THE NORTH SIDE OF GROSVENOR SQUARE.
John Marston's first disappointment in life had been his refusal by
Mary. He was one of those men, brought up in a hard school, who get,
somehow, the opinion that everything which happens to a man is his own
fault. He used to say that every man who could play whist could get a
second if he chose. I have an idea that he is in some sort right. But he
used to carry this sort of thing to a rather absurd extent. He was apt
to be hard on men who failed, and to be always the first to say, "If he
had done this, or left that alone, it would not have been so," and he
himself, with a calm clear brain and perfect health, had succeeded in
everything he had ever tried at, even up to a double first. At one point
he was stopped. He had always given himself airs of superiority over
Charles, and had given him advice, good as it was, in a way which would
have ruined his influence with nine men out of ten; and suddenly he was
brought up. At the most important point in life, he found Charles his
superior. Charles had won a woman's love without knowing it, or caring
for it; and he had tried for it, and failed.
John Marston was an eminently noble and high-minded man. His faults were
only those of education, and his faults were very few. When he found
himself rejected, and found out why it was so--when he found that he was
no rival of Charles, and that Charles cared naught for poor Mary--he
humbly set his quick brain to work to find out in what way Charles, so
greatly his inferior in intellect, was superior to him in the most
important of all things. For he saw that Charles had not only won Mary's
love, but the love of every one who knew him; whereas he, John Marston,
had but very few friends.
And, when he once set to work at this task, he seemed to come rapidly to
the conclusion that Charles was superior to him in everything except
application. "And how much application should I have had," he concluded,
"if I had not been a needy man?"
So you see that his disappointment cured him of what was almost his only
vice--conceit. Everything works together for good, for those who are
really good.
Hitherto, John Marston has led only the life that so many young
Englishmen lead--a life of study, combined with violent, objectless,
physical exertion as a counterpoise. He had never known what enthusiasm
was, as yet. There was a vast deal of it somewhere about him; in his
elbows or his toes, or the calves of his legs, or somewhere, as events
prove. If I might hazard an opinion, I should say that it was stowed
away somewhere in that immensely high, but somewhat narrow, forehead of
his. Before he tried love-making, he might have written the calmest and
most exasperating article in the _Saturday Review_. But, shortly after
that, the tinder got a-fire; and the man who set it on fire was his
uncle Smith, the Moravian missionary.
For this fellow, Smith, had, as we know, come home from Australia with
the dying words of his beautiful wife ringing in his ears: "Go home from
here, my love, into the great towns, and see what is to be done there."
And he had found his nephew, John Marston. And, while Marston listened
to his strange, wild conversation, a light broke in upon him. And what
had been to him merely words before this, now became glorious,
tremendous realities.
And so those two had gone hand in hand down into the dirt and profligacy
of Southwark, to do together a work the reward of which comes after
death. There are thousands of men at such work now. We have no more to
do with it than to record the fact, that these two were at it heart and
hand.
John Marston's love for Mary had never waned for one instant. When he
had found that, or thought he had found that, she loved Charles, he had,
in a quiet, dignified way, retired from the contest. He had determined
that he would go away, and work at ragged schools, and so on, and try to
forget all about her. He had begun to fancy that his love was growing
cool, when Lord Saltire's letter reached him, and set it all a-blaze
again.
This was unendurable--that a savage from the southern wilds should step
in like this, without notice. He posted off to Casterton.
Mary was very glad to see him; but he had proposed to her once, and,
therefore, how could she be so familiar with him as of yore?
Notwithstanding this, John was not so very much disappointed at his
reception; he had thought that matters were even worse than they were.
After dinner, in the drawing-room, he watched them together. George
Corby was evidently in love. He went to Mary, who was sitting alone, the
moment they came from the dining-room. Mary looked up, and caught his
eyes as he approached; but her eyes wandered from him to the door, until
they settled on John himself. She seemed to wish that he would come and
talk to her. He had a special reason for not doing so: he wanted to
watch her and George together. So he stayed behind, and talked to Lord
Hainault.
