ARCHER'S PROPOSAL.
Six weeks had passed since the date of Captain Archer's letter before he
presented himself in person at Casterton. They were weary weeks enough
to Mary, Lord Saltire, and Lady Ascot. Lady Ascot was staying on at
Casterton, as if permanently, at the earnest request of Lord and Lady
Hainault; and she stayed on the more willingly that she and Mary might
mingle their tears about Charles Ravenshoe, whom they were never to see
again. The "previous marriage affair" had apparently fallen through
utterly. All the advertisements, were they worded never so frantically,
failed to raise to the surface the particular parish-clerk required; and
Lady Ascot, after having propounded a grand scheme for personally
inspecting every register in the United Kingdom, which was pooh-poohed
by Lord Saltire, now gave up the matter as a bad job; and Lord Saltire
himself began to be puzzled and uneasy, and once more to wonder whether
or no Maria was not mistaken after all. Mackworth was still very ill,
though slowly recovering. The younger Tiernay, who was nursing him,
reported that his head seemed entirely gone, although he began to eat
voraciously, and, if encouraged, would take exercise. He would now walk
far and fast, in silence, with the kind priest toiling after him. But
his wilful feet always led him to the same spot. Whether they rambled in
the park, whether they climbed the granite tors of the moor, or whether
they followed the stream up through the woods, they always ended their
walk at the same place--at the pool among the tumbled boulders, under
the dark western headland, where Cuthbert's body had been found. And
here the priest would sit looking seaward, as if his life and his
intellect had come to a full stop here, and he was waiting patiently
till a gleam of light should come from beyond.
William was at Ravenshoe, in full possession of the property. He had
been born a gamekeeper's son, and brought up as a groom. He had now
£10,000 a year; and was going to marry the fisherman's daughter, his own
true love; as beautiful, as sweet-tempered a girl as any in the three
kingdoms. It was one of the most extraordinary rises in life that had
ever taken place. Youth, health, and wealth--they must produce
happiness. Why no, not exactly in this case. He believed Charles was
dead, and he knew, if that was the case, that the property was his; but
he was not happy. He could not help thinking about Charles. He knew he
was dead and buried, of course; but still he could not help wishing that
he would come back, and that things might be again as they had been
before. It is not very easy to analyse the processes of the mind of a
man brought up as William was. Let us suppose that, having been taught
to love and admire Charles above all earthly persons, his mind was not
strong enough to disabuse himself of the illusion. I suppose that your
African gets fond of his fetish. I take it that, if you stole his
miserable old wooden idol in the night, though it might be badly carved,
and split all up the back by the sun, and put in its place an Old
Chelsea shepherdess, he would lament his graven image, and probably
break the fifty guineas' worth of china with his club. I know this,
however, that William would have given up his ten thousand a year, and
have trusted to his brother's generosity, if he could have seen him back
again. In barbarous, out-of-the-way places, like the west of Devonshire,
the feudal feeling between foster-brothers is still absurdly strong. It
is very ridiculous, of course. Nothing can be more ridiculous or
unnecessary than the lightning coming down the dining-room chimney and
sending the fire-irons flying about the cat's ears. But there it is, and
you must make the best of it.
We are now posted up well enough in the six weeks which preceded the
arrival of the mysterious Archer. He deferred his arrival till his
honeymoon was completed. His mysterious letter to Mary partly alluded to
his approaching marriage with Jane Blockstrop--daughter of Lieutenant
Blockstrop of the coast guard, and niece of Rear-Admiral Blockstrop,
who, as Captain Blockstrop, had the _Tartar_ on the Australian
station--and partly to something else. We shall see what directly. For,
when Mary came down to see him in the drawing-room, there was with him,
besides his wife, whom he introduced at once, a very tall and handsome
young man, whom he presented to her as her cousin, George Corby.
Did Charles turn in his pallet at Scutari? Did he turn over and stare at
the man in the next bed, who lay so deadly still, and who was gone when
he woke on the weary morrow?
There was no mystery about George Corby's appearance. When Mary's
father, Captain Corby, had gone to India, his younger brother, George's
father, had gone to Australia. This younger brother was a somewhat
peevish, selfish man, and was not on the best of terms with Captain
Corby. He heard, of course, of the wreck of the _Warren Hastings_, and
the loss of his brother. He also informed himself that his niece was
saved, and was the protected favourite of the Ravenshoes. He had then
said to himself, "I am needy. I have a rising family. She is better off
than I can make her. Let her stay there." And so he let her stay there,
keeping himself, however, to do him justice, pretty well informed of her
position. He had made the acquaintance of Captain Archer, at Melbourne,
on his first voyage to that port, in the end of 1852; laid the whole
matter before him, and begged him not to break it to her at present.
