WHAT LORD SALTIRE AND FATHER MACKWORTH SAID WHEN THEY LOOKED OUT OF THE
WINDOW.
"And how do you do, my dear sir?" said Lord Saltire.
"I enjoy the same perfect health as ever, I thank you, my lord," said
Father Mackworth. "And allow me to say, that I am glad to see your
lordship looking just the same as ever. You may have forgotten that you
were the greatest benefactor that I ever had. I have not."
"Nay, nay," said Lord Saltire. "Let bygones be bygones, my dear sir.
By-the-bye, Mr. Mackworth--Lord Hainault."
"I am delighted to see you at Casterton, Mr. Mackworth," said Lord
Hainault. "We are such rabid Protestants here, that the mere presence of
a Catholic ecclesiastic of any kind is a source of pleasurable
excitement to us. When, however, we get among us a man like you--a man
of whose talents we have heard so much, and a man personally endeared to
us, through the love he bore to one of us who is dead, we give him a
threefold welcome."
Lord Saltire used, in his _tête-à-têtes_ with Lady Ascot, to wish to Gad
that Hainault would cure himself of making speeches. He was one of the
best fellows in the world, but he would always talk as if he was in the
House of Lords. This was very true about Lord Hainault; but, although he
might be a little stilted in his speech, he meant every word he said,
and was an affectionate, good-hearted man, and withal, a clever one.
Father Mackworth bowed, and was pleased with the compliment. His nerve
was in perfect order, and he was glad to find that Lord Hainault was
well inclined towards him, though just at this time the Most Noble the
Marquis of Hainault was of less importance to him than one of the grooms
in the stable. What he required of himself just now was to act and look
in a particular way, and to do it naturally and without effort. His
genius rose to the situation. He puzzled Lord Saltire.
"This is a sad business," said Lord Saltire.
"A bitter business," said Mackworth. "I loved that man, my lord."
He looked suddenly up as he said it, and Lord Saltire saw that he was in
earnest. He waited for him to go on, watching him intently with his
eyelids half dropped over his grey eagle eyes.
"That is not of much consequence, though," said Father Mackworth.
"Speaking to a man of the world, what is more to the purpose is, to
hear what is the reason of your lordship's having sought this interview.
I am very anxious to know that, and so, if I appear rude, I must crave
forgiveness."
Lord Saltire looked at him minutely and steadily. How Mackworth looked
was of more importance to Lord Saltire than what he said. On the other
hand, Mackworth every now and then calmly and steadily raised his eyes
to Lord Saltire's, and kept them fixed there while he spoke to him.
"Not at all, my dear sir," said Lord Saltire. "If you will have business
first, however, which is possibly the best plan, we will have it, and
improve our acquaintance afterwards. I asked you to come to me to speak
of family matters. You have seen our advertisement?"
"I have, indeed," said Mackworth, looking up with a smile. "I was
utterly taken by surprise. Do you think that you can be right about this
marriage?"
"Oh! I am sure of it," said Lord Saltire.
"I cannot believe it," said Mackworth. "And I'll tell you why. If it
ever took place I _must_ have heard of it. Father Clifford, my
predecessor, was Petre Ravenshoe's confessor. I need not tell you that
he must have been in possession of the fact. Your knowledge of the world
will tell you how impossible it is that, in a house so utterly
priest-ridden as the House of Ravenshoe, an affair of such moment could
be kept from the knowledge of the father-confessor. Especially when the
delinquent, if I may so express myself, was the most foolishly bigoted,
and cowardly representative of that house which had appeared for many
generations. I assure you, upon my honour, that Clifford _must_ have
known it. And, if he had known of it, he must have communicated it to
me. No priest could possibly have died without leaving such a secret to
his successor; a secret which would make the owner of it--that is, the
priest--so completely the master of Ravenshoe and all in it. I confessed
that man on his death-bed, my lord," said Mackworth, looking quietly at
Lord Saltire, with a smile, "and I can only tell you, if you can bring
yourself to believe a priest, that there was not one word said about his
marriage."
"No?" said Lord Saltire, pensively looking out of the window. "And yet
Lady Ascot seems so positive."
"I sincerely hope," said Mackworth, "that she may be wrong. It would be
a sad thing for me. I am comfortable and happy at Ravenshoe. Poor dear
Cuthbert has secured my position there during my lifetime. The present
Mr. Ravenshoe is not so tractable as his brother, but I can get on well
enough with him. But in case of this story being true, and Mr. Charles
Horton coming back, my position would be untenable, and Ravenshoe would
be in Protestant hands for the first time in history. I should lose my
home, and the Church would lose one of its best houses in the west. The
best, in fact. I had sooner be at Ravenshoe than at Segur. I am very
much pleased at your lordship's having sought this conference. It shows
you have some trust in me, to consult me upon a matter in which my own
interests are all on one side."
