LORD SALTIRE'S VISIT, AND SOME OF HIS OPINIONS.
There followed on the events above narrated two or three quiet months--a
time well remembered by Charles, as one of the quietest and most
peaceful in his life, in all the times which followed. Every fine day
there was a ramble with his father through the kennels and stables, and
down through the wood, or over the farm. Charles, who at Oxford thought
no day complete, after riding with the drag, or Drakes, or rowing to
Sandford; without banquier, vingt-et-un, or loo, till three oclock in
the morning, now found, greatly to his astonishment, that he got more
pleasure by leaning over a gate with his father, and looking at fat
beasts and pigs, chewing a straw the while. A noisy wine-party, where he
met the same men he had met the night before, who sang the same songs,
and told the same silly stories, was well enough; but he began to find
that supper in the oak dining-room, sitting between Mary and his father,
and talking of the merest trifles, was a great deal pleasanter. Another
noticeable fact was that Father Mackworth's sarcasms were turned off
with a good-natured laugh, and that battle was on all occasions refused
to the worthy priest. In short, Charles, away from company and
dissipation, was himself. The good, worthy fellow, whom I learnt to like
years ago. The man whose history I am proud to write.
Lord Saltire had arrived meanwhile; he had written to Densil, to say
that he was horribly bored; that he wished, as an ethical study, to
settle, once for all, the amount of boredom a man could stand without
dying under it; that, having looked carefully about him, to select a
spot and a society where that object could be obtained, he had selected
Ravenshoe, as being the most eligible; that he should wish his room to
have a south aspect; and that his man would arrive with his things three
days after date. To this Densil had written an appropriate reply,
begging his kind old friend to come and make his house his home; and
Lord Saltire had arrived one evening, when every one was out of the way
but Mary, who received him in the hall.
She was in some little trepidation. She had read and heard enough of
"the wild prince and Poyns," and of Lord Saltire's powers of sarcasm, to
be thoroughly frightened at her awful position. She had pictured to
herself a terrible old man, with overhanging eyebrows, and cruel
gleaming eyes beneath them. Therefore she was astonished to see a
gentleman, old it is true, but upright as a young oak, of such
remarkable personal beauty, and such a pleasant expression of
countenance, as she had never seen before.
She was astonished, I said; but, mind you, Mary was too much of a lady
to show too much of it. She sailed towards him through the gloom of the
old hall with a frank smile, and just that amount of admiration in her
sweet eyes which paid Lord Saltire the truest compliment he had had for
many a day.
"Mr. Ravenshoe will be sorry to have missed receiving you, my lord," she
said.
"If Mr. Ravenshoe is sorry," he said, "I certainly am not. Mr. Ravenshoe
has done me the honour to show me the most beautiful thing in his house
first. I rather think that is a pretty compliment, Miss Corby, unless I
am getting out of practice."
"That is a very pretty compliment, indeed," she answered, laughing. "I
most heartily thank you for it. I know nothing in life so pleasant as
being flattered. May I introduce Father Mackworth?"
Lord Saltire would be delighted. Father Mackworth came forward, and Mary
saw them look at one another. She saw at a glance that either they had
met before, or there was some secret which both of them knew. She never
forgot Mackworth's defiant look, or Lord Saltire's calm considerate
glance, which said as plain as words, "This fellow knows it."
This fellow knew it--had known it for years. The footman who had left
Mackworth at the lodge of the French Lycée, the nameless domestic, who
formed the last link with his former life--this man had worn Lord
Saltire's livery, and he remembered it.
"I see," said Lord Saltire, "that Miss Corby is prepared for walking. I
guess that she is going to meet Mr. Ravenshoe, and, if my surmise is
correct, I beg to be allowed to accompany her."
"You are wonderfully correct, my lord. Cuthbert and Charles are shooting
pheasants in the wood, and Mr. Ravenshoe is with them on his pony. If
you will walk with me, we shall meet them."
So the grand old eagle and the pretty sweet-voiced robin passed out on
to the terrace, and stood looking together, under the dull December sky,
at the whispering surges. Right and left the misty headlands seemed to
float on the quiet grey sea, which broke in sighs at their feet, as the
long majestic ground-swell rolled in from the ocean; and these two stood
there for a minute or more without speaking.
"The new school of men," said Lord Saltire at last, looking out to sea,
"have perhaps done wisely, in thinking more of scenery and the mere
externals of nature than we did. We lived the life of clubs and crowds,
and we are going to our places one after another. There are but few left
now. These Stephensons and Paxtons are fine men enough. _They_ are
fighting inert matter, but _we_ fought the armies of the Philistine. We
had no time for botany and that sort of thing; which was unfortunate.
You young folks shouldn't laugh at us though."
"I laugh at you!" she said, suddenly and rapidly; "laugh at the giants
who warred with the gods. My lord, the men of our time has not shown
themselves equal to their fathers."
Lord Saltire laughed.
"No, not yet," she continued; "when the time comes they will. The time
has not come yet."
