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RAVENSHOE
[Illustration: CHARLES IN THE BALACLAVA CHARGE.
_Drawn by R. Caton Woodville._
_Ravenshoe._ _Page 355._]
RAVENSHOE
by
HENRY KINGSLEY
New Edition--Third Thousand
With a Frontispiece by R. Caton Woodville
London
Ward, Lock and Bowden, Limited
Warwick House, Salisbury Square, E.C.
New York and Melbourne
1894
[All rights reserved]
To
MY BROTHER,
CHARLES KINGSLEY,
I DEDICATE THIS TALE,
IN TOKEN OF A LOVE WHICH ONLY GROWS STRONGER
AS WE BOTH GET OLDER.
PREFACE.
The language used in telling the following story is not (as I hope the
reader will soon perceive) the Author's, but Mr. William Marston's.
The Author's intention was, while telling the story, to develop, in the
person of an imaginary narrator, the character of a thoroughly
good-hearted and tolerably clever man, who has his fingers (as he would
say himself) in every one's pie, and who, for the life of him, cannot
keep his own counsel--that is to say, the only person who, by any
possibility, could have collected the mass of family gossip which makes
up this tale.
Had the Author told it in his own person, it would have been told with
less familiarity, and, as he thinks, you would not have laughed quite so
often.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
CHAPTER I
AN ACCOUNT OF THE FAMILY OF RAVENSHOE 1
CHAPTER II.
SUPPLEMENTARY TO THE FOREGOING 10
CHAPTER III.
IN WHICH OUR HERO'S TROUBLES BEGIN 14
CHAPTER IV.
FATHER MACKWORTH 20
CHAPTER V.
RANFORD 23
CHAPTER VI.
THE "WARREN HASTINGS" 34
CHAPTER VII.
IN WHICH CHARLES AND LORD WELTER DISTINGUISH
THEMSELVES AT THE UNIVERSITY 44
CHAPTER VIII.
JOHN MARSTON 50
CHAPTER IX.
ADELAIDE 57
CHAPTER X.
LADY ASCOT'S LITTLE NAP 63
CHAPTER XI.
GIVES US AN INSIGHT INTO CHARLES'S DOMESTIC RELATIONS,
AND SHOWS HOW THE GREAT CONSPIRATOR
SOLILOQUISED TO THE GRAND CHANDELIER 69
CHAPTER XII.
CONTAINING A SONG BY CHARLES RAVENSHOE, AND ALSO
FATHER TIERNAY'S OPINION ABOUT THE FAMILY 79
CHAPTER XIII.
THE BLACK HARE 86
CHAPTER XIV.
LORD SALTIRE'S VISIT, AND SOME OF HIS OPINIONS 92
CHAPTER XV.
CHARLES'S "LIDDELL AND SCOTT" 99
CHAPTER XVI.
MARSTON'S ARRIVAL 104
CHAPTER XVII.
IN WHICH THERE IS ANOTHER SHIPWRECK 107
CHAPTER XVIII.
MARSTON'S DISAPPOINTMENT 114
CHAPTER XIX.
ELLEN'S FLIGHT 121
CHAPTER XX.
RANFORD AGAIN 124
CHAPTER XXI.
CLOTHO, LACHESIS, AND ATROPOS 131
CHAPTER XXII.
THE LAST GLIMPSE OF OXFORD 139
CHAPTER XXIII.
THE LAST GLIMPSE OF THE OLD WORLD 142
CHAPTER XXIV.
THE FIRST GLIMPSE OF THE NEW WORLD 146
CHAPTER XXV.
FATHER MACKWORTH BRINGS LORD SALTIRE TO BAY, AND WHAT CAME OF IT 152
CHAPTER XXVI.
THE GRAND CRASH 160
CHAPTER XXVII.
THE COUP DE GRACE 167
CHAPTER XXVIII.
FLIGHT 176
CHAPTER XXIX.
CHARLES'S RETREAT UPON LONDON 180
CHAPTER XXX.
