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EAVENSHOE 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
RAVENSHOE. 
 
 BY HENRY KIXGSLEY, 
 
 AUTHOR OF "GEOFFRY HAMLY>\" 
 
 IX THREE VOLUMES. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 M A C MILLAH AND CO. 
 
 Cambridge : 
 
 AND 73, HENRIETTA STREET, COVENT GARDEN, 
 
 JConbon. 
 1862. 
 
 [The Eight of Translation is reserved.] 
 
LONDON : 
 PRINTED BY R. CLAY, SON, AND TAYLOR, 
 BREAD STREET HA&. 
 

 I 
 
 TO MY BROTHER, 
 
 C H A E L E S KIN G S L E Y. 
 
 I DEDICATE THIS TALK, 
 IN TOKEN OF A LOVE WHICH ONLY GROWS STRONGER 
 
 AS WE ROTH GET OLDER. 
 
A 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 The language used in telling the following story is not 
 (as I hope the reader will soon perceive) the Author's, 
 but Mr. William Marston's. 
 
 The Author's intention was, while telling the story, 
 to develop, in the person of an imaginary narrator, 
 the character of a thoroughly good-hearted and toler- 
 ably clever man, who has his fingers (as he would say 
 himself) in every one's pie, and who, for the life of him, 
 cannot keep his own counsel — that is to say, the only 
 person who, by any possibility, could have collected the 
 mass of family gossip which makes up the tale. 
 
 Had the Author told it in his own person, it would 
 have been told with less familiarity, and, as he thinks, 
 you would not have laughed quite so often. 
 
C O N T E N T S. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 TAOZ 
 
 AN ACCOUNT OF THE FAMILY OF RAVENSHOE 1 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 SUPPLEMENTARY TO THE FOREGOING 18 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 IN WHICH OUR HERO ? S TROUBLES BEGIN- . 25 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 FATHER MACK-VYORTn 36 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 BANFORD 42 
 
vi CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 PA OK 
 
 THE WARREN HASTINGS 60 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 IN WHICH CHARLES AND LORD WELTER DISTINGUISH THEM- 
 SELVES AT THE UNIVERSITY 79 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 JOHN MARSTON 90 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 ADELAIDE 102 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 LADT A.SCOTS LITTLE NAP 113 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 GIVES US AN INSIGHT INTO CHARLES'S DOMESTIC RELATIONS, AND 
 SHOWS HOW THE GREAT CONSPIRATOR (SOLILOQUIZED TO THE 
 GRAND CHANDELIER 1*24 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 CONTAINING A SONG BY CHARLES RAVENSHOE. AND ALSO FATHER 
 
 TIERNAY'S OPINION ABOUT THE FAMILY 142 
 
CONTENTS. VI 1 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. ' 
 
 PACT 
 
 THE BLACK HARE 15-i 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. J 
 
 LORD SALTIRE'S VISIT, AND SOME OF HIS OPINIONS 164 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 CHARLES'S "LIDDELL AND SCOTT" 177 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 MARSTON'S ARRIVAL 16(5 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 IH WHICH THERE IS ANOTHER SHIPWRECK 193 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 1£4RST0N'8 DISAPPOINTMENT 205 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 ELLEN'S FLIGHT 217 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 RAN FORD AGAIN 
 
 of>o 
 
Vlll CONTENT?. 
 
 CHAPTER XX I. 
 
 PAOB 
 CLOTIIO, LACHESIS, AND ATROI'OS 234 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 THE LAST GLIMPSE OF OXFORD 248 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 THE LAST GLIMrSE OF THE OLD WORLD 254 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 THE FIRST GLLMPSE OF THE NEW WORLD 262 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 FATHER MACKWORTH BRINGS LORD SALTIRE TO BAY, AND WHAT 
 
 CAME OF IT 271 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 THE GRAND CRASH 285 
 
RAVENSHOE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 AN ACCOUNT OF THE FAMILY OF RAVENSHOE 
 
 I HAD intended to have gone into a family history of 
 the Ravenshoes, from the time of Canute to that of her 
 present Majesty, following it down through every change 
 and revolution, both secular and religious ; which would 
 have been deeply interesting, but which would have 
 taken more hard reading than one cares to undertake for 
 nothing. I had meant, I say, to have been quite diffuse 
 on the annals of one of our oldest commoner families ; 
 but, on going into the subject, I found I must either 
 chronicle little affairs which ought to have been forgotten 
 long ago, or do my work in a very patchy and inefficient 
 way. When I say that the Ravenshoes have been 
 engaged in every plot, rebellion, and civil war, from 
 about a century or so before the Conquest to 1 745, and 
 that the history of the house is marked by cruelty and 
 rapacity in old times, and in those more modern by 
 political tergiversation of the blackest dye, the reader 
 
 VOL. I. B 
 
- EAVENSHOE. 
 
 will understand why I hesitate to say too much in 
 reference to a name which I especially honour. In 
 order, however, that I may give some idea of what the 
 hereditary character of the familiar is, I must just lead 
 the reader's eye lightly over some of the principal events 
 of their history. 
 
 The great Irish families have, as is well known, a 
 banshee, or familiar spirit, who, previous to misfortune 
 •or death, flits moaning round the ancestral castle. Now 
 although the Eavenshoes, like all respectable houses, 
 have an hereditary lawsuit ; a feud, (with the Humbys, 
 of Hele) ; a ghost (which the present Eavenshoe claims 
 to have repeatedly seen in early youth) ; and a buried 
 treasure : yet I have never heard that they had a ban- 
 shee. Had such been the case, that unfortunate spirit 
 would have had no sinecure of it, but rather must have 
 kept howling night and day for nine hundred years or 
 so, in order to have got through her work at all. For 
 the Eavenshoes were almost always in trouble, and yet 
 had a facility of getting out again, which, to one not 
 aware of the cause, was sufficiently inexplicable. Like 
 the Stuarts, they had always taken the losing side, 
 and yet, unlike the Stuarts, have always kept their 
 heads on their shoulders, and their house over their 
 heads. Lady Ascot says that, if Ambrose Eavenshoe 
 had been attainted in 1745, he'd have been hung as 
 sure as fate: there was evidence enough against 
 him to hang a dozen men. I myself, too, have heard 
 Squire Densil declare, with great pride, that the 
 