Lord Saltire moved up beside Lady Ascot. Lady Hainault had the three
children--Archy in her lap, and Gus and Flora beside her. In her high
and mighty way she was amusing them, or rather trying to do so. Lady
Hainault was one of the best and noblest women in the world, as you have
seen already; but she was not an amusing person. And no one knew it
better than herself. Her intentions were excellent: she wanted to leave
Mary free from the children until their bed-time, so that she might talk
to her old acquaintance, John Marston; for, at the children's bed-time,
Mary would have to go with them. Even Lady Hainault, determined as she
was, never dared to contemplate putting those children to bed without
Mary's assistance. She was trying to tell them a story out of her own
head, but was making a dreadful mess of it; and she was quite conscious
that Gus and Flora were listening to her with contemptuous pity.
So they were disposed. Lord Saltire and Lady Ascot were comfortably out
of hearing. We had better attend to them first, and come round to the
others afterwards.
Lady Ascot began. "James," she said, "it is perfectly evident to me that
you sent for John Marston."
"Well, and suppose I did?" said Lord Saltire.
"Well, then, why did you do so?"
"Maria," said Lord Saltire, "do you know that sometimes you are
intolerably foolish? Cannot you answer that question for yourself?"
"Of course I can," said Lady Ascot.
"Then why the deuce did you ask me?"
That was a hard question to answer, but Lady Ascot said:
"I doubt if you are wise, James. I believe it would be better that she
should go to Australia. It is a very good match for her."
"It is not a good match for her," said Lord Saltire, testily. "To begin
with, first-cousin marriages are an invention of the devil. Third and
lastly, she sha'n't go to that infernal hole. Sixthly, I want her, now
our Charles is dead, to marry John Marston; and, in conclusion, I mean
to have my own way."
"Do you know," said Lady Ascot, "that he proposed to her before, and was
rejected?"
"He told me of it the same night," said Lord Saltire. "Now, don't talk
any more nonsense, but tell me this: Is she bitten with that young
fellow?"
"Not deeply, as yet, I think," said Lady Ascot.
"Which of them has the best chance?" said Lord Saltire.
"James," said Lady Ascot, repeating his own words, "do you know that
sometimes you are intolerably foolish? How can I tell?"
"Which would you bet on, Miss Headstall?" asked Lord Saltire.
"Well, well!" said Lady Ascot, "I suppose I should bet on John Marston."
"And how long are you going to give Sebastopol, Lord Hainault?" said
John Marston.
"What do you think about the Greek Kalends, my dear Marston?" said Lord
Hainault.
"Why, no. I suppose we shall get it at last. It won't do to have it said
that England and France----"
"Say France and England just now," said Lord Hainault.
"No, I will not. It must not be said that England and France could not
take a Black Sea fortress."
"We shall have to say it, I fear," said Lord Hainault. "I am not quite
sure that we English don't want a thrashing."
"I am sure we do," said Marston, "But we shall never get one. That is
the worst of it."
"My dear Marston," said Lord Hainault, "you have a clear head. Will you
tell me this: Do you believe that Charles Ravenshoe is dead?"
"God bless me, Lord Hainault, have you any doubts?"
"Yes."
"So have I," said Marston, turning eagerly towards him. "I thought you
had all made up your minds. If there is any doubt, ought we not to
mention it to Lord Saltire?"
"I think that he has doubts himself. I may tell you that he has secured
to him, in case of his return, eighty thousand pounds."
"He would have made him his heir, I suppose," said John Marston; "would
he not?"
"Yes: I think I am justified in saying Yes."
"And so all the estates go to Lord Ascot, in any case?"
"Unless in case of Charles's re-appearance before his death; in which
case I believe he will alter his will."
"Then if Charles be alive, he had better keep out of Lord Ascot's way on
dark nights, in narrow lanes," said John Marston.