MR. SLOANE 185
CHAPTER XXXI.
LIEUTENANT HORNBY 190
CHAPTER XXXII.
SOME OF THE HUMOURS OF A LONDON MEWS. 194
CHAPTER XXXIII.
A GLIMPSE OF SOME OLD FRIENDS 200
CHAPTER XXXIV.
IN WHICH FRESH MISCHIEF IS BREWED 203
CHAPTER XXXV.
IN WHICH AN ENTIRELY NEW, AND, AS WILL BE SEEN
HEREAFTER, A MOST IMPORTANT CHARACTER IS
INTRODUCED 211
CHAPTER XXXVI.
THE DERBY 219
CHAPTER XXXVII.
LORD WELTER'S MÉNAGE 227
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
THE HOUSE FULL OF GHOSTS 235
CHAPTER XXXIX.
CHARLES'S EXPLANATION WITH LORD WELTER 242
CHAPTER XL.
A DINNER PARTY AMONG SOME OLD FRIENDS 246
CHAPTER XLI.
CHARLES'S SECOND EXPEDITION TO ST. JOHN'S WOOD 252
CHAPTER XLII.
RAVENSHOE HALL, DURING ALL THIS 261
CHAPTER XLIII.
THE MEETING 270
CHAPTER XLIV.
ANOTHER MEETING 275
CHAPTER XLV.
HALF A MILLION 285
CHAPTER XLVI.
TO LUNCH WITH LORD ASCOT 288
CHAPTER XLVII.
LORD HAINAULT'S BLOTTING-BOOK 302
CHAPTER XLVIII.
IN WHICH CUTHBERT BEGINS TO SEE THINGS IN A NEW LIGHT 309
CHAPTER XLIX.
THE SECOND COLUMN OF "THE TIMES" OF THIS DATE, WITH OTHER MATTERS 317
CHAPTER L.
SHREDS AND PATCHES 320
CHAPTER LI.
IN WHICH CHARLES COMES TO LIFE AGAIN 327
CHAPTER LII.
WHAT LORD SALTIRE AND FATHER MACKWORTH SAID
WHEN THEY LOOKED OUT OF THE WINDOW 335
CHAPTER LIII.
CAPTAIN ARCHER TURNS UP 343
CHAPTER LIV.
CHARLES MEETS HORNBY AT LAST 349
CHAPTER LV.
ARCHER'S PROPOSAL 358
CHAPTER LVI.
SCUTARI 369
CHAPTER LVII.
WHAT CHARLES DID WITH HIS LAST EIGHTEEN SHILLINGS 374
CHAPTER LVIII.
THE NORTH SIDE OF GROSVENOR SQUARE 379
CHAPTER LIX.
LORD ASCOT'S CROWNING ACT OF FOLLY 391
CHAPTER LX.
THE BRIDGE AT LAST 400
CHAPTER LXI.
SAVED 411
CHAPTER LXII.
MR. JACKSON'S BIG TROUT 415
CHAPTER LXIII.
IN WHICH GUS CUTS FLORA'S DOLL'S CORNS 420
CHAPTER LXIV.
THE ALLIED ARMIES ADVANCE ON RAVENSHOE 423
CHAPTER LXV.
FATHER MACKWORTH PUTS THE FINISHING TOUCH ON
HIS GREAT PIECE OF EMBROIDERY 427
CHAPTER LXVI.
GUS AND FLORA ARE NAUGHTY IN CHURCH, AND THE
WHOLE BUSINESS COMES TO AN END 438
RAVENSHOE.
CHAPTER I.
AN ACCOUNT OF THE FAMILY OF RAVENSHOE.