Lord Saltire bowed. "There is another way to look at the matter, too, my
dear sir. If we prove our case, which is possible, and in case of our
poor dear Charles dying or getting killed, which is probable, why then
William comes in for the estate again. Suppose, now, such a possibility
as his dying without heirs; why, then, Miss Ravenshoe is the greatest
heiress in the West of England. Have you any idea where Miss Ravenshoe
is?"
Both Lord Saltire and Lord Hainault turned on him as the former said
this. For an instant Mackworth looked inquiringly from one to the other,
with his lips slightly parted, and said, "Miss Ravenshoe?" Then he gave
a half-smile of intelligence, and said, "Ah! yes; I was puzzled for a
moment. Yes, in that case poor Ellen would be Miss Ravenshoe. Yes, and
the estate would remain in Catholic hands. What a prospect for the
Church! A penitent heiress! The management of £12,000 a year! Forgive my
being carried away for a moment. You know I am an enthusiastic
Churchman. I have been bound, body and soul, to the Church from a child,
and such a prospect, even in such remote perspective, has dazzled me.
But I am afraid I shall see rather a large family of Ravenshoes between
me and such a consummation. William is going to marry."
"Then you do not know where poor Ellen is?" said Lord Saltire.
"I do not," said Mackworth; "but I certainly shall try to discover, and
most certainly I shall succeed. William might die on this very
expedition. You might prove your case. If anything were to happen to
William, I most certainly hope you may, and will give you every
assistance. For half a loaf is better than no bread. And besides,
Charles also might be killed, or die of cholera. As it is, I shall not
move in the matter. I shall not help you to bring a Protestant to
Ravenshoe. Now, don't think me a heartless man for talking like this; I
am nothing of the kind. But I am talking to two very shrewd men of the
world, and I talk as a man of the world; that is all."
At this point Lord Hainault said, "What is that?" and left the room.
Lord Saltire and Mackworth were alone together.
"Now, my dear sir," said Lord Saltire, "I am glad you have spoken merely
as a man of the world. It makes matters so much easier. You could help
us if you would."
Mackworth laughed. "Of course I could, my lord. I could bring the whole
force of the Catholic Church, at my back, to give assistance. With our
powers of organisation, we could discover all about the marriage in no
time (if it ever took place, which I don't choose to believe just now).
Why, it would pay us to search minutely every register in England, if it
were to keep such a house in the hands of the Church. But the Catholic
Church, in my poor person, politely declines to move all its vast
machinery, to give away one of its best houses to a Protestant."
"I never supposed that the dear old lady would do anything of the kind.
But, as for Mr. Mackworth, will nothing induce _him_ to move _his_ vast
machinery in our cause?"
"I am all attention, my lord."
"In case of our finding Charles, then?"
"Yes," said Mackworth, calmly.
"Twenty thousand?"
"No," said Mackworth. "It wouldn't do. Twenty million wouldn't do. You
see there is a difference between a soldier disguising himself, and
going into the enemy's camp, to lie, and it may be, murder, to gain
information for his own side, and the same soldier deserting to the
enemy, and giving information. The one is a hero, and the other a rogue.
I am a hero. You must forgive me for putting matters so coarsely, but
you distrust me so entirely that I am forced to do so."
"I do not think you have put it so coarsely," said Lord Saltire. "I have
to ask your forgiveness for this offer of money, which you have so nobly
refused. They say every man has his price. If this is the case, yours is
a very high one, and you should be valued accordingly."
"Now, my lord, before we conclude this interview, let me tell you two
things, which may be of advantage to you. The first is, that you cannot
buy a Jesuit."
"A Jesuit!"
"Ay. And the next thing is this. This marriage of Petre Ravenshoe is all
a fiction of Lady Ascot's brain. I wish you good morning, my lord."
There are two sides to every door. You grant that. A man cannot be in
two places at once. You grant that, without the exception made by the
Irish member. Very well then. I am going to describe what took place on
both sides of the library door at the conclusion of this interview.
Which side shall I describe first?
That is entirely as I choose, and I choose to describe the outside
first. The side where Father Mackworth was. This paragraph and the last
are written in imitation of the Shandean-Southey-Doctorian style. The
imitation is a bad one, I find, and approaches nearer to the lower style
known among critics as Swivellerism; which consists in saying the first
thing that comes into your head. Any style would be quite allowable,
merely as a rest to one's aching brain, after the dreadfully keen
encounter between Lord Saltire and Father Mackworth, recorded above.
