CHAPTER XLIV.
ANOTHER MEETING.
Lord Ascot had been moved into South Audley Street, his town house, andLady Ascot was there nursing him. General Mainwaring was off for Varna.But Lord Saltire had been a constant visitor, bringing with him veryoften Marston, who was, you will remember, an old friend of Lady Ascot.
It was not at all an unpleasant house to be in. Lord Ascot wascrippled--he had been seized with paralysis at Epsom; and he was ruined.But every one knew the worst, and felt relieved by thinking that thingscould get no worse than worst, and so must get better.
In fact, every one admitted to the family party about that timeremembered it as a very happy and quiet time indeed. Lord Ascot wastheir first object, of course; and a more gentle and biddable invalidthan the poor fellow made can hardly be conceived. He was passionatelyfond of reading novels (a most reprehensible practice), and so waseasily amused. Lord Saltire and he would play picquet: and every eveningthere would be three hours of whist, until the doctor looked in thelast thing, and Lord Ascot was helped to bed.
Marston was always set to play with Lord Ascot, because Lord Saltire andLady Ascot would not play against one another. Lord Saltire, was, ofcourse, one of the best players in Europe; and I really believe thatLady Ascot was not the worst by any means. I can see the party now. Ican see Lady Ascot laying down a card, and looking at the same time ather partner, to call his attention to her lead. And I can see LordSaltire take out his snuff-box threat, as if he were puzzled, but notalarmed. William would come sometimes and sit quietly behind Marston, orLord Saltire, watching the game. In short, they were a very quietpleasant party indeed.
One night--it was the very night on which Adelaide had lost her hat inthe Park--there was no whist. Marston had gone down to Oxford suddenly,and William came in to tell them so. Lady Ascot was rather glad, shesaid, for she had a friend coming to tea, who did not play whist; soLord Saltire and Lord Ascot sat down to picquet, and William talked tohis aunt.
"Who is your friend, Maria?" asked Lord Saltire.
"A Mr. Bidder, a minister. He has written a book on the Revelations,which you really ought to read, James; it would suit you."
They both laughed.
"About the seven seals, hey?" said Lord Saltire; "'_septem phocae_,' as Iremember Machynleth translated it at Eton once. We called him 'Vitulina'ever after. The name stuck to him through life with some of us. Acapital name for him, too! His fussy blundering in this war-business isjust like his old headlong way of looking out words in his dictionary.He is an ass, Maria; and I will bet fifty pounds that your friend, theminister, is another."
"How can you know? at all events, the man he brings with him is none."
"Another minister?"
"Yes, a Moravian missionary from Australia."
"Then certainly another ass, or he would have gone as missionary to aless abominably detestable hole. They were all burnt into the sea therethe other day. Immediately after which the river rose seventy feet, anddrowned the rest of them."
Soon after were announced Mr. Bidder and Mr. Smith. Mr. Bidder was anentirely unremarkable man; but Mr. Smith was one of the most remarkablemen I have ever seen, or rather heard--for externally there was nothingremarkable about him, except a fine forehead, and a large expressivegrey eye, which, when he spoke to you, seemed to come back from a longdistance, and fix itself upon yours. In manners he was perfect. He wasrather taciturn, though always delighted to communicate informationabout his travels, in a perfectly natural way. If one man wantedinformation on botany, or what not, he was there to give it. If anotherwanted to hear about missionary work, he was ready for him. He neverspoke or acted untruthfully for one instant. He never acted the free andeasy man of the world as some religious gentlemen of all sects feel itnecessary to do sometimes, imitating the real thing as well as PaulBedford would imitate Fanny Ellsler. What made him remarkable was histerrible earnestness, and the feeling you had, that his curious languagewas natural, and meant something; something very important indeed.
He has something to do with the story. The straws in the gutter have todo with the history of a man like Charles, a man who leaves all thingsto chance. And this man Smith is very worthy of notice, and so I havesaid thus much about him, and am going to say more.
