RAVENSHOE HALL, DURING ALL THIS.
The villagers at Ravenshoe, who loved Charles, were very much puzzled
and put out by his sudden disappearance. Although they had little or no
idea of the real cause of his absence, yet it was understood to be a
truth, not to be gainsayed, that it was permanent. And as it was a
heavily-felt misfortune to them, and as they really had no idea why he
was gone, or where he was gone to, it became necessary that they should
comfort themselves by a formula. At which time Master Lee up to Slarrow,
erected the theory, that Master Charles was gone to the Indies--which
was found to be a doctrine so comfortable to the souls of those that
adopted it, as being hazy and vague, and as leaving his return an open
question, that it was unanimously adopted; and those who ventured to
doubt it, were treated as heretics and heathens.
It was an additional puzzle to them to find that William had turned out
to be a gentleman, and a Ravenshoe, a fact which could not, of course,
be concealed from them, though the other facts of the case were
carefully hushed up--not a very difficult matter in a simple feudal
village, like Ravenshoe. But, when William appeared, after a short
absence, he suffered greatly in popularity, from the belief that he had
allowed Charles to go to the Indies by himself. Old Master James Lee of
Tor Head, old Master James Lee of Withycombe Barton, and old Master
James Lee up to Slarrow, the three great quidnuncs of the village, were
sunning themselves one day under the wall which divides part of the
village from the shore, when by there came, talking earnestly together,
William and John Marston.
The three old men raised their hats, courteously. They were in no
distinguishable relation to one another, but, from similarity of name
and age, always hunted in a leash. (Sporting men will notice a confusion
here about the word "leash," but let it pass.) When no one was by, I
have heard them fall out and squabble together about dates, or such
like; but, when others were present, they would, so to speak, trump one
another's tricks to any amount. And if, on these occasions, any one of
the three took up an untenable position, the other two would lie him out
of it like Jesuits, and only fall foul of him when they were alone
together--which, to say the least of it, was neighbourly and decent.
"God save you, gentlemen," said old Master Lee up to Slarrow, who was
allowed to commit himself by the other two, who were waiting to be "down
on him" in private. "Any news from the Indies lately?"
William and Marston stopped, and William said--
"No, Master Lee, we have not heard from Captain Archer for seven months,
or more."
"I ask your pardon," said Lee up to Slarrow; "I warn't a speaking of he.
I was speaking of our own darling boy, Master Charles. When be he
a-coming back to see we?"
"When, indeed!" said William. "I wish I knew, Master Lee."
"They Indies," said the old man, "is well enough; but what's he there no
more than any other gentleman? Why don't he come home to his own. Who's
a-keeping on him away?"
William and John Marston walked on without answering. And then the two
other Master Lees fell on to Master Lee up to Slarrow, and verbally
ill-treated him--partly because he had got no information out of
William, and partly because, having both sat quiet and given him plenty
of rope, he had not hanged himself. Master Lee up to Slarrow had evil
times of it that blessed spring afternoon, and ended by "dratting" both
his companions, for a couple of old fools. After which, they adjourned
to the public-house and hard cider, sent them to drink for their sins.
"They'll never make a scholar of me, Marston," said William; "I will go
on at it for a year, but no more, I shall away soon to hunt up Charles.
Is there any police in America?"
Marston answered absently, "Yes; he believed so;" but was evidently
thinking of something else.
They had gone sauntering out for a walk together. Marston had come down
from Oxford the day before (after an examination for an Exeter
fellowship, I believe) for change of air; and he thought he would like
to walk with William up to the top of the lofty promontory, which
bounded Ravenshoe Bay on the west, and catch the pleasant summer breeze
coming in from the Atlantic.
On the loftiest point of all, with the whispering blue sea on three
sides of them, four hundred feet below, there they sat down on the short
sheep-eaten turf, and looked westward.
Cape after cape stretched away under the afternoon sun, till the last
seemed only a dark cloud floating on the sea. Beyond that cape there was
nothing but water for three thousand weary miles. The scene was
beautiful enough, but very melancholy; a long coastline trending away
into dim distance, on a quiet sunny afternoon, is very melancholy.
Indeed, far more melancholy than the same place in a howling gale: when
the nearest promontory only is dimly visible, a black wall, echoing the
thunder of bursting waves, and when sea, air, and sky, like the three
furies, are rushing on with mad, destructive unanimity.
They lay, these two, on the short turf, looking westward; and, after a
time, John Marston broke silence. He spoke very low and quietly, and
without looking at William.
"I have something very heavy on my mind, William. I am not a fool, with
a morbid conscience, but I have been very wrong. I have done what I
never can undo. I loved that fellow, William!"
William said "Ay."
