A GLIMPSE OF SOME OLD FRIENDS.
Hitherto I have been able to follow Charles right on without leaving him
for one instant: now, however, that he is reduced to sitting on a
wheelbarrow in a stable-yard, we must see a little less of him. He is,
of course, our principal object; but he has removed himself from the
immediate sphere of all our other acquaintances, and so we must look up
some of them, and see how far they, though absent, are acting on his
destiny--nay, we must look up every one of them sooner or later, for
there is not one who is not in some way concerned in his adventures past
and future.
By reason of her age, her sex, and her rank, my Lady Ascot claims our
attention first. We left the dear old woman in a terrible taking on
finding that Charles had suddenly left the house and disappeared. Her
wrath gave way to tears, and her tears to memory. Bitterly she blamed
herself now for what seemed, years ago, such a harmless deceit. It was
not too late. Charles might be found; would come back, surely--would
come back to his poor old aunt! He would never--hush! it won't do to
think of that!
Lady Ascot thought of a brilliant plan, and put it into immediate
execution. She communicated with Mr. Scotland Yard, the eminent
ex-detective officer, forwarding a close description of Charles, and a
request that he might be found, alive or dead, immediately. Her efforts
were crowned with immediate and unlooked-for success. In a week's time
the detective had discovered, not one Charles Ravenshoe, but three, from
which her ladyship might take her choice. But the worst of it was that
neither of the three was Charles Ravenshoe. There was a remarkable point
of similarity between Charles and them, certainly; and that point was
that they were all three young gentlemen under a cloud, and had all
three dark hair and prominent features. Here the similarity ended.
The first of the cases placed so promptly before her ladyship by
Inspector Yard presented some startling features of similarity with that
of Charles. The young gentleman was from the West of England, had been
at college somewhere, had been extravagant ("God bless him, poor dear!
when lived a Ravenshoe that wasn't?" thought Lady Ascot), had been
crossed in love, the inspector believed (Lady Ascot thought she had got
her fish), and was now in the Coldbath Fields Prison, doing two years'
hard labour for swindling, of which two months were yet to run. The
inspector would let her ladyship know the day of his release.
This could not be Charles: and the next young gentleman offered to her
notice was a worse shot than the other. He also was dark-haired; but
here at once all resemblance ceased. This one had started in life with
an ensigncy in the line. He had embezzled the mess funds, had been to
California, had enlisted, deserted, and sold his kit, been a
billiard-marker, had come into some property, had spent it, had enlisted
again, had been imprisoned for a year and discharged--here Lady Ascot
would read no more, but laid down the letter, saying, "Pish!"
But the inspector's cup was not yet full. The unhappy man was acting
from uncertain information, he says. He affirmed, throughout all the
long and acrimonious discussion which followed, that his only
instructions were to find a young gentleman with dark hair and a hook
nose. If this be the case, he may possibly be excused for catching a
curly-headed little Jew of sixteen, who was drinking himself to death in
a public-house off Regent Street, and producing him as Charles
Ravenshoe. His name was Cohen, and he had stolen some money from his
father and gone to the races. This was so utterly the wrong article,
that Lady Ascot wrote a violent letter to the ex-inspector, of such an
extreme character, that he replied by informing her ladyship that he had
sent her letter to his lawyer. A very pretty quarrel followed, which I
have not time to describe.
No tidings of Charles. He had hidden himself too effectually. So the old
woman wept and watched--watched for her darling who came not, and for
the ruin that she saw settling down upon her house like a dark cloud,
that grew evermore darker.
And little Mary had packed up her boxes and passed out of the old house,
with the hard, bitter world before her. Father Mackworth had met her in
the hall, and had shaken hands with her in silence. He loved her, in
his way, so much, that he cared not to say anything. Cuthbert was
outside, waiting to hand her to her carriage. When she was seated he
said, "I shall write to you, Mary, for I can't say all I would." And
then he opened the door and kissed her affectionately; then the carriage
went on, and before it entered the wood she had a glimpse of the grey
old house, and Cuthbert on the steps before the porch, bareheaded,
waving his hand; then it was among the trees, and she had seen the last
of him for ever; then she buried her face in her hands, and knew, for
the first time, perhaps, how well she had loved him.
She was going, as we know, to be nursery-governess to the orphan
children of Lord Hainault's brother. She went straight to London to
assume her charge. It was very late when she got to Paddington. One of
Lord Hainault's carriages was waiting for her, and she was whirled
through "the season" to Grosvenor Square. Then she had to walk alone
into the great lighted hall, with the servants standing right and left,
and looking at nothing, as well-bred servants are bound to do. She
wished for a moment that the poor little governess had been allowed to
come in a cab.
The groom of the chambers informed her that her ladyship had gone out,
and would not be home till late; that his lordship was dressing; and
that dinner was ready in Miss Corby's room whenever she pleased.
So she went up. She did not eat much dinner; the steward's-room boy in
attendance had his foolish heart moved to pity by seeing how poor an
appetite she had, when he thought what he could have done in that line
too.
Presently she asked the lad where was the nursery. The second door to
the right. When all was quiet, she opened her door, and thought she
would go and see the children asleep. At that moment the nursery-door
opened, and a tall, handsome, quiet-looking man came out. It was Lord
Hainault; she had seen him before.
"I like this," said she, as she drew back. "It was kind of him to go and
see his brother's children before he went out;" and so she went into the
nursery.
An old nurse was sitting by the fire sewing. The two elder children were
asleep; but the youngest, an audacious young sinner of three, had
refused to do anything of the kind until the cat came to bed with him.
The nursery cat being at that time out a-walking on the leads, the
nurserymaid had been despatched to borrow one from the kitchen. At this
state of affairs Mary entered. The nurse rose and curtsied, and the
rebel clambered on her knee, and took her into his confidence. He told
her that that day, while walking in the square, he had seen a
chimney-sweep; that he had called to Gus and Flora to come and look;
that Gus had been in time and seen him go round the corner, but that
Flora had come too late, and cried, and so Gus had lent her his hoop,
and she had left off, &c., &c. After a time he requested to be allowed
to say his prayers to her: to which the nurse objected on the
theological ground that he had said them twice already that evening,
which was once more than was usually allowed. Soon after this the little
head lay heavy on Mary's arm, and the little hand loosed its hold on
hers, and the child was asleep.
She left the nursery with a lightened heart; but, nevertheless, she
cried herself to sleep. "I wonder, shall I like Lady Hainault; Charles
used to. But she is very proud, I believe. I cannot remember much of
her.--How those carriages growl and roll, almost like the sea at dear
old Ravenshoe." Then, after a time, she slept.
There was a light in her eyes, not of dawn, which woke her. A tall,
handsome woman, in silk and jewels, came and knelt beside her and kissed
her; and said that, now her old home was broken up, she must make one
there, and be a sister to her, and many other kind words of the same
sort. It was Lady Hainault (the long Burton girl, as Madam Adelaide
called her) come home from her last party; and in such kind keeping I
think we may leave little Mary for the present.