Mr. Bidder was very strong on the Russian war, which he illustrated bythe Revelations. He was a good fellow, and well-bred enough to see thathis friend Smith was an object of greater interest to Lady Ascot thanhimself; so he "retired into" a book of prints, and left the fieldclear.
Mr. Smith sat by Lady Ascot, and William drew close up. Lady Ascot beganby a commonplace, of course.
"You have suffered great hardships among those savages, Mr. Smith, haveyou not?"
"Hardships! Oh, dear no, my dear lady. Our station was one of thepleasantest places in the whole earth I believe; and we had a peacefultime. When the old man is strong in me I wish I was back there."
"You did not make much progress with them, I believe?"
"None whatever. We found out after a year or two that it was hopeless tomake them understand the existence of a God; and after that we stayed onto see if we could bring them to some knowledge of agriculture, and savethem from their inevitable extermination, as the New Zealanders havebeen saved."
"And to no purpose?"
"None. For instance, we taught them to plant our potatoes for us. Theydid it beautifully, but in the night they dug them up and ate them. Andin due season we waited that our potatoes should grow, and they grewnot. Then they came to Brother Hillyar, my coadjutor, an old man, nowruling ten cities for his Master, and promised for rewards of flour totell him why the potatoes did not grow. And he, loving them, gave themwhat they desired. And they told him that they dug them up while weslept. And for two days I went about my business, laughing in secretplaces, for which he tried to rebuke me, but could not, laughinghimself. The Lord kept him waiting long, for he was seventy-four; but,doubtless, his reward is the greater."
William said, "You brought home a collection of zoological specimens, Ithink. They are in the Museum."
"Yes. But what I could not bring over were my live pets. I and my wifehad a menagerie of our own--a great number of beasts----"
Mr. Bidder looking up from his book, catching the last sentence only,said the number of the beast was 666; and, then turning round, heldhimself ready to strike into the conversation, thinking that the timewas come when he should hide his light no longer.
"The natives are very low savages, are they not, Mr. Smith?" saidWilliam. "I have heard that they cannot count above ten."
"Not so far as that," said Mr. Smith. "The tribe we were most among usedto express all large unknown quantities by 'eighty-four;'[4] it was as_x_ and _y_ to them. That seems curious at first, does it not?"
William said it did seem curious, their choosing that particular number.But Mr. Bidder, dying to mount his hobby-horse, and not caring how, saidit was not at all curious. If you multiplied the twelve tribes of Israelinto the seven cities of refuge, there you were at once.
Mr. Smith said he thought he had made a little mistake. The number, hefancied, was ninety-four.
Lord Saltire, from the card-table, said that that made the matterclearer than before, For if you placed the Ten Commandments to theprevious result you arrived at ninety-four, which was the number wanted.And his lordship, who had lost, and was consequently possibly cross,added that, if you divided the whole by the five foolish virgins, andpitched Tobit's dog, neck and heels into the result, you would findyourself much about where you started.
Mr. Bidder, who, as I said, was a good fellow, laughed, and Mr. Smithresumed the conversation once more; Lord Saltire seemed interested inwhat he said, and did not interfere with him.
"You buried poor Mrs. Smith out there," said Lady Ascot. "I remember herwell. She was very beautiful as a girl."
"Very beautiful," said the missionary. "Yes; she never lost her beauty,do you know. That climate is very deadly to those who go there with theseeds of
consumption in them. She had done a hard day's work before shewent to sleep, though she was young. Don't you think so, Lady Ascot?"
"A hard day's work; a good day's work, indeed. Who knows better than I?"said Lady Ascot. "What an awakening it must be from such a sleep ashers!"
"Beyond the power of human tongue to tell," said the missionary, lookingdreamily as at something far away. "Show me the poet that can describein his finest language the joy of one's soul when one wakes on asummer's morning. Who, then, can conceive or tell the unutterablehappiness of the purified soul, waking face to face with the King ofGlory?"
