FATHER MACKWORTH BRINGS LORD SALTIRE TO BAY, AND WHAT CAME OF IT.
Old James was to be buried side by side with his old master in the vault
under the altar. The funeral was to be on the grandest scale, and all
the Catholic gentry of the neighbourhood, and most of the Protestant
were coming. Father Mackworth, it may be conceived, was very busy, and
seldom alone. All day he and the two Tiernays were arranging and
ordering. When thoroughly tired out, late at night, he would retire to
his room and take a frugal supper (Mackworth was no glutton), and sit
before the fire musing.
One night, towards the middle of the week, he was sitting thus before
the fire, when the door opened, and some one came in; thinking it was
the servant, he did not look round; but, when the supposed servant came
up to the fireplace and stood still, he cast his eyes suddenly up, and
they fell upon the cadaverous face of Cuthbert.
He looked deadly pale and wan as he stood with his face turned to the
flickering fire, and Mackworth felt deep pity for him. He held an open
letter towards Mackworth, and said--
"This is from Lord Saltire. He proposes to come here the night before
the funeral and go away in Lord Segur's carriage with him after it is
over. Will you kindly see after his rooms, and so on? Here is the
letter."
"I will," said Mackworth. "My dear boy, you look deadly ill."
"I wish I were dead."
"So do all who hope for heaven," said Mackworth.
"Who would not look worn and ill with such a scene hanging over their
heads?"
"Go away and avoid it."
"Not I. A Ravenshoe is not a coward. Besides, I want to see him again.
How cruel you have been! Why did you let him gain my heart? I have
little enough to love."
There was a long pause--so long that a bright-eyed little mouse ran out
from the wainscot and watched. Both their eyes were bent on the fire,
and Father Mackworth listened with painful intentness for what was to
come.
"He shall speak first," he thought. "How I wonder----"
At last Cuthbert spoke slowly, without raising his eyes--
"Will nothing induce you to forego your purpose?"
"How can I forego it, Cuthbert, with common honesty? I have foregone it
long enough."
"Listen now," said Cuthbert, unheedingly: "I have been reckoning up what
I can afford, and I find that I can give you five thousand pounds down
for that paper, and five thousand more in bills of six, eight, and
twelve months. Will that content you?"
Father Mackworth would have given a finger to have answered promptly
"No," but he could not. The offer was so astounding, so unexpected, that
he hesitated long enough to make Cuthbert look round, and say--
"Ten thousand pounds is a large sum of money, Father."
It was, indeed; and Lord Saltire coming next week! Let us do the man
justice; he acted with a certain amount of honour. When you have read
this book to the end you will see that ten thousand pounds was only part
of what was offered to him. He gave it all up because he would not lower
himself in the eyes of Cuthbert, who had believed in him so long.
"I paused," said he, "from astonishment, that a gentleman could have
insulted me by such a proposition."
"Your pause," said Cuthbert, "arose from hesitation, not from
astonishment. I saw your eyes blaze when I made you the offer. Think of
ten thousand pounds. You might appear in the world as an English Roman
Catholic of fortune. Good heavens! with your talent you might aspire to
the cardinal's chair!"
"No, no, no!" said Mackworth, fiercely. "I did hesitate, and I have lied
to you; but I hesitate no longer. I won't have the subject mentioned to
me again, sir. What sort of a gentleman are you to come to men's rooms
in the dead of night, with your father lying dead in the house, and
tempt men to felony? I will not."
"God knows," said Cuthbert, as he passed out, "whether I have lost
heaven in trying to save him."
Mackworth heard the door close behind him, and then looked eagerly
towards it. He heard Cuthbert's footsteps die along the corridor, and
then, rising up, he opened it and looked out. The corridor was empty. He
walked hurriedly back to the fireplace.
"Shall I call him back?" he said. "It is not too late. Ten thousand
pounds! A greater stake than I played for; and now, when it is at my
feet, I am throwing it away. And for what? For honour, after I have
acted the----" (he could not say the word). "After I have gone so far. I
must be a gentleman. A common rogue would have jumped at the offer. By
heaven! there are some things better than money. If I were to take his
offer he would know me for a rogue. And I love the lad. No, no! let the
fool go to his prayers. I will keep the respect of one man at least.