Captain Archer had readily promised to say nothing, for he saw Mary the
lady of a great house, with every prospect, as he thought, of marrying
the heir. But when he saw Mary, after the break-up, in Grosvenor Square,
a nursery governess, he felt that he ought to speak, and set sail from
the port of London with a full determination of giving a piece of his
mind to her uncle, should he hesitate to acknowledge her. He had no need
to say much. Mr. Corby, though a selfish, was not an unkind man, by any
means. And, besides, he was now very wealthy, and perfectly able to
provide for his niece. So, when Archer had finished his story, he
merely said, "I suppose I had better send over George to see if he will
fall in love with her. That will be the best thing, I take it. She must
not be a governess to those swells. They might slight or insult her.
Take George over for me, will you, my dear soul, and see how it is
likely to go. At all events, bring her back to me. Possibly I may not
have done my duty by her."
George was called in from the rocking-chair in the verandah to receive
instructions. He was, so his father told him, to go to Europe with
Captain Archer, and, as Captain Archer was going to get married and miss
a voyage, he might stay till he came back. First and foremost, he was to
avail himself of his letters of introduction, and get into the good
society that his father was able to command for him. Under this head of
instruction he was to dance as much as possible, and to ride to the
fox-hounds, taking care not to get too near to the hounds, or to rush at
his fences like a madman, as all Australians did. Secondly, he was, if
possible, to fall in love with his cousin Mary Corby, marry her, bring
her back, and reside _pro tem._ at Toorallooralyballycoomefoozleah,
which station should be swept and garnished for his reception, until the
new house at the Juggerugahugjug crossing-place was finished. Thirdly,
he might run across to the Saxony ram sales, and, if he saw anything
reasonable, buy, but be careful of pink ears, for they wouldn't stand
the Grampian frosts. Fourthly, he was not to smoke without changing his
coat, or to eat the sugar when any one was looking. Fifthly, he was to
look out for a stud horse, and might go as far as five hundred. Such a
horse as Allow Me, Ask Mamma, or Pam's Mixture would do.[10] And so on,
like the directions of the Aulic Council to the Archduke. He was not to
go expressly to Durham; but, if he found himself in that part of the
world, he might get a short-horned bull. He need not go to Scotland
unless he liked; but, if he did, he might buy a couple of collies, &c.,
&c.
George attended the ram sales in Saxony, and just ran on to Vienna,
thinking, with the philosophy of an Australian, that, if he _did_ fall
in love with his cousin, he might not care to travel far from her, and
that therefore she might "keep." However, he came at last, when Archer
had finished his honeymoon; and there he was in the drawing-room at
Casterton.
Mary was not very much surprised when it was all put before her. She had
said to Charles, in old times, "I know I have relations somewhere; when
I am rich they will acknowledge me;" and, just for one instant, the
suspicion crossed her mind that her relations might have heard of the
fortune Lord Saltire had left her. It was unjust and impossible, and in
an instant she felt it to be so. Possibly the consciousness of her
injustice made her reception of her cousin somewhat warmer.
He was certainly very handsome and very charming. He had been brought up
by his father the most punctilious dandy in the southern hemisphere, and
thrown from a boy among the best society in the colony; so he was quite
able to make himself at home everywhere. If there was a fault in his
manner, it was that there was just a shade too much lazy ease in the
presence of ladies. One has seen that lately, however, in other young
gentlemen, not educated in the bush, to a greater extent: so we must not
be hard upon him. When Lady Hainault and Lady Ascot heard that a cousin
of Mary's had just turned up from the wilds of Australia, they looked at
one another in astonishment, and agreed that he must be a wild man. But,
when they had gone down and sat on him, as a committee of two, for an
hour, they both pronounced him charming. And so he was.
Lord Hainault, on receiving this report, could do no less than ask him
to stay a day or two. And so his luggage was sent for to Twyford, and
the good Archer left, leaving him in possession.
Lord Saltire had been travelling round to all his estates. He had taken
it into his head, about a month before this, that it was time that he
should get into one of his great houses, and die there. He told Lady
Ascot so, and advised her to come with him; but she still held on by
Lord Charles Herries' children, and Mary, and said she would wait. So he
had gone away, with no one but his confidential servant. He had gone to
Cottingdean first, which stands on the banks of the Wannet, at the foot
of the North Hampshire mountains.