Lord Saltire looked at him curiously, and said to himself, "This fellowis in earnest. I have seen this sort of thing before. But seldom! Yes,but seldom!"
"I should not have alluded to my wife's death," continued themissionary, in a low voice, "but that her ladyship introduced thesubject. And no one has a better right to hear of her than her kind oldfriend. She fell asleep on the Sabbath evening after prayers. We movedher bed into the verandah, Lady Ascot, that she might see the sunlightfade out on the tops of the highest trees--a sight she always loved. Andfrom the verandah we could see through the tree stems Mount Joorma, laidout in endless folds of woodland, all purple and gold. And I thought shewas looking at the mountain, but she was looking far beyond that, forshe said, 'I shall have to wait thirty years for you, James, but I shallbe very happy and very busy. The time will go quick enough for me, butit will be a slow, weary time for you, my darling. Go home from here, mylove, into the great towns, and see what is to be done there.' And soshe went to sleep.
"I rebelled for three days. I went away into the bush, with Satan at myelbow all the time, through dry places, through the forest, down bylonely creeksides, up among bald volcanic downs, where there are slopesof slippery turf, leading down to treacherous precipices of slag; andthen through the quartz ranges, and the reedy swamps, where the blackswans float, and the spur-winged plover hovers and cackles; all about Iwent among the beasts and the birds. But on the third day the Lordwearied of me, and took me back, and I lay on His bosom again like achild. He will always take you home, my lord, if you come. After threedays, after thrice twenty years, my lord. Time is nothing to Him."
Lord Saltire was looking on him with kindly admiration.
"There is something in it, my lord. Depend upon it that it is not all adream. Would not you give all your amazing wealth, all your honours,everything, to change places with me?"
"I certainly would," said Lord Saltire. "I have always been of opinionthat there was something in it. I remember," he continued, turning toWilliam, "expressing the same opinion to your father in the Fleet Prisononce, when he had quarrelled with the priests for expressing someopinions which he had got from me. But you must take up with that sortof thing very early in life if you mean it to have any reality at all. Iam too old now!"[5]
Lord Saltire said this in a different tone from his usual one. In a tonethat we have never heard him use before. There was something about theman Smith which, in spite of his quaint language, softened every one whoheard him speak. Lady Ascot says it was the grace of God. I entirelyagree with her ladyship.
"I came home," concluded the missionary, "to try some city work. Mywife's nephew, John Marston, whom I expected to see here to-night, isgoing to assist me in this work. There seems plenty to do. We are atwork in Southwark, at present."
Possibly it was well that the company, more particularly Lady Ascot,were in a softened and forgiving mood. For, before any one had resumedthe conversation, Lord Ascot's valet stood in the door, and, looking atLady Ascot with a face which said as plain as words, "It is a terriblebusiness, my lady, but I am innocent," announced--
"Lady Welter."
Lord Saltire put his snuff-box into his right-hand trousers' pocket, andhis pocket handkerchief into his left, and kept his hands there, leaningback in his chair, with his legs stretched out, and a smile of infinitewicked amusement on his face. Lord Ascot and William stared like acouple of gabies. Lady Ascot had no time to make the slightest change,either in feature or position, before Adelaide, dressed for the eveningin a cloud of white and pink, with her bare arms loaded with bracelets,a swansdown fan hanging from her left wrist, sailed swiftly into theroom, with outstretched hands, bore down on Lady Ascot, and begankissing her, as though the old lady were a fruit of some sort, and shewere a dove pecking at it.
"Dearest grandma!"--peck. "So glad to see you!"--peck. "Couldn't helpcalling in on you as I went to Lady Brittlejug's--and how well you arelooking!"--peck, peck. "I can spare ten minutes--do tell me all thenews, since I saw you. My dear Lord Ascot, I was so sorry to hear ofyour illness, but you look better than I expected. And how do _you_ do,my dear Lord Saltire?"
