MR. SLOANE.
Charles Ravenshoe had committed suicide--committed suicide as
deliberately as any maddened wretch had done that day in all the wide
miserable world. He knew it very well, and was determined to go on with
it. He had not hung himself, or drowned himself, but he had committed
deliberate suicide, and he knew--knew well--that his obstinacy would
carry him through to the end.
What is suicide, nine cases out of ten? Any one can tell you. It is the
act of a mad, proud coward, who flies, by his own deed, not from
humiliation or disgrace, but, as he fancies, from feeling the
consequences of them--who flies to unknown, doubtful evils, sooner than
bear positive, present, undoubted ones. All this had Charles done,
buoying him up with this excuse and that excuse, and fancying that he
was behaving, the cur, like Bayard, or Lieutenant Willoughby--a greater
than Bayard--all the time.
The above is Charles's idea of the matter himself, put in the third
person for form's sake. I don't agree with all he says about himself. I
don't deny that he did a very foolish thing, but I incline to believe
that there was something noble and self-reliant in his doing it. Think a
moment. He had only two courses open to him--the one (I put it coarsely)
to eat humble-pie, to go back to Cuthbert and Mackworth, and accept
their offers; the other to do as he had done--to go alone into the
world, and stand by himself. He did the latter, as we shall see. He
could not face Ravenshoe, or any connected with it, again. It had been
proved that he was an unwilling impostor, of base, low blood; and his
sister--ah! one more pang, poor heart!--his sister Ellen, what was she?
Little doubt--little doubt! Better for both of them if they had never
been born! He was going to London, and, perhaps, might meet her there!
All the vice and misery of the country got thrown into that cesspool.
When anything had got too foul for the pure country air, men said, Away
with it; throw it into the great dunghill, and let it rot there. Was he
not going there himself? It was fit she should be there before him! They
would meet for certain!
How would they meet? Would she be in silks and satins, or in rags?
flaunting in her carriage, or shivering in an archway? What matter? was
not shame the heritage of the "lower orders"? The pleasures of the rich
must be ministered to by the "lower orders," or what was the use of
money or rank? He was one of the lower orders now. He must learn his
lesson; learn to cringe and whine like the rest of them. It would be
hard, but it must be learnt. The dogs rose against it sometimes, but it
never paid.
The devil was pretty busy with poor Charles in his despair, you see.
This was all he had left after three and twenty years of careless
idleness and luxury. His creed had been, "I am a Ravenshoe," and lo! one
morning, he was a Ravenshoe no longer. A poor crow, that had been
fancying himself an eagle. A crow! "by heavens," he thought, "he was not
even that." A nonentity, turned into the world to find his own value!
What were honour, honesty, virtue to him? Why, nothing--words! He must
truckle and pander for his living. Why not go back and truckle to Father
Mackworth? There was time yet.
No!
Why not? Was it pride only? We have no right to say what it was. If it
was only pride, it was better than nothing. Better to have that straw
only to cling to, than to be all alone in the great sea with nothing. We
have seen that he has done nothing good, with circumstances all in his
favour; let us see if he can in any way hold his own, with circumstances
all against him.
"America?" he thought once. "They are all gentlemen there. If I could
only find her, and tear her jewels off, we would go there together. But
she must be found--she must be found. I will never leave England till
she goes with me. We shall be brought together. We shall see one
another. I love her as I never loved her before. What a sweet, gentle
little love she was! My darling! And, when I have kissed her, I never
dreamed she was my sister. My pretty love! Ellen, Ellen, I am coming to
you. Where are you, my love?"
He was alone, in a railway carriage, leaning out to catch the fresh
wind, as he said this. He said it once again, this time aloud. "Where
are you, my sister?"
Where was she? Could he have only seen! We may be allowed to see, though
_he_ could not. Come forward into the great Babylon with me, while he is
speeding on towards it; we will rejoin him in an instant.
