"Ravenshoe" was Henry Kingsley's second novel, and it was
published in 1862, when its author was thirty-two years old.
It will always rank with "Geoffry Hamlyn" as Henry Kingsley's
best work. These two books were their author's favourites
among his own novels, and Charles Ravenshoe was one of his two
favourite characters. It has been said that "Ravenshoe" is
"alive--the expression of a man who worked both with heart and
brain," and few would care to dispute that opinion. For study
of character, wide charity of outlook, brilliant descriptive
writing--as, for instance, in the charge at Balaclava, and
real, not mawkish, pathos--as in the hopeless misery of
Charles, invalided, with only eighteen shillings, out of the
army--"Ravenshoe" will always deserve to be read. It is the
work of a writer who was not ashamed to avow himself an
"optimist."
_I.--Charles Loses His Brother and His Home_
In 1820 Densil lost both his father and mother, and found himself, at
the age of thirty-seven, master of Ravenshoe--an estate worth £10,000 a
year--and master of himself.
Densil was an only son. His father, Peter Ravenshoe, had married Alicia,
daughter of Charles, Earl of Ascot.
The Ravenshoes, an old West of England family, were Catholics; but
Densil's second wife (his first wife died childless in 1816) was a
Protestant, and made her husband promise that all her children, after
her first born, should be brought up Protestant.
Mrs. Ravenshoe bore Densil two sons: Cuthbert, born 1826; Charles, born
1831.
On the night Charles was born his mother lay dying, and Densil swore to
her he would keep the promise he had made. And to this vow he was
faithful, in spite of the indignation of Father Mackworth, the resident
Catholic priest at Ravenshoe.
The doctor insisted that a nurse was an immediate necessity, and James
Horton, Densil's devoted servant and head keeper, suggested his wife,
Norah; a proposal that had the doctor's immediate approval.
In due time Charles went to Eton and to Oxford, where he was rusticated
for a term with his friend Lord Welter, Lord Ascot's eldest son, and
fell in love with Adelaide, a penniless young lady, who acted as
companion to old Lady Ascot.
At Ravenshoe, Charles and Mackworth seldom met without a "sparring
match," for to the priest it was intolerable that this house should, in
the event of Cuthbert dying childless, pass into Protestant hands.
On the other hand, it was natural that a considerable amount of
familiarity, and a most sincere and hearty affection, should exist
between Charles and his servant and foster-brother, William Horton. Till
Charles went to Shrewsbury he had never had another playfellow, for his
brother Cuthbert was reserved and bookish; and the friendship between the
two had grown with age.
One other inmate of Ravenshoe must be mentioned--this was little Mary
Corby, who was saved miraculously from the wreck of the Warren Hastings
when Charles was about ten. She was the daughter of Captain Corby, and
when the ship went down in fifteen fathoms of water, the mate, assisted
by fishermen, and encouraged by Densil, managed to get the little girl
to shore, and to Ravenshoe--for the house was not far from the cliffs.
In spite of Densil's letters and inquiries, no friends came forward to
claim little Mary, then a child of nine, and in three months she was
considered as a permanent member of the household. And the night before
Charles went to school he told her of his grand passion for Adelaide.
On the day of the Oxford and Cambridge boat-race, when Charles rowed
three in the winning boat, Densil Ravenshoe died, after two days'
illness. Old James Horton's death occurred at the same time. Charles
hurried home in time for the funeral, and when all was over a servant
came up to him, and asked him would he see Mr. Ravenshoe in the library?
Charles entered the library with William, who had also been sent for.
Charles went up silently and kissed his brother on the forehead. For a
few minutes Cuthbert neither moved nor spoke, while Charles greeted
Mackworth civilly. William stood at a little distance, looking uneasily
from one to another.
Cuthbert broke the silence, and as he spoke Charles, by some instinct,
laid his hand on William's shoulder.
"I sent for you," he said, "on business which must be gone through with,
though I expect it will kill me. I should like to prepare you for what
is to come, but the blow would be equally severe whether you expect it
or not. You two who stand there were nursed at the same breast. That
groom on whose shoulder you have your hand now is my real brother; you
are no relation to me--you are the son of the faithful old servant whom
we buried to-day with my father!"
Charles at once asked for proofs and witnesses, and Mackworth took up
the tale.
"Your mother was Norah, James Horton's wife. James Horton was Densil
Ravenshoe's half-brother, and the illegitimate son of Peter. She
confessed to me the wicked fraud she practised, and has committed that
confession to paper. I hold it. You have not a point of ground to stand
on. You have been living in luxury and receiving an expensive education
when you should have been cleaning out the stable."