"What a curious jumble and puzzle it all is, to be sure. Am I any worse
than my neighbours? I have made a desperate attempt at power, for a
name, and an ambition; and then, because the ball comes suddenly at my
feet, from a quarter I did not expect, I dare not strike it because I
fear the contempt of one single pair of eyes from which I have been used
to receive nothing but love and reverence.
"Yet he cannot trust me, as I thought he did, or he would not have made
the offer to me. And then he made it in such a confident way that he
must have thought I was going to accept it. That is strange. He has
never rebelled lately. Am I throwing away substance for shadow? I have
been bound to the Church body and soul from my boyhood, and I must go
on. I have refused a cardinal's chair this night, but who will ever know
it?
"I must go about with my Lord Saltire. I could go at him with more
confidence if I had ten thousand pounds in the bank though, in case of
failure. I am less afraid of that terrible old heretic than I am of
those great eyes of Cuthbert's turned on me in scorn. I have lived so
long among gentlemen that I believe myself to be one. He knows, and he
shall tell.
"And, if all fails, I have served the Church, and the Church shall serve
me. What fools the best of us are! Why did I ever allow that
straightforward idiot Tiernay into the house? He hates me, I know. I
rather like the fool. He will take the younger one's part on Monday; but
I don't think my gentleman will dare to say too much."
After this soliloquy, the key to which will appear very shortly, Father
Mackworth took off his clothes and got into bed.
The day before the funeral, Cuthbert sent a message to Charles, to beg
that he would be kind enough to receive Lord Saltire; and, as the old
man was expected at a certain hour, Charles, about ten minutes before
the time, went down to the bottom of the hall-steps on to the terrace,
to be ready for him when he came.
Oh, the glorious wild freshness of the sea and sky after the darkened
house! The two old capes right and left; the mile-long stretch of sand
between them; and the short crisp waves rolling in before the westerly
wind of spring! Life and useful action in the rolling water; budding
promise in the darkening woods; young love in every bird's note!
William stood beside him before he had observed him. Charles turned to
him, and took his arm in his.
"Look at this," he said.
"I am looking at it."
"Does it make you glad and wild?" said Charles. "Does it make the last
week in the dark house look like twenty years? Are the two good souls
which are gone looking at it now, and rejoicing that earth should still
have some pleasure left for us?"
"I hope not," said William, turning to Charles.
"And why?" said Charles, and wondering rather what William would say.
"I wouldn't," said William, "have neither of their hearts broke with
seeing what is to come."
"Their hearts broke!" said Charles, turning full round on his
foster-brother. "Let them see how we behave under it, William. That will
never break their hearts, my boy."
"Charles," said William, earnestly, "do you know what is coming?"
"No; nor care."
"It is something terrible for you, I fear," said William.
"Have you any idea what it is?" said Charles.
"Not the least. But look here. Last night, near twelve, I went down to
the chapel, thinking to say an ave before the coffin, and there lay
Master Cuthbert on the stones. So I kept quiet and said my prayer. And
of a sudden he burst out and said, 'I have risked my soul and my fortune
to save him: Lord, remember it!'"
"Did he say that, William?"
"The very words."
"Then he could not have been speaking of me," said Charles. "It is
possible that by some means I may not come into the property I have been
led to expect; but that could not have referred to me. Suppose I was to
leave the house, penniless, to-morrow morning, William, should I go
alone? I am very strong, and very patient, and soon learn anything.
Cuthbert would take care of me. Would you come with me, or let me go
alone?"
"You know. Why should I answer?"
"We might go to Canada and settle. And then Adelaide would come over
when the house was ready; and you would marry the girl of your choice;
and our boys would grow up to be such friends as you and I are. And then
my boy should marry your girl, and----"
Poor dreaming Charles, all unprepared for what was to come!
A carriage drove on to the terrace at this moment, with Lord Saltire's
solemn servant on the box.
