Ravenshoe

  CHAPTER LXV.

  FATHER MACKWORTH PUTS THE FINISHING TOUCH ON HIS GREAT PIECE OFEMBROIDERY.

  And so we went. At Ravenshoe were assembled General Mainwaring, LadyAscot, Mary, Gus, Flora, Archy and nurse, William, Charles, FatherTiernay and Father Murtagh Tiernay, John Marston, and Tommy Cruse fromClovelly, a little fisherboy, cousin of Jane Evans's--Jane Evans, whowas to be Mrs. Ravenshoe.

  It became necessary that Jane Evans should be presented to Lady Ascot.She was only a fisherman's daughter, but she was wonderfully beautiful,and gentle, and good. William brought her into the hall one evening,when every one was sitting round the fire; and he said, "My dear madam,this is my wife that is to be." Nothing more.

  And the dear old woman rose and kissed her, and said, "My love, howwonderfully pretty you are. You must learn to love me, you know, and youmust make haste about it, because I am a very old woman, and I sha'n'tlive very long."

  So Jane sat down by Mary, and was at home, though a little nervous. AndGeneral Mainwaring came and sat beside her, and made himself asagreeable as very few men beside him know how to. And the fisherboy gotnext to William, and stared about with his great black eyes, like a deerin a flower-garden. (You caught that face capitally, Mr. Hook, if youwill allow me to say so--best painter of the day!)

  Jane Evans was an immense success. She had been to school six months atExeter, and had possibly been drilled in a few little matters; such ashow to ask a gentleman to hold her fan; how to sit down to the pianowhen asked to sing (which she couldn't do); how to marshal her companyto dinner; how to step into the car of a balloon; and so on. Thingsabsolutely necessary to know, of course, but which had nothing to dowith her success in this case; for she was so beautiful, gentle, andwinning, that she might have done anything short of eating with herknife, and would have been considered nice.

  Had she a slight Devonshire accent? Well, well! Do you know, I ratherlike it. I consider it equally so good with the Scotch, my dear.

  I could linger and linger on about this pleasant spring at oldRavenshoe, but I must not. You have been my companion so long that I amright loth to part with you. But the end is very near.

  Charles had his revenge upon the trout. The first day after he hadrecovered from his journey, he and William went out and did mostterrible things. William would not carry a rod, but gave his to theservant, and took the landing-net. That Ravenshoe stream carries theheaviest fish in Devonshire. Charles worked up to the waterfall, and gotnineteen, weighing fourteen pounds. Then they walked down to the weirabove the bridge, and then Charles's evil genius prompted him to say,"William, have you got a salmon-fly in your book?" And William told himthat he had, but solemnly warned him of what would happen.

  Charles was reckless and foolish. He, with a twelve-foot trout rod, andthirty yards of line, threw a small salmon fly under the weir above thebridge. There was a flash on the water. Charles's poor little reel beganscreaming, and the next moment the line came "flick" home across hisface, and he said, "By gosh, what a fool I was," and then he looked upto the bridge, and there was Father Mackworth looking at him.

  "How d'ye do, my dear sir," said Charles. "Glad to see you out. I havebeen trying to kill a salmon with trout tackle, and have done quite theother thing."

  Father Mackworth looked at him, but did not speak a word. Then he lookedround, and young Murtagh Tiernay came up and led him away; and Charlesgot up on the road and watched the pair going home. And as he saw thetall narrow figure of Father Mackworth creeping slowly along, dragginghis heels as he went, he said, "Poor old fellow, I hope he will live toforgive me."

  Father Mackworth, poor fellow, dragged his heels homeward; and when hegot into his room in the priest's tower, Murtagh Tiernay said to him,"My dear friend, you are not angry with me? I did not tell you that hewas come back, I thought it would agitate you."

  And Father Mackworth said slowly, for all his old decisive utterance wasgone, "The Virgin bless you, you are a good man."

  And Father Mackworth spoke truth. Both the Tiernays were good fellows,though papists.

  "Let me help you off with your coat," said Murtagh, for Mackworth wasstanding in deep thought.

  "Thank you," said Mackworth. "Now, while I sit here, go and fetch yourbrother."

  Murtagh Tiernay did as he was told. In a few minutes our good jolly oldIrish friend was leaning over Mackworth's chair.

  "Ye're not angry that we didn't tell ye there was company?" he said.

  "No, no," said Mackworth. "Don't speak to me, that's a good man. Don'tconfuse me. I am going. You had better send Murtagh out of the room."

  Father Murtagh disappeared.

  "I am going," said Mackworth. "Tiernay, we were not always good friends,were we?"

  "We are good friends, any way, now, brother," said Tiernay.

  "Ay, ay, you are a good man. I have done a wrong. I did it for the sakeof the Church partly, and partly----well, I was very fond of Cuthbert. Iloved that boy, Tiernay. And I spun a web. But it has all got confused.It is on this left side which feels so heavy. They shouldn't make one'sbrains in two halves, should they?"

  "Begorra no. It's a burning shame," said Father Tiernay, determining,like a true Irishman, to agree with every word said, and find out whatwas coming.

  "That being the case, my dear friend," said poor Mackworth, "give me theportfolio and ink, and we will let our dear brother Butler know, _deprofundis clamavi_, that the time is come."

  Father Tiernay said, "That will be the proper course," and got him penand ink, fully assured that another fit was coming on, and that he waswandering in his mind; but still watching to see whether he would letout anything. A true Irishman.

  Mackworth let out nothing. He wrote, as steadily as he could, a letterof two lines, and put it in an envelope. Then he wrote another letter ofabout three lines, and enclosed the whole in a larger envelope, andclosed it. Then he said to Father Tiernay, "Direct it to Butler, willyou, my dear friend; you quite agree that I have done right?"

  Father Tiernay said that he had done quite right; but wondered what thedickens it was all about. We soon found out. But we walked, and rode,and fished, and chatted, and played billiards, and got up charades withLady Ascot for an audience; not often thinking of the poor paralyticpriest in the lonely tower, and little dreaming of the mine which he wasgoing to spring under our feet.