"Not yet, Miss Corby. It will come,--mind the words of a very old man;
an old fellow who has seen a confounded deal of the world."
"Are we to have any more wars, Lord Saltire?"
"Wars such as we never dreamt of, young lady."
"Is all this new inauguration of peace to go for nothing?"
"Only as the inauguration of a new series of wars, more terrible than
those which have gone before."
"France and England combined can give the law to Europe."
Lord Saltire turned upon her and laughed. "And so you actually believe
that France and England can really combine for anything more important
than a raid against Russia. Not that they will ever fight Russia, you
know. There will be no fight. If they threaten loud enough, Russia will
yield. Nicholas knows his weakness, and will give way. If he is fool
enough to fight the Western powers, it will end in another _duel à
l'outrance_ between France and England. They will never work together
for long. If they do, Europe is enslaved, and England lost."
"But why, Lord Saltire?"
"Well, well; I think so. Allow me to say that I was not prepared to find
a deep-thinking, though misguided politician in such an innocent-looking
young lady. God defend the dear old land, for every fresh acre I see of
it confirms my belief that it is the first country in the world."
They were crossing the old terraced garden towards the wood, when they
heard the guns going rapidly, and both were silent for a minute or so.
The leafless wood was before them, and the village at their feet. The
church spire rose aloft among the trees. Some fisherman patriarch had
gone to his well-earned rest that day, and the bell was tolling for him.
Mary looked at the quiet village, at the calm winter sea, and then up at
the calm stern face of the man who walked beside her, and said--
"Tell me one thing, Lord Saltire; you have travelled in many countries.
Is there any land, east or west, that can give us what this dear old
England does--settled order, in which each man knows his place and his
duties? It is so easy to be good in England."
"Well, no. It is the first country in the world. A few bad harvests
would make a hell of it, though. Has Ravenshoe got many pheasants down
here?"
And, so talking, this strange pair wandered on towards the wood, side by
side.
Charles was not without news in his retirement, for a few friends kept
him pretty well _au fait_ with what was going on in the world. First,
there was news from Oxford; one sort of which was communicated by
Charles Marston, and another sort by one Marker of Brazenose, otherwise
known as "Bodger," though why, I know not, nor ever could get any one to
tell me. He was purveyor of fashionable intelligence, while Charles
Marston dealt more in example and advice. About this time the latter
wrote as follows:--
"How goes Issachar? Is the ass stronger or weaker than formerly? Has my
dearly-beloved ass profited, or otherwise, by his stay at Ranford? How
is the other ass, my Lord Welter? He is undoubtedly a fool, but I think
an honest one, so long as you keep temptation out of his way. He is
shamefully in debt; but I suppose, if their horse wins the Derby, he
will pay; otherwise I would sooner be my lord than his tradesmen. How
goes the 'grand passion,'--has Chloe relented? She is a great fool if
she does. Why, if she refuses you, she may marry Lord Welter, and he may
settle his debts on her. A word in your ear. I have an invitation to
Ranford. I must go, I suppose. The dear old woman, whose absurdities
your honour is pleased to laugh at, has been always kind to me and mine;
and I shall go. I shall pay my just tribute of flattery to the noble
honest old soul, who is struggling to save a falling house. Don't you
laugh at Lady Ascot, you impudent young rascal. I have no doubt that
she offers some prominent points for the exercise of your excellency's
wit, but she is unmeasurably superior to you, you young scapegrace.
"Bless your dear old face; how I long to see it again! I am coming to
see it. I shall come to you at the beginning of the Christmas vacation.
I shall come to you a beaten man, Charley. I shall only get a second.
Never mind; I would sooner come to you and yours and hide my shame, than
to any one else.
"Charles, old friend, if I get a third, I shall break my heart. Don't
show this letter to any one. I have lost the trick of Greek prose. Oh,
old Charley! believe this, that the day once lost can never, never come
back any more! They preach a future hell; but what hell could be worse
than the eternal contemplation of opportunities thrown away--of
turning-points in the affairs of a man's life, when, instead of rising,
he has fallen--not by a bold stroke, like Satan, but by laziness and
neglect?"
Charles was very sorry, very grieved and vexed, to find his shrewd old
friend brought to this pass by over-reading, and over-anxiety about a
subject which, to a non-university man, does not seem of such vital
importance. He carried the letter to his father, in spite of the
prohibition contained in it, and he found his father alone with the
good, honest Father Tiernay; to whom, not thinking that thereby he was
serving his friend ill, he read it aloud.
"Charley dear," said his father, half rising from his chair, "he must
come to us, my boy; he must come here to us, and stay with us till he
forgets his disappointment. He is a noble lad. He has been a good friend
to my boy; and, by George, the house is his own."
"I don't think, dad," said Charles, looking from Densil to Father
Tiernay, "that he is at all justified in the dark view he is taking of
matters. The clever fellows used to say that he was safe of his first.
You know he is going in for mathematics as well."
"He is a good young man, any way," said Father Tiernay; "his sentiments
do honour to him; and none the worst of them is his admiration for my
heretic young friend here, which does him most honour of all. Mr.