I had intended to have gone into a family history of the Ravenshoes,
from the time of Canute to that of her present Majesty, following it
down through every change and revolution, both secular and religious;
which would have been deeply interesting, but which would have taken
more hard reading than one cares to undertake for nothing. I had meant,
I say, to have been quite diffuse on the annals of one of our oldest
commoner families; but, on going into the subject, I found I must either
chronicle little affairs which ought to have been forgotten long ago, or
do my work in a very patchy and inefficient way. When I say that the
Ravenshoes have been engaged in every plot, rebellion, and civil war,
from about a century or so before the Conquest to 1745, and that the
history of the house was marked by cruelty and rapacity in old times,
and in those more modern by political tergiversation of the blackest
dye, the reader will understand why I hesitate to say too much in
reference to a name which I especially honour. In order, however, that I
may give some idea of what the hereditary character of the family is, I
must just lead the reader's eye lightly over some of the principal
events of their history.
The great Irish families have, as is well known, a banshee, or familiar
spirit, who, previous to misfortune or death, flits moaning round the
ancestral castle. Now although the Ravenshoes, like all respectable
houses, have an hereditary lawsuit; a feud (with the Humbys of Hele); a
ghost (which the present Ravenshoe claims to have repeatedly seen in
early youth); and a buried treasure: yet I have never heard that they
had a banshee. Had such been the case, that unfortunate spirit would
have had no sinecure of it, but rather must have kept howling night and
day for nine hundred years or so, in order to have got through her work
at all. For the Ravenshoes were almost always in trouble, and yet had a
facility of getting out again, which, to one not aware of the cause, was
sufficiently inexplicable. Like the Stuarts, they had always taken the
losing side, and yet, unlike the Stuarts, have always kept their heads
on their shoulders, and their house over their heads. Lady Ascot says
that, if Ambrose Ravenshoe had been attainted in 1745, he'd have been
hung as sure as fate: there was evidence enough against him to hang a
dozen men. I myself, too, have heard Squire Densil declare, with great
pride, that the Ravenshoe of King John's time was the only Baron who did
not sign Magna Charta; and if there were a Ravenshoe at Runnymede, I
have not the slightest doubt that such was the case. Through the Rose
wars, again, they were always on the wrong side, whichever that might
have been, because your Ravenshoe, mind you, was not bound to either
side in those times, but changed as he fancied fortune was going. As
your Ravenshoe was the sort of man who generally joined a party just
when their success was indubitable--that is to say, just when the
reaction against them was about to set in--he generally found himself
among the party which was going down hill, who despised him for not
joining them before, and opposed to the rising party, who hated him
because he had declared against them. Which little game is common enough
in this present century among some men of the world, who seem, as a
general rule, to make as little by it as ever did the Ravenshoes.
Well, whatever your trimmers make by their motion nowadays, the
Ravenshoes were not successful either at liberal conservatism or
conservative liberalism. At the end of the reign of Henry VII. they were
as poor as Job, or poorer. But, before you have time to think of it,
behold, in 1530, there comes you to court a Sir Alured Ravenshoe, who
incontinently begins cutting in at the top of the tune, swaggering,
swearing, dressing, fighting, dicing, and all that sort of thing, and,
what is more, paying his way in a manner which suggests successful
burglary as the only solution. Sir Alured, however, as I find, had done
no worse than marry an old maid (Miss Hincksey, one of the Staffordshire
Hinckseys) with a splendid fortune; which fortune set the family on its
legs again for some generations. This Sir Alured seems to have been an
audacious rogue. He made great interest with the king, who was so far
pleased with his activity in athletic sports that he gave him a post in
Ireland. There our Ravenshoe was so fascinated by the charming manners
of the Earl of Kildare that he even accompanied that nobleman on a
visit to Desmond; and, after a twelvemonth's unauthorised residence in
the interior of Ireland, on his return to England he was put into the
Tower for six months to "consider himself."
This Alured seems to have been a deuce of a fellow, a very good type of
the family. When British Harry had that difference we wot of with the
Bishop of Rome, I find Alured to have been engaged in some five or six
Romish plots, such as had the king been in possession of facts, would
have consigned him to a rather speedy execution. However, the king seems
to have looked on this gentleman with a suspicious eye, and to have been
pretty well aware what sort of man he was, for I find him writing to his
wife, on the occasion of his going to court--"The King's Grace looked
but sourly upon me, and said it should go hard, but that the pitcher
which went so oft to the well should be broke at last. Thereto I making
answer, 'that that should depend on the pitcher, whether it were iron or
clomb,' he turned on his heel, and presently departed from me."