In a small luxuriously furnished hall, there stands a beautiful woman,
dressed modestly in the garb of a servant. She is standing with her arms
folded, and a cold, stern, curious look on her face. She is looking
towards the hall-door, which is held open by a footman. She is waiting
for some one who is coming in; and two travellers enter, a man and a
woman. She goes up to the woman, and says, quietly, "I bid you welcome,
madam." Who are these people? Is that waiting-woman Ellen? and these
travellers, are they Lord Welter and Adelaide? Let us get back to poor
Charles; better be with him than here!
We must follow him closely. We must see why, in his despair, he took the
extraordinary resolution that he did. Not that I shall take any
particular pains to follow the exact process of his mind in arriving at
his determination. If the story has hitherto been told well it will
appear nothing extraordinary, and, if otherwise, an intelligent reader
would very soon detect any attempt at bolstering up ill-told facts by
elaborate, soul-analysing theories.
He could have wished the train would have run on for ever; but he was
aroused by the lights growing thicker and more brilliant, and he felt
that they were nearing London, and that the time for action was come.
The great plunge was taken, and he was alone in the cold street--alone,
save for the man who carried his baggage. He stood for a moment or so,
confused with the rush of carriages of all sorts which were taking the
people from the train, till he was aroused by the man asking him where
he was to go to.
Charles said, without thinking, "The Warwick Hotel," and thither they
went. For a moment he regretted that he had said so, but the next moment
he said aloud, "Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die!"
The man turned round and begged his pardon. Charles did not answer him;
and the man went on, wondering what sort of a young gentleman he had got
hold of.
The good landlord was glad to see him. Would he have dinner?--a bit of
fish and a lamb chop, for instance? Then it suddenly struck Charles that
he was hungry--ravenous. He laughed aloud at the idea; and the landlord
laughed too, and rubbed his hands. Should it be whiting or smelts now?
he asked.
"Anything," said Charles, "so long as you feed me quick. And give me
wine, will you, of some sort; I want to drink. Give me sherry, will you?
And I say, let me taste some now, and then I can see if I like it. I am
very particular about my wine, you must know."
In a few minutes a waiter brought in a glass of wine, and waited to know
how Charles liked it. He told the man he could go, and he would tell
him at dinner-time. When the man was gone, he looked at the wine with a
smile. Then he took it up, and poured it into the coal-scuttle.
"Not yet," he said, "not yet! I'll try something else before I try to
drink my troubles away." And then he plunged into the _Times_.
He had no sooner convinced himself that Lord Aberdeen was tampering with
the honour of the country by not declaring war, than he found himself
profoundly considering what had caused that great statesman to elope
with Adelaide, and whether, in case of a Russian war, Lady Ascot would
possibly convict Father Mackworth of having caused it. Then Lady Ascot
came into the room with a large bottle of medicine and a testament,
announcing that she was going to attend a sick gun-boat. And then, just
as he began to see that he was getting sleepy, to sleep he went, fast as
a top.
Half an hour's sleep restored him, and dinner made things look
different. "After all," he said, as he sipped his wine, "here is only
the world on the one side and I on the other. I am utterly reckless, and
can sink no further. I will get all the pleasure out of life that I can,
honestly; for I am an honest man still, and mean to be. I love you
Madame Adelaide, and you have used me worse than a hound, and made me
desperate. If he marries you, I will come forward some day, and disgrace
you. If you had only waited till you knew everything, I could have
forgiven you. I'll get a place as a footman, and talk about you in the
servant's hall. All London shall know you were engaged to me."
"Poor dear, pretty Adelaide: as if I would ever hurt a hair of your
head, my sweet love! Silly----"
The landlord came in. There was most excellent company in the
smoking-room. Would he condescend to join them?
Company and tobacco! Charles would certainly join them; so he had his
wine carried in.
There was a fat gentleman, with a snub nose, who was a Conservative.
There was a tall gentleman, with a long nose, who was Liberal. There was
a short gentleman, with no particular kind of nose, who was Radical.
There was a handsome gentleman, with big whiskers, who was commercial;
and there was a gentleman with bandy legs, who was horsy.
