GIVES US AN INSIGHT INTO CHARLES'S DOMESTIC RELATIONS, AND SHOWS HOW THE
GREAT CONSPIRATOR SOLILOQUISED TO THE GRAND CHANDELIER.
It may be readily conceived that a considerable amount of familiarity
existed between Charles and his servant and foster-brother William. But,
to the honour of both of them be it said, there was more than this--a
most sincere and hearty affection; a feeling for one another which, we
shall see, lasted through everything. Till Charles went to Shrewsbury,
he had never had another playfellow. He and William had been allowed to
paddle about on the sand, or ride together on the moor, as they would,
till a boy's friendship had arisen, sufficiently strong to obliterate
all considerations of rank between them. This had grown with age, till
William had become his confidential agent at home, during his absence,
and Charles had come to depend very much on his account of the state of
things at head-quarters. He had also another confidential agent, to whom
we shall be immediately introduced. She, however, was of another sex and
rank.
William's office was barely a pleasant one. His affection for his master
led him most faithfully to attend to his interests; and, as a Catholic,
he was often brought into collision with Father Mackworth, who took a
laudable interest in Charles's affairs, and considered himself injured
on two or three occasions by the dogged refusal of William to
communicate the substance and result of a message forwarded through
William, from Shrewsbury, to Densil, which seemed to cause the old
gentleman some thought and anxiety. William's religious opinions,
however, had got to be somewhat loose, and to sit somewhat easily upon
him, more particularly since his sojourn to Oxford. He had not very long
ago confided to Charles, in a private sitting, that the conviction which
was strong on his mind was, that Father Mackworth was not to be trusted.
God forgive him for saying so; and, on being pressed by Charles to state
why, he point-blank refused to give any reason whatever, but repeated
his opinion with redoubled emphasis. Charles had a great confidence in
William's shrewdness, and forbore to press him, but saw that something
had occurred which had impressed the above conviction on William's mind
most strongly.
He had been sent from Oxford to see how the land lay at home, and had
met Charles at the Rose and Crown, at Stonnington, with saddle horses.
No sooner were they clear of the town than William, without waiting for
Charles's leave, put spurs to his horse and rode up alongside of him.
"What is your news, William?"
"Nothing very great. Master looks bothered and worn."
"About this business of mine."
"The priest goes on talking about it, and plaguing him with it, when he
wants to forget it."
"The deuce take him! He talks about me a good deal."
"Yes; he has begun about you again. Master wouldn't stand it the other
day, and told him to hold his tongue, just like his own self. Tom heard
him. They made it up afterwards, though."
"What did Cuthbert say?"
"Master Cuthbert spoke up for you, and said he hoped there wasn't going
to be a scene, and that you weren't coming to live in disgrace, for that
would be punishing every one in the house for you."
"How's Mary?"
"She's well. Master don't trust her out of his sight much. They will
never set him against you while she is there. I wish you would marry
her, Master Charles, if you can give up the other one."
Charles laughed and told him he wasn't going to do anything of the sort.
Then he asked, "Any visitors?"
"Ay; one. Father Tiernay, a stranger."
"What sort of man?"
"A real good one. I don't think our man likes him, though."
They had now come to the moor's edge, and were looking down on the
amphitheatre which formed the domain of Ravenshoe. Far and wide the
tranquil sea, vast, dim, and grey, flooded bay and headland, cave and
islet. Beneath their feet slept the winter woodlands; from whose brown
bosom rose the old house, many-gabled, throwing aloft from its chimneys
hospitable columns of smoke, which hung in the still autumn air, and
made a hazy cloud on the hill-side. Everything was so quiet that they
could hear the gentle whisper of the ground-swell, and the voices of the
children at play upon the beach, and the dogs barking in the kennels.
"How calm and quiet old home looks, William," said Charles; "I like to
get back here after Oxford."
"No wine parties here. No steeplechases. No bloomer balls," said
William.
"No! and no chapels and lectures, and being sent for by the Dean," said
Charles.
"And none of they dratted bones, neither," said William, with emphasis.
"Ahem! why no! Suppose we ride on."
So they rode down the road through the woodland to the lodge, and so
through the park--sloping steeply up on their left, with many a clump of
oak and holly, and many a broad patch of crimson fern. The deer stood
about in graceful groups, while the bucks belled and rattled noisily,
making the thorn-thickets echo with the clatter of their horns. The
rabbits scudded rapidly across the road, and the blackbird fled
screaming from the mountain-ash tree, now all a-fire with golden fruit.