Charles and William assisted Lord Saltire to alight. His lordship said
that he was getting devilish stiff and old, and had been confoundedly
cut up by his old friend's death, and had felt bound to come down to
show his respect to the memory of one of the best and honestest men it
had ever been his lot to meet in a tolerably large experience. And then,
standing on the steps, went on--
"It is very pleasant to me to be greeted by a face I like as yours,
Charles. I was gratified at seeing your name in the _Times_ as being one
of the winners of the great boat-race the other day. My man pointed it
out to me. That sort of thing is very honourable to a young fellow, if
it does not lead to a neglect of other duties, in which case it becomes
very mischievous; in yours it has not. That young man is, I believe,
your foster-brother. Will he be good enough to go and find Miss Corby,
and tell her that Lord Saltire wants her to come and walk with him on
the terrace? Give me your shoulder." William ran right willingly on his
errand.
"Your position here, Charles," continued Lord Saltire, "will be a
difficult one."
"It will, indeed, my lord."
"I intend you to spend most of your time with me in future. I want some
one to take care of me. In return for boring you all day, I shall get
you the run of all the best houses, and make a man of you. Hush! not a
word now! Here comes our Robin Redbreast. I am glad I have tempted her
out into the air and the sunshine. How peaked you look, my dear! How are
you?"
Poor Mary looked pale and wan, indeed, but brightened up at the sight of
her old friend. They three walked and talked in the fresh spring morning
an hour or more.
That afternoon came a servant to Lord Saltire with a note from Father
Mackworth, requesting the honour of ten minutes' conversation with Lord
Saltire in private.
"I suppose I must see the fellow," said the old man to himself.
"My compliments to Mr. Mackworth, and I am alone in the library. The
fool," continued he, when the man had left the room, "why doesn't he let
well alone? I hate the fellow. I believe he is as treacherous as his
mother. If he broaches the subject, he shall have the whole truth."
Meanwhile, Father Mackworth was advancing towards him through the dark
corridors, and walking slower, and yet more slow, as he neared the room
where sat the grim old man. He knew that there would be a fencing match;
and of all the men in broad England he feared his lordship most. His
determination held, however; though, up to the very last, he had almost
determined to speak only about comparatively indifferent subjects, and
not about that nearest to his heart.
"How do you do, my good sir," said Lord Saltire, as he came in; "I have
to condole with you on the loss of our dear old friend. We shall neither
of us ever have a better one, sir."
Mackworth uttered some commonplaces; to which Lord Saltire bowed,
without speaking, and then sat with his elbows on the arms of his chair,
making a triangle of his two fore-fingers and thumbs, staring at Father
Mackworth.
"I am going, Lord Saltire, to trouble you with some of my early
reminiscences as a boy."
Lord Saltire bowed, and settled himself easily in his chair, as one does
who expects a good story. Mackworth went on--
"One of my earliest recollections, my lord, is of being at a French
lycée."
"The fault of those establishments," said Lord Saltire, pensively, "is
the great range of subjects which are superficially taught. I ask pardon
for interrupting you. Do you take snuff?"
Mackworth declined, with great politeness, and continued--
"I was taken to that school by a footman in livery."
"Upon my honour, then, I owe you an apology. I thought, of course, that
the butler had gone with you. But, in a large house, one never really
knows what one's people are about."
Father Mackworth did not exactly like this. It was perfectly evident to
him, not only that Lord Saltire knew all about his birth and parentage,
but also was willing to tell.
"Lord Saltire," he said, "I have never had a parent's care, or any name
but one I believe to be fictitious. You can give me a name--give me,
perhaps, a parent--possibly, a brother. Will you do this for me?"
"I can do neither the one thing nor the other, my good sir. I entreat
you, for your own sake, to inquire no further."
There was a troubled expression in the old man's face as he answered.
Mackworth thought he was gaining his point, and pressed on.
"Lord Saltire, as you are a gentleman, tell me who my parents were;"
and, as he said this, he rose up and stood before him, folding his arms.
"Confound the impudent, theatrical jackanapes!" thought Lord Saltire.