"I know what you would say. You would say, that every one who ever knew
Charles loved him; and you are right. He was so utterly unselfish, so
entirely given up to trying to win others, that every one loved him, and
could not help it. The cleverest man in England, with all his
cleverness, could not gain so many friends as Charles."
William seemed to think this such a self-evident proposition, that he
did not think it worth while to say anything.
"And Charles was not clever. And what makes me mad with myself is this.
I had influence over him, and I abused it. I was not gentle enough with
him. I used to make fun of him, and be flippant, and priggish, and
dictatorial, with him. God help me! And now he has taken some desperate
step, and, in fear of my ridicule, has not told me of it. I felt sure he
would come to me, but I have lost hope now. May God forgive me--God
forgive me!"
In a few moments, William said, "If you pause to think, Marston, you
will see how unjust you are to yourself. He could not be afraid of me,
and yet he has never come near me."
"Of course not," said Marston. "You seem hardly to know him so well as
I. He fears that you would make him take money, and that he would be a
burthen on you. I never expected that he would come back to you. He
knows that you would never leave him. He knows, as well as you know
yourself, that you would sacrifice all your time and your opportunities
of education to him. And, by being dependent on you, he would be
dependent on Father Mackworth--the only man in the world he dislikes and
distrusts."
William uttered a form of speech concerning the good father, which is
considered by foreigners to be merely a harmless national _façon de
parler_--sometimes, perhaps, intensive, when the participle is used, but
in general no more than expletive. In this case, the speaker was, I
fear, in earnest, and meant what he said most heartily.
Marston never swore, but he certainly did not correct William for
swearing, in this case, as he should have done. There was a silence for
a time. After a little, William laid his hand on Marston's shoulder, and
said--
"He never had a truer friend than you. Don't you blame yourself?"
"I do; and shall, until I find him."
"Marston," said William, "what _has_ he done with himself? Where the
deuce is he gone?"
"Lord Saltire and I were over the same problem for two hours the other
night, and we could make nothing of it, but that he was gone to America
or Australia. He hardly took money enough with him to keep him till now.
I can make nothing of it. Do _you_ think he would be likely to seek out
Welter?"
"If he were going to do so, he would have done so by now, and we must
have heard of it. No," said William.
"He was capable of doing very odd things," said Marston. "Do you
remember that Easter vacation, when he and Lord Welter and Mowbray went
away together?"
"Remember!" said William. "Why I was with them; and glorious fun it was.
Rather fast fun though--too fast by half. We went up and lived on the
Severn and Avon Canal, among the bargeman, dressing accordingly. Charles
had nothing to do with that folly, beyond joining in it, and spending
the day in laughing. That was Lord Welter's doing. The bargees nicknamed
Lord Welter 'the sweep,' and said he was a good fellow, but a terrible
blackguard. And so he was--for that time, at all events."
Marston laughed, and, after a time, said, "Did he ever seem to care
about soldiering? Do you think he was likely to enlist?"
"It is possible," said William; "it is quite possible. Yes, he has often
talked to me about soldiering. I mind--I remember, I should say--that he
once was hot about going into the army, but he gave it up because it
would have taken him away from Mr. Ravenshoe too much."
They turned and walked homewards, without speaking a word all the way.
On the bridge they paused and leant upon the coping, looking into the
stream. All of a sudden, William laid his hand on Marston's arm, and
looking in his face, said--
"Every day we lose, I feel he is getting farther from us. I don't know
what may happen. I shall go and seek him. I will get educated at my
leisure. Only think of what may be happening now! I was a fool to have
given it up so soon, and to have tried waiting till he came to us. He
will never come. I must go and fetch him. Here is Cuthbert, too, good
fellow, fretting himself to death about it. Let us go and talk to him."
And John Marston said, "Right, true heart; let us go."
Of all their acquaintances, there was only one who could have given them
any information--Lord Welter; and he, of all others, was the very last
they dreamt of going to. You begin to see, I dare say, that, when
Charles is found, my story will nearly be at an end. But my story is not
near finished yet, I assure you.
Standing where they were on the bridge, they could look along the
village street. It was as neat a street as one ever sees in a fishing
village; that is to say, rather an untidy one, for of all human
employments, fishing involves more lumber and mess than any other.
Everything past use was "hit," as they say in Berkshire, out into the
street; and of the inorganic part of this refuse, that is to say, tiles,
bricks, potsherds, and so on, the children built themselves shops and
bazaars, and sold one another the organic orts, that is to say,
cabbage-stalks, fish-bones, and orange-peel, which were paid for in
mussel-shells. And, as Marston and William looked along this street, as
one may say, at high market time, they saw Cuthbert come slowly riding
along among the children, and the dogs, and the pigs, and the
herring-bones, and brickbats.