  The rows (there is no other expression) that used to go on betweenFather Tiernay and Lady Ascot were as amusing as anything I ever heard.I must do Tiernay the justice to say that he was always perfectly wellbred, and also, that Lady Ascot began it. Her good temper, her humour,and her shrewdness were like herself; I can say no more. Tiernay dodged,and shuffled, and went from pillar to post, and was as witty andgood-humoured as an Irishman can be; but I, as a staunch Protestant, amof opinion that Lady Ascot, though nearly ninety, had the best of it. Idaresay good Father Tiernay don't agree with me.

  The younger Tiernay was always in close attendance on Mackworth. Everyone got very fond of this young priest. We used to wait until FatherMackworth was reported to be in bed, and then he was sent for. Andgenerally we used to make an excuse to go into the chapel, and LadyAscot would come, defiant of rheumatism, and we would get him to theorgan.

  And then--Oh, Lord! how he would make that organ speak, and plead, andpray, till the prayer was won. And then, how he would send aggregatedarmies of notes, marching in vast battalions one after another, out intospace, to die in confused melody; and then, how he would sound thetrumpet to recall them, and get no answer but the echo of the roof. Ah,well, I hope you are fond of music, reader.

  But one night we sent for him, and he could not come. And later we sentagain, but he did not come; and the man we had sent, being asked, lookeduneasy, and said he did not know why. By this time the ladies had goneto bed. General Mainwaring, Charles, William, John Marston, and myself,were sitting over the fire in the hall, smoking, and little Tommy Crusewas standing between William's knees.

  The candles and the fire were low. There was light
outside from aclouded moon, so that one could see the gleam of the sea out of themullioned windows. Charles was stooping down, describing the battle ofthe Alma on the hearthrug, and William was bending over, watching him,holding the boy between his knees, as I said. General Mainwaring waspuffing his cigar, and saying, "Yes, yes; that's right enough;" andMarston and I were, like William, looking at Charles.

  Suddenly the boy gave a loud cry, and hid his face in William's bosom. Ithought he had been taken with a fit. I looked up over GeneralMainwaring's head, and I cried out, "My God! what is this?"

  We were all on our legs in a moment, looking the same way. At the longlow mullioned window which had been behind General Mainwaring. Theclouded moonlight outside showed us the shape of it. But between us andit there stood three black figures, and as we looked at them, we drewone towards the other, for we were frightened. The General took twosteps forward.

  One of the figures advanced noiselessly. It was dressed in black, andits face was shrouded in a black hood. In that light, with that silent,even way of approaching, it was the most awful figure I ever saw. Andfrom under its hood came a woman's voice, the sound of which made theblood of more than one to stand still, and then go madly on again. Itsaid:--

  "I am Ellen Ravenshoe. My sins and my repentance are known to some here.I have been to the war, in the hospitals, till my health gave way, and Icame home but yesterday, as it were, and I have been summoned here.Charles, I was beautiful once. Look at this."

  And she drew her hood back, and we looked at her in the dim light.Beautiful once! Ay, but never so beautiful as now. The complexion wasdeadly pale, and the features were pinched, but she was more beautifulthan ever. I declare I believe that if we had seen a ring of glory roundher head at that moment none of us would have been surprised. Just then,her beauty, her nun's dress, and the darkness of the hall, assisted theillusion, probably; but there was really something saint-like andromantic about her, for an instant or so, which made us all standsilent. Alas! there was no ring of glory round her head. Poor Ellen wasonly bearing the cross; she had not won the crown.

  Charles was the first who spoke or moved; he went up to her, and kissedher, and said, "My sweet sister, I knew that if I ever saw you again Ishould see you in these weeds. My dear love, I am so glad to see you.And oh, my sister, how much more happy to see you dressed like that----"

  (Of course he did not use exactly those words, but words to that effect,only more passionate and even less grammatical. I am not a shorthandwriter. I only give you the substance of conversations in the best proseI can command.)

  "Charles," said she, "I do right to wear weeds, for I am the widowof--(Never mind what she said; that sort of thing very properly jars onProtestant ears). I am a sister of the Society of Mercy of St. Bridget,and I have been to the East, as I told you: and more than once I musthave been into the room where you lay, to borrow things, or talk withEnglish Catholic ladies, and never guessed you were there. After Hornbyhad found me at Hackney, I got leave from Father Butler to join an Irishsisterhood; for our mother was Irish in speech and in heart, youremember, though not by birth. I have something to say--something veryimportant. Father Mackworth, will you come here? Are all here intimatefriends of the family? Will you ask any of them to leave the hall,Charles?"

  "Not one," said Charles. "Is one of those dark figures which havefrightened us so much Father Mackworth? My dear sir, I am so sorry. Cometo the fire; and who is the other?"

  "Only Murtagh Tiernay," said a soft voice.

  "Why did you stand out there these few minutes? Father Mackworth, yourarm."

  William and Charles helped him in towards the fire. He looked terriblyill and ghastly. The dear old general took him from them, and sat himdown in his own chair by the fire; and there he sat looking curiouslyaround him, with the light of the wood fire and the candles strong onhis face, while Ellen stood behind him, with her hood thrown back, andher white hands folded on her bosom. If you have ever seen a strangergroup than we were, I should be glad to hear of it.

  Poor Mackworth seemed to think that it was expected of him to speak. Helooked up to General Mainwaring, and he said--

  "I hope you are better of your wound, sir. I have had a sharp stroke ofparalysis, and I have another coming on, sir, and my memory is going.When you meet my Lord Saltire, whom I am surprised to find absentto-night, you will tell him that I presented my compliments, and thoughtthat he had used me very well on the whole. Had she not better begin,sir? or it may be too late; unless you would like to wait for LordSaltire."

  Father Murtagh Tiernay knelt down and whispered to him.

  "Ay! ay!" he said, "Dead--ay! so he is, I had forgotten. We shall all bedead soon. Some of us will to hell, General, and some to heaven, and allto purgatory. I am a priest, sir. I have been bound body and soul to theChurch from a child, and I have done things which the Church willdisapprove of when they are told, though not while they are kept secret;and I tell them because the eyes of a dead man, of a man who was drownedbathing in the bay, haunt me day and night, and say, Speakout!--Murtagh!"

  Little Tiernay was kneeling beside him, and called his attention to him.

  "You had better give me the wine; for the end is getting very near. Tellher to begin."