So they passed on until a sudden sweep brought them upon the terrace
between the old grey house and the murmuring sea.
Charles jumped off, and William led the horses round to the stable. A
young lady in a straw hat and brown gloves, with a pair of scissors and
a basket, standing half-way up the steps, came down to meet him,
dropping the basket, and holding out the brown gloves before her. This
young lady he took in his arms, and kissed; and she, so far from
resenting the liberty, after she was set on her feet again, held him by
both hands, and put a sweet dark face towards his, as if she wouldn't
care if he kissed her again. Which he immediately did.
It was not a very pretty face, but oh! such a calm, quiet, pleasant one.
There was scarcely a good feature in it, and yet the whole was so gentle
and pleasing, and withal so shrewd and _espiègle_, that to look at it
once was to think about it till you looked again; and to look again was
to look as often as you had a chance, and to like the face the more each
time you looked. I said there was not a good feature in the face. Well,
I misled you; there was a pair of calm, honest, black eyes--a very good
feature indeed, and which, once seen, you were not likely to forget.
And, also, when I tell you that this face and eyes belonged to the
neatest, trimmest little figure imaginable, I hope I have done my work
sufficiently well to make you envy that lucky rogue Charles, who, as we
know, cares for no woman in the world but Adelaide, and who, between you
and me, seems to be much too partial to this sort of thing.
"A thousand welcomes home, Charley," said the pleasant little voice
which belonged to this pleasant little personage. "Oh! I am so glad
you're come."
"You'll soon wish me away again. I'll plague you."
"I like to be plagued by you, Charley. How is Adelaide?"
"Adelaide is all that the fondest lover could desire" (for they had no
secrets, these two), "and either sent her love or meant to do so."
"Charles, dearest," she said, eagerly, "come and see him now! come and
see him with me!"
"Where is he?"
"In the shrubbery, with Flying Childers."
"Is he alone?"
"All alone, except the dog."
"Where are _they_?"
"They are gone out coursing. Come on; they will be back in an hour, and
the Rook never leaves him. Come, come."
It will be seen that these young folks had a tolerably good
understanding with one another, and could carry on a conversation about
"third parties" without even mentioning their names. We shall see how
this came about presently; but, for the present, let us follow these
wicked conspirators, and see in what deep plot they are engaged.
They passed rapidly along the terrace, and turned the corner of the
house to the left, where the west front overhung the river glen, and the
broad terraced garden went down step by step towards the brawling
stream. This they passed, and opening an iron gate, came suddenly into a
gloomy maze of shrubbery that stretched its long vistas up the valley.
Down one dark alley after another they hurried. The yellow leaves
rustled beneath their feet, and all nature was pervaded with the smell
of decay. It was hard to believe that these bare damp woods were the
same as those they had passed through but four months ago, decked out
with their summer bravery--an orchestra to a myriad birds. Here and
there a bright berry shone out among the dull-coloured twigs, and a
solitary robin quavered his soft melancholy song alone. The flowers were
dead, the birds were flown or mute, and brave, green leaves were stamped
under foot; everywhere decay, decay.
In the dampest, darkest walk of them all, in a far-off path, hedged with
holly and yew, they found a bent and grey old man walking with a
toothless, grey old hound for his silent companion. And, as Charles
moved forward with rapid elastic step, the old man looked up, and
tottered to meet him, showing as he did so the face of Densil Ravenshoe.
"Now the Virgin be praised," he said, "for putting it in your head to
come so quick, my darling. Whenever you go away now, I am in terror lest
I should die and never see you again. I might be struck with paralysis,
and not know you, my boy. Don't go away from me again."
"I should like never to leave you any more, father dear. See how well
you get on with my arm. Let us come out into the sun; why do you walk in
this dismal wood?
"Why?" said the old man, with sudden animation, his grey eye kindling as
he stopped. "Why? I come here because I can catch sight of a woodcock,
lad! I sprang one by that holly just before you came up. Flip flap, and
away through the hollies like a ghost! Cuthbert and the priest are away
coursing. Now you are come, surely I can get on the grey pony, and go up
to see a hare killed. You will lead him for me, won't you? I don't like
to trouble _them_."