He was riding a noble horse, and was dressed with his usual faultless
neatness and good taste, as clean as a new pin from top to toe. As he
came along, picking his way gently among the children, the fishermen and
their wives came out right and left from their doors, and greeted him
kindly. In olden times they would not have done this, but it had got
about that he was pining for the loss of his brother, and their hearts
had warmed to him. It did not take much to make their hearts warm to a
Ravenshoe; though they were sturdy, independent rogues enough at times.
I am a very great admirer of the old feudal feeling, when it is not
abused by either party. In parts of Australia, where it, or something
near akin to it, is very strong indeed, I have seen it act on high and
low most beneficially; giving to the one side a sense of responsibility,
and to the other a feeling of trust and reliance. "Here's 'Captain
Dash,' or 'Colonel Blank,' or 'Mr. So-and-So,' and he won't see me
wronged, I know. I have served him and his father for forty year, and
he's a _gentleman_, and so were his father before him." That is a sort
of thing you will hear often enough in Australia. And even on the
diggings, with all the leaven of Americanism and European Radicalism one
finds there, it is much easier for a warden to get on with the diggers
if he comes of a known colonial family, than if he is an unknown man.
The old colonial diggers, the people of the greatest real weight, talk
of them, and the others listen and mark. All people, prate as they may,
like a guarantee for respectability. In the colonies, such a guarantee
is given by a man's being tolerably well off, and "come of decent
people." In England, it is given, in cases, by a man and a man's
forefathers having been good landlords and honest men. Such a guarantee
is given by such people as the Ravenshoes, but that is not the whole
secret of _their_ influence. That comes more from association--a feeling
strong enough, as one sees, to make educated and clever men use their
talents and eloquence towards keeping a school in a crowded unhealthy
neighbourhood, instead of moving it into the country; merely because, as
far as one can gather from their speeches, they were educated at it
themselves, twenty years ago. Hereby visiting the sins of the fathers on
the children with a vengeance!
"Somewhat too much of this." It would be stretching a point to say that
Cuthbert was a handsome man, though he was very near being so, indeed.
He was tall, but not too slender, for he had developed in chest somewhat
since we first knew him. His face was rather pale, but his complexion
perfectly clear; save that he had a black mark round his eyes. His
features were decidedly marked, but not so strongly as Charles's; and
there was an air of stately repose about him, showing itself in his way
of carrying his head perfectly upright, and the firm, but not harsh,
settling of his mouth, with the lower lip slightly pouting, which was
very attractive. He was a consummate horseman, too, and, as I said,
perfectly dressed; and, as he came towards them, looking apparently at
nothing, both William and Marston thought they had never seen a finer
specimen of a gentleman.
He had strangely altered in two months. As great a change had come over
him as comes over a rustic when the drill-sergeant gets him and makes a
soldier of him. There is the same body, the same features, the same hair
and eyes. Bill Jones is Bill Jones, if you are to believe his mother.
But Bill Jones the soldier is not Bill Jones the ploughboy. He is quite
a different person. So, since the night when Charles departed, Cuthbert
had not been the Cuthbert of former times. He was no longer wayward and
irritable; he was as silent as ever, but he had grown so staid, so
studiously courteous to every one, so exceedingly humble-minded and
patient with every one, that all save one or two wondered at the change
in him.
He had been passionately fond of Charles, though he had seldom shown it,
and was terribly cut up at his loss. He had greatly humiliated himself
to himself by what was certainly his felonious offer to Father
Mackworth; and he had found the estate somewhat involved, and had
determined to set to work and bring it to rights. These three causes had
made Cuthbert Ravenshoe a humbler and better man than he had ever been
before.
"William," he said, smiling kindly on him, "I have been seeing after
your estate for you. It does me good to have some one to work for. You
will die a rich man."
William said nothing. One of Cuthbert's fixed notions was, that he would
die young and childless. He claimed to have a heart-complaint, though it
really appeared without any foundation. It was a fancy which William had
combated at first, but now acquiesced in, because he found it useless to
do otherwise.
He dismounted and walked with him. "Cuthbert," said William, "we have
been thinking about Charles."
"I am always thinking about him," said Cuthbert; "is there no way of
finding him?"
"I am going. I want you to give me some money and let me go."
"You had better go at once, William. You had better try if the police
can help you. We are pretty sure that he has gone to America, unless he
has enlisted. In either case, it is very possible we may find him. Aunt
Ascot would have succeeded, if she had not lost her temper. Don't you
think I am right, my dear Marston?"
"I do, indeed, Ravenshoe," said Marston. "Don't you think now, Mr.
Mackworth, that, if a real push is made, and with judgment, we may find
Charles again?"
They had reached the terrace, and Father Mackworth was standing in front
of the porch. He said he believed it was perfectly possible. "Nay," he
said, "possible! I am as sure of seeing Charles Horton back here again
as I am that I shall eat my dinner to-day."