When Mackworth had closed the library door behind him, he looked at it
for a moment, as if to see it was safe, and then his whole face
underwent a change. It grew haggard and anxious, and, as he parted his
lips to moisten them, the lower one trembled. His eyes seemed to grow
more prominent, and a leaden ring began to settle round them; he paused
in a window, and raised his hand towards his head. When he had raised it
half way he looked at it; it was shaking violently.
"I am not the man I was," he said. "These great field-days upset me. My
nerve is going, God help me. It is lucky that I was really puzzled by
his calling her Miss Ravenshoe. If I had not been all abroad, I could
never have done so well. I must be very careful. My nerve ought not to
go like this. I have lived a temperate life in every way. Possibly a
little too temperate. I won't go through another interview of this kind
without wine. It is not safe.
"The chances are ten to one in favour of one never hearing of Charles
again, Shot and steel and cholera. Then William only to think of. In
that case I am afraid I should like to bring in the elder branch of the
family, to that young gentleman's detriment. I wish my nerve was better;
this irritability increases on me in spite of all my care. I wish I
could stand wine.
"Ravenshoe, with Ellen for its mistress, and Mackworth living there as
her master! A penitential devotee, and a clever man for confessor! And
twelve thousand a year! If we Jesuits were such villains as the
Protestants try to make us out, Master William would be unwise to live
in the house with me.
"I wonder if Lord Saltire guesses that I hold the clue in my hand. I
can't remember the interview, or what I said. My memory begins to go.
They should put a younger man in such a place. But I would not yield to
another man. No. The stakes are too high. I wish I could remember what I
said.
"Does William dream that, in case of Charles's death, he is standing
between me and the light? At all events, Lord Saltire sees it. I wonder
if I committed myself. I remember I was very honest and
straightforward? What was it I said at last? I have an uneasy feeling
about that, but I can't remember.
"I hope that Butler will keep the girl well in hand. If I was to get
ill, it would all rest with him. God! I hope I shall not get ill."
Now we will go to the other side of the door. Lord Saltire sat quietly
upright in his chair until the door was safely closed. Then he took a
pinch of snuff. He did not speak aloud, but he looked cunningly at the
door, and said to himself--
"Odd!"
Another pinch of snuff. Then he said aloud, "Uncommon curious, by Ged."
"What is curious?" said Lord Hainault, who had come into the room.
"Why, that fellow. He took me in to the last moment. I thought he was
going to be simply honest; but he betrayed himself by over-eagerness at
the end. His look of frank honesty was assumed; the real man came out in
the last sentence. You should have seen how his face changed, when he
turned sharply on me, after fancying he had lulled suspicion to sleep,
and told me that the marriage was a fiction. He forgot his manners for
the first time, and laid his hand upon my knee."
Lord Hainault said, "Do you think that he knows about the marriage?"
"I am sure he does. And he knows where Ellen is."
"Why?"
"Because I am sure of it."
"That is hardly a reason, my dear Lord Saltire. Don't you think, eh?"
"Think what?"
"Think that you are--well," said Lord Hainault, in a sort of
desperation, "are not you, my dear lord, to put it very mildly,
generalising from an insufficient number of facts? I speak with all
humility before one of the shrewdest men in Europe; but don't you think
so?"
"No, I don't," said Lord Saltire.
"I bow," said Lord Hainault. "The chances are ten to one that you are
right, and I am wrong. Did you make the offer?"
"Yes."
"And did he accept it?"
"Of course he didn't. I told you he wouldn't."
"That is strange, is it not?"
"No," said Lord Saltire.
Lord Hainault laughed, and then Lord Saltire looked up and laughed too.
"I like being rude to you, Hainault. You are so solemn."
"Well," said Lord Hainault with another hearty laugh. "And what are we
to do now?"
"Why, wait till William comes back," said Lord Saltire. "We can do
nothing till then, my dear boy. God bless you, Hainault. You are a good
fellow."
When the old man was left alone, he rose and looked out of the window.
