Ravenshoe

  CHAPTER LIII.

  CAPTAIN ARCHER TURNS UP.

  "Do not betray me, my lord," said Mary, from out of the gloom.

  "I will declare your malpractices to the four winds of heaven, MissCorby, as soon as I know what they are. Why, why do you come rustlinginto the room, like a mouse in the dark? Tell me at once what thishole-and-corner work means."

  "I will not, unless you promise not to betray me, Lord Saltire."

  "Now just think how foolish you are. How can I possibly make myselfparticeps, of what is evidently a most dark and nefarious business,without knowing beforehand what benefit I am to receive? You offer me noshare of booty; you offer me no advantage, direct or indirect, inexchange for my silence, except that of being put into possession offacts which it is probably dangerous to know anything about. How can youexpect to buy me on such terms as these?"

  "Well, then, I will throw myself on your generosity. I want_Blackwood_. If I can find _Blackwood_ now, I shall get a full hour atit to myself while you are all at dinner. Do you know where it is?"

  "Yes," said Lord Saltire.

  "Do tell me, please. I do so want to finish a story in it. Please totell me where it is."

  "I won't."

  "Why not? How very unkind. We have been friends eight months now, andyou are just beginning to be cross to me. You see how familiarity breedscontempt; you used to be so polite."

  "I shan't tell you where _Blackwood_ is," said Lord Saltire, "because Idon't choose. I don't want you to have it. I want you to sit here in thedark and talk to me, instead of reading it."

  "I will sit and talk to you in the dark; only you must not tell ghoststories."

  "I want you to sit in the dark," said Lord Saltire, "because I want tobe '_vox et praeterea nihil_.' You will see why, directly. My dear MaryCorby, I want to have some very serious talk with you. Let us joke nomore."

  Mary settled herself at once into the arm-chair opposite Lord Saltire,and, resting her cheek on her hand, turned her face towards the emptyfireplace. "Now, my dear Lord Saltire," she said, "go on. I think I cananticipate what you are going to say."

  "You mean about Charles."

  "Yes."

  "Ah, that is only a part of what I have to say. I want to consult youthere, certainly; but that is but a small part of the business."

  "Then I am curious."

  "Do you know, then, I am between eighty and ninety years old?"

  "I have heard so, my lord."

  "Well then, I think that the voice to which you are now listening willsoon be silent for ever; and do not take offence; consider it as a deadman's voice, if you will."

  "I will listen to it as the voice of a kind living friend," said Mary."A friend who has always treated me as a reasonable being and an equal."

  "That is true, Mary; you are so gentle and so clever, that is no wonder.See here, you have no private fortune."

  "I have my profession," said Mary, laughing.

  "Yes, but your profession is one in which it is difficult to rise,"said Lord Saltire, "and so I have thought it necessary to provide foryou in my will. For I must make a new one."

  Poor Mary gave a start. The announcement was so utterly unexpected. Shedid not know what to say or what to think. She had had long nightthoughts about poverty, old age, a life in a garret as a needlewoman,and so on; and had many a good cry over them, and had never found anyremedy for them except saying her prayers, which she always found aperfect specific. And here, all of a sudden, was the question solved!She would have liked to thank Lord Saltire. She would have liked to kisshis hand; but words were rather deficient. She tried to keep her tearsback, and she in a way succeeded; then in the honesty of her soul shespoke.

  "I will thank you more heartily, my lord, than if I went down on myknees and kissed your feet. All my present has been darkened by a greatcloud of old age and poverty in the distance. You have swept that cloudaway. Can I say more?"

  "On your life, not another word. I could have over-burdened you withwealth, but I have chosen not to do so. Twenty thousand pounds willenable you to live as you have been brought up. Believe an old man whenhe says that more would be a plague to you."

  "Twenty thousand pounds!"

  "Yes. That will bring you in, you will find, about six hundred a year.Take my word for it, it is quite enough. You will be able to keep yourbrougham, and all that sort of thing. Believe me, you would not be happywith more."

  "More!" said Mary, quietly. "My lord, look here, and see what you havedone. When the children are going to sleep, I sit, and sew, and sing,and, when they are gone to sleep, I still sit, and sew, and think. ThenI build my Spanish castles; but the highest tower of my castle has risento this--that in my old age I should have ten shillings a week left meby some one, and be able to keep a canary bird, and have some old womanas pensioner. And now--now--now. Oh! I'll be quiet in a moment. Don'tspeak to me for a moment. God is very good."