  And while poor Mackworth was taking some wine (poor fellow, it waslittle enough he had taken in his lifetime), Ellen began to speak. I hadsome notion that we should know everything now. We had guessed the truthfor a long while. We had guessed everything about Petre Ravenshoe'smarriage. We believed in it. We seemed to know all about it, from LadyAscot. No link was wanting in the chain of proof, save one, the name ofthe place in which that marriage took place. That had puzzled every one.Lady Ascot declared it was a place in the north of Hampshire, as youwill remember, but every register had been searched there, withoutresult. So conceive how we all stared at poor Ellen when she began tospeak, wondering whether she knew as much as ourselves, or even more.

  "I am Miss Ravenshoe," she said quietly. "My brother Charles there isheir to this estate; and I have come here to-night to tell you so."

  There was nothing new here. We knew all about that. I stood up and putmy arm through Charles Ravenshoe's, and William came and laid his handupon my shoulder. The general stood before the fire, and Ellen went on.

  "Petre Ravenshoe was married in 1778 to Maria Dawson, and his son wasJames Ravenshoe, my father, who was called Horton, and was DensilRavenshoe's gamekeeper. I have proof of this."

  So had we. We knew all this. What did she know more? It was intolerablethat she was to stop just here, and leave the one awful pointunanswered. I forgot my good manners utterly; I clutched Charles's armtighter, and I cried out--

  "We know about the marriage, Miss Ravenshoe; we have known of it a longwhile. But where did it take place, my dear young lady? Where?"

  She turned on me and answered, wondering at my eagerness. _I_ hadbrought out the decisive words at last, the words that we had been dyingto hear for sixth months; she said--

  "At Finchampstead, in Berkshire; I have a copy of the certificate withme."

  I let go of Charles's arm, and fell back in my chair. My connection withthis story is over (except the trouble of telling it, which I beg youwon't mention, for it has given me as much pleasure as it has you; andthat, if you look at it in a proper point of view, is quite just, forvery few men have a friend who has met with such adventures as CharlesRavenshoe, who will tell them all about it afterwards). I fell back inmy chair, and stared at poor Father Mackworth as if he were a copperdisk, and I was trying to get into a sufficiently idiotic state to beelectro-biologised.

  "I have very little more to tell," said Ellen. "I was not aware that youknew so much. From Mr. William Marston's agitation, I conclude that Ihave supplied the only link which was missing. I think that FatherMackworth wishes to explain to you why he sent for me to come hereto-night. If he feels himself able to do so now, I shall be glad to bedismissed."

  Father Mackworth sat up in his chair, and spoke at once. He had gather
edhimself up for the effort, and went through it well, though with haltingand difficult speech.

  "I knew of Petre Ravenshoe's marriage from Father Clifford, with all theparticulars. It had been confessed to him. He told it to me the day Mrs.Ravenshoe died, after Densil Ravenshoe had told me that his second sonwas to be brought up to the Protestant faith. I went to him in a furiouspassion, and he told me about this previous marriage which had beenconfessed to him, to quiet me. It showed me, that if the worst were tohappen, and Cuthbert were to die, and Ravenshoe go to a Protestant, Icould still bring in a Catholic as a last resource. For if Cuthbert haddied, and Norah had not confessed about the changing of the children, Ishould have brought in James, and after him William, both Catholics,believing him to be the son of James and Norah. Do you understand?

  "Why did I not? I loved that boy Cuthbert. And it was told under seal ofconfession, and must not be used save in deadly extremity, and Williamwas a turbulent boy. Which would have been the greater crime at thattime? It was only a choice of evils, for the Church is very dear to me.

  "Then Norah confessed to me about the change of children, and then Isaw, that by speaking of Petre Ravenshoe's marriage I should only bringin a Protestant heir. But I saw, also, that, by using her confessiononly, I could prove Charles Ravenshoe to be merely a gamekeeper's son,and turn him out into the world, and so I used it, sir. You used toirritate and insult me, sir," he said, turning to Charles, "and I wasnot so near death then as now. If you can forgive me, in God's name sayso."

  Charles went over to him, and put his arm round him "Forgive you?" hesaid; "dear Mackworth, can you forgive me?"

  "Well, well!" he continued, "what have I to forgive, Charles? At onetime, I thought if I spoke that it would be better, because Ellen, theonly daughter of the house, would have had a great dower, as Ravenshoegirls have. But I loved Cuthbert too well. And Lord Welter stopped myeven thinking of doing so, by coming to Ravenshoe. And--and--we are allgentlemen here. The day that you hunted the black hare, I had beenscolding her for writing to him. And William and I made her mad betweenus, and she ran away to him. And she is with the army now, Charles. Ishould not fetch her back, Charles. She is doing very good work there."

  By this time she had drawn the black hood over her face, and wasstanding behind him, motionless.

  "I will answer any more questions you like to-morrow. Petre Ravenshoe'smarriage took place at Finchampstead, remember. Charles, my dear boy,would you mind kissing me? I think I always loved you, Charles. MurtaghTiernay, take me to my room."

  And so he went tottering away through the darkness. Charles opened thedoor for him. Ellen stood with her hood over her face, motionless.

  "I can speak like this with my face hidden," she said. "It is easy forone who has been through what I have, to speak. What I have been youknow, what I am now is--(she used one of those Roman Catholic forms ofexpression, which are best not repeated too often). I have a little toadd to this statement. William was cruel to me. You know you were. Youwere wrong. I will not go on. You were awfully unjust--you were horriblyunjust. The man who has just left the room had some slight right toupbraid me. You had none. You were utterly wrong. Mackworth, in one way,is a very high-minded honourable man. You made me hate you, William. Godforgive me. I have forgiven you now."

  "Yes; I was wrong," said William, "I was wrong. But Ellen, Ellen! beforeold friends, only with regard to the person."