AN ACCOUNT OF THE FAMILY.' 3 
 
 Eavenshoe of King John's time was the only Baron 
 who did not sign Magna Charta ; and, if there were a 
 Eavenshoe at Runnymede, I have not the slightest 
 doubt that such was the case. Through the Eose wars, 
 again, they were always on the wrong side, whichever 
 that might have been, because your Eavenshoe, mind 
 you, was not bound to either side in those times, but 
 changed as he fancied fortune was going. As your 
 Eavenshoe was the sort of man who generally joined 
 a party just when their success was indubitable — that 
 is to say, just when the reaction against them was about 
 to set in — he generally found himself among the party 
 which was going down hill, who despised him for not 
 joining them before, and opposed to the rising party, 
 who hated him because he had declared against them. 
 "Which little game is common enough in this present 
 century among some men of the world, who seem, as a 
 general rule, to make as little by it as ever did the 
 Eavenshoes. 
 
 Well, whatever your trimmers make by their motion 
 now-a-days, the Eavenshoes were not successful either 
 at liberal conservatism, or conservative liberalism. At 
 the end of the reign of Henry VII. they were as poor as 
 Job, or poorer. But, before you have time to think of 
 it, behold, in 1530, there comes you to court a Sir 
 Alured Eavenshoe, who incontinently begins cutting in 
 at the top of the tune, swaggering, swearing, dressing, 
 fighting, dicing, and all that sort of thing, and, what is 
 more, paying his way in a manner which suggests 
 
 b2 
 
4 EAVENSHOE. 
 
 successful burglary as the only solution. Sir Alured, 
 however, as I find, had done no worse than marry an 
 old maid (Miss Hincksey, one of the Staffordshire 
 Hinckseys) with a splendid fortune ; which fortune set 
 the family on its legs again for some generations. This 
 Sir Alured seems to have been an audacious rogue. He 
 made great interest with the king, who was so far 
 pleased with his activity in athletic sports that he gave 
 him a post in Ireland. There our Eavenshoe was so 
 fascinated by the charming manners of the Earl of 
 Kildare that he even accompanied that nobleman on 
 a visit to Desmond ; and, after a twelvemonth's un- 
 authorized residence in the interior of Ireland, on his 
 return to England he was put into the Tower for six 
 months to " consider himself." 
 
 This Alured seems to have been a deuce of a fellow, a 
 •very good type of the family. "When British Harry had 
 that difference we wot of with the Bishop of Rome, 
 I find Alured to have been engaged in some five or six 
 Romish plots, such as, had the king been in possession 
 of facts, would have consigned him to a rather speedy 
 execution. However, the king seems to have looked on 
 this gentleman with a suspicious eye, and to have been 
 pretty well aware what sort of man he was, for I find 
 him writing to his wife, on the occasion of his going to 
 Court — " The King's Grace looked but sourly upon me, 
 and said it should go hard, but that the pitcher which 
 went so oft to the well should be broke at last. Thereto 
 I making answer, 'that that should depend on the 
 
AX ACCOUNT OF THE FAMILY. 5 
 
 pitcher, whether it were iron or clonib,' he turned on his 
 heel, and presently departed from me." 
 
 He must have been possessed of his full share of 
 family audacity to sharpen his wits on the terrible 
 Harry, with such an unpardonable amount of treason 
 hanging over him. I have dwelt thus long on him, as 
 he seems to have possessed a fair share of the virtues 
 and vices of his family — a family always generous and 
 brave, yet always led astray by bad advisers. This 
 Alured built Eavenshoe House, as it stands to this day, 
 and in which much of the scene of this story is laid. 
 
 They seem to have got through the Gunpowder Plot 
 pretty well, though I can show you the closet where one 
 of the minor conspirators, one Watson, lay perdu for a 
 week or so after that gallant attempt, more I suspect 
 from the effect of a guilty conscience than any thing 
 else, for I never heard of any distinct charge being 
 brought against him. The Forty-five, however, did 
 not pass quite so easily, and Ambrose Ravenshoe 
 went as near to lose his head as any one of the 
 family since the Conquest. When the news came from 
 the north about the alarming advance of the High- 
 
 o o 
 
 landers, it immediately struck Ambrose that this was 
 the best opportunity for making a fool of himself that 
 could possibly occur. He accordingly, without hesita- 
 tion or consultation with any mortal soul, rang the bell 
 for his butler, sent for his stud-groom, mounted eveiy 
 man about the place (twenty or so), armed them, grooins, 
 gardeners, and all, with crossbows and partizans from 
 
6 KAVENSHOE. 
 
 the armoury, and rode into the cross, at Stonnington, on 
 a market day, and boldly proclaimed the Pretender 
 king. It soon got about that " the Squire " was making 
 a fool of himself, and that there was some fun going j so 
 he shortly found himself surrounded by a large and 
 somewhat dirty rabble, who, with cries of " "Well done, 
 old rebel ! " and " Hurrah for the Pope ! " escorted him, 
 his terror-stricken butler and his shame-stricken grooms, 
 to the Crown and Sceptre. As good luck would have 
 it, there happened to be in the town that day no less a 
 person than Lord Segur, the leading Eoman Catholic 
 nobleman of the county. He, accompanied by several 
 of the leading gentlemen of the same persuasion, burst 
 into the room where the Squire sat, overpowered him, 
 and, putting him bound into a coach, carried him off to 
 Segur Castle, and locked him up. It took all the 
 strength of the Popish party to save him from attainder. 
 The Church rallied right bravely round the old house, 
 which had always assisted her with sword and purse, 
 and never once had wavered in its allegiance. So, 
 while nobler heads went down, Ambrose Eavenshoe's 
 remained on his shoulders. 
 
 Ambrose died in 1759. 
 
 John (Monseigneur) in 1771. 
 
 Howard in 1800. He first took the Clay comb 
 hounds. 
 