  I hope Lord Saltire enjoyed his snuff. I think that, if he did not, hedeserved to. After a pause Mary began again.

  "Have I left on you the impression that I am selfish? I am almost afraidI have. Is it not so? I have one favour to ask of you. Will you grantit?"

  "Certainly I will."

  "On your honour, my lord."

  "On my honour."

  "Reduce the sum you have mentioned to one-fourth. I have bound you byyour honour. Oh, don't make me a great heiress; I am not fit for it."

  Lord Saltire said, "Pish! If you say another word I will leave you tenthousand more. To the deuce with my honour; don't talk nonsense."

  "You said you were going to be quiet in a moment," he resumed presently."Are you quiet now?"

  "Yes, my lord, quiet and happy."

  "Are you glad I spoke to you in the dark?"

  "Yes."

  "You will be more glad that it was in the dark directly. Is CharlesRavenshoe quite the same to you as other men?"

  "No," said Mary; "that he most certainly is not. I could have answeredthat question _to you_ in the brightest daylight."

  "Humph!" said Lord Saltire. "I wish I could see him and you comfortablymarried, do you know? I hope I speak plain enough. If I don't, perhapsyou will be so good as to mention it, and I'll try to speak a littleplainer."

  "Nay; I quite understand you. I wonder if you will understand me, when Isay that such a thing is utterly and totally out of the question."

  "I was afraid so. You are a pair of simpletons. My dear daughter (youmust let me call you so), you must contemplate the contingency I havehinted at in the dark. I know that the best way to get a man rejected,is to recommend him; I therefore, only say, that John Marston loves youwith his whole heart and soul, and that he is a _protege_ of mine."

  "I am speaking to you as I would to my own father. John Marston asked meto be his wife last Christmas, and I refused him."

  "Oh, yes. I knew all about that the same evening. It was the eveningafter they were nearly drowned out fishing. Then there is no hope of areconsideration there?"

  "Not the least," said Mary. "My lord, I will never marry."

  "I have not distressed you?"

  "Certainly not. You have a right to speak as you have. I am not a sillyhysterical girl either, that I cannot talk on such subjects withoutaffectation. But I will never marry; I will be an old maid. I will writenovels, or something of that sort. I will not even marry Captain Archer,charm he never so wisely."

  "Captain Archer! Who on earth is Captain Archer?"

  "Don't you know Captain Archer, my lord?" replied Mary, laughingheartily, but ending her laugh with a short sob. "Avast heaving! Bear ahand, my hearties, and let us light this taper. I think you ought toread his letter. He is the man who swam with me out of the cruel sea,when the _Warren Hastings_ went down. That is who he is, Lord Saltire."And at this point, little Mary, thoroughly unhinged by this strangeconversation, broke down, and began crying her eyes out, and putting aletter into his hand, rose to leave the room.

  He held the door open for her. "My dear Mary," he s
aid, "if I have beencoarse or rude, you must try to forgive me."

  "Your straightforward kindness," she said, "is less confusing than themost delicate finesse." And so she went.

  Captain Archer is one of the very best men I know. If you and I, reader,continue our acquaintance, you will soon know more of him than you havebeen able to gather from the pages of Ravenshoe. He was in personperhaps the grandest and handsomest fellow you ever saw. He was gentle,brave, and courteous. In short, the best example I have ever seen of thebest class of sailor. By birth he was a gentleman, and he had carefullymade himself a gentleman in manners. Neither from his dress, which wasalways scrupulously neat and in good taste, nor from his conversation,would you guess that he was a sailor, unless in a very select circle,where he would, if he thought it pleased or amused, talk salt water bythe yard. The reason why he had written to Mary in the following stylewas, that he knew she loved it, and he wished to make her laugh. LordSaltire set him down for a mad seaman, and nothing more. You will seethat he had so thoroughly obscured what he meant to say, that he leftMary with the very natural impression that he was going to propose toher.

  He had done it, he said, from Port Philip Heads, in sixty-four days, atlast, in consequence of one of his young gentlemen (merchant midshipmen)having stole a black cat in Flinder's-lane, and brought her aboard. Hehad caught the westerly wind off the Leuwin and carried it down to 62deg., through the ice, and round the Horn, where he had met a cyclone,by special appointment, and carried the outside edge of it past theAuroras. That during this time it had blown so hard, that it wasnecessary for three midshipmen to be on deck with him night and day, tohold his hair on. That, getting too near the centre, he had found itnecessary to lay her to, which he had successfully done, by tying one ofhis false collars in the fore weather-rigging. And so on. Giving anabsurd account of his whole voyage, evidently with the intention ofmaking her laugh.

