LADY HAINAULT'S BLOTTING-BOOK.
In the natural course of events, I ought now to follow Charles in his
military career, step by step. But the fact is that I know no more about
the details of horse-soldiering than a marine, and therefore I cannot.
It is within the bounds of possibility that the reader may congratulate
himself on my ignorance, and it may also be possible that he has good
reason for so doing.
Within a fortnight after Hornby's introduction to Lord Saltire and Lady
Ascot, he was off with the head-quarters of his regiment to Varna. The
depôt was at Windsor, and there, unknown to Hornby, was Charles,
drilling and drilling. Two more troops were to follow the head-quarters
in a short time, and so well had Charles stuck to his duty that he was
considered fit to take his place in one of them. Before his moustaches
were properly grown, he found himself a soldier in good earnest.
In all his troubles this was the happiest time he had, for he had got
rid of the feeling that he was a disgraced man. If he must wear a
livery, he would wear the Queen's; there was no disgrace in that. He was
a soldier, and he would be a hero. Sometimes, perhaps, he thought for a
moment that he, with his two thousand pounds' worth of education, might
have been better employed than in littering a horse, and
swash-bucklering about among the Windsor taverns; but he did not think
long about it. If there were any disgrace in the matter, there was a
time coming soon, by all accounts, when the disgrace would be wiped out
in fire and blood. On Sunday, when he saw the Eton lads streaming up to
the terrace, the old Shrewsbury days, and the past generally, used to
come back to him rather unpleasantly; but the bugle put it all out of
his head again in a moment. Were there not the three most famous armies
in the world gathering, gathering, for a feast of ravens? Was not the
world looking on in silence and awe, to see England, France, and Russia
locked in a death-grip? Was not he to make one at the merry meeting? Who
could think at such a time as this?
The time was getting short now. In five days they were to start for
Southampton, to follow the head-quarters to Constantinople, to Varna,
and so into the dark thunder-cloud beyond. He felt as certain that he
would never come back again, as that the sun would rise on the morrow.
He made the last energetic effort that he made at all. It was like the
last struggle of a drowning man. He says that the way it happened was
this. And I believe him, for it was one of his own mad impulses, and,
like all his other impulses, it came too late. They came branking into
some pot-house, half a dozen of them, and talked aloud about this and
that, and one young lad among them said, that "he would give a thousand
pounds, if he had it, to see his sister before he went away, for fear
she should think that he had gone off without thinking of her."
Charles left them, and walked up the street. As he walked, his purpose
grew. He went straight to the quarters of a certain cornet, son to the
major of the regiment, and asked to speak to him.
The cornet, a quiet, smooth-faced boy, listened patiently to what he had
to say, but shook his head and told him he feared it was impossible.
But, he said, after a pause, he would help him all he could. The next
morning he took him to the major while he was alone at breakfast, and
Charles laid his case before him so well, that the kind old man gave him
leave to go to London at four o'clock, and come back by the last train
that same evening.
The Duchess of Cheshire's ball was the last and greatest which was given
that season. It was, they say, in some sort like the Duchess of
Richmond's ball before Waterloo. The story I have heard is, that Lord
George Barty persuaded his mother to give it, because he was sure that
it would be the last ball he should ever dance at. At all events it was
given, and he was right; for he sailed in the same ship with Charles
four days after, and was killed at Balaclava. However, we have nothing
to do with that. All we have to do with is the fact, that it was a very
great ball indeed, and that Lady Hainault was going to it.
Some traditions and customs grow by degrees into laws, ay, and into laws
less frequently broken than those made and provided by Parliament. Allow
people to walk across the corner of one of your fields for twenty years,
and there is a right of way, and they may walk across that field till
the crack of doom. Allow a man to build a hut on your property, and live
in it for twenty years, and you can't get rid of him. He gains a right
there. (I never was annoyed in either of these ways myself, for reasons
which I decline to mention; but it is the law, I believe.) There is no
law to make the young men fire off guns at one's gate on the 6th of
November, but they never miss doing it. (I found some of the men using
their rifles for this purpose last year, and had to fulminate about
it.) To follow out the argument, there was no rule in Lord Hainault's
house that the children should always come in and see their aunt dress
for a ball. But they always did; and Lady Hainault herself, though she
could be perfectly determined, never dared to question their right.