  "When you treated me so ill, I was as innocent as your mother, sir. Letus go on. This man Mackworth knew more than you. We had some terriblescenes together about Lord Welter. One day he lost his temper, andbecame theatrical. He opened his desk and showed me a bundle of papers,which he waved in the air, and said they contained my future destiny.The next day I went to the carpenter's shop and took a chisel. I brokeopen his desk, and possessed myself of them. I found the certificate ofPetre Ravenshoe's marriage. I knew that you, William, as I thought, andI were the elder children. But I loved Cuthbert and Charles better thanyou or myself, and I would not speak. When, afterwards, Father Butlertold me while I was with Lord Welter, before I joined the sisters, ofthe astounding fact of the change of children, I still held my peace,because I thought Charles would be the better of penance for a year orso, and because I hesitated to throw the power of a house like thisinto heretic hands, though it were into the hands of my own brother.Mackworth and Butler were to some extent enemies, I think; for Butlerseems not to have told Mackworth that I was with him for some time, andI hardly know how he found it out at last. Three days ago I receivedthis letter from Mackworth, and after some hesitation I came. For Ithought that the Church could not be helped by wrong, and I wanted tosee that he concealed nothing. Here it is. I shall say no more."

  And she departed, and I have not seen her since. Perhaps she is bestwhere she is. I got a sight of the letter from Father Mackworth. It ranthus--

  "Come here at once, I order you. I am going to tell the truth. Charleshas come back. I will not bear the responsibility any longer."

  Poor Mackworth! He went back to his room, attended by the kind-heartedyoung priest, who had left his beloved organ at Segur, to come andattend to him. Lord Segur pished and pshawed, and did something more,which we won't talk about, for which he had to get absolution. ButMurtagh Tiernay stayed at Ravenshoe, defying his lordship, and hislordship's profane oaths, and making the Ravenshoe organ talk to FatherMackworth about quiet churchyards and silent cloisters; and sometimesraging on until the poor paralytic priest began to see the great gatesrolled back, and the street of the everlasting city beyond, crowded withglorious angels. Let us leave these two to their music. Before we wentto town for the wedding, we were sitting one night, and playing at loo,in the hall. (Not guinea unlimited loo, as they used to play at LordWelter's, but penny loo, limited to eighteen pence.) General Mainwaringhad been looed in miss four times running, making six shillings (analmost impossible circumstance, but true), and Lady Ascot had beenlaughing at him so, that she had to take off her spectacles and wipethem, when Murtagh Tiernay came into the hall, and took away Charles,and his brother Father Tiernay.

  The game was dropped soon after this. At Ravenshoe there was anold-fashioned custom of having a great supper brought into the hall atten. A silly old custom, seeing that every one had dined at seven.Supper was brought in, and every one sat down to table. All sorts ofthings were handed to one by the servants, but no one ate anything. Noone ever did. But the head of the table was empty, Charles was absent.

  After supper was cleared away, every one drew in a great circle roundthe fire, in the charming old-fashioned way one sees very seldom now,for a talk before we went to bed. But nobody talked much. Only LadyAscot said, "I shall not go upstairs till he comes back. General, youmay smoke your cigar, but here I sit."

  General Mainwaring would not smoke his cigar, even up the chimney.Almost before he had time to say so, Charles and Father Tiernay cameinto the room, without saying a word, and Charles, passing through thecircle, pushed the logs on the hearth together with his foot.

  "Charles," said Lady Ascot, "has anything happened?"

  "Yes, aunt."

  "Is he dead?"

  "Yes, aunt."

  "I thought so," said Lady Ascot, "I hope he has forgiven me any hardthoughts I had of him. I could have been brought to love that man intime. There were a great many worse men than he, sir," she added, in herold clear ringing tones, turning to Father Tiernay. "There were a greatmany worse men than he."

  "There were a great many worse men, Lady Ascot," said Father Tiernay."There have been many worse men with better opportunities. He was a goodman brought up in a bad school. A good man spoilt. General Mainwaring,you who are probably more honoured than any man in England just now, andare worthy of it; you who can't stop at a street corner without a crowdgetting together to hurrah to you; you, the very darling of the nation,are going to Oxford to be made an honorary Doctor of Laws. And when yougo into that theatre, and hear the maddening music of those boys' voicescheering you: then, general, don't get insan
e with pride, like Herod,but think what you might have been with Mackworth's opportunities."

  I think we all respected the Irishman for speaking up for his friend,although his speech might be extravagant. But I am sure that no onerespected him more sincerely than our valiant, humble, old friend,General Mainwaring.

  CHAPTER LXVI.

  GUS AND FLORA ARE NAUGHTY IN CHURCH, AND THE WHOLE BUSINESS COMES TO ANEND.

  Charles's purpose of being married in London held good. And I need notsay that William's held good too.

  Shall I insult your judgment by telling you that the whole story ofPetre Ravenshoe's marriage at Finchampstead was true? I think not. Theregister was found, the lawyers were busy down at Ravenshoe, for everyone was anxious to get up to London, and have the two marriages overbefore the season was too far advanced.

  The memorabilia about this time at Ravenshoe, were--The weather wasglorious. (I am not going to give you any more about the two capes, andthat sort of thing. You have had those two capes often enough. And I amreserving my twenty-ninth description of the Ravenshoe scenery for theconcluding chapter.) The weather, I say, was glorious. And I was alwaysbeing fetched in from the river, smelling fishy, and being made towitness deeds. I got tired of writing my name. I may have signed awaythe amount of the national debt in triplicate, for anything I know (orcare. For you can't get blood out of a stone). I signed some fifty ofthem, I think. But I signed two which gave me great pleasure.

  The first was a rent-charge on Ravenshoe of two thousand a year, infavour of William Ravenshoe. The second was a similar deed of fivehundred a year in favour of Miss Ravenshoe. We will now have done withall this sordid business, and go on.

  The ladies had all left for town, to prepare for the ceremony. There wasa bachelors' house at Ravenshoe for the last time. The weather was hot.Charles Ravenshoe, General Mainwaring, and the rest, were all lookingout of the dining-room windows towards the sea, when we were astonishedby seeing two people ride up on to the terrace, and stop before theporch.

  A noble-looking old gentleman, in a blue coat and brass buttons,knee-breeches and gaiters, on a cob, and a beautiful boy of sixteen on ahorse. _I_ knew well enough who it was, and I said, Ho! But the otherswondered. William would have known, had he been looking out of windowjust then, but by the time he got there, the old gentleman and the boywere in the porch, and two of Charles's men were walking the horses upand down.

  "Now, who the deuce is this?" said Charles. "They haven't come far; butI don't know them. I seem to know the old man, somehow; but I can'tremember."