"We can go to-morrow, dad, after lunch, you and I, and William. We'll
have Leopard and Blue-ruin--by George, it will be like old times again."
"And we'll take our little quiet bird on _her_ pony, won't we?" said
Densil, turning to Mary. "She's such a good little bird, Charley. We sit
and talk of you many an hour. Charley, can't you get me down on the
shore, and let me sit there? I got Cuthbert to take me down once; but
Father Mackworth came and talked about the Immaculate Conception through
his nose all the time. I didn't want to hear him talk; I wanted to hear
the surf on the shore. Good man! he thought he interested me, I dare
say."
"I hope he is very kind to you, father?"
"Kind! I assure you, my dear boy, he is the kindest creature; he never
lets me out of his sight; and so attentive!"
"He'll have to be a little less attentive in future, confound him!"
muttered Charles. "There he is. Talk of the devil! Mary, my dear," he
added aloud, "go and amuse the Rooks for a little, and let us have
Cuthbert to ourselves."
The old man looked curious at the idea of Mary talking to the rooks; but
his mind was drawn off by Charles having led him into a warm, southern
corner, and set him down in the sun.
Mary did her errand well, for in a few moments Cuthbert advanced rapidly
towards them. Coming up, he took Charles's hand, and shook it with a
faint, kindly smile.
He had grown to be a tall and somewhat handsome young man--certainly
handsomer than Charles. His face, even now he was warmed by exercise,
was very pale, though the complexion was clear and healthy. His hair was
slightly gone from his forehead, and he looked much older than he really
was. The moment that the smile was gone his face resumed the expression
of passionless calm that it had borne before; and sitting down by his
brother, he asked him how he did.
"I am as well, Cuthbert," said Charles, "as youth, health, a conscience
of brass, and a whole world full of friends can make me. _I'm_ all
right, bless you. But you look very peaking and pale. Do you take
exercise enough?"
"I? Oh, dear, yes. But I am very glad to see you, Charles. Our father
misses you. Don't you, father?"
"Very much, Cuthbert."
"Yes. I bore him. I do, indeed. I don't take interest in the things he
does. I can't; it's not my nature. You and he will be as happy as kings
talking about salmon, and puppies, and colts."
"I know, Cuthbert; I know. You never cared about those things as we do."
"No, never, brother; and now less than ever. I hope you will stay with
me--with us. You are my own brother. I will have you stay here," he
continued in a slightly raised voice; "and I desire that any opposition
or impertinence you may meet with may be immediately reported to me."
"It will be immediately reported to those who use it, and in a way they
won't like, Cuthbert. Don't you be afraid; I shan't quarrel. Tell me
something about yourself, old boy."
"I can tell you but little to interest you, Charles. You are of this
world, and rejoice in being so. I, day by day, wean myself more and more
from it, knowing its worthlessness. Leave me to my books and my
religious exercises, and go on your way. The time will come when your
pursuits and pleasures will turn to bitter dust in your mouth, as mine
never can. When the world is like a howling wilderness to you, as it
will be soon, then come to me, and I will show you where to find
happiness. At present you will not listen to me."
"Not I," said Charles. "Youth, health, talent, like yours--are these
gifts to despise?"
"They are clogs to keep me from higher things. Study, meditation, life
in the past with those good men who have walked the glorious road before
us--in these consist happiness. Ambition! I have one earthly
ambition--to purge myself from earthly affections, so that, when I hear
the cloister-gate close behind me for ever, my heart may leap with joy,
and I may feel that I am in the antechamber of heaven."
Charles was deeply affected, and bent down his head. "Youth, love,
friends, joy in this beautiful world--all to be buried between four dull
white walls, my brother!"
"This beautiful earth, which is beautiful indeed--alas! how I love it
still! shall become a burden to us in a few years. Love! the greater the
love, the greater the bitterness. Charles, remember _that_, one day,
will you, when your heart is torn to shreds? I shall have ceased to love
you then more than any other fellow-creature; but remember my words. You
are leading a life which can only end in misery, as even the teachers of
the false and corrupt religion which you profess would tell you. If you
were systematically to lead the life you do now, it were better almost
that there were no future. You are not angry, Charles?"
There was such a spice of truth in what Cuthbert said that it would have
made nine men in ten angry. I am pleased to record of my favourite
Charles that he was not; he kept his head bent down, and groaned.
