THE LAST GLIMPSE OF THE OLD WORLD.
Putney Bridge at half an hour before high tide; thirteen or fourteen
steamers; five or six thousand boats, and fifteen or twenty thousand
spectators. This is the morning of the great University race, about
which every member of the two great Universities, and a very large
section of the general public, have been fidgeting and talking for a
month or so.
The bridge is black, the lawns are black, every balcony and window in
the town is black; the steamers are black with a swarming, eager
multitude, come to see the picked youths of the upper class try their
strength against one another. There are two friends of ours nearly
concerned in the great event of the day. Charles is rowing three in the
Oxford boat, and Marston is steering. This is a memorable day for both
of them, and more especially for poor Charles.
Now the crowd surges to and fro, and there is a cheer. The men are
getting into their boats. The police-boats are busy clearing the
course. Now there is a cheer of admiration. Cambridge dashes out, swings
round, and takes her place at the bridge.
Another shout. Oxford sweeps majestically out and takes her place by
Cambridge. Away go the police-galleys, away go all the London
club-boats, at ten miles an hour down the course. Now the course is
clear, and there is almost a silence.
Then a wild hubbub; and people begin to squeeze and crush against one
another. The boats are off; the fight has begun! then the thirteen
steamers come roaring on after them, and their wake is alive once more
with boats.
Everywhere a roar and a rushing to and fro. Frantic crowds upon the
towing-path, mad crowds on the steamers, which make them sway and rock
fearfully. Ahead Hammersmith Bridge, hanging like a black bar, covered
with people as with a swarm of bees. As an eye-piece to the picture, two
solitary flying boats, and the flashing oars, working with the rapidity
and regularity of a steam-engine.
"Who's in front?" is asked by a thousand mouths; but who can tell? We
shall see soon. Hammersmith Bridge is stretching across the water not a
hundred yards in front of the boats. For one half-second a light shadow
crosses the Oxford boat, and then it is out into the sunlight beyond. In
another second the same shadow crosses the Cambridge boat. Oxford is
ahead.
The men with light-blue neckties say that, "By George, Oxford can't keep
that terrible quick stroke going much longer;" and the men with
dark-blue ties say, "Can't she, by Jove?" Well, we shall know all about
it soon, for here is Barnes Bridge. Again the shadow goes over the
Oxford boat, and then one, two, three, four seconds before the Cambridge
men pass beneath it. Oxford is winning! There is a shout from the people
at Barnes, though the [Greek: polloi] don't know why. Cambridge has made
a furious rush, and drawn nearly up to Oxford; but it is useless. Oxford
leaves rowing, and Cambridge rows ten strokes before they are level.
Oxford has won!
Five minutes after, Charles was on the wharf in front of the Ship Inn at
Mortlake, as happy as a king. He had got separated from his friends in
the crowd, and the people round him were cheering him, and passing
flattering remarks on his personal appearance, which caused Charles to
laugh, and blush, and bow, as he tried to push through his good-natured
persecutors, when he suddenly, in the midst of a burst of laughter
caused by a remark made by a drunken bargeman, felt somebody clasp his
arm, and, turning round, saw William.
He felt such a shock that he was giddy and faint. "Will," he said, "what
is the matter?"
"Come here, and I'll tell you."
He forced his way to a quieter place, and then turned round to his
companion,--"Make it short, Will; that's a dear fellow. I can stand the
worst."
"Master was took very bad two days ago, Master Charles; and Master
Cuthbert sent me off for you at once. He told me directly I got to
Paddington to ask for a telegraph message, so that you might hear the
last accounts; and here it is."
He put what we now call a "telegram" into Charles's hand, and the burden
of it was mourning and woe. Densil Ravenshoe was sinking fast, and all
that steam and horse-flesh could do would be needed, if Charles would
see him alive.
"Will, go and find Mr. Marston for me, and I will wait here for you. How
are we to get back to Putney?"
"I have got a cab waiting."
William dashed into the inn, and Charles waited. He turned and looked at
the river.
There it was winding away past villa and park, bearing a thousand boats
upon its bosom. He looked once again upon the crowded steamers and the
busy multitude, and even in his grief felt a rush of honest pride as he
thought that he was one of the heroes of the day. And then he turned,
for William was beside him again. Marston was not to be found.