  We heard the old gentleman's heavy step along the hall, and then thedoor was thrown open, and the butler announced, like a true Devonshireman--

  "Mr. Humby to Hele!"

  The old gentleman advanced with a frank smile and took Charles's hand,and said, "Welcome home, sir; welcome to your own; welcome to Ravenshoe.A Protestant at Ravenshoe at last. After so many centuries."

  Everybody had grown limp and faint when they heard the awful name ofHumby, that is to say, every one but me. Of course I had nothing to dowith fetching him over. Not at all. This was the first time that a Humbyhad had friendly communication with a Ravenshoe for seven hundred andeighty-nine years. The two families had quarrelled in 1066, inconsequence of John Humby having pushed against Kempion Ravenshoe, inthe grand rush across the Senlac, at the battle of Hastings. KempionRavenshoe had asked John Humby where he was shoving to, and John Humbyhad expressed a wish to punch Kempion Ravenshoe's head (or do what wentfor the same thing in those times. I am no antiquarian). The wound wasnever healed. The two families located themselves on adjoining estatesin Devonshire immediately after the Conquest, but never spoke till 1529,when Lionel Humby bit his thumb at our old friend, Alured Ravenshoe, inCardinal Wolsey's antechamber, at Hampton, and Alured Ravenshoe askedhim, what the devil he meant by that. They fought in Twickenham meadow,but held no relations for two hundred and fourteen years, that is tosay, till 1745, when Ambrose Ravenshoe squeezed an orange at ChichesterHumby, at an election dinner in Stonnington, and Body Fortescue went outas second to Chichester Humby, and Lord Segur to Ambrose Ravenshoe.After this the families did not speak again for one hundred and tenyears, that is to say, till the time we are speaking of, the end ofApril, 1855, when James Humby to Hele frightened us all out of our wits,by coming into the dining-room at Ravenshoe, in a blue coat and brassbuttons, and shaking hands with Charles, and saying, beside what I havewritten above--

  "Mrs. Humby and my daughters are in London for the season, and I go tojoin them the day after to-morrow. There has been a slight cloud betweenthe two houses lately" (that is to say, as we know it, for seven hundredand eighty-nine years. But what is time?) "and I wish to remove it. I amnot a very old man, but I have my whimsies, my dear sir. I wish mydaughters to appear among Miss Corby's bridesmaids, and do you know, Ifancy when you get to London that you will find the whole matterarranged."

  Who was to resist this? Old Humby went up in the train with all of usthe next day but one. And if I were asked to pick out the mostroystering, boisterous, jolly old county member in England, Scotland, orIreland, I should pick out old Humby of Hele. What fun he made at thestations where the express stopped! The way he allowed himself to befetched out of the refreshment-room by the guard, and then, at the lastmoment, engaged him in a general conversation about the administrationof the line, until the station-master was mad, and an accident imminent,was worthy of a much younger man, to say the least. But then, in a bluecoat and brass buttons, with drab small clothes, you may do anything.They are sure to take you for a swell. If I, William Marston, am everold enough, and fat enough, and rich enough, I shall dress like thatmyself, for reasons. If my figure does not develop, I shall try blackbr--ch--s and gaiters, with a shovel hat, and a black silk waistcoatbuttoned up under my throat. That very often succeeds. Either are betterthan pegtops and a black bowler hat, which strike no awe into thebeholders.

  When we all got to town, we were, of course, very busy. There was agreat deal of millinery business. Old Humby insisted on helping at it.One day he went to Madame Tulle's, in Conduit Street, with his wife andtwo daughters, and asked me to come too, for which I was sorry at first,for he behaved very badly, and made a great noise. We were in a greatsuite of rooms on the first floor, full of crinolines and that sort ofthing, and there were a great many people present. I was trying to keephim quiet, for he was cutting a good many clumsy jokes, as anold-fashioned country squire will. Everybody was amused with him, andthoroughly appreciated his fun, save his own wife and daughters, whowere annoyed; so I was trying to keep him quiet, when a tall,brown-faced, handsome young man came up to me and said--

  "I beg a thousand pardons; but is not your name Marston?"

  I said, "Yes."

  "You are a first cousin of John Marston, are you not?--of John Marston,whom I used to meet at Casterton?"

  I said, "Yes; that John Marston was my cousin." But I couldn't remembermy man, for all that.

  "You don't remember me! I met you once at old Captain Archer's, atLashbrook, for ten minutes. My wife has come here to buy fal-lals forCharles Ravenshoe's wedding. He is going to marry my cousin. My name isGeorge Corby. I have married Miss Ellen Blockstrop, daughter of AdmiralBlockstrop. Her eldest sister married young Captain Archer of themerchant service."

  I felt very faint, but I congratulated him. The way those Australians dobusiness shames us old-country folk. To get over a heavy disappointmentand be married in two months and a week is very creditable.

  "We bushmen are rough fellows," he said. (His manners were reallycharming. I never saw them beaten.) "But you old-country fellows mustexcuse us. Will you give me the pleasure of your acquaintance? I am sureyou must be a good fellow, for your cousin is one of the best fellows Iever knew."

  "I should be delighted." And I spoke the truth.

  "I will introduce you to my wife directly," he said; "but the fact is,she is just now having a row with Madame Tulle, the milliner here. Mywife is a deuced economical woman, and she wa
nts to show at theRavenshoe wedding in a white moire-antique, which will only cost fiftyguineas, and which she says will do for an evening dress in Australiaafterwards. And the Frenchwoman won't let her have it for the purpose,because she says it is incorrect. And I hope to Gad the Frenchwoman willwin, because my wife will get quite as good a gown to look at for twentyguineas or so."

  Squire Humby begged to be introduced. Which I did.

  "I am glad, sir," he said, "that my daughters have not heard yourconversation. It would have demoralised them, sir, for the rest of theirlives. I hope they have not heard the argument about the fifty-guineagown. If they have, I am a ruined man. It was one of you Australians whogave twelve hundred guineas for the bull, 'Master Butterfly,' the daybefore yesterday?"

  "Well, yes," said George Corby, "I bought the bull. He'll pay, sir,handsomely, in our part of the world."