He must have been possessed of his full share of family audacity to
sharpen his wits on the terrible Harry, with such an unpardonable amount
of treason hanging over him. I have dwelt thus long on him, as he seems
to have possessed a fair share of the virtues and vices of his family--a
family always generous and brave, yet always led astray by bad advisers.
This Alured built Ravenshoe House, as it stands to this day, and in
which much of the scene of this story is laid.
They seem to have got through the Gunpowder Plot pretty well, though I
can show you the closet where one of the minor conspirators, one Watson,
lay _perdu_ for a week or so after that gallant attempt, more I suspect
from the effect of a guilty conscience than anything else, for I never
heard of any distinct charge being brought against him. The Forty-five,
however, did not pass quite so easily, and Ambrose Ravenshoe went as
near to lose his head as any one of the family since the Conquest. When
the news came from the north about the alarming advance of the
Highlanders, it immediately struck Ambrose that this was the best
opportunity for making a fool of himself that could possibly occur. He
accordingly, without hesitation or consultation with any mortal soul,
rang the bell for his butler, sent for his stud-groom, mounted every man
about the place (twenty or so), armed them, grooms, gardeners, and all,
with crossbows and partisans from the armoury, and rode into the cross,
at Stonnington, on a market-day, and boldly proclaimed the Pretender
king. It soon got about that "the squire" was making a fool of himself,
and that there was some fun going; so he shortly found himself
surrounded by a large and somewhat dirty rabble, who, with cries of
"Well done, old rebel!" and "Hurrah for the Pope!" escorted him, his
terror-stricken butler and his shame-stricken grooms, to the Crown and
Sceptre. As good luck would have it, there happened to be in the town
that day no less a person than Lord Segur, the leading Roman Catholic
nobleman of the county. He, accompanied by several of the leading
gentlemen of the same persuasion, burst into the room where the Squire
sat, overpowered him, and, putting him bound into a coach, carried him
off to Segur Castle, and locked him up. It took all the strength of the
Popish party to save him from attainder. The Church rallied right
bravely round the old house, which had always assisted her with sword
and purse, and never once had wavered in its allegiance. So while nobler
heads went down, Ambrose Ravenshoe's remained on his shoulders.
Ambrose died in 1759.
John (Monseigneur) in 1771.
Howard in 1800. He first took the Claycomb hounds.
Petre in 1820. He married Alicia, only daughter of Charles, third Earl
of Ascot, and was succeeded by Densil, the first of our dramatis
personæ--the first of all this shadowy line that we shall see in the
flesh. He was born in the year 1783, and married, first in 1812, at his
father's desire, a Miss Winkleigh, of whom I know nothing; and second,
at his own desire, in 1823, Susan, fourth daughter of Lawrence
Petersham, Esq., of Fairford Grange, county Worcester, by whom he had
issue--
Cuthbert, born 1826;
Charles, born 1831.
Densil was an only son. His father, a handsome, careless, good-humoured,
but weak and superstitious man, was entirely in the hands of the
priests, who during his life were undisputed masters of Ravenshoe. Lady
Alicia was, as I have said, a daughter of Lord Ascot, a Staunton, as
staunchly a Protestant a house as any in England. She, however, managed
to fall in love with the handsome young Popish Squire, and to elope with
him, changing not only her name, but, to the dismay of her family, her
faith also, and becoming, pervert-like, more actively bigoted than her
easy-going husband. She brought little or no money into the family; and,
from her portrait, appears to have been exceedingly pretty, and
monstrously silly.
To this strong-minded couple was born, two years after their marriage, a
son who was called Densil.