They behaved very well. Flora brought in a broken picture-broom, which,
stuck into an old straw hat of Archy's, served her for feathers. She
also made unto herself a newspaper fan. Gus had an old twelfth-cake
ornament on his breast for a star, and a tape round his neck for a
garter. In this guise they represented the Duke and Duchess of Cheshire,
and received their company in a corner, as good as gold. As for Archy,
he nursed his cat, sucked his thumb, and looked at his aunt.
Mary was "by way of" helping Lady Hainault's maid, but she was very
clumsy about it, and her hands shook a good deal. Lady Hainault, at last
looking up, saw that she was deadly pale, and crying. So, instead of
taking any notice, she dismissed the children as soon as she could, as a
first step towards being left alone with Mary.
Gus and Flora, finding that they must go, changed the game, and made
believe that they were at court, and that their aunt was the Queen. So
they dexterously backed to the door, and bowed themselves out. Archy was
lord chamberlain, or gold stick, or what not, and had to follow them in
the same way. He was less successful, for he had to walk backwards,
sucking his thumb, and nursing his cat upside down (she was a patient
cat, and was as much accustomed to be nursed that way as any other). He
got on very well till he came to the door, when he fell on the back of
his head, crushing his cat and biting his thumb to the bone. Gus and
Flora picked him up, saying that lord chamberlains never cried when they
fell on the backs of their heads. But Archy, poor dear, was obliged to
cry a little, the more so as the dear cat had bolted upstairs, with her
tail as big as a fox's, and Archy was afraid she was angry with him,
which seemed quite possible. So Mary had to go out and take him to the
nursery. He would stop his crying, he said, if she would tell him the
story of Ivedy Avedy. So she told it him quite to the end, where the
baffled old sorcerer, Gongolo, gets into the plate-warmer, with his
three-farthings and the brass soup-ladle, shuts the door after him, and
disappears for ever. After which she went down to Lady Hainault's room
again.
Lady Hainault was alone now. She was sitting before her dressing-table,
with her hands folded, apparently looking at herself in the glass. She
took no notice of what she had seen; though, now they were alone
together, she determined that Mary should tell her what was the
matter--for, in truth, she was very anxious to know. She never looked at
Mary when she came in; she only said--
"Mary, my love, how do I look?"
"I never saw you look so beautiful before," said Mary.
"I am glad of that. Hainault is so ridiculously proud of me, that I
really delight in looking my best. Now, Mary, let me have the necklace;
that is all, I believe, unless you would like me to put on a little
rouge."
Mary tried to laugh, but could not. Her hands were shaking so that the
jewels were clicking together as she held them. Lady Hainault saw that
she must help her to speak, but she had no occasion; the necklace helped
her.
It was a very singular necklace, a Hainault heirloom, which Lady
Hainault always wore on grand occasions to please her husband. There was
no other necklace like it anywhere, though some folks who did not own it
said it was old-fashioned, and should be reset. It was a collar of nine
points, the ends of brilliants, running upwards as the points broadened
into larger rose diamonds. The eye, catching the end of the points, was
dazzled with yellow light, which faded into red as the rays of the
larger roses overpowered the brilliants; and at the upper rim the soft
crimson haze of light melted, overpowered, into nine blazing great
rubies. It seemed, however, a shame to hide such a beautiful neck by
such a glorious bauble.
Mary was trying to clasp it on, but her fingers failed, and down went
the jewels clashing on the floor. The next moment she was down too, on
her knees, clutching Lady Hainault's hand, and saying, or trying to say,
in spite of a passionate burst of sobbing, "Lady Hainault, let me see
him; let me see him, or I shall die."
Lady Hainault turned suddenly upon her, and laid her disengaged hand
upon her hair. "My little darling," she said, "my pretty little bird."
"You must let me see him. You could not be so cruel. I always loved him,
not like a sister, oh! not like a sister, woe to me. As you love Lord
Hainault; I know it now."