Well, Cottingdean did seem at first sight a noble lair for an old lion
to crawl away to, and die in. There was a great mile-long elm avenue,
carried, utterly regardless of economy, over the flat valley, across the
innumerable branches of the river; and at the last the trees ran up over
the first great heave of the chalk hill: and above the topmost boughs of
those which stood in the valley, above the highest spire of the tallest
poplar in the water-meadow, the old grey house hung aloft, a long
irregular façade of stone. Behind were dark woods, and above all a
pearl-green line of down.
But Cottingdean wouldn't do. His lordship's man Simpson knew it wouldn't
do from the first. There were draughts in Cottingdean, and doors that
slammed in the night, and the armour in the great gallery used suddenly
to go "clank" at all hours, in a terrible way. And the lady ancestress
of the seventeenth century, who carried her head in a plate before her,
used to stump upstairs and downstairs, from twelve o'clock to one, when
she was punctually relieved from duty by the wicked old ancestor of the
sixteenth century, who opened the cellar door and came rattling his
sword against the banisters up all the staircase till he got to the
north-east tower, into which he went and slammed the door; and, when he
had transacted his business, came clanking down again: when he in turn
was relieved by an [Greek: oi polloi] of ghosts, who walked till
cockcrow. Simpson couldn't stand it. No more could Lord Saltire, though
possibly for different reasons than Simpson's.
The first night at Cottingdean Lord Saltire had his writing-desk
unpacked, and took therefrom a rusty key. He said to Simpson, "You know
where I am going. If I am not back in half an hour, come after me."
Simpson knew where he was going. Lord Barkham had been staying here at
Cottingdean just before he went up to town, and was killed in that
unhappy duel. The old servants remembered that, when Lord Barkham went
away that morning, he had taken the key of his room with him, and had
said, in his merry way, that no one was going in there till he came back
the next week, for he had left all his love-letters about. Lord Saltire
had got the key, and was going to open the room the first time for forty
years.
What did the poor old man find there? Probably nothing more than poor
Barkham had said--some love-letters lying about. When the room was
opened afterwards, by the new master of Cottingdean, we found only a
boy's room, with fishing-rods and guns lying about. In one corner were a
pair of muddy top-boots kicked off in a hurry, and an old groom
remembered that Lord Barkham had been riding out the very morning he
started for London. But, amidst the dust of forty years, we could
plainly trace that some one had, comparatively recently, moved a chair
up to the fireplace; and on the cold hearth there was a heap of the
ashes of burnt paper.
Lord Saltire came back to Simpson just as his half-hour was over, and
told him in confidence that the room he had been in was devilish
draughty, and that he had caught cold in his ear. Cottingdean would not
do after this. They departed next morning. They must try Marksworth.
Marksworth, Lord Saltire's north country place, is in Cumberland. If you
are on top of the coach, going northward, between Hiltonsbridge and
Copley Beck, you can see it all the way for three miles or more, over
the stone walls. The mountains are on your left; to the right are
endless unbroken level woodlands; and, rising out of them, two miles
off, is a great mass of grey building, from the centre of which rises a
square Norman keep, ninety feet high, a beacon for miles even in that
mountainous country. The Hilton and Copley Beck join in the park, which
is twelve miles in circumference, and nearly all thick woodland. Beyond
the great tower, between it and the further mountains, you catch a gleam
of water. This is Marksmere, in which there are charr.
The draughts at Marksworth were colder and keener than the draughts at
Cottingdean. Lord Saltire always hated the place: for the truth is this,
that although Marksworth looked as if it had stood for eight hundred
years, every stone in it had been set up by his father, when he, Lord
Saltire, was quite a big boy. It was beautifully done; it was splendidly
and solidly built--probably the best executed humbug in England; but it
was not comfortable to live in. A nobleman of the nineteenth century,
stricken in years, finds it difficult to accommodate himself in a house
the windows of which are calculated to resist arrows. At the time of the
Eglinton tournament, Lord Saltire challenged the whole Tory world in
arms, to attack Marksworth in the ante-gunpowder style of warfare; his
lordship to provide eatables and liquor to besiegers and besieged;
probably hoping that he might get it burnt down over his head, and have
a decent excuse for rebuilding it in a more sensible style. The
challenge was not accepted. "The trouble," said certain Tory noblemen,
"of getting up the old tactics correctly would be very great; and the
expense of having the old engines of war constructed would be enormous.
Besides, it might come on to rain again, and spoil the whole affair."
Marksworth wouldn't do. And then Simpson suggested his lordship's town
house in Curzon Street, and Lord Saltire said "Hey?" and Simpson
repeated his suggestion, and Lord Saltire said "Hah!" As Charles's luck
would have it, he liked the suggestion, and turned south, coming to
Casterton on his way to London. He arrived at Casterton a few days after
George Corby. When he alighted at the door, Lord Hainault ran down the
steps to greet him, for this pair were very fond of one another. Lord
Hainault, who was accused by some people of "priggishness," was
certainly not priggish before Lord Saltire. He was genial and hearty.