Lord Saltire was pretty well, and was delighted to see Lady Welterapparently in the enjoyment of such health and spirits, and so on,aloud. But, secretly, Lord Saltire was wondering what on earth couldhave brought her here. Perhaps she only wanted to take Lady Ascot bysurprise, and force her into a recognition of her as Lady Welter. No. Mylord saw there was something more than that. She was restless and absentwith Lady Ascot. Her eye kept wandering in the middle of all herrattling talk; but, wherever it wandered, it always came back toWilliam, of whom she had hitherto taken no notice whatever.
"She has come after him. For what?" thought my lord. "I wonder if thejade knows anything of Charles."
Lady Ascot had steeled herself against this meeting. She had determined,firstly, that no mortal power should ever induce her to set eyes onAdelaide again; and, secondly, that she, Lady Ascot, would give her,Adelaide, a piece of her mind, which she should never forget to herdying day. The first of these rather contradictory determinations hadbeen disposed of by Adelaide's audacity; and as for the second--why, thepiece of Lady Ascot's mind which was to be given to Adelaide was somehownot ready; but, instead of it, only silent tears, and withered,trembling fingers, which wandered lovingly over the beautiful younghand, and made the gaudy bracelets on the wrist click one against theother.
"What could I say, Brooks? what could I do?" said Lady Ascot to her maidthat night, "when I saw her own self come back, with her own old way? Ilove the girl more than ever, Brooks, I believe. She beat me. She tookme by surprise. I could not resist her. If she had proposed to put me ina wheelbarrow, and wheel me into the middle of that disgraceful, thatdetestable woman Brittlejug's drawing-room, there and then, I shouldhave let her do it, I believe. I might have begged for time to put on mybonnet; but I should have gone."
She sat there ten minutes or more, talking. Then she said that it wastime to go, but that she should come and see Lady Ascot on the morrow.Then she turned to William, to whom she had not been introduced, andasked, would he see her to her carriage? Lord Saltire was next the bell,and looking her steadily in the face, raised his hand slowly to pull it.Adelaide begged him eagerly not to trouble himself; he, with a smile,promptly dropped his hand, and out she sailed on William's arm, LordSaltire holding the door open, and shutting it after her, with somewhatsingular rapidity.
"I hope none of those fools of servants will come blundering upstairsbefore she has said her say," he remarked, aloud. "Give us some of yourSouth African experiences, Mr. Smith. Did you ever see a woman beautifulenough to go clip a lion's claws singlehanded, eh?"
William, convoying Adelaide downstairs, had got no farther than thefirst step, when he felt her hand drawn from his arm; he had got onefoot on the step below, when he turned to see the cause of this.Adelaide was standing on the step above him, with her glorious face bentsternly, almost fiercely, down on his, and the hand from which the fanhung pointed towards him. It was as beautiful a sight as he had everseen, and he calmly wondered what it meant. The perfect mouth was curvedin scorn, and from it came sharp ringing words, decisive, hard, clear,like the sound of a hammer on an anvil.
"Are you a party to this shameful business, sir? you, who have taken hisname, and his place, and his prospects in society. You, who professed,as I hear, to love him like another life,
dearer than your own. You, wholay on the same breast with him--tell me, in God's name, that you aresinning in ignorance."
William, as I have remarked before, had a certain amount of shrewdness.He determined to let her go on. He only said, "You are speaking ofCharles Ravenshoe."