This young gentleman seems to have got on much like other young
gentlemen till the age of twenty-one, when it was determined by the
higher powers in conclave assembled that he should go to London, and see
the world; and so, having been cautioned duly how to avoid the flesh and
the devil, to see the world he went. In a short time intelligence came
to the confessor of the family, and through him to the father and
mother, that Densil was seeing the world with a vengeance; that he was
the constant companion of the Right Honourable Viscount Saltire, the
great dandy of the Radical Atheist set, with whom no man might play
picquet and live; that he had been upset in a tilbury with Mademoiselle
Vaurien of Drury-lane at Kensington turnpike; that he had fought the
French _émigré_, a Comte de Hautenbas, apropos of the Vaurien
aforementioned--in short, that he was going on at a deuce of a rate: and
so a hurried council was called to deliberate what was to be done.
"He will lose his immortal soul," said the priest.
"He will dissipate his property," said his mother.
"He will go to the devil," said his father.
So Father Clifford, good man, was despatched to London, with post
horses, and ordered to bring back the lost sheep _vi et armis_.
Accordingly, at ten o'clock one night, Densil's lad was astounded by
having to admit Father Clifford, who demanded immediately to be led to
his master.
Now this was awkward, for James well knew what was going on upstairs;
but he knew also what would happen, sooner or later, to a Ravenshoe
servant who trifled with a priest, and so he led the way.
The lost sheep which the good father had come to find was not exactly
sober this evening, and certainly not in a very good temper. He was
playing _écarté_ with a singularly handsome, though supercilious-looking
man, dressed in the height of fashion, who, judging from the heap of
gold beside him, had been winning heavily. The priest trembled and
crossed himself--this man was the terrible, handsome, wicked, witty,
Atheistical, radical Lord Saltire, whose tongue no woman could
withstand, and whose pistol no man dared face; who was currently
believed to have sold himself to the deuce, or, indeed, as some said, to
be the deuce himself.
A more cunning man than poor simple Father Clifford would have made some
common-place remark and withdrawn, after a short greeting, taking
warning by the impatient scowl that settled on Densil's handsome face.
Not so he. To be defied by a boy whose law had been his word for ten
years past never entered into his head, and he sternly advanced towards
the pair.
Densil inquired if anything were the matter at home. And Lord Saltire,
anticipating a scene, threw himself back in his chair, stretched out his
elegant legs, and looked on with the air of a man who knows he is going
to be amused, and composes himself thoroughly to appreciate the
entertainment.
"Thus much, my son," said the priest; "your mother is wearing out the
stones of the oratory with her knees, praying for her first-born, while
he is wasting his substance, and perilling his soul, with debauched
Atheistic companions, the enemies of God and man."
Lord Saltire smiled sweetly, bowed elegantly, and took snuff.
"Why do you intrude into my room, and insult my guest?" said Densil,
casting an angry glance at the priest, who stood calmly like a black
pillar, with his hands before him. "It is unendurable."
"_Quem Deus vult_," &c. Father Clifford had seen that scowl once or
twice before, but he would not take warning. He said--
"I am ordered not to go westward without you. I command you to come."
"Command me! command a Ravenshoe!" said Densil, furiously.
Father Clifford, by way of mending matters, now began to lose _his_
temper.
"You would not be the first Ravenshoe who has been commanded by a
priest; ay, and has had to obey too," said he.
"And you will not be the first jack-priest who has felt the weight of a
Ravenshoe's wrath," replied Densil, brutally.
Lord Saltire leant back, and said to the ambient air, "I'll back the
priest, five twenties to one."
This was too much. Densil would have liked to quarrel with Saltire, but
that was death--he was the deadest shot in Europe. He grew furious, and
beyond all control. He told the priest to go (further than purgatory);
grew blasphemous, emphatically renouncing the creed of his forefathers,
and, in fact, all other creeds. The priest grew hot and furious too,
retaliated in no measured terms, and finally left the room with his ears
stopped, shaking the dust off his feet as he went. Then Lord Saltire
drew up to the table again, laughing.
"Your estates are entailed, Ravenshoe, I suppose?" said he.