"You are mistaken there," said Lord Hainault, thoughtfully. "Ascot is a
bad fellow. I told him so once in public, at the risk of getting an
awful thrashing. If it had not been for Mainwaring I should have had
sore bones for a twelvemonth. But--but--well, I was at Eton with Ascot,
and Ascot was and is a great blackguard. But, do you know, he is to some
a very affectionate fellow. You know he was adored at Eton."
"He was not liked at Oxford," said Marston. "I never knew any good of
him. He is a great rascal."
"Yes," said Lord Hainault, "I suppose he is what you would call a great
rascal. Yes; I told him so, you know. And I am not a fighting man, and
that proves that I was strongly convinced of the fact, or I should have
shirked my duty. A man in my position don't like to go down to the House
of Lords with a black eye. But I doubt if he is capable of any deep
villainy yet. If you were to say to me that Charles would be unwise to
allow Ascot's wife to make his gruel for him, I should say that I agreed
with you."
"There you are certainly right, my lord," said John Marston, smiling.
"But I never knew Lord Ascot spare either man or woman."
"That is very true," said Lord Hainault. "Do you notice that we have
been speaking as if Charles Ravenshoe were not dead?"
"I don't believe he is," said John Marston.
"Nor I, do you know," said Lord Hainault; "at least only half. What a
pair of ninnies we are! Only ninety men of the 140th came out of that
Balaclava charge. If he escaped the cholera, the chances are in favour
of his having been killed there."
"What evidence have we that he enlisted in that regiment at all?"
"Lady Hainault's and Mary's description of his uniform, which they never
distinctly saw for one moment," said Hainault. "_Violà tout._"
"And you would not speak to Lord Saltire?"
"Why, no. He sees all that we see. If he comes back, he gets eighty
thousand pounds. It would not do either for you or me to press him to
alter his will. Do you see?"
"I suppose you are right, Lord Hainault. Things cannot go very wrong
either way. I hope Mary will not fall in love with that cousin of hers,"
he added, with a laugh.
"Are you wise in persevering, do you think?" said Lord Hainault, kindly.
"I will tell you in a couple of days," said John Marston. "Is there any
chance of seeing that best of fellows, William Ravenshoe, here?"
"He may come tumbling up. He has put off his wedding, in consequence of
the death of his half-brother. I wonder if he was humbugged at Varna?"
"Nothing more likely," said Marston. "Where is Lord Welter?"
"In Paris--plucking geese."
Just about this time, all the various groups in the drawing-room
seemed to come to the conclusion that the time had arrived for
new combinations, to avoid remarks. So there was a regular
pass-in-the-corner business. John Marston went over to Mary; George
Corby came to Lord Hainault; Lord Saltire went to Lady Hainault, who had
Archy asleep in her lap; and Gus and Flora went to Lady Ascot.
"At last, old friend," said Mary to John Marston. "And I have been
watching for you so long. I was afraid that the time would come for the
children to go to bed, and that you would never come and speak to me."
"Lord Hainault and I were talking politics," said Marston. "That is why
I did not come."
"Men must talk politics, I suppose," said Mary. "But I wish you had come
while my cousin was here. He is so charming. You will like him."
"He seems to be a capital fellow," said Marston.
"Indeed he is," said Mary. "He is really the most lovable creature I
have met for a long time. If you would take him up, and be kind to him,
and show him life, from the side from which _you_ see it, you would be
doing a good work; and you would be obliging _me_. And I know, my dear
friend, that you like to oblige me."
"Miss Corby, you know that I would die for you."
"I know it. Who better? It puzzles me to know what I have done to earn
such kindness from you. But there it is. You will be kind to him."
Marston was partly pleased and partly disappointed by this conversation.
Would you like to guess why? Yes. Then I will leave you to do so, and
save myself half a page of writing.