  He concluded thus: "And now, my dear Mary, I am going to surprise you. Iam getting rich, and I am thinking of getting married. Have you everthought of such a thing? Your present dependence must be irksome. Beginto contemplate a change to a happier and freer mode of life. I willexplain more fully when I come to you. I shall have much to tell youwhich will surprise you; but you know I love you, and only study yourhappiness. When the first pang of breaking off old associations is over,the new life, to such a quiet spirit as yours, becomes at firstbearable, then happy. A past is soon created. Think of what I have said,before I come to you. Your future, my dear, is not a very bright one. Itis a source of great anxiety to me, who love you so dearly--you littleknow how dearly."

  I appeal to any young lady to say whether or no dear Mary was to blameif she thought good, blundering Archer was going to propose to her. Ifthey give it against her, and declare that there is nothing in the aboveletter leading to such a conclusion, I can only say that Lord Saltirewent with her and with me, and regarded the letter as writtenpreparatory to a proposal. Archer's dismay, when we afterwards let himknow this, was delightful to behold. His wife was put in possession ofthe fact, by some one who shall be nameless, and I have heard that jollysoul use her information against him in the most telling manner oncritical occasions.

  But, before Captain Archer came, there came a letter from William, fromVarna, announcing Charles's death of cholera. There are melancholyscenes, more than enough, in this book, and alas! one more to come: so Imay spare you the description of their woe at the intelligence, which weknow to be false. The letter was closely followed by William himself,who showed them the grass from his grave. This helped to confirm theirimpression of its truth, however unreasonable. Lord Saltire had acorrespondence with the Horse Guards, long and windy, which resulted,after months, in discovering that no man had enlisted in the 140th underthe name of Horton. This proved nothing, for Charles might have enlistedunder a false name, and yet might have been known by his real name to anintimate comrade.

  Lord Saltire wrote to General Mainwaring. But, by the time his letterreached him, that had happened which made it easy for a fool to count onhis fingers the number of men left in the 140th. Among the dead or amongthe living, no signs of Charles Ravenshoe.

  General Mainwaring was, as we all know, wounded on Cathcart's Hill, andcame home. The news which he brought about the doings of the 140th weshall have from first hand. But he gave them no hope about Charles.

  Lord Saltire and General Mainwaring had a long interview, and a longconsultation. Lord Hainault and the General witnessed his will. Therewere some legacies to servants; twenty thousand pounds to Miss Corby;ten thousand to John Marston; fifty thousand pounds to Lady Ascot; andthe rest, amounting in one way or another, to nearly five hundredthousand pounds, was left to Lord Ascot (our old acquaintance, LordWelter) and his heirs for ever.

  There was another clause in the will, carefully worded--carefullyguarded about by every legal fence which could be erected by law, and bymoney to buy that law--to the effect that, if Charles should reappear,he was to come into a fortune of eighty thousand pounds, fundedproperty.

  Now please to mark this. Lord Ascot was informed by General Mainwaringthat, the death of Charles Ravenshoe being determined on as being afact, Lord Saltire had made his will in his (Lord Ascot's) favour. Ipray you to remember this. Lord Ascot knew no particulars, only that thewill was in his favour. If you do not keep this in mind, it would bejust as well if there had been no Lord Welter at all in the story.

  Ravenshoe and its poor twelve thousand a year begin to sink intoinsignificance, you see. But still we must attend to it. How didCharles's death affect Mackworth? Rather favourably. The property couldnot come into the hands of a Protestant now. William was a staunchCatholic, though rebellious and disagreeable. If anything happened tohim, why, then there was Ellen to be produced. Things might have beenbetter, certainly, but they were certainly improved by that young cub'sdeath, and by the cessation of all search for the marriage register. Andso on. If you care to waste time on it, you may think it all through foryourselves, as did not Father Mackworth.

  And I'll tell you why. Father Mackworth had had a stroke of paralysis,as men will have, who lead, as he did, a life of worry and excitement,without taking proper nourishment; and he was lying, half idiotic, inthe priest's tower at Ravenshoe.