleep for Cuthbert's sake.
"Who could have thought," he said, "that the very thing which clenchedmy power, as I thought, should have destroyed it? Are not those peoplefools who lay down rules for human action? Why, no. They are possiblyright five times out of ten. But as for the other five! Bah!
"No, I won't allow that. It was my own fault. I should have known hischaracter better. But there, I could not have helped it, for he did ithimself. I was passive."
And Cuthbert followed Marston into the hall, and said, "You are notgoing away because William goes, Marston?"
"Do you want me?" said Marston.
"Yes," said Cuthbert. "You must stay with me. My time is short, and Imust know as much of this world as I may. I have much to do; you musthelp me. I will be like a little child in your hands. I will die in theold faith; but I will learn something new."
And so Marston stayed with him, and they two grew fast friends. Cuthberthad nothing to learn in this management of his estate; there he wasMarston's master; but all that a shrewd young man of the world couldteach a bookworm, so much Cuthbert got from Marston.
Marston one day met the village doctor, the very man whom we saw at thebeginning of the book, putting out William (whom we then supposed to beCharles) to nurse. Marston asked him, "Was there any reality in thisheart-complaint of Cuthbert's?"
"Not the very faintest shadow of a reality," said the doctor. "It is themost tiresome whimsy I ever knew. He has persuaded himself of it,though. He used to be very hypochondriac. He is as likely to live tilleighty as you are."