Only saying this, for the benefit of inexperienced novel-readers, that
he was glad to hear her talk in that free and easy manner about her
cousin; but would have been glad if she had not talked in that free and
easy manner to himself. Nevertheless, there was evidently no harm done
as yet. That was a great cause of congratulation; there was time yet.
Gus and Flora went over to Lady Ascot. Lady Ascot said, "My dears, is it
not near bed-time?" just by way of opening the conversation--nothing
more.
"Lawks a mercy on me, no," said Flora. "Go along with you, do, you
foolish thing."
"My dear! my dear!" said Lady Ascot.
"She is imitating old Alwright," explained Gus. "She told me she was
going to. Lord Saltire says, 'Maria! Maria! Maria!--you are intolerably
foolish, Maria!'"
"Don't be naughty, Gus," said Lady Ascot.
"Well, so he did, for I heard him. Don't mind us; we don't mean any
harm. I say, Lady Ascot, has she any right to bite and scratch?"
"Who?" said Lady Ascot.
"Why, that Flora. She bit Alwright because she wouldn't lend her Mrs.
Moko."
"Oh, you dreadful fib!" said Flora. "Oh, you wicked boy! you know where
you'll go to if you tell such stories. Lady Ascot, I didn't bite her; I
only said she ought to be bit. She told me that she couldn't let me have
Mrs. Moko, because she was trying caps on her. And then she told nurse
that I should never have her again, because I squeezed her flat. And so
she told a story. And it was not I who squeezed her flat, but that boy,
who is worse than Ananias and Sapphira. And I made a bogey of her in the
nursery door, with a broom and a counterpane, just as he was coming in.
And he shut the door on her head, and squeezed a piece of paint off her
nose as big as half-a-crown."
Lady Ascot was relieved by being informed that the Mrs. Moko aforesaid
was only a pasteboard image, the size of life, used by the lady's maid
for fitting caps.
There were many evenings like this; a week or so was passed without any
change. At last there was a move towards London.
The first who took flight was George Corby. He was getting dissatisfied,
in his sleepy semi-tropical way, with the state of affairs. It was
evident that, since John Marston's arrival, he had been playing, with
regard to Mary, second fiddle (if you can possibly be induced to pardon
the extreme coarseness of the expression). One day, Lord Saltire asked
him to take him for a drive. They went over to dismantled Ranford, and
Lord Saltire was more amusing than ever. As they drove up through the
dense larch plantation, on the outskirt of the park, they saw Marston
and Mary side by side. George Corby bit his lip.
"I suppose there is something there, my lord?" said he.
"Oh dear, yes; I hope so," said Lord Saltire. "Oh, yes, that is a very
old affair."
So George Corby went first. He did not give up all hopes of being
successful, but he did not like the way things were going. His English
expedition was not quite so pleasant as he intended it to be. He, poor
fellow, was desperately in love, and his suit did not seem likely to
prosper. He was inclined to be angry with Lord Saltire. "He should not
have let things go so far," thought George, "without letting him know;"
quite forgetting that the mischief was done before Lord Saltire's
arrival.
Lord Saltire and John Marston moved next. Lord Saltire had thought it
best to take his man Simpson's advice, and move into his house in Curzon
Street. He had asked John to come with him.
"It is a very nice little house," he said; "deuced well aired, and that
sort of thing; but I know I shall have a creeping in my back when I go
back for the first week, and fancy there is a draught. This will make me
peevish. I don't like to be peevish to my servants, because it is
unfair; they can't answer one. I wish you would come and let me be
peevish to you. You may just as well. It will do you good. You have got
a fancy for disciplining yourself, and all that sort of thing; and you
will find me capital practice for a week or so in a fresh house. After
that I shall get amiable, and then you may go. You may have the use of
my carriage, to go and attend to your poor man's plaster business in
Southwark, if you like. I am not nervous about fever or vermin. Besides,
it may amuse me to hear all about it. And you can bring that cracked
uncle of yours to see me sometimes; his Scriptural talk is very
piquant."