 Petre in 1820. He married Alicia, only daughter 
 of Charles, third Earl of Ascot, and was succeeded by 
 Densil, the first of our dramatis persona3 — the first of 
 
AN ACCOUNT OF THE FAMILY. / 
 
 all this shadowy line that we shall see in the flesh. He 
 was bom in the } T ear 1783, and married, first in 1812, 
 at his father's desire, a Miss Winkleigh, of whom I 
 know nothing; and second, at Ins own desire, in 1S23, 
 Susan, fourth daughter of Lawrence Petersham, Esq., 
 of Fairford Grange, county Worcester, by whom he had 
 issue — 
 
 Cuthbert, bom 1826. 
 
 Charles, bom 1831. 
 
 Densil was an only son. His father, a handsome, 
 careless, good-humoured, but weak and superstitious 
 man, was entirely in the hands of the priests, who 
 during his life were undisputed masters of Eavenshoe. 
 Lady Alicia was, as I have said, a daughter of Lord 
 Ascot, a Staunton, as staunchly Protestant a house as 
 any in England. She, however, managed to fall in love 
 with the handsome young Popish Squire, and to elope 
 with him, changing not only her name, but, to the 
 dismay of her family, her faith also, and becoming, 
 pervert-like, more actively bigoted than her easy-going 
 husband. She brought little or no money into the 
 family ; and, from her portrait, appears to have been 
 exceedingly pretty, and monstrously silly. 
 
 To this strong-minded couple was born, two j( 
 after their marriage, a son, who was called Densil. 
 
 This young gentleman seems to have got on much 
 like other young gentlemen till the age of twenty-one, 
 when it was determined by the higher powers in con- 
 clave assembled that he should go to London and see 
 
8 ItAVENSHOE. 
 
 the world ; and so, having been cautioned duly how 
 to avoid the flesh and the devil, to see the world he 
 went. In a short time intelligence came to the con- 
 fessor of the family, and through him to the father and 
 mother, that Densil was seeing the world with a ven- 
 geance ; that he was the constant companion of the 
 Right Honourable Viscount Saltire, the great dandy 
 of the Eadical Atheist set, with whom no man might 
 play picquet and live ; that he had been upset in a 
 tilbury with Mademoiselle Vaurien of Drury-lane at 
 Kensington turnpike ; that he had fought the French 
 emigre, a Comte De Hautenbas, apropos of the Vaurien 
 afore-mentioned — in short, that he was going on at a 
 deuce of a rate : and so a hurried council was called to 
 deliberate what was to be done. 
 
 " He will lose his immortal soul," said the priest. 
 
 " He will dissipate his property," said his mother. 
 
 " He will go to the devil," said his father. 
 
 So Father Clifford, good man, was despatched to 
 London, with post horses, and ordered to bring back 
 the lost sheep vi et armis. Accordingly, at ten o'clock 
 one night, Densil's lad was astounded by having to 
 admit Father Clifford, who demanded immediately to 
 be led to his master. 
 
 Now this was awkward, for James well knew 
 what was going on upstairs ; but he knew also what 
 would happen sooner or later to a lvavenshoe servant 
 who trifled with the priest, and so he led the way. 
 
 The lost sheep which the good father had come to 
 
AX ACCOUNT OF THE FAMILY. 
 
 find was not exactly sober this evening, and certainly 
 not in a very good temper. He was playing icarU with 
 a singularly handsome, though supercilious-looking man, 
 dressed in the height of fashion, who, judging from the 
 heap of gold beside him, had been winning heavily. 
 The priest trembled and crossed himself — this man was 
 the terrible, handsome, wicked, witty, Atheistical, radical 
 Lord Saltire, whose tongue no woman could withstand, 
 and whose pistol no man dared face ; who was currently 
 believed to have sold himself to the deuce, or, indeed, as 
 some said, to be the deuce himself. 
 
 A more cunning man than poor simple Father Clif- 
 ford would have made some common-place remark and 
 withdrawn, after a short greeting, taking warning by 
 the impatient scowl that settled on Densil's handsome 
 face, Not so he. To be defied by the boy whose law 
 had been Ins word for ten years past never entered into 
 his head, and he sternly advanced towards the pair. 
 
 Densil inquired if anything were the matter at home. 
 And Lord Saltire, anticipating a scene, threw himself 
 back in his chair, stretched out his elegant legs, and 
 looked on with the air of a man who knows he is going 
 to be amused, and composes himself thoroughly to 
 appreciate the entertainment. 
 
 " Thus much, my son," said the priest ; " your mother 
 is wearing out the stones of the oratory with her knees, 
 praying for her first-born, while he is wasting his sub- 
 stance, and perilling his soul, with debauched xVtheistic 
 companions, the enemies of God and man." 
 
10 RAVENBHOE. 
 
 Lord Saltire smiled sweetly, bowed elegantly, and 
 took snuff. 
 
 " Why do you intrude into my room and insult my 
 guests?" said Densil, casting an angry glance at the 
 priest, who stood calmly like a black pillar, with his 
 hands folded before him. " It is unendurable." 
 
 " Quern Deus vult" &c. Father Clifford had seen that 
 scowl once or twice before, but he would not take warn- 
 ing. He said — 
 
 " I am ordered not to go westward without you. I 
 command you to come." 
 
 " Command me ! command a Eavenshoe I" said Densil, 
 furiously. 
 
 Father Clifford, by way of mending matters, now 
 began to lose Ms temper. 
 
 " You would not be the first Eavenshoe who has been 
 commanded by a priest ; ay, and has had to obey too," 
 said he. 
 
 "And you will not be the first jack-priest who has 
 felt the weight of a Eavenshoe's wrath," replied Densil, 
 brutally. 
 
 Lord Saltire leant back, and said to the ambient air, 
 " I'll back the priest, five twenties to one." 
 
 This was too much. Densil would have liked to 
 quarrel with Saltire, but that was death — he was the 
 deadest shot in Europe. He grew furious, and beyond 
 all control. He told the priest to go to (further than 
 purgatory) ; grew blasphemous, emphatically renouncing 
 the creed of his forefathers, and," in fact, all other 
 
AX ACCOUNT OF THE FAMILY. 11 
 
 creeds. The priest grew hot and furious too, retaliated 
 in no measured terms, and finally left the room with 
 his ears stopped, shaking the dust off his feet as he 
 went. Then Lord Saltire drew up to the table again, 
 laughing. 
 