"My poor little Mary. I always thought something of this kind."
"He is coming to-night. He sails to-morrow or next day, and I shall
never see him again."
"Sails! where for?"
"I don't know; he does not say. But you must let me see him. He don't
dream I care for him, Lady Hainault. But I must see him, or I shall
die."
"You shall see him; but who is it? Any one I know?"
"Who is it? Who could it be but Charles Ravenshoe?"
"Good God! Coming here to-night! Mary, ring the bell for Alwright. Send
round to South Audley Street for Lord Saltire, or William Ravenshoe, or
some of them. They are dying to catch him. There is something more in
their eagerness than you or I know of. Send at once, Mary, or we shall
be too late. When does he come? Get up, my dear. My poor little Mary. I
am so sorry. Is he coming here? And how soon will he come, dear? Do be
calm. Think what we may do for him. He should be here now. Stay, I will
write a note--just one line. Where is my blotting-book? Alwright, get my
blotting-book. And stay; say that, if any one calls for Miss Corby, he
is to be shown into the drawing-room at once. Let us go there, Mary."
Alwright had meanwhile, not having heard the last sentence, departed to
the drawing-room, and possessed herself of Lady Hainault's portfolio,
meaning to carry it up to the dressing-room; then she had remembered the
message about any one calling being shown up to the drawing-room, and
had gandered down to the hall to give it to the porter; after which she
gandered upstairs to the dressing-room again, thinking that Lady
Hainault was there, and missing both her and Mary from having gone
downstairs. So, while she and Mary were looking for the blotting-book
impatiently in the drawing-room, the door was opened, and the servant
announced, "A gentleman to see Miss Corby."
He had discreetly said a gentleman, for he did not like to say an
Hussar. Mary turned round and saw a man all scarlet and gold before her,
and was frightened, and did not know him. But when he said "Mary," in
the old, old voice, there came such a rush of bygone times, bygone
words, scenes, sounds, meetings and partings, sorrows and joys, into her
wild, warm little heart, that, with a low, loving, tender cry she ran to
him and hid her face on his bosom.[6]
And Lady Hainault swept out of the room after that unlucky
blotting-book. And I intend to go after her, out of mere politeness, to
help her to find it. I will not submit to be lectured for making an
aposiopesis. If any think they could do this business better than I, let
them communicate with the publishers, and finish the story for
themselves. I decline to go into that drawing-room at present. I shall
wander upstairs into my lady's chamber, after that goosey-gander
Alwright, and see what she has done with the blotting-book.
Lady Hainault found the idiot of a woman in her dressing-room, looking
at herself in the glass, with the blotting-book under her arm. The maid
looked as foolish as people generally do who are caught looking at
themselves in the glass. (How disconcerting it is to be found standing
on a chair before the chimney-glass, just to have a look at your entire
figure before going to a party!)[7] But Lady Hainault said nothing to
her; but, taking the book from under her arm, she sat down and fiercely
scrawled off a note to Lord Saltire, to be opened by any of them, to say
that Charles Ravenshoe was then in her house, and to come in God's name.
"I have caged their bird for them," she said out loud when she had just
finished and was folding up the letter; "they will owe me a good turn
for this."
The maid, who had no notion anything was the matter, had been
surreptitiously looking in the glass again, and wondering whether her
nose was really so very red after all. When Lady Hainault spoke thus
aloud to herself, she gave a guilty start, and said, "Immediately, my
lady," which you will perceive was not exactly appropriate to the
occasion.
"Don't be a goose, my good old Alwright, and don't tread on my necklace,
Alwright; it is close at your feet."
So it was. Lying where Mary had dropped it. Alwright thought she must
have knocked it off the dressing-table; but when Lady Hainault told her
that Miss Corby had dropped it there, Alwright began to wonder why her
Ladyship had not thought it worth while to pick it up again.