"Don't be hard on our boy, Cuthbert," said Densil; "he is a good boy,
though he is not like you. It has always been so in our family--one a
devotee and the other a sportsman. Let us go in, boys; it gets chill."
Charles rose up, and, throwing his arms round his brother's neck,
boisterously gave him a kiss on the cheek; then he began laughing and
talking at the top of his voice, making the nooks and angles in the grey
old façade echo with his jubilant voice.
Under the dark porch they found a group of three--Mackworth; a
jolly-looking, round-faced, Irish priest, by name Tiernay; and Mary.
Mackworth received Charles with a pleasant smile, and they joined in
conversation together heartily. Few men could be more agreeable than
Mackworth, and he chose to be agreeable now. Charles was insensibly
carried away by the charm of his frank, hearty manner, and for a time
forgot who was talking to him.
Mackworth and Charles were enemies. If we reflect a moment, we shall see
that it could hardly be otherwise.
Charles's existence, holding as he did the obnoxious religion, was an
offence to him. He had been prejudiced against him from the first; and,
children not being very slow to find out who are well disposed towards
them, or the contrary, Charles had early begun to regard the priest with
distrust and dislike. So a distant, sarcastic line of treatment, on the
one hand, and childish insolence and defiance, on the other, had grown
at last into something very like hatred on both sides. Every soul in the
house adored Charles but the priest; and, on the other hand, the
priest's authority and dignity were questioned by none but Charles. And,
all these small matters being taken into consideration, it is not
wonderful, I say, that Charles and the priest were not good friends even
before anything had occurred to bring about any open rupture.
Charles and Mackworth seldom met of late years without a "sparring
match." On this day, however--partly owing, perhaps, to the presence of
a jolly good-humoured Irish priest--they got through dinner pretty well.
Charles was as brave as a lion, and, though by far the priest's inferior
in scientific "sparring," had a rough, strong, effective method of
fighting, which was by no means to be despised. His great strength lay
in his being always ready for battle. As he used to tell his crony
William, he would as soon fight as not; and often, when rebuked by
Cuthbert for what he called insolence to the priest, he would exclaim,
"I don't care; what did he begin at me for? If he lets me alone, I'll
let him alone." And, seeing that he had been at continual war with the
reverend gentleman for sixteen years or more, I think it speaks highly
for the courage of both parties that neither had hitherto yielded. When
Charles afterwards came to know what a terrible card the man had held in
his hand, he was struck with amazement at his self-possession in not
playing it, despite his interest.
Mackworth was hardly so civil after dinner as he was before; but
Cuthbert was hoping that Charles and he would get on without a
battle-royal, when a slight accident brought on a general engagement,
and threw all his hopes to the ground. Densil and Mary had gone up to
the drawing-room, and Charles, having taken as much wine as he cared
for, rose from the table, and sauntered towards the door, when Cuthbert
quite innocently asked him where he was going.
Charles said also in perfect good faith that he was going to smoke a
cigar, and talk to William.
Cuthbert asked him, Would he get William or one of them to give the grey
colt a warm mash with some nitre in it; and Charles said he'd see it
done for him himself; when, without warning or apparent cause, Father
Mackworth said to Father Tiernay,
"This William is one of the grooms. A renegade, I fancy! I believe the
fellow is a Protestant at heart. He and Mr. Charles Ravenshoe are very
intimate; they keep up a constant correspondence when apart, I assure
you."
Charles faced round instantly, and confronted his enemy with a smile on
his lips; but he said not a word, trying to force Mackworth to continue.
"Why don't you leave him alone?" said Cuthbert.
"My dear Cuthbert," said Charles, "pray don't humiliate me by
interceding; I assure you I am greatly amused. You see he doesn't speak
to me; he addressed himself to Mr. Tiernay."
"I wished," said Mackworth, "to call Father Tiernay's attention, as a
stranger to this part of the world, to the fact of a young gentleman's
corresponding with an illiterate groom in preference to any member of
his family."
"The reason I do it," said Charles, speaking to Tiernay, but steadily
watching Mackworth to see if any of his shafts hit, "is to gain
information. I like to know what goes on in my absence. Cuthbert here is
buried in his books, and does not know everything."
No signs of flinching there. Mackworth sat with a scornful smile on his
pale face, without moving a muscle.