"I should like to have seen him again," he said; "but we must fly, Will,
we must fly!"
Had he known under what circumstances he was next to see a great
concourse of people, and under what circumstances he was next to meet
Marston, who knows but that in his ignorance and short-sightedness he
would have chosen to die where he stood in such a moment of triumph and
honour?
In the hurry of departure he had no time to ask questions. Only when he
found himself in the express train, having chosen to go second-class
with his servant, and not be alone, did he find time to ask how it had
come about.
There was but little to be told. Densil had been seized after breakfast,
and at first so slightly that they were not much alarmed. He had been
put to bed, and the symptoms had grown worse. Then William had been
despatched for Charles, leaving Cuthbert, Mary, and Father Mackworth at
his bedside. All had been done that could be done. He seemed to be in no
pain, and quite contented. That was all. The telegraph told the rest.
Cuthbert had promised to send horses to Crediton, and a relay forty
miles nearer home.
The terrible excitement of the day, and the fact that he had eaten
nothing since breakfast, made Charles less able to bear up against the
news than he would otherwise have been. Strange thoughts and fears began
to shape themselves in his head, and to find voices in the monotonous
jolting of the carriage.
Not so much the fear of his father's death. That he did not fear,
because he knew it would come; and, as to that, the bitterness of death
was past, bitter, deeply bitter, as it was; but a terror lest his father
should die without speaking to him--that he should never see those dear
lips wreathe into a smile for him any more.
Yesterday he had been thinking of this very journey--of how, if they won
the race, he would fly down on the wings of the wind to tell them, and
how the old man would brighten up with joy at the news. Yesterday he was
a strong, brave man; and now what deadly terror was this at his heart?
"William, what frightens me like this?"
"The news I brought you, and the excitement of the race. And you have
been training hard for a long time, and that don't mend a man's nerves;
and you are hungry."
"Not I."
"What a noble race it was! I saw you above a mile off. I could tell the
shape of you that distance, and see how you was pulling your oar
through. I knew that my boy was going to be in the winning boat, Lord
bless you! before the race was rowed. And when I saw Mr. C---- come in
with that tearing, licking quick stroke of his, I sung out for old
Oxford, and pretty nearly forgot the photograph for a bit."
"Photograph, Will? what photograph?"
"Telegraph, I mean, It's all the same."
Charles couldn't talk, though he tried. He felt an anxiety he had never
felt before. It was so ill-defined that he could not trace it to its
source. He had a right to feel grief, and deep anxiety to see his father
alive; but this was sheer terror, and at what?
At Swindon, William got out and returned laden with this and with that,
and forced Charles to eat and drink. He had not tasted wine for a long
time; so he had to be careful with it; but it seemed to do him no good.
But, at last, tired nature did something for him, and he fell asleep.
When he awoke it was night, and at first he did not remember where he
was. But rapidly his grief came upon him; and up, as it were out of a
dark gulf, came the other nameless terror and took possession of his
heart.
There was a change at Exeter; then at Crediton they met with their first
relay of horses, and, at ten o'clock at night, after a hasty supper,
started on their midnight ride. The terror was gone the moment Charles
was on horseback.
The road was muddy and dark, often with steep banks on each side; but a
delicious April moon was overhead, and they got on bravely. At Bow there
was a glimpse of Dartmoor towering black, and a fresh puff of westerly
wind, laden with scents of spring. At Hatherleigh, there were fresh
horses, and one of the Ravenshoe grooms waiting for them. The man had
heard nothing since yesterday; so at one o'clock they started on again.
After this, there were none but cross-country roads, and dangerous steep
lanes; so they got on slowly. Then came the morning with voice of ten
thousand birds, and all the rich perfume of awaking nature. And then
came the woods of home, and they stood on the terrace, between the old
house and the sea.
The white surf was playing and leaping around the quiet headlands; the
sea-birds were floating merrily in the sunshine; the April clouds were
racing their purple shadows across the jubilant blue sea; but the old
house stood blank and dull. Every window was closed, and not a sound was
heard.
For Charles had come too late. Densil Ravenshoe was dead.