Ravenshoe, I'll take three to one against his double first; pity he
ain't a Catholic. What the divvle do ye Prothestants mean by absorbing
(to use no worse language) the rints and revenues left by Catholic
testators for the good of the hooly Church, for the edication of
heretics? Tell me that, now."
The other letter from Oxford was of a very different tenor. Mr. Marker,
of Brazenose, began by remarking that--
"He didn't know what was come over the place; it was getting
confoundedly slow, somehow. They had had another Bloomer ball at
Abingdon, but the thing was a dead failure, sir. Jemmy Dane, of
University, had driven two of them home in a cart, by way of Nuneham. He
had passed the Pro's at Magdalen turnpike, and they never thought of
stopping him, by George. Their weak intellects were not capable of
conceiving such glorious audacity. Both the Proctors were down at
Coldharbour turnpike, stopping every man who came from Abingdon way.
Toreker, of Exeter, was coming home on George Simmond's Darius, and,
seeing the Proctors in the light of the turnpike-gate, had put his horse
at the fence (Charles would remember it, a stubbed hedge and a ditch),
and got over the back water by the White House, and so home by the
Castle. Above forty men had been rusticated over this business, and some
good fellows too." (Here followed a list of names, which I could
produce, if necessary; but seeing that some names on the list are now
rising at the bar, or in the Church, think it better not.) "Pembroke had
won the fours, very much in consequence of Exeter having gone round the
flag, and, on being made to row again, of fouling them in the gut. The
water was out heavily, and had spoilt the boating. The Christchurch
grind had been slow, but the best that year. L--n was going down, and
they said was going to take the Pychley. C--n was pretty safe of his
first--so reading men said. Martin, of Trinity, had got his testamur, at
which event astonishment, not unmixed with awe, had fallen on the
University generally. That he himself was in for his _vivâ voce_ two
days after date, and he wished himself out of the hands of his enemies."
There was a postscript, which interested Charles as much as all the rest
of the letter put together. It ran thus:--
"By the by, Welter has muckered; you know that by this time. But, worse
than that, they say that Charles Marston's classical first is fishy. The
old cock has overworked himself, they say."
Lord Saltire never went to bed without having Charles up into his
dressing-room for a chat. "Not having," as his lordship most truly said,
"any wig to take off, or any false teeth to come out, I cannot see why I
should deny myself the pleasure of my young friend's company at night.
Every evening, young gentleman, we are one day older, and one day wiser.
I myself have got so confoundedly wise with my many years, that I have
nothing left to learn. But it amuses me to hear your exceedingly
_naïve_ remarks on things in general, and it also flatters and soothes
me to contrast my own consummate wisdom with your folly. Therefore, I
will trouble you to come up to my dressing-room every night, and give me
your crude reflections on the events of the day."
So Charles came up one night with Mr. Marker's letter, which he read to
Lord Saltire, while his valet was brushing his hair; and then Charles,
by way of an easily-answered question, asked Lord Saltire, What did he
think of his friend's chances?
"I must really remark," said Lord Saltire, "even if I use
unparliamentary language, which I should be very sorry to do, that that
is one of the silliest questions I ever had put to me. When I held
certain seals, I used to have some very foolish questions put to me
(which, by the way, I never answered), but I don't know that I ever had
such a foolish question put to me as that. Why, how on earth can I have
any idea of what your friend's chances are? Do be reasonable."
"Dear Lord Saltire, don't be angry with me. Tell me, as far as your
experience can, how far a man who knows his work, by George, as well as
a man can know it, is likely to fail through nervousness. You have seen
the same thing in Parliament. You know how much mischief nervousness may
do. Now, do give me your opinion."
"Well, you are putting your question in a slightly more reasonable form;
but it is a very silly one yet. I have seen a long sort of man, with
black hair, and a hook nose, like long Montague, for instance, who has
been devilishly nervous till he got on his legs, and then has astonished
every one, and no one more than myself, not so much by his power of
declamation as by the extraordinary logical tenacity with which he clung
to his subject. Yes, I don't know but what I have heard more telling and
logical speeches from unprepared men than I ever have from one of the
law lords. But I am a bad man to ask. I never was in the Lower House.
About your friend's chance;--well, I would not give twopence for it; in
after-life he may succeed. But from what you have told me, I should
prepare myself for a disappointment."
Very shortly after this, good Lord Saltire had to retire for a time into
the upper chambers; he had a severe attack of gout.
There had been no more quarrelling between Father Mackworth and Charles;
peace was proclaimed--an armed truce; and Charles was watching, watching
in silence. Never since he met her in the wood had he had an opportunity
of speaking to Ellen. She always avoided him. William, being asked
confidentially by Charles what he thought was the matter, said that
Ellen had been "carrin on" with some one, and he had been blowing her
up; which was all the explanation he offered. In the meantime, Charles
lived under the comforting assurance that there was mischief brewing,
and that Mackworth was at the bottom of it.