Lord and Lady Hainault moved up into Grosvenor Square too, for
Parliament was going to meet rather early. They persuaded Lady Ascot to
come and stay with them.
After a few days, William made his appearance. "Well, my dear
Ravenshoe," said Lord Hainault, "and what brings you to town?"
"I don't know," said William. "I cannot stay down there. Lord Hainault,
do you know I think I am going cracked?"
"Why, my dear fellow, what do you mean?"
"I have got such a strange fancy in my head, I cannot rest."
"What is your fancy?" said Lord Hainault. "Stay; may I make a guess at
it?"
"You would never dream what it is. It is too mad."
"I will guess," said Lord Hainault. "Your fancy is this:--You believe
that Charles Ravenshoe is alive, and you have come up to London to take
your chance of finding him in the streets."
"But, good God!" said William, "how have you found this out? I have
never told it even to my own sweetheart."
"Because," said Lord Hainault, laying his hand on his shoulder, "I and
John Marston have exactly the same fancy. That is why."
And Charles so close to them all the time. Creeping every day across the
park to see the coachman and his son. Every day getting more hopeless.
All energy gone. Wit enough left to see that he was living on the
charity of the cornet. There were some splinters in his arm which would
not come away, and kept him restless. He never slept now. He hesitated
when he was spoken to. Any sudden noise made him start and look wild. I
will not go on with the symptoms. Things were much worse with him than
we have ever seen them before. He, poor lad, began to wonder whether it
would come to him to die in a hospital or----
Those cursed bridges! Why did they build such things? Who built them?
The devil. To tempt ruined, desperate men, with ten thousand fiends
gnawing and sawing in their deltoid muscles, night and day. Suppose he
had to cross one of these by night, would he ever get to the other side?
Or would angels from heaven come down and hold him back?
The cornet and his mother had a conversation about him. Bawled the
cornet into the ear-trumpet:
"My fellow Simpson is very bad, mother. He is getting low and nervous,
and I don't like the looks of him."
"I remarked it myself," said the lady. "We had better have Bright. It
would be cheaper to pay five guineas, and get a good opinion at once."
"I expect he wants a surgeon more than a doctor," said the cornet.
"Well, that is the doctor's business," said the old lady. "Drop a line
to Bright, and see what he says. It would be a burning shame, my
dear--enough to bring down the wrath of God upon us--if we were to let
him want for anything, as long as we have money. And we have plenty of
money. More than we want. And if it annoys him to go near the horses, we
must pension him. But I would rather let him believe that he was earning
his wages, because it might be a weight on his mind if he did not. See
to it the first thing in the morning. Remember Balaclava, James!
Remember Balaclava! If you forget Balaclava, and what trooper Simpson
did for you there, you are tempting God to forget you."
"I hope He may when I do, mother," shouted the cornet. "I remember
Balaclava--ay, and Devna before."
There are such people as these in the world, reader. I know some of
them. I know a great many of them. So many of them, in fact, that this
conclusion has been forced upon me--that the world is _not_ entirely
peopled by rogues and fools; nay, more, that the rogues and fools form a
contemptible minority. I may become unpopular, I may be sneered at by
men who think themselves wiser for coming to such a conclusion; but I
will not retract what I have said. The good people in the world
outnumber the bad, ten to one, and the ticket for this sort of belief is
"Optimist."
This conversation between the cornet and his mother took place at
half-past two. At that time Charles had crept across the park to the
Mews, near Belgrave Square, to see his friend the duke's coachman and
his son. May I be allowed, without being accused of writing a novel in
the "confidential style," to tell you that this is the most important
day in the whole story.
At half-past two, William Ravenshoe called at Lord Hainault's house in
Grosvenor Square. He saw Lady Ascot. Lady Ascot asked him what sort of
weather it was out of doors.
William said that there was a thick fog near the river, but that on the
north side of the square it was pleasant. So Lady Ascot said she would
like a walk, if it were only for ten minutes, if he would give her his
arm; and out they went.