 "Your estates are entailed, Eavenshoe, I suppose?" 
 said he. 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Oh ! It's your deal, my dear fellow." 
 
 Densil got an angry letter from his father in a few 
 days, demanding full apologies and recantations, and an 
 immediate return home. Densil had no apologies to 
 make, and did not intend to return till the end of the 
 season. His father wrote, declining the honour of his 
 further acquaintance, and sending him a draft for fifty 
 pounds to pay his outstanding bills, which he very well 
 knew amounted to several thousands. In a short time 
 the great Catholic tradesmen, with whom he had been 
 dealing, began to press for money in a somewhat inso- 
 lent way ; and now Densil began to see that, by defying 
 and insulting the faith and the party to which he 
 belonged, he had merely cut himself off from rank, 
 wealth, and position. He had defied the partie pretre, 
 and had yet to feel their power. In two months he wa- 
 in the Fleet prison. 
 
 His servant (the title "tiger" came in long after 
 this), a half groom, half valet, such as men kept in 
 those days — a simple lad from Eavenshoe, James Horton 
 by name — for the first time in his life disobeyed orders ; 
 
12 EAVENSHOE, 
 
 for, on being told to return home by Densil, he firmly 
 declined doing so, and carried his top boots and white 
 neckcloth triumphantly into the Fleet, there pursuing 
 his usual avocations with the utmost nonchalance. 
 
 " A very distinguished fellow that of yours, Curly " 
 (they all had nicknames for one another in those days), 
 said Lord Saltire. " If I were not Saltire, I think I 
 ■would be Jim. To own the only clean face among six 
 hundred fellow-creatures is a pre-eminence, a decided 
 pre-eminence. I'll buy him of you." 
 
 For Lord Saltire came to see him, snuff-box and all. 
 That morning Densil was sitting brooding in the dirty 
 room with the barred windows, and thinking what a 
 wild free wind would be sweeping across the Downs 
 this fine Xovember day, when the door was opened, 
 and in walks me my lord, with a sweet smile on his 
 face. 
 
 He was dressed in the extreme of fashion — a long- 
 tailed blue coat with gold buttons, a frill to his shirt, a 
 white cravat, a wonderful short waistcoat, loose short 
 nankeen trousers, low shoes, no gaiters, and a low- 
 crowned hat. I am pretty correct, for I have seen his 
 picture, dated 1804?. But you must please to remember 
 that his lordship was in the very van of the fashion, and 
 that probably such a dress was not universal for two or 
 three years afterwards. I wonder if his well-known 
 audacity would be sufficient to make hiin walk alung 
 one of the public thoroughfares in such a dress, to- 
 morrow, for a heavy bet — I fancy not. 
 
AN ACCOUNT OF THE FAMILY. 13 
 
 He smiled sardonically — " My dear fellow," he said, 
 " when a man comes on a visit of condolence, I know it 
 is the most wretched taste to say, ' I told you so ; ' but 
 do me the justice to allow that I offered to back the 
 priest five to one. I had been coming to you all the 
 week, but Tuesday and Wednesday I was at New- 
 market ; Thursday I was shooting at your cousin 
 Ascot's ; yesterday I did not care about boring myself 
 with you; so I have come to-day because I was at 
 leisure and had nothing better to do." 
 
 Densil looked up savagely, thinking he had come to 
 insult him ; but the kindly compassionate look in the 
 piercing grey eye belied the cynical curl of the mouth, 
 and disarmed him. He leant his head upon the table, 
 and sobbed. 
 
 Lord Saltire laid his hand kindly on his shoulder, 
 and said — 
 
 " You have been a fool, Eavenshoe ; you have denied 
 the faith of your forefathers. Pardieu, if I had such an 
 article, I would not have thrown it so lightly away." 
 
 " You talk like this ? Who next ? It was your con- 
 versation led me to it. Am I worse than you ? What 
 faith have you, in God's name ? " 
 
 " The faith of a French Lycee, my friend ; the only 
 one I ever had. I have been sufficiently consistent to 
 that, I think." 
 
 " Consistent, indeed," groaned poor Densil. 
 
 "Now, look here," said Saltire; "I may have 
 been to blame in this. But I give you my honour, 
 
1 4 EAVEXSHOE. 
 
 I had no more idea that you would be obstinate enough 
 to bring matters to this pass, than I had that you would 
 burn down Eavenshoe House because I laughed at it for 
 being old-fashioned. Go home, my poor little Catholic 
 pipkin, and don't try to swim with iron pots like 
 "Wrekin and me. Make submission to that singularly 
 ch'stinguS-lookmg old turkey-cock of a priest, kiss your 
 mother, and get your usual autumn's hunting and 
 shooting." 
 
 " Too late ! too late, now ! " sobbed Densil. 
 
 " Not at all, my dear fellow," said Saltire, taking a 
 pinch of snuff; "the partridges will be a little wild 
 of course — that you must expect ; but you ought to get 
 some very pretty pheasant and cock-shooting. Come, 
 say yes. Have your debts paid, and get out of this 
 infernal hole. A week of this would tame the devil, 
 I should think." 
 
 " If you think you could do anything for me, Saltire." 
 
 Lord Saltire immediately retired, and reappeared, 
 leading in a lady by her hand. She raised the veil 
 from her head, and he saw his mother. In a moment 
 she was crying on his neck ; and, as he looked over her 
 shoulder, he saw a blue coat passing out of the door, 
 and that was the last of Lord Saltire for the present. 
 
 It was no part of the game of the priests to give 
 Densil a cold welcome home. Twenty smiling faces 
 were grouped in the porch to welcome him back ; and 
 among them all none smiled more brightly than the old 
 priest and his father. The dogs went wild with joy, and 
 
AN ACCOUNT OF THE FAMILY. 15 
 
 his favourite peregrine scolded on the falconer's wrist, 
 and struggled with her jesses, shrilly reminding him of 
 the merry old days by the dreary salt marsh, or the 
 lonely lake. 
 