I strongly object to using a slang adjective, if any other can be got to
supply its place; but by doing so sometimes one avoids a periphrasis,
and does not spoil one's period. Thus, I know of no predicate for a
gentleman with a particular sort of hair, complexion, dress, whiskers,
and legs, except the one I have used above, and so it must stand.
As Providence would have it, Charles sat down between the landlord and
the horsy man, away from the others. He smoked his cigar, and listened
to the conversation.
The Conservative gentleman coalesced with the Liberal gentleman on the
subject of Lord Aberdeen's having sold the country to the Russians; the
Radical gentleman also come over to them on that subject; and for a time
the Opposition seemed to hold an overwhelming majority, and to be merely
allowing Aberdeen's Government to hold place longer, that they might
commit themselves deeper. In fact, things seemed to be going all one
way, as is often the case in coalition ministries just before a grand
crash, when the Radical gentleman caused a violent split in the cabinet,
by saying that the whole complication had been brought about by the
machinations of the aristocracy--which assertion caused the Conservative
gentleman to retort in unmeasured language; and then the Liberal
gentleman, trying to trim, found himself distrusted and despised by both
parties. Charles listened to them, amused for the time to hear them
quoting, quite unconsciously, whole sentences out of their respective
leading papers, and then was distracted by the horsy man saying to him--
"Darn politics. What horse will win the Derby, sir?"
"Haphazard," said Charles, promptly. This, please to remember, was Lord
Ascot's horse, which we have seen before.
The landlord immediately drew closer up.
The horsy man looked at Charles, and said, "H'm; and what has made my
lord scratch him for the Two Thousand, sir?"
And so on. We have something to do with Haphazard's winning the Derby,
as we shall see; and we have still more to do with the result of
Charles's conversation with the "horsy man." But we have certainly
nothing to do with a wordy discussion about the various horses which
stood well for the great race (wicked, lovely darlings, how many souls
of heroes have they sent to Hades!), and so we will spare the reader.
The conclusion of their conversation was the only important part of it.
Charles said to the horsy man on the stairs, "Now you know everything. I
am penniless, friendless, and nameless. Can you put me in the way of
earning my living honestly?"
And he said, "I can, and I will. This gentleman is a fast man, but he is
rich. You'll have your own way. Maybe, you'll see some queer things, but
what odds?"
"None to me," said Charles; "I can always leave him."
"And go back to your friends, like a wise young gentleman, eh?" said the
other, kindly.
"I am not a gentleman," said Charles. "I told you so before. I am a
gamekeeper's son; I swear to you I am. I have been petted and pampered
till I look like one, but I am not."
"You are a deuced good imitation," said the other. "Good night; come to
me at nine, mind."
* * * * *
At this time, Lady Ascot had despatched her letter to Lord Saltire, and
had asked for Charles. The groom of the chambers said that Mr. Ravenshoe
had left the house immediately after his interview with her ladyship,
three hours before.
She started up--"Gone!--Whither?"
"To Twyford, my lady."
"Send after him, you idiot! Send the grooms after him on all my lord's
horses. Send a lad on Haphazard, and let him race the train to London.
Send the police! He has stolen my purse, with ten thousand gold guineas
in it!--I swear he has. Have him bound hand and foot, and bring him
back, on your life. If you stay there I will kill you!"
The violent old animal nature, dammed up so long by creeds and formulas,
had broken out at last. The decorous Lady Ascot was transformed in one
instant into a terrible, grey-headed, magnificent old Alecto, hurling
her awful words abroad in a sharp, snarling voice, that made the hair of
him that heard it to creep upon his head. The man fled, and shut Lady
Ascot in alone.
She walked across the room, and beat her withered old hands against the
wall. "Oh, miserable, wicked old woman!" she cried aloud. "How surely
have your sins found you out! After concealing a crime for so many
years, to find the judgment fall on such an innocent and beloved head!
Alicia, Alicia, I did this for your sake. Charles, Charles, come back to
the old woman before she dies, and tell her you forgive her."