Charles's heart died away within him.
"Cuthbert," he said, "you are a gentleman. Is this true?"
"God knows how terribly true it is!" said Cuthbert quietly.
Father Mackworth handed the paper, signed by his mother, to him, and
Charles read it. It was completely conclusive. William also read it, and
turned pale.
Cuthbert spoke again in his quiet, passionless voice.
"My intention," he said, "is to make a provision of £300 a year for this
gentleman, whom till the last few days I believed to be my brother. Less
than twenty-four hours ago, Charles, I offered Father Mackworth £10,000
for this paper, with a view to destroying it. You see what a poor weak
rogue I am, and what a criminal I might become with a little temptation.
Father Mackworth did his duty and refused me!"
"You acted like yourself, Cuthbert. Like one who would risk body and
soul for one you loved. But it is time that this scene should end. I
utterly refuse the assistance so nobly offered. I go forth alone into
the world to make my own way, or to be forgotten. It only remains to say
good-bye. I leave this house without a hard thought towards any one in
it. I am at peace with all the world. Father Mackworth, I beg your
forgiveness. I have often been rude and brutal to you. Good-bye!"
He shook hands with Mackworth, then with William, and lastly he went up
to Cuthbert and kissed him on the cheek; and then walked out of the door
into the hall.
"I am going to follow him, wherever he goes," said William. "If he goes
to the world's end, I will be with him!"
_II.--Charles Loses Himself_
Charles fled from Ravenshoe for London in the middle of the night,
determined that William should not follow him. But he could not bear to
go out and seek fortune without seeing Adelaide. So he called at
Ranford, Lord Ascot's seat, only to learn that Adelaide had eloped with
Lord Welter. The two were married when he afterwards saw them in London.
Charles had to tell his story to old Lady Ascot, and when he had gone
she said to herself, "I will never keep another secret after this. It
was for Alicia's sake and for Peter's that I did it, and now see what
has become of me!"
In London, Charles Ravenshoe committed suicide deliberately. He did not
hang himself or drown himself; he hired himself out as groom--being
perfectly accomplished in everything relating to horses--to Lieutenant
Hornby, of the 140th Hussars; and when the Crimean War broke out,
enlisted, under the name of Simpson, as a trooper in Hornby's regiment.
On October 25 Charles was at Balaclava. They went down hill, straight
towards the guns, and almost at once the shot from them began to tell.
Charles was in the second line, and the men in the front line began to
fall terribly fast as they rode into the narrowing valley. It was
impossible to keep line. Presently the batteries right and left opened
on them, and those who were there engaged can give us very little idea
of what followed in the next quarter of an hour. They were soon among
the guns--the very guns that had annoyed them from the first--and
Charles, and two or three others known to him, were hunting some Russian
artillerymen round these guns for a minute or so.
He saw also at this time a friend of his--a cornet--on foot, and rode to
his assistance. He caught a riderless horse, and the cornet mounted.
Then the word was given to get back again, and as they turned their
faces to get out of this terrible hell, poor Charles gave a short, sharp
scream, and bent down in his saddle over his horse's neck.
It was nothing. It was only as if one were to have twenty teeth pulled
out at once. The pain was over in an instant. His left arm seemed nearly
dead, but he could hold his reins in a way. He saw Hornby before him,
and his own friends were beside him again, and there was a rally and a
charge. At guns? No. At men this time--Russian hussars--right valiant
fellows, too. He could do but little himself. He rode at a Russian, and
unhorsed him; he remembers seeing the man go down. They beat them back,
and then turned and rode--for it was time.
As the noise of the battle grew fainter behind them, he looked around to
see who was riding beside him and holding him by the right arm. It was
the little cornet. Charles wondered why he did so.
"You're hard hit, Simpson," said the cornet. "Never mind. Keep your
saddle a little longer. We shall be all right directly."
Charles looked down, and noticed that his left arm was hanging numbed by
his side, and that a trooper was guiding his horse.
Soon they were among English faces, and English cheers rang out in
welcome to their return, but it was nothing to him; he kept his eye,
which was growing dim, on Hornby, and when he saw him fall off his
saddle into the arms of a trooper, he dismounted, too, and staggered
towards him.
The world seemed to go round and round, and he felt about him like a
blind man. But he found Hornby somehow. Presently a doctor was bending
over him.
Later, they found Hornby dead and cold, with his head on Charles's lap.