  "The devil he will," said Squire Humby. "You don't know an opening for ayoung man of sixty-five, with a blue coat and brass buttons, whounderstands his business, in your part of the country, do you?"

  And so on. The weddings took place at St. Peter's, Eaton Square. If theghost of the little shoeblack had been hovering round the wall where hehad played fives with the brass button, he might have almost heard theceremony performed. Mary and Charles were not a handsome couple. Theenthusiasm of the population was reserved for William and Jane Evans,who certainly were. It is my nature to be a Jack-of-all-trades, and so Iwas entrusted with old Master Evans, Jane's father, a magnificent oldsea-king, whom we have met before. We two preferred to go to churchquietly before the others, and he, refusing to go into a pew, foundhimself a place in the free seats, and made himself comfortable. So Iwent out into the porch, and waited till they came.

  I waited till the procession had gone in, and then I found that the tailof it was composed of poor Lord Charles Herries' children, Gus, Flora,and Archy, with their nurse.

  If a bachelor is worth his salt, he will make himself useful. I saw thatnurse was in distress and anxious, so I stayed with her.

  Archy was really as good as gold till he met with his accident. Hewalked up the steps with nurse as quiet as possible. But even at first Ibegan to get anxious about Gus and Flora. They were excited. Guswouldn't walk up the steps; but he put his two heels together, andjumped up them one at a time, and Flora walked backwards, looking at himsarcastically. At the top step but one Gus stumbled; whereupon Florasaid, "Goozlemy, goozlemy, goozlemy."

  And Gus said, "you wait a minute, my lady, till we get into church,"after which awful speech I felt as if I was smoking in a powdermagazine.

  I was put into a pew with Gus, and Flora, and Archy. Nurse, in hermodesty, went into the pew behind us.

  I am sorry to say that these dear children, with whom I had had noprevious acquaintance, were very naughty. The ceremony began by Archygetting too near the edge of his hassock, falling off, pitching againstthe pew door, bursting it open, and flying out among the free seats,head foremost. Nurse, a nimble and dexterous woman, dashed out, andcaught him up, and actually got him out of the church door before he hadtime to fetch his breath for a scream. Gus and Flora were left alonewith me.

  Flora had a great scarlet and gold church service. As soon as she openedit, she disconcerted me by saying aloud, to an imaginary female friend,"My dear, there is going to be a collection; and I have left my purse onthe piano."

  At this time, also, Gus, seeing that the business was well begun,removed to the further end of the pew, sat down on the hassock, and tookfrom his trousers' pocket a large tin trumpet.

  I broke out all over in a cold perspiration as I looked at him. He sawmy distress, and putting it to his lips, puffed out his cheeks. Floraadministered comfort to me. She said, "You are looking at that foolishboy. Perhaps he won't blow it, after all. He mayn't if you don't look athim. At all events, he probably won't blow it till the organ begins; andthen it won't matter so much."

  Matters were so hopeless with me that I looked at old Master Evans. Hehad bent down his head on to the rail of the bench before him. Hisbeautiful daughter had been his only companion at home for many years,for his wife had died when Jane was a little bare-legged thing, whopaddled in the surf. It had been a rise in life for her to marry Mr.Charles Ravenshoe's favourite pad-groom. And just now she had walkedcalmly and quietly up the aisle, and had stopped when she came to wherehe sat, and had pushed the Honiton-lace veil from her forehead, andkissed his dear old cheek: and she would walk back directly as Mrs.William Ravenshoe. And so the noble old privateer skipper had bent down,and there was nothing to be seen there but a grey head and broadshoulders, which seemed to shake.

  And so I looked up to the east end. And I saw the two couples kneelingbefore the clergyman. And when I, knowing everything as I did, sawCharles kneeling beside Mary Corby, with Lord Ascot, great burly, brutalgiant, standing behind him, I said something which is not in themarriage service of the Church of England. After it all, to see him andher kneeling so quietly there together! We were all happy enough thatday. But I don't think that any one was much happier than I. For I knewmore than any one. And also, three months from that time, I married mypresent wife, Eliza Humby. And the affair had only been arranged twodays. So I was in good spirits.

  At least I should have been, if it had not been for Lord CharlesHerries' children. I wish those dear children (not meaning them anyharm) had been, to put it mildly, at play on the village green, thatblessed day.

  When I looked at Gus again, he was still on the hassock, threateningpropriety with his trumpet. I hoped for the best. Flora had herprayer-book open, and was playing the piano on each side of it, with herfingers. After a time she looked up at me, and said out loud--

  "I suppose you have heard that Archy's cat has kittened?"

  I said, "No."

  "Oh, yes, it has," she said. "Archy harnessed it to his meal cart, whichturns a mill, and plays music when the wheels go round; and it randownstairs with the cart; and we heard the music playing as it went; andit kittened in the wood-basket immediately afterwards; and Alwrightsays she don't wonder at it; and no more do I; and the steward's-roomboy is going to drown some. But you mustn't tell Archy, because, if youdo, he won't say his prayers; and if he don't say his prayers, he will,"&c., &c. Very emphatically and in a loud tone of voice.

  This was very charming. If I could only answer for Gus, and keep Florabusy, it was wildly possible that we might pull through. If I had notbeen a madman, I should have noticed that Gus had disappeared.

  He had. And the pew door had never opened, and I was utterlyunconscious. Gus had crawled up, on all fours, under the seat of thepew, until he was opposite the calves of his sister's legs, againstwhich calves, _horresco referens_, he put his trumpet and blew a longshrill blast. Flora behaved very well and courageously. She only gaveone long, wild shriek, as from a lunatic in a padded cell at Bedlam, andthen, hurling her prayer-book at him, she turned round and tried to kickhim in the face.

  This was the culminating point of my misfortunes. After this, theybehaved better. I represented to them that every one was just coming outof the vestry, and that they had better fight it out in the carriagegoing home. Gus only made an impertinent remark about Flora's garters,and Flora only drew a short, but trenchant, historical parallel betweenGus and Judas Iscariot; when the brides and bridegrooms came down theaisle, and we all drove off to Charles's house in Eaton Square.