There was a slight crust on Lord Hainault. Because he had held his own
among the clever commoners at the University, he fancied himself a
little cleverer than he was. He in his heart thought more of his second,
than Marston did of his double first, and possibly showed it among his
equals. But before an acknowledged superior, like Lord Saltire, this
never showed. When Lord Saltire talked wisely and shrewdly (and who
could do so better than he?), he listened; when Lord Saltire was cross,
he laughed. On this occasion Lord Saltire was cross. He never was cross
to any one but Lady Ascot, Lord Hainault, and Marston. He knew they
liked it.
"Good Ged, Hainault," he began, "don't stand grinning there, and looking
so abominably healthy and happy, or I will drive away again and go on to
London. Nothing can be in worse taste than to look like that at a man
whom you see is tired, and cold, and peevish. You have been out
shooting, too. Don't deny it; you smell of gunpowder."
"Did you _never_ shoot?" said Lord Hainault, laughing.
"I shot as long as I could walk, and therefore I have a right to nourish
envy and all uncharitableness against those who can still do so. I wish
you would be cross, Hainault. It is wretched manners not to be cross
when you see a man is trying to put you out of temper."
"And how _are_ you, my dear lad?" continued Lord Saltire, when he had
got hold of his arm. "How is Lady Ascot? and whom have you got here?"
"We are all very well," said Lord Hainault; "and we have got nobody."
"Well done," said Lord Saltire. "I thought I should have found the house
smelling like a poulterer's shop on Guy Fawkes's day, in consequence of
your having got together all the hawbucks in the country for pheasant
shooting. I'll go upstairs, my dear boy, and change, and then come down
to the library fire."
And so he did. There was no one there, and he sank into a comfortable
chair, with a contented "humph!" in front of the fire, beside a big
round table. He had read the paper in the train; so he looked for a
book. There was a book on the table beside him--Ruskin's "Modern
Painters," which had pictures in it; so he took out his great gold
glasses, and began turning it over.
A man's card fell from it. He picked it up and read it. "Mr. Charles
Ravenshoe." Poor Charles! That spring, you remember, he had come over to
see Adelaide, and, while waiting to see old Lady Hainault, had held his
card in his hand. It had got into the book. Lord Saltire put the book
away, put up his glasses, and walked to the window.
And Charles lay in his bed at Scutari, and watched the flies upon the
wall.
"I'll send up for little Mary," said Lord Saltire. "I want to see the
little bird. Poor Charles!"
He looked out over the landscape. It was dull and foggy. He wandered
into the conservatory, and idly looked out of the glass door at the end.
Then, as he looked, he said, suddenly, "Gadzooks!" and then, still more
briskly, "The deuce!"
There was a splendid show of chrysanthemums in the flower-garden, but
they were not what his lordship exclaimed at. In the middle of the walk
was Mary Corby, leaning on the arm of a very handsome young man. He was
telling some very animated story, and she was looking up into his face
with sparkling eyes.
"Othello and Desdemona! Death and confusion!" said Lord Saltire. "Here's
a pretty kettle of fish! Maria must be mad!"
He went back into the library. Lord Hainault was there. "Hainault," said
he, quietly, "who is that young gentleman, walking with Mary Corby in
the garden?"
"Oh! her cousin. I have not had time to tell you about it." Which he
did.
"And what sort of fellow is he?" said Lord Saltire. "A Yahoo, I
suppose?"
"Not at all. He is a capital fellow--a perfect gentleman. There will be
a match, I believe, unless you put a stop to it. You know best. We will
talk it over. It seems to me to offer a good many advantages. I think it
will come off in time. It is best for the poor little thing to forget
poor Ravenshoe, if she can."
"Yes, it will be best for her to forget poor Ravenshoe, if she can,"
repeated Lord Saltire. "I wish her to do so. I must make the young
fellow's acquaintance. By-the-bye, what time does your post go out?"
"At five."
"Have you no morning post?"
"Yes. We can send to Henley before nine."
"Then I shall not plague myself with writing my letter now. I should
like to see this young fellow, Hainault."
George Corby was introduced. Lord Saltire seemed to take a great fancy
to him. He kept near him all the evening, and listened with great
pleasure to his Australian stories. George Corby was, of course, very
much flattered by such attention from such a famous man. Possibly he
might have preferred to be near Mary; but old men, he thought, are
exacting, and it is the duty of gentlemen to bear with them. So he
stayed by him with good grace. After a time, Lord Saltire seemed to see
that he had an intelligent listener. And then the others were astonished
to hear Lord Saltire do what he but seldom did for them--use his utmost
powers of conversation; use an art almost forgotten, that of _talking_.