"He likes to get information," said Mackworth, "about his village
amours, I suppose. But, dear me, he can't know anything that the whole
parish don't know. I could have told him that that poor deluded fool of
an underkeeper was going to marry Mary Lee, after all that had happened.
He will be dowering a wife for his precious favourite some day."
"My precious favourite, Father Tiernay," said Charles, still closely
watching Mackworth, "is my foster-brother. He used to be a great
favourite with our reverend friend; his pretty sister Ellen is so still,
I believe."
This was as random an arrow as ever was shot, and yet it went home to
the feather. Charles saw Mackworth give a start and bite his lip, and
knew that he had smote him deep; he burst out laughing.
"With regard to the rest, Father Tiernay, any man who says that there
was anything wrong between me and Mary Lee tells, saving your presence,
a lie. It's infernally hard if a man mayn't play at love-making with the
whole village for a confidant, and the whole matter a merry joke, but
one must be accused of all sorts of villainy. Isn't ours a pleasant
household, Mr. Tiernay?"
Father Tiernay shook his honest sides with a wondering laugh, and said,
"Faix it is. But I hope ye'll allow me to put matters right betune you
two. Father Mackworth begun on the young man; he was going out to his
dudeen as peaceful as an honest young gentleman should. And some of the
best quality are accustomed to converse their grooms in the evening over
their cigar. I myself can instance Lord Mountdown, whose hospitality I
have partook frequent. And I'm hardly aware of any act of parliament,
brother, whereby a young man shouldn't kiss a pretty girl in the way of
fun, as I've done myself, sure. Whist now, both on ye! I'll come with
ye, ye heretic, and smoke a cigar meeself."
"I call you to witness that he insulted me," said Mackworth, turning
round from the window.
"I wish you had let him alone, Father," said Cuthbert, peevishly; "we
were getting on very happily till you began. Do go, Charles, and smoke
your cigar with Father Tiernay."
"I am waiting to see if he wants any more," said Charles, with a laugh.
"Come on, Father Tiernay, and I'll show you the miscreant, and his
pretty sister, too, if you like."
"I wish he hadn't come home," said Cuthbert, as soon as he and Mackworth
were alone together. "Why do you and he fight like cat and dog? You make
me perfectly miserable. I know he is going to the devil, in a worldly
point of view, and that his portion will be hell necessarily as a
heretic; but I don't see why you should worry him to death, and make the
house miserable to him."
"It is for his good."
"Nonsense," rejoined Cuthbert. "You make him hate you; and I don't think
you ought to treat a son of this house in the way you treat him, You are
under obligations to this house. Yes, you are. I won't be contradicted
now. I will have my say when I am in this temper, and you know it. The
devil is not dead yet by a long way, you see. Why do you rouse him?"
"Go on, go on."
"Yes, I will go on. I'm in my own house, I believe. By the eleven
thousand virgins, more or less, of the holy St. Ursula, virgin and
martyr, that brother of mine is a brave fellow. Why, he cares as much
for you as for a little dog barking at him. And you're a noble enemy for
any man. You'd better let him alone, I think; you won't get much out of
him. Adieu."
"What queer wild blood there is in these Ravenshoes," said Mackworth to
himself, when he was alone. "A younger hand than myself would have been
surprised at Cuthbert's kicking after so much schooling. Not I. I shall
never quite tame him, though he is broken in enough for all practical
purposes. He will be on his knees to-morrow for this. I like to make him
kick; I shall do it sometimes for amusement; he is so much easier
managed after one of these tantrums. By Jove! I love the man better
every day; he is one after my own heart. As for Charles, I hate him, and
yet I like him after a sort. I like to break a pointless lance with that
boy, and let him fancy he is my equal. It amuses me.
"I almost fancy that I could have fallen in love with that girl Ellen. I
was uncommon near it. I must be very careful. What a wild hawk she is!
What a magnificent move that was of hers, risking a prosecution for
felony on one single throw, and winning. How could she have guessed that
there was anything there? She couldn't have guessed it. It was an effort
of genius. It was a splendid move.
"How nearly that pigheaded fool of a young nobleman has gone to upset my
calculations! His namesake the chessplayer could not have done more
mischief by his talents than his friend had by stupidity. I wish Lord
Ascot would get ruined as quickly as possible, and then my friend would
be safe out of the way. But he won't."