 The past was never once alluded to in any way by 
 any one in the house. Only Squire Petre shook hands 
 with faithful James, and gave him a watch, ordering him 
 to ride a certain colt next day, and see how well forward 
 he could get him. So next day they drew the home 
 covers, and the fox, brave fellow, ran out to Parkside, 
 making for the granite walls of Hessitor. And, when 
 Densil felt his nostrils filled once more by the free rush- 
 ing mountain air, he shouted aloud for joy, and James's 
 voice along side of him said — 
 
 " This is better than the Fleet, sir." 
 
 And so Densil played a single-wicket match with the 
 Holy Church, and, like a great many other people, got 
 bowled out in the first innings. He returned to his 
 allegiance in the most exemplary manner, and settled 
 down into the most humdrum of young country gentle- 
 men. He did exactly what every one else about him 
 did. He was not naturally a profligate or vicious man ; 
 but there was a wild devil of animal passion in him, 
 which had broken out in London, and which was now 
 quieted by dread of consequences, but which he felt and 
 knew was there, and might break out again. He was a 
 changed man. There was a gulf between him and the 
 life he had led before he went to London. He had 
 tasted of liberty (or rather, not to profane that Divine 
 
1G RAVENSIIOE. 
 
 word, of licentiousness), and yet not drunk long enough 
 to make him weary of the draught. He had heard the 
 dogmas he was brought up to believe infallible turned 
 to unutterable ridicule by men like Sal tire and \Yrekin ; 
 men who, as he had the wit to see, were a thousand 
 times cleverer and better informed than Father Clifford 
 or Father Dennis. In short, he had found out, as a 
 great many others have, that Popery won't hold water, 
 and so, as a pis alter, he adopted Saltire's creed — that 
 religion was necessary for the government of States, that 
 one religion was as good as another, and that, cccieris 
 paribus, the best religion was the one which secured the 
 possessor 10,000£ a year; and therefore Densil was a 
 devout Catholic. 
 
 It was thought by the allied powers that he ought to 
 marry. He had no objection, and so he married a young 
 lady, a Miss \Vinkleigh — Catholic, of course — about 
 whom I can get no information whatever. Lady Ascot 
 says that she was a pale girl, with about as much air 
 as a milkmaid ; on which two facts I can build no theory 
 as to her personal character. She died in 1816, child- 
 less ; and in 1820 Densil lost both his father and 
 mother, and found himself, at the age of thirty-seven, 
 master of Kavenshoe, and master of himself. 
 
 He felt the loss of the old folks most keenly, more 
 keenly than that of his wife. He seemed without a stay 
 or holdfast in the world, for he was a poorly-educatc] 
 man, without resources ; and so he went on moping and 
 brooding until good old Father Clifford, who loved him 
 
AN ACCOUNT OF THE FAMILY. 17 
 
 dearly, got alarmed, and recommended travels. He 
 recommended Eome, the cradle of the faith, and to 
 Roine he went. 
 
 He stayed in Eome a year ; at the end of which time 
 he appeared suddenly at home with a beautiful young 
 wife on his arm. As Father Clifford, trembling and 
 astonished, advanced to lay his hand upon her head, 
 she drew up, laughed, and said, "Spare yourself the 
 trouble, my dear sir ; I am a Protestant." 
 
 I have had to tell you all this, in order to show you 
 how it came about that Densil, though a Papist, be- 
 thought of marrying a Protestant wife to keep up a 
 balance of power in his house. For, if he had not 
 married this lady, the hero of this book would never 
 have been born ; and this greater proposition contains 
 the less, " that, if he had never been born, his history 
 would never have been written, and so this book would 
 have had no existence." 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
18 KAVENSHOE. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 SUPPLEMENTARY TO THE FOREGOING. 
 
 The second Mrs. Eavenshoe was the handsome dower- 
 less daughter of a Worcester squire, of good standing, 
 who, being blessed with an extravagant" son, and six 
 handsome daughters, had lived for several years abroad, 
 finding society more accessible, and, consequently, the 
 matrimonial chances of the " Petersham girls " propor- 
 tionately greater than in England. She was a hand- 
 some, proud woman, not particularly clever, or parti- 
 cularly agreeable, or particularly anything, except 
 particularly self-possessed. She had been long enough 
 looking after an establishment to know thoroughly the 
 value of one, and had seen quite enough of good houses 
 to know that a house without a mistress was no house 
 at alL Accordingly, in a very few days the house felt 
 her presence, submitted with the best grace to her not 
 unkindly rule, and in a week they all felt as if she had 
 been there for years. 
 
 Father Clifford, who longed only for peace, and was 
 getting very old, got very fond of her, heretic as she 
 was. She, too, liked the handsome, gentlemanly old 
 man, and made herself agreeable to him, as a woman of 
 
SUPPLEMENTARY TO THE FOREGOING. 19 
 
 the world knows so well how to do. Father Mackworth, 
 on the other hand, his young coadjutor since Father 
 Dennis's death, an importation of Lady Alicia's from 
 Eome, very soon fell under her displeasure. The first 
 Sunday after her arrival, she drove to church, and 
 occupied the great old family pew, to the immense 
 astonishment of the rustics, and, after afternoon service, 
 caught up the old vicar in her imperious off-hand way, 
 and, will he nil he, carried him off to dinner — at which 
 meal he was horrified to find himself sitting with two 
 shaven priests, who talked Latin and crossed them- 
 selves. His embarrassment was greatly increased by 
 the behaviour of Mrs. Eavenshoe, who admired his 
 sermon, and spoke on doctrinal points with him as 
 though there were not a priest within a mile. Father 
 Mackworth was imprudent enough to begin talking at 
 him, and at last said something unmistakably imper- 
 tinent ; upon which Mrs. Eavenshoe put her glass in 
 her eye, and favoured him with such a glance of haughty 
 astonishment as silenced him at once. 
 