  And so, for the first time, I saw all together, with my own eyes, theprincipal characters in this story. Only one was absent. Lord Saltire. Ihad seen him twice in my life, and once had the honour of a conversationwith him. He was a man about five feet eleven, very broad shouldered,and with a very deep chest. As far as the animal part of him went, Icame to the conclusion, from close and interested examination for twentyminutes, that he had, fifty or sixty years before, been a man with whomit would have been pleasanter to argue than to box. His make wasmagnificent. Phrenologically speaking, he had a very high square head,very flat at the sides: and, when I saw him, when he was ne
arly eighty,he was the handsomest old man I had ever seen. He had a florid, purecomplexion. His face was without a wrinkle. His eyebrows were black, andhis hair seemed to refuse to be grey. There was as much black as grey init to the last. His eye was most extraordinary--a deep blue-grey. I canlook a man as straight in the face as any one; but when Lord Saltireturned those eyes on me three or four times in the course of ourinterview, I felt that it was an effort to meet them. I felt that I wasin the presence of a man of superior vitality to my own. We were havinga talk about matters connected with Charles Ravenshoe, which I have notmentioned, because I want to keep myself, William Marston, as much outof this story as possible. And whenever this terrible old man looked atme, asking a question, I felt my eyebrows drawing together, and knewthat I was looking _defiantly_ at him. He was the most extraordinary manI ever met. He never took office after he was forty. He played withpolitics. He was in heart, I believe (no one knows), an advanced Whig.He chose to call himself Tory. He played the Radical game very deep,early in life, and, I think, he got disgusted with party politics. Thelast thing the old Radical atheist did in public life was to rally up tothe side of the Duke in opposition to the Reform Bill. And another factabout him is, that he had always a strong personal affection for SirFrancis.

  He was a man of contradictions, if one judges a man by Whig and Toryrules; but he was a great loss to the public business of the country. Hemight have done almost anything in public life, with his calm clearbrain. My cousin John thinks that Lord Barkham's death was the cause ofhis retirement.

  So much about Lord Saltire. Of the other characters mentioned in thisstory, I will speak at once, just as I saw them sitting round the tableat Charles and William Ravenshoe's wedding.

  I sat beside Eliza Humby. She was infinitely the most beautiful, clever,and amiable being that the world ever produced. (But that is mybusiness, not yours.) Charles Ravenshoe sat at the head of the table,and I will leave him alone for a minute. I will give you my impressionsof the other characters in this story, as they appeared to me.

  Mary was a very charming-looking little person indeed, very short, andwith small features. I had never seen her before, and had never heardany one say that she was pretty. I thought her very pretty indeed. JaneEvans was an exceedingly beautiful Devonshire girl. My eye did not restvery long on her. It came down the table to William, and there itstopped.

  I got Eliza Humby to speak to him, and engage him in conversation whileI looked at him. I wanted to see whether there was anything remarkablein his face, for a more remarkable instance of disinterested goodwillthan his determining to find Charles and ruin himself, I never happenedto have heard of.

  Well, he was very handsome and pleasing, with a square determined lookabout the mouth, such as men brought up among horses generally have.But I couldn't understand it, and so I spoke to him across Lizzie, and Isaid, casting good manners to the winds, "I should think that the onlything you regretted to-day was, that you had not been alongside ofCharles at Balaclava;" and then I understood it, for when I mentionedCharles and Balaclava, I saw for one instant not a groom, but a poet.Although, being a respectable and well-conducted man, he has neverwritten any poetry, and probably never will.

  Then I looked across the table at Lady Ascot. They say that she wasnever handsome. I can quite believe that. She was a beautiful old womancertainly, but then all old women are beautiful. Her face was verysquare, and one could see that it was capable of very violent passion;or could, knowing what one did, guess so. Otherwise there was nothingvery remarkable about her except that she was a remarkably charming oldlady. She was talking to General Mainwaring, who was a noble-looking oldsoldier.

  Nothing more. In fact, the whole group were less remarkable andtragical-looking than I thought they would have been. I was disappointeduntil I came to Lord Ascot, and then I could not take my eyes off him.

  There was tragedy enough there. There was coarse brutality and passionenough, in all conscience. And yet that man had done what he had done.Here was a puzzle with a vengeance.

  Lord Ascot, as I saw him now, for the first time, was simply a low-bredand repulsive-looking man. In stature he was gigantic, in every respectsave height. He was about five feet nine, very deep about the chest. Hishair was rather dark, cut close. His face was very florid, and perfectlyhairless. His forehead was low. His eyes were small, and close together.His eyebrows were heavy, and met over his nose, which was short andsquare. His mouth was large; and when you came to his mouth, you came tothe first tolerable feature in his face. When he was speaking to no onein particular, the under lip was set, and the whole face, I am sorry tosay, was the sort of face which is quite as often seen in the dock, asin the witness-box (unless some gentleman has turned Queen's evidence).And this was the man who had risked a duke's fortune, because "Therewere some things a fellow couldn't do, you know."

  It was very puzzling till he began to speak about his grandmother, andthen his lower lip pouted out, his eyebrows raised, his eyes were apart,and he looked a different man. Is it possible that if he had not beenbrought up to cock-fighting and horse-racing, among prize-fighters andjockeys, that he might have been a different man? I can't say, I amsure.

  Lord and Lady Hainault were simply a very high-bred, very handsome, andvery charming pair of people. I never had the slightest personalacquaintance with either of them. My cousin knows them both veryintimately, and he says there are not two better people in the world.

  Charles Ravenshoe rose to reply to General Mainwaring's speech,proposing the brides and bridegrooms, and I looked at him verycuriously. He was pale, from his recent illness, and he never washandsome. But his face was the face of a man whom I should fancy mostpeople would get very fond of. When we were schoolfellows at Shrewsbury,he was a tall dark-haired boy, who was always laughing, and kicking up arow, and giving his things away to other fellows. Now he was a tall,dark, melancholy-looking man, with great eyes and lofty eyebrows. Hisvivacity, and that carriage which comes from the possession of greatphysical strength, were gone; and while I looked at him, I felt tenyears older. Why should I try to describe him further? He is not soremarkable a man as either Lord Ascot or William. But he was the bestman I ever knew.