"Ay," she said, sharply; "of Charles Ravenshoe, sir--ex-stable-boy. Icame here to-night to beard them all; to ask them did they know, and didthey dare to suffer it. If they had not given me an answer, I would havesaid such things to them as would have made them stop their ears. LordSaltire has a biting tongue, has he? Let him hear what mine is. But whenI saw you among them, I determined to save a scene, and speak to youalone. Shameful----"
William looked quietly at her. "Will your ladyship remark that I, thatall of us, have been moving heaven and earth to find Charles Ravenshoe,and that we have been utterly unable to find him? If you have anyinformation about him, would it not be as well to consider that thedesperation caused by your treatment of him was the principal cause ofhis extraordinary resolution of hiding himself? And, instead of scoldingme and others, who are doing all we can, to give us all the informationin your power?"
"Well, well," she said, "perhaps you are right. Consider me rebuked,will you have the goodness? I saw Charles Ravenshoe to-day."
"To-day!"
"Ay, and talked to him."
"How did he look? was he pale? was he thin? Did he seem to want money?Did he ask after me? Did he send any message? Can you take me to wherehe is? Did he seem much broken down? Does he know we have been seekinghim? Lady Welter, for God's sake, do something to repair the wrong youdid him, and take me to where he is."
"I don't know where he is, I tell you. I saw him for just one moment. Hepicked up my hat in the Park. He was dressed like a groom. He came fromI know not where, like a ghost from the grave. He did not speak to me.He gave me my hat, and was gone. I do not know whose groom he is, but Ithink Welter knows. He will tell me to-night. I dared not ask himto-day, lest he should think I was going to see him. When I tell himwhere I have been, and describe what has passed here, he will tell me.Come to me to-morrow morning, and he shall tell you; that will bebetter. You have sense enough to see why."
"I see."
"Another thing. He has seen his sister Ellen. And yet another thing.When I ran away with Lord Welter, I had no idea of what had happened tohim--of this miserable _esclandre_. But you must have known that before,if you were inclined to do me justice. Come to-morrow morning. I must gonow."
And so she went to her carriage by herself after all. And William stoodstill on the stairs, triumphant. Charles was as good as found.
The two clergymen passed him on their way downstairs, and bade himgood-night. Then he returned to the drawing-room, and said--
"My lord, Lady Welter has seen Charles to-day, and spoken to him. WithGod's help, I will have him here with us to-morrow night."
It was half-past eleven. What Charles, in his headlong folly andstupidity, had contrived to do before this time, must be told inanother chapter--no, I have not patience to wait. My patience isexhausted. One act of folly following another so fast would exhaust thepatience of Job. If one did not love him so well, one would not be soangry with him. I will tell it here and have done with it. When he hadleft Adelaide, he had gone home with Hornby. He had taken the horses tothe stable; he had written a note to Hornby. Then he had packed up abundle of clothes, and walked quietly off.
Round by St. Peter's Church--he had no particular reason for goingthere, except, perhaps, that his poor foolish heart yearned that eveningto see some one who cared for him, though it were only a shoeblack.There was still one pair of eyes which would throw a light for oneinstant into the thick darkness which was gathering fast around him.
His little friend was there. Charles and he talked for a while, and atlast he said--
"You will not see me again. I am going to the war. I am going to Windsorto enlist in the Hussars, to-night."
"They will kill you," said the boy.
"Most likely," said Charles. "So we must say good-bye. Mind, now, you goto the school at night, and say that prayer I gave you on the paper. Wemust say good-bye. We had better be quick about it."
The boy looked at him steadily. Then he began to draw his breath in longsighs--longer, longer yet, till his chest seemed bursting. Then out itall came in a furious hurricane of tears, and he leant his head againstthe wall, and beat the bricks with his clenched hand.
"And I am never to see you no more! no more! no more!"
"No more," said Charles. But he thought he might soften the poor boy'sgrief; and he did think, too, at the moment, that he would go and seethe house where his kind old aunt lived, before he went away for ever;so he said--
"I shall be in South Audley Street, 167, to-morrow at noon. Now, youmust not cry, my dear. You must say good-bye."
And so he left him, thinking to see him no more. Once more, Charles,only once more, and then God help you!
He went off that night to Windsor, and enlisted in the 140th Hussars.