Mary and the children came out too, but they went into the square. Lady
Ascot and William walked slowly up and down the pavement alone, for Lady
Ascot liked to see the people.
Up and down the north side, in front of the house. At the second turn,
when they were within twenty yards of the west end of the square, a tall
man with an umbrella over his shoulder came round the corner, and leant
against the lamp-post. They both knew him in an instant. It was Lord
Ascot. He had not seen them. He had turned to look at a great
long-legged chestnut that was coming down the street, from the right,
with a human being on his back. The horse was desperately vicious, but
very beautiful and valuable. The groom on his back was neither beautiful
nor valuable, and was losing his temper with the horse. The horse was
one of those horses vicious by nature--such a horse as Rarey (all honour
to him) can terrify into submission for a short time; and the groom was
a groom, not one of our country lads, every one of whose virtues and
vices have been discussed over and over again at the squire's
dinner-table, or about whom the rector had scratched his head, and had
had into his study for private exhortation or encouragement. Not one of
the minority. One of the majority, I fear very much. Reared, like a dog,
among the straw, without education, without religion, without
self-respect--worse broke than the horse he rode. When I think of all
that was said against grooms and stable-helpers during the Rarey fever,
I get very angry, I confess it. One man said to me, "When we have had a
groom or two killed, we shall have our horses treated properly." Look to
your grooms, gentlemen, and don't allow such a blot on the fair fame of
England as some racing stables much longer, or there will be a heavy
reckoning against you when the books are balanced.
But the poor groom lost his temper with the horse, and beat it over the
head. And Lord Ascot stayed to say, "D---- it all, man, you will never
do any good like that," though a greater fiend on horseback than Lord
Ascot I never saw.
This gave time for Lady Ascot to say, "Come on, my dear Ravenshoe, and
let us speak to him." So on they went. Lord Ascot was so busy looking at
the horse and groom, that they got close behind him before he saw them.
Nobody being near, Lady Ascot, with a sparkle of her old fun, poked him
in the back with her walking-stick. Lord Ascot turned sharply and
angrily round, with his umbrella raised for a blow.
When he saw who it was, he burst out into a pleasant laugh. "Now, you
grandma," he said, "you keep that old stick of yours quiet, or you'll
get into trouble. What do you mean by assaulting the head of the house
in the public streets? I am ashamed of you. You, Ravenshoe, you egged
her on to do it. I shall have to punch your head before I have done. How
are you both?"
"And where have you been, you naughty boy?" said Lady Ascot.
"At Paris," said that ingenuous nobleman, "dicing and brawling, as
usual. Nobody can accuse me of hiding _my_ talents in a napkin, grandma.
Those two things are all I am fit for, and I certainly do them with a
will. I have fought a duel, too. A Yankee Doodle got it into his head
that he might be impertinent to Adelaide; so I took him out and shot
him. Don't cry, now. He is not dead. He'll walk lame though, I fancy,
for a time. How jolly it is to catch you out here! I dread meeting that
insufferable prig Hainault, for fear I should kick him. Give me her arm,
my dear Ravenshoe."
"And where is Adelaide?" said Lady Ascot.
"Up at St. John's Wood," said he. "Do steal away, and come and see her.
Grandma, I was very sorry to hear of poor Charles's death--I was indeed.
You know what it has done for me; but, by Gad, I was very sorry."
"Dear Welter--dear Ascot," said Lady Ascot, "I am sure you were sorry.
Oh! if you would repent, my own dear. If you would think of the love
that Christ bore you when He died for you. Oh, Ascot, Ascot! will
nothing save you from the terrible hereafter?"
"I am afraid not, grandma," said Lord Ascot. "It is getting too cold for
you to stay out. Ravenshoe, my dear fellow, take her in."
And so, after a kind good-bye, Lord Ascot walked away towards the
south-west.
I am afraid that John Marston was right. I am afraid he spoke the truth
when he said that Lord Ascot was a savage, untameable blackguard.