The bucks were feeding together close under the windows; and, farther
off, under the shadow of the mighty cedars, the does and fawns were
standing and lying about lazily, shaking their broad ears and stamping
their feet. Out from the great rhododendron thickets, right and left of
the house, the pheasants were coming to spend the pleasant evening-tide
in running to and fro, and scratching at the ant-hills. The rabbits,
too, were showing out among the grass, scuttling about busily. The
peacock had lit down from the stable roof, and was elegantly picking his
way and dragging his sweeping train among the pheasants and the rabbits;
and on the topmost, copper-red, cedar-boughs, some guinea fowl were
noisily preparing for roost. One hundred yards from the window the park
seemed to end, for it dropped suddenly down in a precipitous, almost
perpendicular slope of turf, three hundred and fifty feet high, towards
the river, which you could see winding on for miles through the richly
wooded valley; a broad riband of silver, far below. Beyond, wooded
hills: on the left, endless folds of pearl-coloured downs; to the right,
the town, a fantastic grey and red heap of buildings, lying along from
the river, which brimmed full up to its wharves and lane ends; and, over
it, a lazy cloud of smoke, from which came the gentle booming of
golden-toned bells.
Casterton is not a show place. Lord Hainault has a whim about it. But
you may see just such a scene, with variations, of course, from
Park-place, or Hedsor, or Chiefden, or fifty other houses on the king of
rivers. I wonder when the tour of the Thames will become fashionable. I
have never seen anything like it, in its way. And I have seen a great
many things.
Lord Saltire looked out on all this which I have roughly described (for
a reason). And, as he looked, he spoke to himself, thus, or nearly so--
"And so I am the last of them all; and alone. Hardly one of them left.
Hardly one. And their sons are feeding their pheasants, and planting
their shrubberies still, as we did. And the things that were terrible
realities for us, are only printed words for them, which they try to
realise, but cannot. The thirty mad long years, through which we stood
with our backs to the wall, and ticketed as "the revolutionary wars,"
and put in a pigeon-hole. I wish they would do us justice. We _were_
right. Hainault's pheasants prove it. They must pay their twenty million
a year, and thank us that they have got off so easy.
"I wonder what _they_ would do, in such a pinch as we had. They seem to
be as brave as ever; but I am afraid of their getting too much
unbrutalised for another struggle like ours. I suppose I am wrong, for I
am getting too old to appreciate new ideas, but I am afraid of our
getting too soft. It is a bygone prejudice, I am afraid. One comfort is,
that such a struggle can never come again. If it did, they might have
the will to do all that we did, and more, but have they the power? This
extension of the suffrage has played the devil, and now they want to
extend it farther, the madmen! They'll end by having a House full of
Whigs. And then--why, then, I suppose, there'll be nothing but Whigs in
the House. That seems to me near about what will happen. Well! well! I
was a Whig myself once on a time.
"All gone. Every one of them. And I left on here, in perfect health and
preservation, as much an object of wonder to the young ones as a dodo
would be to a poultry-fancier. Before the effect of our deeds has been
fully felt, our persons have become strange, and out of date. But yet I,
strange to say, don't want to go yet. I want to see that Ravenshoe boy
again. Gad! how I love that boy. He has just Barkham's sweet, gentle,
foolish way with him. I determined to make him my heir from the first
time I saw him at Ranford, if he turned out well. If I had announced it,
everything would have gone right. What an endless series of unlucky
accidents that poor boy has had.
"Just like Barkham. The same idle, foolish, lovable creature, with anger
for nothing; only furious, blind indignation for injustice and wrong. I
wish he would come back. I am getting aweary of waiting.
"I wonder if I shall see Barkham again, just to sit with my arm on his
shoulder, as I used to on the terrace in old times. Only for one short
half-hour----"
I shall leave off here. I don't want to follow the kind old heathen
through his vague speculations about a future state. You see how he had
loved his son. You see why he loved Charles. That is all I wished to
show you.
"And if Charles don't come back? By Gad! I am very much afraid the
chances are against it. Well, I suppose, if the poor lad dies, I must
leave the money to Welter and his wife, if it is only for the sake of
poor Ascot, who was a good fellow. I wonder if we shall ever get at the
bottom of this matter about the marriage. I fancy not, unless Charles
dies, in which case Ellen will be re-instated by the priest.
"I hope William will make haste back with him. Old fellows like me are
apt to go off in a minute. And if he dies and I have not time to make a
will, the whole goes to the Crown, which will be a bore. I would sooner
Welter had it than that."
Lord Saltire stood looking out of the library window, until the river
looked like a chain of crimson pools, stretching westward towards the
sinking sun. The room behind him grew dark, and the marble pillars,
which divided it in unequal portions, stood like ghosts in the gloom. He
was hidden by the curtain, and presently he heard the door open, and a
light footstep stealthily approaching over the Turkey carpet. There was
a rustle of a woman's dress, and a moving of books on the centre table,
by some hand which evidently feared detection. Lord Saltire stepped from
behind his curtain, and confronted Mary Corby.