Charles had been struck by a ball in the bone of his arm, and the
splinters were driven into the flesh, though the arm was not broken. It
was a nasty business, said the doctors. All sorts of things might happen
to him. Only one thing was certain, and that was that Charles
Ravenshoe's career in the army was over for ever.
At home they all believed him dead, for William had traced him to Varna,
and there had been informed that his foster-brother had died of cholera.
The change of name was partly responsible for this, for among the dead
or living there was no signs of Charles Ravenshoe.
But he recovered, after a long spell in the hospital at Scutari, and
after a time was sent home to Fort Pitt. But that mighty left arm, which
had done such noble work when it belonged to No. 3 in the Oxford
University Eight, was useless; and Charles Simpson, trooper of the
140th, was discharged from the army, and found himself on Christmas Eve
in the street with eighteen shillings and ninepence in his pocket,
wondering blindly what the end would be, but no more dreaming of begging
from those who had known him formerly than of leaping off Waterloo
Bridge.
_III.--The Last Eighteen Shillings_
Charles's luck seemed certainly to have deserted him at last. He had got
to spend his Christmas with eighteen shillings and a crippled left arm,
and had nothing left to trust to but his little friend, the cornet, who
had come home invalided, and was living with his mother in Hyde Park
Gardens.
The cornet welcomed him with both hands, and, hearing from Charles of
his plight, said, "Now, I know you are a gentleman, and I may offend
you, but, if you are utterly hard up, take service with me. There!"
"I will do so with the deepest gratitude," said Charles. "But I cannot
ride, I fear. My left arm is gone."
"Pish! Ride with your right. It's a bargain."
Then Charles went upstairs, and was introduced to the cornet's mother.
He accepted his new position with dull carelessness. Life was getting
very worthless. And all this time, had he but known it, money and a
home, and sweet little Mary Corby, who had loved him ever since he was a
boy, were waiting for him.
There was also a remarkable advertisement which appeared in the "Times"
for a considerable period, and was never seen by Charles. The
advertisement was inserted by old Lady Ascot, and offered one hundred
guineas to any person who could discover the register of marriage
between Peter Ravenshoe, Esq., of Ravenshoe, in the county of Devon, and
Maria Dawson, supposed to have been solemnised about 1778.
How was Charles to know that Cuthbert Ravenshoe was dead; that William,
now master of Ravenshoe, still hoped for his foster-brother's life, and
that old Lady Ascot was doing all she could to atone for a mistake?
Charles, in fact, was still very weak and ill, and served his friend the
cornet in a poor way. He had not recovered the shock of his fever and
delirium in the Crimea, and both nerve and health were gone.
Nobody could be more kind and affectionate than the cornet and his deaf
mother. They guessed that he was "somebody," and that things were wrong
with him; and the cornet once or twice invited his confidence; but he
was too young, and Charles had not the energy to tell him anything.
And life was getting very, very weary business for Charles. By day,
riding had become a terror, and at night he got no rest. And his mind
began to dwell too much on the bridges over the Thames, and on the water
lapping and swirling about the piers.
Then, as it happened, a little shoeblack with whom Charles had struck up
a friendship, falling sick in a foul court in South London, Charles must
needs go and sit with him. The child died in his arms, and a dull terror
came on Charles when he thought of his homeward journey. A scripture
reader who had been in the room came towards him and laid his hand upon
his shoulder. Charles turned from the dead child, and looked up into the
face of John Marston, the best of his old Oxford friends.
They passed out of the house together, Charles clinging tight to John
Marston's arms. When they got to Marston's lodgings, Charles sat down by
the fire, and said quietly, "John, you have saved me! I should never
have got home this night."
But John Marston, by finding Charles, had dashed his dearest hopes to
the ground. He had always loved Mary Corby from his first visit to
Ravenshoe, and Mary loved Charles, who had loved Adelaide, who had
married Lord Welter. Marston thought there was just a chance for him,
and now that chance was gone. How did he behave, knowing that?
He put his hand on Charles's shoulder and said, "Charles--Charles, my
dear old boy, look up! Think of Mary. She has been wooed by more than
one, but I think her heart is yours yet."
"John," said Charles, "that is what has made me hide from you all like
this. I know that she loved me above all men; and partly that she should
forget a penniless and disgraced man like myself, and partly from a
silly pride, I have spent all my cunning on losing myself, hoping that
you would believe me dead."
"We have hunted you hard, Charles. You do not know, I suppose, that you
are a rich man, and undoubtedly heir of Ravenshoe, though one link is
still wanting."
"What do you mean?"