"No."
"Oh! It's your deal, my dear fellow."
Densil got an angry letter from his father in a few days, demanding full
apologies and recantations, and an immediate return home. Densil had no
apologies to make, and did not intend to return till the end of the
season. His father wrote declining the honour of his further
acquaintance, and sending him a draft for fifty pounds to pay
outstanding bills, which he very well knew amounted to several
thousands. In a short time the great Catholic tradesmen, with whom he
had been dealing, began to press for money in a somewhat insolent way;
and now Densil began to see that, by defying and insulting the faith and
the party to which he belonged, he had merely cut himself off from rank,
wealth, and position. He had defied the _partie prêtre_, and had yet to
feel their power. In two months he was in the Fleet prison.
His servant (the title "tiger" came in long after this), a half groom,
half valet, such as men kept in those days--a simple lad from Ravenshoe,
James Horton by name--for the first time in his life disobeyed orders;
for, on being told to return home by Densil, he firmly declined doing
so, and carried his top boots and white neckcloth triumphantly into the
Fleet, there pursuing his usual avocations with the utmost nonchalance.
"A very distinguished fellow that of yours, Curly" (they all had
nicknames for one another in those days), said Lord Saltire. "If I were
not Saltire, I think I would be Jim. To own the only clean face among
six hundred fellow-creatures is a pre-eminence, a decided pre-eminence.
I'll buy him of you."
For Lord Saltire came to see him, snuff-box and all. That morning Densil
was sitting brooding in the dirty room with the barred windows, and
thinking what a wild free wind would be sweeping across the Downs this
fine November day, when the door was opened, and in walks me my lord,
with a sweet smile on his face.
He was dressed in the extreme of fashion--a long-tailed blue coat with
gold buttons, a frill to his shirt, a white cravat, a wonderful short
waistcoat, loose short nankeen trousers, low shoes, no gaiters, and a
low-crowned hat. I am pretty correct, for I have seen his picture, dated
1804. But you must please to remember that his lordship was in the very
van of the fashion, and that probably such a dress was not universal for
two or three years afterwards. I wonder if his well-known audacity would
be sufficient to make him walk along one of the public thoroughfares in
such a dress, to-morrow, for a heavy bet--I fancy not.
He smiled sardonically--"My dear fellow," he said, "when a man comes on
a visit of condolence, I know it is the most wretched taste to say, 'I
told you so;' but do me the justice to allow that I offered to back the
priest five to one. I had been coming to you all the week, but Tuesday
and Wednesday I was at Newmarket; Thursday I was shooting at your
cousin Ascot's: yesterday I did not care about boring myself with you;
so I have come to-day because I was at leisure and had nothing better to
do."
Densil looked up savagely, thinking he had come to insult him: but the
kindly compassionate look in the piercing grey eye belied the cynical
curl of the mouth, and disarmed him. He leant his head upon the table
and sobbed.
Lord Saltire laid his hand kindly on his shoulder, and said--
"You have been a fool, Ravenshoe; you have denied the faith of your
forefathers. Pardieu, if I had such an article I would not have thrown
it so lightly away."
"_You_ talk like this? Who next? It was your conversation led me to it.
Am I worse than you? What faith have you, in God's name?"
"The faith of a French Lycée, my friend; the only one I ever had. I have
been sufficiently consistent to that, I think."
"Consistent indeed," groaned poor Densil.
"Now, look here," said Saltire; "I may have been to blame in this. But I
give you my honour, I had no more idea that you would be obstinate
enough to bring matters to this pass, than I had that you would burn
down Ravenshoe House because I laughed at it for being old-fashioned. Go
home, my poor little Catholic pipkin, and don't try to swim with iron
pots like Wrekin and me. Make submission to that singularly
_distingué_-looking old turkey-cock of a priest, kiss your mother, and
get your usual autumn's hunting and shooting."
"Too late! too late, now!" sobbed Densil.