"And I," said Cuthbert, "am equally sure that we shall see poor Ellen
back some day. Poor girl! she shall have a warm welcome."
Father Mackworth said he hoped it might be so. And the lie did not choke
him.
"We are going to send William away again to look after him, Father,"
said Cuthbert.
"He had much better stay at home and mind his education," said
Mackworth.
William had his back towards them, and was looking out to sea,
whistling. When the priest spoke he turned round sharply, and said--
"Hey? what's that?"
The priest repeated it.
"I suppose," said William, "that that is more my business than yours, is
it not? I don't intend to go to school again, certainly not to you."
Cuthbert looked from one to the other of them, and said nothing. A few
days before this William and the priest had fallen out; and Mackworth,
appealing, had been told with the greatest kindness and politeness by
Cuthbert that he could not interfere. That William was heir to
Ravenshoe, and that he really had no power over him whatever. Mackworth
had said nothing then, but now he had followed Cuthbert into the
library, and, when they were alone, said--
"Cuthbert, I did not expect this from you. You have let him insult me
twice, and have not corrected him."
Cuthbert put his back against the door, and said--
"Now you don't leave this room till you apologise for these wicked
words. My dear old fellow, what a goose you are! Have not you and he
always squabbled? Do fight it out with him, and don't try and force me
to take a side. I ain't going to do it, you know, and so I tell you
plainly. Give it to him. Who can do it so well as you? Remember what an
altered position he is in. How can you expect me to take your part
against him?"
Father Mackworth cleared his brow, and said, laughing, "You are right,
Cuthbert. I'll go about with the rogue. He is inclined to kick over the
traces, but I'll whip him in a little. I have had the whip-hand of every
Ravenshoe I have had to deal with yet, yourself included, and it's hard
if I am to be beat by this new whipper-snapper."
Cuthbert said affectionately to him, "I think you love me, Mackworth.
Don't quarrel with him more than you can help. I know you love me." And
so Cuthbert went to seek John Marston.
Love him! Ay, that he did. John Mackworth could be cruel, hard, false,
vindictive. He could cheat, and he could lie, if need were. He was
heartless and ambitious. But he loved Cuthbert. It was a love which had
taken a long time growing, but there it was, and he was half ashamed of
it. Even to himself he would try to make out that it was mere
selfishness and ambition--that he was gentle with Cuthbert, because he
must keep his place at Ravenshoe. Even now he would try to persuade
himself that such was the case--perhaps the more strongly because he
began to see now that there was a soft spot in his heart, and that
Cuthbert was master of it. Since the night when Cuthbert had offered him
ten thousand pounds, and he had refused it, Cuthbert had never been the
same to him. And Mackworth, expecting to find his influence increased,
found to his astonishment that from that moment it was _gone_.
Cuthbert's intensely sensitive and proud nature revolted from the
domination of a man before whom he had so lowered himself; and firmly,
though humbly now, for he was altered by seeing how nearly he had been a
villain, he let him see that he would walk in future in his own
strength. Father Mackworth saw soon that Ravenshoe was a comfortable
home for him, but that his power was gone. Unless!
And yet he knew he could exercise a power little dreamt of. It is in the
power, possibly, of a condemned man to burn the prison down, and
possibly his interest; but he has compunctions. Mackworth tried to
persuade himself that the reason he did not use his power was that it
would not be advisable. He was a cipher in the house, and knew by
instinct that he would never be more. But in reality, I believe, he let
his power sleep for Cuthbert's sake.
"Who could have thought," he said, "that the very thing which clenched
my power, as I thought, should have destroyed it? Are not those people
fools who lay down rules for human action? Why, no. They are possibly
right five times out of ten. But as for the other five! Bah!
"No, I won't allow that. It was my own fault. I should have known his
character better. But there, I could not have helped it, for he did it
himself. I was passive."
And Cuthbert followed Marston into the hall, and said, "You are not
going away because William goes, Marston?"
"Do you want me?" said Marston.
"Yes," said Cuthbert. "You must stay with me. My time is short, and I
must know as much of this world as I may. I have much to do; you must
help me. I will be like a little child in your hands. I will die in the
old faith; but I will learn something new."
And so Marston stayed with him, and they two grew fast friends. Cuthbert
had nothing to learn in this management of his estate; there he was
Marston's master; but all that a shrewd young man of the world could
teach a bookworm, so much Cuthbert got from Marston.
Marston one day met the village doctor, the very man whom we saw at the
beginning of the book, putting out William (whom we then supposed to be
Charles) to nurse. Marston asked him, "Was there any reality in this
heart-complaint of Cuthbert's?"
"Not the very faintest shadow of a reality," said the doctor. "It is the
most tiresome whimsy I ever knew. He has persuaded himself of it,
though. He used to be very hypochondriac. He is as likely to live till
eighty as you are."