 This was the beginning of hostilities between them, 
 if one can give the name of hostilities to a series of 
 infinitesimal annoyances on the one side, and to immea- 
 surable and barely concealed contempt on the other. 
 Mackworth, on the one hand, knew that she understood 
 and despised him, and he hated her. She, on the other 
 hand, knew that he knew it, but thought him too much 
 below her to notice, save now and then that she might 
 put down with a high hand any, even the most distant, 
 
 c2 
 
20 EAVENSHOE. 
 
 approach to a tangible impertinence. But she was no 
 match for him in the arts of petty, delicate, galling 
 annoyances. There he was her master ; he had been 
 brought up in a good school for that, and had learnt his 
 lesson kindly. He found out that she disliked his 
 presence, and shrunk from his smooth, lean face with 
 unutterable dislike. From that moment he was always 
 in her way, overwhelming her with oily politeness, 
 rushing across the room to pick up anything she had 
 dropped, or to open the door, till it required the greatest 
 restraint to avoid breaking through all forms of polite- 
 ness, and bidding him begone. But w r hy should we go 
 on detailing trifles like these, which in themselves are 
 nothing, but accumulated, are unbearable % 
 
 So it went on, till one morning, about two years after 
 the marriage, Mackworth appeared in Clifford's room, 
 and, yawning, threw himself into a chair. 
 
 "Benedicite," said Father Clifford, w T ho never neglected 
 religious etiquette on any occasion. 
 
 Mackworth stretched out his legs and yawned, rather 
 rudely, and then relapsed into silence. Father Clifford 
 went on reading. At last Mackworth spoke. 
 
 " I'll tell you what, my good friend, I am getting sick 
 of this ; I shall go back to Borne." 
 
 " To Borne r 
 
 "Yes, back to Borne," repeated the other imperti- 
 nently, for he always treated the good old priest with 
 contemptuous insolence when they were alone. " What 
 is the use of staying here, fighting that woman ? There 
 
SUPPLEMENTARY TO THE FOREGOING. 21 
 
 is no more chance of turning her than a rock, and there 
 is going to be no family." 
 
 "You think so?" said Clifford. 
 
 " Good heavens, does it look like it ? Two years, and 
 not a sign ; besides, should I talk of going, if I thought 
 so ? Then there would be a career worthy of me ; then 
 I should have a chance of deserving well of the Church, 
 by keeping a wavering family in her bosom. And I 
 could do it, too : every child would be a fresh weapon in 
 my hands against that woman. Clifford, do you think 
 that Eavenshoe is safe ? " 
 
 He said this so abruptly that Clifford coloured and 
 started. Mackworth at the same time turned suddenly 
 upon him, and scrutinized his face keenly. 
 
 u Safe ! " said the old man ; " what makes you fear 
 otherwise ? " 
 
 "Nothing special," said Mackworth; "only I have 
 never been easy since you told me of that London 
 escapade years ago." 
 
 " He has been very devout ever since," said Clifford. 
 " I fear nothing." 
 
 " Humph ! Well, I am glad to hear it," said Mack- 
 worth. " I shall go to Home. I'd sooner be gossiping 
 with Alphonse and Pierre in the cloisters than vege- 
 tating here. My talents are thrown away." 
 
 He departed down the winding steps [of the priests' 
 turret, which led to the flower garden. The day was 
 fine, and a pleasant seat a short distance off invited him 
 to sit. He could get a book he knew from the drawing- 
 
22 RAVENSIIOE. 
 
 room and sit there. So, with habitually noiseless tread, 
 he passed along the dark corridor, and opened the 
 drawing-room door. 
 
 Nobody was there. The book he wanted was in the 
 little drawing-room beyond, separated from the room he 
 was in by a partly-drawn curtain. The priest advanced 
 silently over the deep piled carpet and looked in. 
 
 The summer sunlight, struggling through a waving 
 bower of climbing plants and the small panes of a 
 deeply mullioned window, fell upon two persons, at the 
 sight of whom he paused, and, holding his' breath, stood, 
 like a black statue in the gloomy room, wrapped in 
 astonishment. 
 
 He had never in his life heard these twain use any 
 words beyond those of common courtesy towards one 
 another ; he had thought them the most indifferent, the 
 coldest pair, he had ever seen. But now ! now, the 
 haughty beauty was bending from her chair over her 
 husband, who sat on a stool at her feet ; her arm was 
 round his neck, and her hand was in his ; and, as he 
 looked, she parted the clustering black curls from his 
 forehead and kissed him. 
 
 He bent forward and listened more eagerly. He could 
 hear the surf on the shore, the sea-birds on the cliffs, 
 the nightingale in the wood j they fell upon Ins ear, but 
 lie could not distinguish them ; he waited only for one 
 of the two figures before him to speak. 
 
 At last Mrs. Kavenshoe broke silence, but in so 
 low a voice that even he, whose attention was 
 
SUPPLEMENTARY TO THE FOREGOING. 23 
 
 strained to the uttermost, could barely catch what she 
 
 " I yield, my love," said she ; * I give you this one, 
 but mind, the rest are mine. I have your solemn pro- 
 mise for that ? " 
 
 * My solemn promise," said Densil, and kissed her 
 again. 
 
 M My dear," she resumed, " I wish you could get rid 
 of that priest, that Mackworth. He is irksome to me." 
 
 " He was recommended to my especial care by my 
 mother," was Densil's reply. "If you could let him 
 stay I should much rather." 
 
 " Oh, let him stay!" said she; " he is too contemptible 
 for me to annoy myself about. But I distrust him, 
 Densil. He has a lowering look sometimes." 
 
 " He is talented and agreeable," said Densil ; " but I 
 never liked him." 
 
 The listener turned to go, having heard enough, but 
 was arrested by her continuing — 
 
 " By the bye, my love, do you know that that impu- 
 dent girl Norah has been secretly married this three 
 months ? " 
 
 The priest listened more intently than ever. 
 
 " Who to ?" asked Densil. 
 
 " To James, your keeper." 
 
 " I am glad of that. That lad James stuck to me in 
 prison, Susan, when they all left me. She is a fine 
 faithful creature, too. Mind you give her a good 
 scolding." 
 
24 KAYENSHOE. 
 
 Mackworth had heard enough apparently, for he 
 stole gently away through the gloomy room, and walked 
 musingly upstairs to Father Clifford. 
 
 That excellent old man took up the conversation just 
 where it had left off. 
 