"Not at all, my dear fellow," said Saltire, taking a pinch of snuff;
"the partridges will be a little wild of course--that you must expect;
but you ought to get some very pretty pheasant and cock-shooting. Come,
say yes. Have your debts paid, and get out of this infernal hole. A week
of this would tame the devil, I should think."
"If you think you could do anything for me, Saltire."
Lord Saltire immediately retired, and re-appeared, leading in a lady by
her hand. She raised the veil from her head, and he saw his mother. In a
moment she was crying on his neck; and, as he looked over her shoulder,
he saw a blue coat passing out of the door, and that was the last of
Lord Saltire for the present.
It was no part of the game of the priests to give Densil a cold welcome
home. Twenty smiling faces were grouped in the porch to welcome him
back; and among them all none smiled more brightly than the old priest
and his father. The dogs went wild with joy, and his favourite
peregrine scolded on the falconer's wrist, and struggled with her
jesses, shrilly reminding him of the merry old days by the dreary salt
marsh, or the lonely lake.
The past was never once alluded to in any way by any one in the house.
Old Squire Petre shook hands with faithful James, and gave him a watch,
ordering him to ride a certain colt next day, and see how well forward
he could get him. So next day they drew the home covers, and the fox,
brave fellow, ran out to Parkside, making for the granite walls of
Hessitor. And, when Densil felt his nostrils filled once more by the
free rushing mountain air, he shouted aloud for joy, and James's voice
alongside of him said--
"This is better than the Fleet, sir."
And so Densil played a single-wicket match with the Holy Church, and,
like a great many other people, got bowled out in the first innings. He
returned to his allegiance in the most exemplary manner, and settled
down to the most humdrum of young country gentlemen. He did exactly what
every one else about him did. He was not naturally a profligate or
vicious man; but there was a wild devil of animal passion in him, which
had broken out in London, and which was now quieted by dread of
consequences, but which he felt and knew was there, and might break out
again. He was a changed man. There was a gulf between him and the life
he had led before he went to London. He had tasted of liberty (or
rather, not to profane that Divine word, of licentiousness), and yet not
drunk long enough to make him weary of the draught. He had heard the
dogmas he was brought up to believe infallible turned to unutterable
ridicule by men like Saltire and Wrekin; men who, as he had the wit to
see, were a thousand times cleverer and better informed than Father
Clifford or Father Dennis. In short, he had found out, as a great many
others have, that Popery won't hold water, and so, as a _pis aller_, he
adopted Saltire's creed--that religion was necessary for the government
of States, that one religion was as good as another, and that, _cæteris
paribus_, the best religion was the one which secured the possessor
£10,000 a year, and therefore Densil was a devout Catholic.
It was thought by the allied powers that he ought to marry. He had no
objection and so he married a young lady, a Miss Winkleigh--Catholic, of
course--about whom I can get no information whatever. Lady Ascot says
that she was a pale girl, with about as much air as a milkmaid; on which
two facts I can build no theory as to her personal character. She died
in 1816, childless; and in 1820 Densil lost both his father and mother,
and found himself, at the age of thirty-seven, master of Ravenshoe and
master of himself.
He felt the loss of the old folks most keenly, more keenly than that of
his wife. He seemed without a stay or holdfast in the world, for he was
a poorly educated man, without resources; and so he went on moping and
brooding until good old Father Clifford, who loved him dearly, got
alarmed, and recommended travels. He recommended Rome, the cradle of the
faith, and to Rome he went.
He stayed at Rome a year; at the end of which time he appeared suddenly
at home with a beautiful young wife on his arm. As Father Clifford,
trembling and astonished, advanced to lay his hand upon her head, she
drew up, laughed, and said, "Spare yourself the trouble, my dear sir; I
am a Protestant."
I have had to tell you all this, in order to show you how it came about
that Densil, though a Papist, bethought of marrying a Protestant wife to
keep up a balance of power in his house. For, if he had not married this
lady, the hero of this book would never have been born; and this greater
proposition contains the less, "that if he had never been born, his
history would never have been written, and so this book would have had
no existence."