"Put it on while I seal this letter will you? I cannot trust you,
Alwright; I must go myself." She went out of the room and quickly down
stairs to the hall. All this had taken but a few minutes; she had
hurried as much as was possible, but the time seems longer to us,
because, following my usual plan of playing the fool on important
occasions, I have been telling you about the lady's-maid's nose. She
went down quickly to the hall, and sent off one of the men to South
Audley Street, with her note, giving him orders to run all the way, and
personally to see Lady Ascot, or some one else of those named. After
this she came upstairs again.
When she came to the drawing-room door, Charles was standing at it.
"Lady Hainault," he said, "would you come here, please? Poor Mary has
fainted."
"Poor thing," said Lady Hainault. "I will come to her. One word, Mr.
Ravenshoe. Oh, do think one instant of this fatal, miserable resolution
of yours. Think how fond we have all been of you. Think of the love that
your cousin and Lady Ascot bear for you, and communicate with them. At
all events, stay ten minutes more, and see one of them. I must go to
poor Mary."
"Dear Lady Hainault, you will not change my resolution to stand alone.
There is a source of disgrace you probably know nothing of. Besides,
nothing short of an Order in Council could stop me now. We sail for the
East in twenty-four hours."
They had just time for this, very hurriedly spoken, for poor little Mary
had done what she never had done before in her life, fainted away. Lady
Hainault and Charles went into the drawing-room.
Just before this, Alwright, coming downstairs, had seen her most sacred
mistress standing at the drawing-room door, talking familiarly and
earnestly to a common soldier. Her ladyship had taken his hand in hers,
and was laying her other hand upon his breast. Alwright sat down on the
stairs.
She was a poor feeble thing, and it was too much for her. She was
Casterton-bred, and had a feeling for the honour of the family. Her
first impulse was to run to Lord Hainault's dressing-room door and lock
him in. Her next was to rock herself to and fro and moan. She followed
the latter of these two impulses. Meanwhile, Lady Hainault had succeeded
in bringing poor Mary to herself. Charles had seen her bending over the
poor little lifeless body, and blessed her. Presently Lady Hainault
said, "She is better now, Mr. Ravenshoe; will you come and speak to
her?" There was no answer. Lady Hainault thought Charles was in the
little drawing-room, and had not heard her. She went there. It was dimly
lighted, but she saw in a moment that it was empty. She grew frightened,
and hurriedly went out on to the stairs. There was no one there. She
hurried down, and was met by the weeping Alwright.
"He is safe out of the house, my lady," said that brilliant genius. "I
saw him come out of the drawing-room, and I ran down and sent the hall
porter on a message, and let him out myself. Oh, my lady! my lady!"
Lady Hainault was a perfect-tempered woman, but she could not stand
this. "Alwright," she said, "you are a perfect, hopeless, imbecile
idiot. Go and tell his lordship to come to me instantly. Instantly! do
you hear? I wouldn't," she continued to herself when Alwright was gone,
"face Lord Saltire alone after this for a thousand pounds."
What was the result of Charles's interview with Mary? Simply this. The
poor little thing had innocently shown him, in a way he could not
mistake, that she loved him with all her heart and soul. And, when he
left that room, he had sworn an oath to himself that he would use all
his ingenuity to prevent her ever setting eyes on him again. "I am low
and degraded enough now," he said to himself; "but if I gave that poor
innocent child the opportunity of nourishing her love for me, I should
be too low to live."
He did not contemplate the possibility, you see, of raising himself to
her level. No. He was too much broken down for that. Hope was dead
within him. He had always been a man of less than average strength of
will; and two or three disasters--terrible disasters they were,
remember--had made him such as we see him, a helpless, drifting log upon
the sea of chance. What Lord Welter had said was terribly true, "Charles
Ravenshoe is broken-hearted." But to the very last he was a just,
honourable, true, kind-hearted man. A man in ten thousand. Call him
fool, if you will. I cannot gainsay you there. But when you have said
that you have finished.
Did he love Mary? Yes, from this time forward, he loved her as she loved
him; and, the darker the night grew, that star burned steadily and more
steadily yet. Never brighter, perhaps, than when it gleamed on the
turbid waters, which whelm the bodies of those to whose eyesight all
stars have set for ever.