 " And when," said he, " my brother, do you propose 
 returning to Rome ? " 
 
 " I shall not go to Rome at all," was the satisfactory 
 reply, followed by a deep silence. 
 
 In a few months, much to Father Clifford's joy and 
 surprise, Mrs. Ravenshoe bore a noble boy, which was 
 named Cuthbert. Cuthbert was brought up in the 
 Romish faith, and at five years old had just begun to 
 learn his prayers of Father Clifford, when an event 
 occurred equally unexpected by all parties. Mrs. Ra- 
 venshoe was again found to be in a condition to make 
 an addition to her family. 
 
OTJB HERO'S TROUBLES BEGIN. 25 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 IX WHICH OUR HERO'S TROUBLES BEGIN. 
 
 If you were a lazy yachtsman, sliding on a summer's 
 day, before a gentle easterly breeze, over the long swell 
 from the Atlantic, past the south-westerly shores of the 
 Bristol Channel, you would find, after sailing all day 
 beneath shoreless headlands of black slate, that the land 
 suddenly fell away and sunk down, leaving, instead of 
 beetling cliffs, a lovely amphitheatre of hanging wood 
 and lawn, fronted by a beach of yellow sand — a pleasing 
 contrast to the white surf and dark crag to which your 
 eye had got accustomed. 
 
 This beautiful semicircular basin is about two miles 
 in diameter, surrounded by hills on all sides, save that 
 which is open to the sea. East and west the headlands 
 stretch out a mile or more, forming a fine bay open to 
 t the north ; while behind, landward, the downs roll 
 up above the woodlands, a bare expanse of grass and 
 grey stone. Half way along the sandy beach, a trout- 
 stream comes foaming out of a dark wood, and finds its 
 way across the shore in fifty sparkling channels ; and 
 the eye, caught by the silver thread of water, is snatched 
 away above and beyond it, along a wooded glen, the 
 
26 EAVENSHOE. 
 
 cradle of the stream, which pierces the country landward 
 for a mile or two, till the misty vista is abruptly barred 
 by a steep blue hill, which crosses the valley at right 
 angles. A pretty little village stands at the mouth of 
 the stream, and straggles with charming irregularity 
 along the shore for a considerable distance westward ; 
 while behind, some little distance up the glen, a hand- 
 some church tower rises from among the trees. There 
 are some fishing boats at anchor, there are some small 
 boats on the beach, there is a coasting schooner beached 
 and discharging coal, there are some fishermen lounging^ 
 there are some nets drying, there are some boys bathing, 
 there are two grooms exercising four handsome horses ; 
 but it is not upon horses, men, boats, ship, village, 
 church, or stream, that you will find your eye resting, 
 but upon a noble, turreted, deep-porched, grey stone 
 mansion, that stands on the opposite side of the stream, 
 about a hundred feet above the village. 
 
 On the east bank of the little river, just where it joins 
 the sea, abrupt lawns of grass and fern, beautifully 
 broken by groups of birch and oak, rise above the dark 
 woodlands, at the culminating point of which, on a 
 buttress which runs down from the higher hills behind, 
 stands the house I speak of, the north front looking on 
 the sea, and the west on the wooded glen before men- 
 tioned—the house on a ridge dividing the two. Imme- 
 diately behind again the dark woodlands begin once 
 more, and above them is the moor. 
 
 The house itself is of grey stone, built in the time of 
 
our hero's troubles begin. 27 
 
 Henry VIII. The facade is exceedingly noble, though 
 irregular ; the most striking feature in the north or sea 
 front being a large dark porch, open on three sides, 
 forming the basement of a high stone tower, which 
 occupies the centre of the building. At the north-west 
 corner (that towards the village) rises another tower of 
 equal height ; and behind, above the irregular groups of 
 chimneys, the more modern cupola of the stables shows 
 itself as the highest point of all, and gives, combined 
 with the other towers, a charming air of irregularity to 
 the whole. The windows are mostly long, low, and 
 heavily mullioned, and the walls are battlemented. 
 
 On approaching the house, you find that it is built 
 very much after the fashion of a college, with a quad- 
 rangle in the centre. Two sides of this, the north and 
 west, are occupied by the house, the south by the 
 stables, and the east by a long and somewhat handsome 
 chapel, of greater antiquity than the rest of the house. 
 The centre of this quad, in place of the trim grass-plat, 
 is occupied by a tan lunging ring, in the middle of which 
 stands a granite basin filled with crystal water from the 
 hills. In front of the west wing, a terraced flower- 
 garden goes step by step towards the stream, till the 
 smooth-shaven lawns almost mingle with the wild ferny 
 heather turf of the park, where the dappled deer browse, 
 and the rabbit runs to and fro busily. On the north, 
 towards the sea, there are no gardens ; but a noble 
 gravel terrace, divided from the park only by a deep 
 rampart, runs along beneath the windows ; and to the 
 
28 RAVEN SHOE. 
 
 east the deer-park stretches away till lawn and glade 
 are swallowed up in the encroaching woodland. 
 
 Such is Eavenshoe Hall at the present day, and such 
 it was on the 10th of June, 1831 (I like to be parti- 
 cular), as regards the still life of the place ; but, if one 
 had then regarded the living inhabitants, one would 
 have seen signs of an unusual agitation. Bound the 
 kitchen door stood a group of female servants talking 
 eagerly together; and, at the other side of the court, 
 some half-dozen grooms and helpers were evidently busy 
 on the same theme, till the appearance of the stud- 
 groom entering the yard suddenly dispersed them 
 right and left ; to do nothing with superabundant 
 energy. 
 
 To them also entered a lean, quiet-looking man, aged 
 at this time fifty-two. We have seen him before. He 
 was our old friend Jim, who had attended Densil in the 
 Fleet prison in old times. He had some time before 
 this married a beautiful Irish Catholic waiting-maid of 
 Lady Alicia's, by whom he had a daughter, now five 
 years old, and a son aged one week. He walked across 
 the yard to where the women were talking, and ad- 
 dressed them. 
 
 " How is my lady to-night ?" said he. 
 
 " Holy Mother of God ! " said a weeping Irish house- 
 maid, * she's worse." 
 