"His mother all over. I will gratify your curiosity sir," he said aloud,
angrily. "You are the illegitimate son of a French ballet-dancer!"
"But who was my father, my lord? Answer me that, on your honour."
"Who was your father? _Pardieu_, that is more than I can tell. If any
one ever knew, it must have been your mother. You are assuming a tone
with me, sir, which I don't intend to put up with. I wished to spare you
a certain amount of humiliation. I shall not trouble myself to do so
now, for many reasons. Now listen to me, sir--to the man who saved you
from the kennel, sir--and drop that theatrical attitude. Your mother was
my brother's mistress, and a clever woman in her way; and meeting her
here and there, in the green-room and where not, and going sometimes to
her house with my brother, I had a sort of acquaintance with her, and
liked her as one likes a clever, brilliant woman of that sort. My
brother died. Some time after your mother fell into poverty and disgrace
under circumstances into which I should advise you not to inquire, and
on her death-bed recommended you to my care as an old acquaintance,
praying that you might be brought up in her own religion. The request
was, under the circumstances, almost impudent; but remembering that I
had once liked the woman, and calling to mind the relation she had held
to poor dear John, I complied, and did for you what I have done. You
were a little over a twelvemonth old at the time of your mother's death,
and my brother had been dead nearly or quite five years. Your mother had
changed her protector thrice during that time. Now, sir!"
Mackworth stood before Lord Saltire all this time as firm as a rock. He
had seen from the old man's eye that every word was terribly true, but
he had never flinched--never a nerve in his face had quivered; but he
had grown deadly pale. When Lord Saltire had finished he tried to speak,
but found his mouth as dry as dust. He smiled, and, with a bow, reaching
past Lord Saltire, took up a glass of lemonade which stood at his elbow
and drank it. Then he spoke clearly and well.
"You see how you have upset me, my lord. In seeking this interview, I
had some hopes of having forced a confession from your lordship of my
relationship with you, and thereby serving my personal ambition. I have
failed. It now remains to me to thank you heartily and frankly for the
benefits I have received from you, and to beg you to forgive my
indiscretion."
"You are a brave man, sir," said Lord Saltire. "I don't think you are an
honest one. But I can respect manliness."
"You have a great affection for Charles Ravenshoe, my lord?"
"Yes," said Lord Saltire; "I love Charles Ravenshoe more than any other
human being."
"Perhaps the time may come, my lord, when he will need all your love and
protection."
"Highly possible. I am in possession of the tenor of his father's will;
and those who try to set that will aside, unless they have a very strong
case, had better consider that Charles is backed up by an amount of
ready money sufficient to ruin the Ravenshoe estate in law."
"No attempt of the kind will be made, my lord. But I very much doubt
whether your lordship will continue your protection to that young man. I
wish you good afternoon."
"That fellow," said Lord Saltire, "has got a card to play which I don't
know of. What matter? I can adopt Charles, and he may defy them. I wish
I could give him my title; but that will be extinct. I am glad little
Mary is going to Lady Hainault. It will be the best place for her till
she marries. I wish that fool of a boy had fallen in love with her. But
he wouldn't."
Mackworth hurried away to his room; and, as he went, he said, "I have
been a fool--a fool. I should have taken Cuthbert's offer. None but a
fool would have done otherwise. A cardinal's chair thrown to the dogs!
"I could not do it this morning; but I can do it now. The son of a
figurante, and without a father! Perhaps he will offer it again.
"If he does not, there is one thing certain. That young ruffian Charles
is ruined. Ah, ah! my Lord Saltire, I have you there! I should like to
see that old man's face when I play my last card. It will be a finer
sight than Charles's. You'll make him your heir, will you, my lord? Will
you make him your groom?"
He went to his desk, took out an envelope, and looked at it. He looked
at it long, and then put it back. "It will never do to tempt him with
it. If he were to refuse his offer of this morning, I should be ruined.
Much better to wait and play out the ace boldly. I can keep my hold over
_him_: and William is mine, body and soul, if he dies."
With which reflections, the good Father dressed for dinner.