"There is no reasonable doubt, although we cannot prove it, that your
grandfather Peter was married previously to his marriage with Lady
Alicia Staunton, that your father James was the real Ravenshoe, while
poor Cuthbert and William--"
"Cuthbert! I will hide again. I will never displace Cuthbert, mind you."
"Cuthbert is dead. He was drowned bathing last August."
Charles broke down, and cried like a child. When he was quiet, he asked
after William.
"He is very well, as he deserves to be. He gave up everything to hunt
you through the world and bring you back. Now, my dear old boy, do
satisfy my curiosity. What regiment did you enlist in?"
"In the 140th."
He paused, hid his face in his hands, and then his speech became rapid
and incoherent.
"At Devna we got wood-pigeons, and I rode the Roucan-nosed bay, and he
carried me through it capitally. I ask your pardon, sir, but I am only a
poor discharged trooper. I would not beg, sir, if I could help it, but
pain and hunger are hard things to bear, sir!"
"Charles--Charles! Don't you know me?"
"That is my name, sir. That is what they used to call me. I am no common
beggar, sir. I was a gentleman once, sir, and rode a-horseback. I was in
the light cavalry charge at Balaclava. An angry business. They shouldn't
get good fellows to fight together like that--"
The next morning, old Lady Ascot, William, Mary, and John Marston were
round his bed listening to his half-uttered, delirious babble. The
anxious question was put to the greatest of the doctors present. "My
dear Dr. B----, will he die?"
"Well, yes," said the doctor. "I would sooner say 'Yes' than 'No'--the
chances are so heavy against him. You must really prepare for the
worst."
_IV.--A Life-Long Shadow_
Of course, he did not die--I need not tell you that. The doctors pulled
him through. And when he was better the doctors removed the splinters of
bone from his arm. He did not talk much in this happy quiet time.
William and Lady Ascot were with him all day. William, dear fellow, used
to sit on a footstool and read the "Times" to him.
Lord Welter (now Lord Ascot, on the death of his father) came to see
Charles one day, and something he said made Charles ask if Adelaide was
dead.
"Tell me something," said Lord Ascot. "Have you any love left for her
yet?"
"Not one spark," said Charles. "If I ever am a man again, I shall ask
Mary Corby to marry me. I ought to have done so sooner, perhaps. But I
love your wife, Welter, in a way; and I should grieve at her death, for
I loved her once."
"The truth is very horrible. We went out hunting together, and I was
getting the gate open for her, when her devil of a horse rushed it, and
down they came on it together. And she broke her back, and the doctor
says she may live till seventy, but that she will never move from where
she lies--and just as I was getting to love her so dearly--"
That same afternoon Charles asked William to get Mary to come and see
him, and William straightway departed, and found Mary. And later in the
day Miss Mary Corby announced that she and Charles were engaged to be
married.
William was still master of Ravenshoe, but he was convinced that the
first marriage of his grandfather would be proved, and Charles
reinstated.
"Remember, Charles, I am not spending the revenues of Ravenshoe," he
said. "They are yours. I know it. I am spending about £400 a year. When
our grandfather's marriage is proved, you will provide for me and my
wife, I know that. Be quiet."
William had long been engaged, from the time he had been Charles's
servant, to a fisherman's daughter, Jane Evans, and the change in his
fortunes made no difference in the matter. She was only a fisherman's
daughter, but she was wonderfully beautiful, and gentle, and good.
The weddings took place at St. Peter's, Eaton Square. Mary and Charles
were not a handsome couple. The enthusiasm of the population was
reserved for William and Jane Evans, who certainly were.
Father Mackworth, dying after a stroke of paralysis, told us the date
and place of Peter Ravenshoe's first marriage--Finchampstead, Berks,
1778. He had known the truth, but had been anxious to keep Ravenshoe in
Catholic hands.
"You used to irritate and insult me, sir," he said, turning to Charles,
"and I was not so near death then as now. If you can forgive me, in
God's name, say so!"
Charles went over to him, and put his arm round him.
"Forgive you!" he said. "Dear Mackworth, can you forgive me?"
The register was found, and the lawyers were soon busy. One document may
be noted, a rent charge on Ravenshoe of two thousand a year in favour of
William Ravenshoe.
* * * * *
Well, Charles and William are both happily married now, and I saw
Charles last summer playing with his eldest boy. But there was a cloud
on his face, for the memory of those few terrible months has cast its
shadow upon him, and the shadow will lie, I fancy, upon that forehead
until the forehead is smoothed in the sleep of death.