To this young man, who was clever and well educated, and, like most
"squatters," perhaps a _trifle_ fond of hearing of great people, Lord
Saltire opened the storehouse of his memory, of a memory extending over
seventy years; and in a clear, well modulated voice, gave him his
recollection of his interviews with great people--conversations with
Sièyes, Talleyrand, with Madame de Staël, with Robespierre, with
Egalité, with Alexander, and a dozen others. George was intensely eager
to hear about Marat. Lord Saltire and his snuff-box had not penetrated
into the lair of that filthy wolf, but he had heard much of him from
many friends, and told it well. When the ladies rose to go to bed,
George Corby was astonished; he had forgotten Mary, had never been near
her the whole evening, and he had made an engagement to drive Lord
Saltire the next morning up to Wargrave in a pony-chaise, to look at
Barrymore House, and the place where the theatre stood, and where the
game of high jinks had been played so bravely fifty years before. And,
moreover, he and Lord Saltire were, the day after, to make an excursion
down the river and see Medmenham, where once Jack Wilkes and the devil
had held court. Mary would not see much of him at this rate for a day or
two.
It was a great shame of this veteran to make such a fool of the innocent
young bushman. There ought to be fair play in love or war. His
acquaintance, Talleyrand, could not have been more crafty. I am so angry
with him that I will give the letter he wrote that night _in extenso_,
and show the world what a wicked old man he was. When he went to his
room, he said to Simpson, "I have got to write a letter before I go to
bed. I want it to go to the post at Henley before nine. I don't want it
to lie in the letter-box in the hall. I don't want them to see the
direction. What an appetite you would have for your breakfast, Simpson,
if you were to walk to Henley." And Simpson said, "Very good, my lord."
And Lord Saltire wrote as follows:--
"MY DEAR LAD,--I have been travelling to my places, looking
for a place to die in. They are all cold and draughty, and
won't do. I have come back to Casterton. I must stay here
at present on your account, and I am in mortal fear of
dying here. Nothing, remember, can be more unmannerly or
rude than falling ill, and dying, in another man's house. I
know that I should resent such a proceeding myself as a
deliberate affront, and I therefore would not do it for the
world.
"You must come here to me _instantly_; do you hear? I am
keeping the breach for you at all sacrifices. Until you
come, I am to be trundled about this foggy valley in pony
carriages through the day, and talk myself hoarse all the
evening, all for your sake. A cousin of Mary Corby's has
come from Australia. He is very handsome, clever, and
gentlemanly, and I am afraid she is getting very fond of
him.
"This must not be, my dear boy. Now our dear Charles is
gone, you must, if possible, marry her. It is insufferable
that we should have another disappointment from an
interloper. I don't blame you for not having come before.
You were quite right, but don't lose a moment now. Leave
those boys of yours. The dirty little rogues must get on
for a time without you. Don't think that I sneer at the
noble work that you and your uncle are doing; God Almighty
forbid; but you must leave it for a time, and come here.
"Don't argue or procrastinate, but come. I cannot go on
being driven all over the country in November to keep him
out of the way. Besides, if you don't come soon, I shall
have finished all my true stories, and have to do what I
have never done yet--to lie. So make haste, my dear boy.
"Yours affectionately,
"SALTIRE."
On the second day from this Lord Saltire was driven to Medmenham by
George Corby, and prophesied to him about it. When they neared home,
Lord Saltire grew distraught for the first time, and looked eagerly
towards the terrace. As they drove up, John Marston ran down the steps
to meet them. Lord Saltire said, "Thank God!" and walked up to the
hall-door between the two young men.
"Are you staying in London?" said George Corby.
"Yes. I am living in London," said John Marston. "An uncle of mine, a
Moravian Missionary from Australia, is working at a large ragged school
in the Borough, and I am helping him."
"You don't surely mean James Smith?" said Corby.
"Indeed I do."
"Your uncle? Well, that is very strange. I know him very well. My father
fought his battle for him when he was at variance with the squatters
about.... He is one of the best fellows in the world. I am delighted to
make your acquaintance."
Lord Saltire said to Lord Hainault, when they were alone together--"You
see what a liberty I have taken, having my private secretary down in
this unceremonious way. Do ask him to stay."
"You know how welcome he is for his own sake. Do you think you are
right?"
"I think so."
"I am afraid you are a little too late," said Lord Hainault.
Alas! poor Charles.