  He said a few kind hearty words, and sat down, and then Lord Ascot gotup. And I took hold of Lizzie's hand with my left; and I put my rightelbow on the table and watched him intensely, with my hand shading myface. He had a coat buttoned over his great chest, and as he spoke hekept on buttoning and unbuttoning it with his great coarse hand. Hesaid--

  "I ain't much hand at this sort of thing. I suppose those two Marstons,confound them, are saying to themselves that I ought to be, because I amin the House of Lords. That John Marston is a most impudent beggar, andI shall expect to see his friend to-morrow morning. He always was, youknow. He has thwarted me all through my life. I wanted Charles Ravenshoeto go to the deuce, and I'll be hanged if he'd let him. And it is not tobe borne."

  There was a general laugh at this, and Lord Ascot stretched his handacross General Mainwaring, and shook hands with my cousin.

  "You men just go out of the room, will you?" (the servants departed, andLord Ascot went to the door to see they were not listening. I thoughtsome revelation was coming, but I was mistaken.) "You see I am obligedto notice strangers, because a fellow may say things among old friendswhich he don't exactly care to before servants.

  "It is all very well to say I'm a fool. That is very likely, and may betaken for granted. But I am not such a fool as not to know that a verystrong prejudice exists against me in the present society."

  Every one cried out, "No, no!" Of all the great wedding breakfasts thatseason, this was certainly the most remarkable. Lord Ascot went on. Hewas getting the savage look on his face now.

  "Well, well! let that pass. Look at that man at the head of thetable--the bridegroom. Look at him. You wonder that I did what I did.I'll tell you why. I love that fellow. He is what I call a man, GeneralMainwaring. I met that fellow at Twyford years ago, and he has alwaysbeen the
same to me since. You say I served him badly once. That is trueenough. You insulted me once in public about it, Hainault. You werequite right. Say you, I should not talk about it to-day. But when wecome to think how near death's gates some of us have been since then,you will allow that this wedding day has something very solemn about it.

  "My poor wife has broken her back across that infernal gate, and so shecould not come. I must ask you all to think kindly of that wife of mine.You have all been very kind to her since her awful accident. She hasasked me to thank you.

  "I rose to propose a toast, and I have been carried away by a personalstatement, which, at every other wedding breakfast I ever heard of, itwould be a breach of good manners to make. It is not so on thisoccasion. Terrible things have befallen every one of us here present.And I suppose we must try all of us to--hey!--to--hah!--well, to dobetter in future.

  "I rose, I said, to propose a toast. I rose to propose the mostblameless and excellent woman I ever knew. I propose that we drink thehealth of my grandmother, Lady Ascot."

  And oh! but we leapt to our feet and drank it. Manners to the winds,after what we had gone through. There was that solemn creature, LordHainault, with his champagne glass in his hand, behaving like aschoolboy, and giving us the time. And then, when her dear grey head wasbent down over the table, buried in her hands, my present father-in-law,Squire Humby, leapt to his feet like a young giant, and called out forthree times three for Lord Ascot. And we had breath enough left to dothat handsomely, I warrant you. The whole thing was incorrect in thehighest degree, but we did it. And I don't know that any of us wereashamed of it afterwards.

  And while the carriages were getting ready, Charles said, would we walkacross the square. And we all came with him. And he took us to a pieceof dead white wall, at the east end of St. Peter's Church, opposite thecab-stand. And then he told us the story of the little shoeblack, andhow his comical friendship for that boy had saved him from what it wouldnot do to talk about.

  * * * * *

  But there is a cloud on Charles Ravenshoe's face, even now. I saw himlast summer lying on the sand, and playing with his eldest boy. And thecloud was on him then. There was no moroseness, no hardness in theexpression; but the face was not the merry old face I knew so well atShrewsbury and Oxford. There is a dull, settled, dreaming melancholythere still. The memory of those few terrible months has cast its shadowupon him. And the shadow will lie, I fancy, upon that forehead, and willdim those eyes, until the forehead is smoothed in the sleep of death,and the eyes have opened to look upon eternity.

  Good-bye.

  WARD, LOCK AND BOWDEN, LTD., LONDON, NEW YORK AND MELBOURNE.

  FOOTNOTES:

  [1] The best banisters for sliding down are broad oak ones, with a ribin the middle. This new narrow sort, which is coming in, are wretched.

  [2] The short description of the University boat-race which begins thischapter was written two years ago, from the author's recollections ofthe race of 1852. It would do for a description of this year's race,quite as well as of any other year, substituting "Cambridge" for"Oxford," according to the year.

  [3] I mean C. M.

  [4] A fact with regard to one tribe, to the author's frequent confusion.Any number above two, whether of horses, cattle, or sheep, was alwaysrepresented as being eighty-four. Invariably, too, with an adjectiveintroduced after the word "four," which we don't use in a drawing-room.

  [5] Once for all, let me call every honest reader to witness, that,unless I speak in the first person, I am not bound to the opinions ofany one of the characters in this book. I have merely made people speak,I think, as they would have spoken. Even in a story, consisting soentirely of incident as this, I feel it necessary to say so much, for nokind of unfairness is so common as that of identifying the opinions of astory-teller with those of his _dramatis personae_.

  [6] As a matter of curiosity I tried to write this paragraph from theword "Mary," to the word "bosom," without using a single word derivedfrom the Latin. After having taken all possible pains to do so, I foundthere were eight out of forty-eight. I think it is hardly possible toreduce the proportion lower, and I think it is undesirable to reduce itso low.

  [7] Which is a crib from Sir E. B. L. B. L.

  [8] The most famous voyage of the _Himalaya_, from Cork to Varna intwelve days with the Fifth Dragoon Guards, took place in June. Thevoyage here described, is, as will be perceived a subsequent one, butequally successful, apparently.

  [9] If one has to raise an imaginary regiment, one must put it in animaginary place. The 17th Dragoons must try to forgive me.

  [10] These names actually occur, side by side, in my newspaper (_TheField_), to which I referred for three names. They are in training byHenry Hall, at Hambleton, in Yorkshire. Surely men could find betternames for their horses than such senseless ones as these. I would thatwas all one had to complain of. I hope the noble old sport is not on itslast legs. But one trembles to think what will become of it, when thecomparatively few high-minded men who are keeping things straight aregone.

  [11] Perhaps a reference to "The Wild Huntsman" will stop all criticismat this point. A further reference to "Faust" will also show that I amin good company.

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