 " How's the young master ? " 
 
 " Hearty, a darling ; crying his little eyes out, he is, 
 a-bless him." 
 
OUR hero's troubles begin. 29 
 
 u He'll be bigger than Master Cuthbert, I'll warrant 
 ye," said a portly cook. 
 
 " When was he born?" asked James. 
 
 " Nigh on two hours," said the other speaker. 
 
 At this conjuncture a groom came running through 
 the passage, putting a note in his hat as he went ; he 
 came to the stud-groom, and said hurriedly, " A note for 
 Dr. Marcy, at Lanceston, sir. What horse am I to take ? " 
 
 " Trumpeter. How is my lady ? " 
 
 " Going, as far as I can gather, sir." 
 
 James waited until he' heard him dash full speed out 
 of the yard, and then till he saw him disappear like 
 a speck along the mountain road far aloft ; then he went 
 into the house, and, getting as near to the sick room as 
 he dared, waited quietly on the stairs. 
 
 It was a house of woe, indeed ! Two hours before, 
 one feeble, wailing little creature had taken up his 
 burthen, and begun his weary pilgrimage across the 
 unknown desolate land that lay between him and the 
 grave — for a part of which you and I are to accompany 
 him ; while his mother even now was preparing for her 
 rest, yet striving for the child's sake to lengthen the last 
 few weary steps of her journey, that they two might 
 walk, were it never so short a distance, together. 
 
 The room was very stilL Faintly the pure scents and 
 sounds stole into the chamber of death from the blessed 
 summer air without ; gently came the murmur of the 
 surf upon the sands ; fainter and still fainter came the 
 breath of the dying mother. The babe lay beside her 
 
30 KAVENSHOE. 
 
 and her arm was round its body. The old vicar knelt 
 by the bed, and Densil stood with folded arms and 
 bowed head, watching the face which had grown so dear 
 to hiin, till the light should die out from it for ever. 
 Only those four in the chamber of death ! 
 
 The sighing grew louder, and the eye grew once more 
 animated. She reached out her hand, and, taking one 
 of the vicar's, laid it upon the baby's head. Then she 
 looked at Densil, who was now leaning over her, and 
 with a great effort spoke. 
 
 " Densil, dear, you will remember your promise ? " 
 
 " I will swear it, my love." 
 
 A few more laboured sighs, and a greater effort : 
 " Swear it to me, love." 
 
 He swore that he would respect the promise he had 
 made, so help him God ! 
 
 The eyes were fixed now, and all was still. Then 
 there was a long sigh ; then there was a long silence ; 
 then the vicar rose from his knees and looked at Densil. 
 There were but three in the chamber now. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Densil passed through the weeping women, and went 
 straight to his own study. There he sat down, tearless, 
 musing much about her who was gone. 
 
 How he had grown to love that woman, he thought — 
 her that he had married for her beauty and her pride, and 
 had thought so cold and hard ! He remembered how 
 the love of her had grown stronger, year by year, since 
 their first child was born. How he had respected her 
 
OUR HERO'S TKOUBLES BEGIN. 31 
 
 for her firmness and consistency; and how often, he 
 thought, had he sheltered his weakness behind her 
 strength ! His right hand was gone, and he was left 
 alone to do battle by himself! 
 
 One thing was certain. Happen what would, his 
 promise should be respected, and this last boy, just born, 
 should be brought up a Protestant as his mother had 
 wished. He knew the opposition he would have from 
 Father Mackworth, and determined to brave it. And, as 
 the name of that man came into his mind, some of his 
 old fierce, savage nature broke out again, and he almost 
 cursed him aloud. 
 
 " I hate that fellow ! I should like to defy him, and 
 let him do his worst, I'd do it, now she's gone, if it 
 wasn't for the boys. No, hang it, it wouldn't do. If I'd 
 told him under seal of confession, instead of letting him 
 grub it out, he couldn't have hung it over me like this. 
 I wish he was — " 
 
 If Father Mackworth had had the slightest inkling of 
 the state of mind of his worthy patron towards him, it 
 is very certain that he would not have chosen that very 
 moment to rap at the door. The most acute of us make 
 a mistake sometimes ; and he, haunted with vague sus- 
 picions since the conversation he had overheard in the 
 drawing-room before the birth of Cuthbert, grew impa- 
 tient, and determined to solve his doubts at once, and, as 
 we have seen, selected the singularly happy moment 
 when poor passionate Densil was cursing him to his 
 heart's content. 
 
32 KAVENSHOE. 
 
 " Brother, I am come to comfort you," he said, opening 
 the door before Densil had time, either to finish the sen- 
 tence written above, or to say " Come in." " This is a 
 heavy affliction, and the heavier because — " 
 
 " Go away," said Densil, pointing to the door. 
 
 " Nay, nay," said the priest, " hear me — " 
 
 "Go away," said Densil, in a louder tone. "Do 
 you hear me? I want to be alone, and I mean to 
 be. Go ! " 
 
 How recklessly defiant weak men get when they are 
 once fairly in a rage ! Densil, who was in general 
 civilly afraid of this man, would have defied fifty such 
 as he now. 
 
 " There is one thing, Mr. Eavenshoe," said the priest, 
 in a very different tone, " about which I feel it my duty 
 to speak to you, in spite of the somewhat unreasonable 
 form your grief has assumed. I wish to know what you 
 mean to call your son." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " Because he is ailing, and I wish to baptise him." 
 
 " You will do nothing of the kind, sir," said Densil, 
 as red as a turkey-cock. "He will be baptised in 
 proper time in the parish church. He is to be brought 
 up a Protestant." 
 
 The priest looked steadily at Densil, who, now brought 
 fairly to bay, was bent on behaving like a valiant man, 
 and said slowly — 
 
 " So my suspicions are confirmed, then, and you have 
 determined to hand over your son to eternal perdition " 
 
OUR hero's troubles begin. 33 
 
 (he didn't say perdition, lie used a stronger word, which 
 we will dispense with, if you have no objection). 
 
 " Perdition, sir S " bawled Densil ; " how dare you 
 talk of a son of mine in that free-and-easy sort of way ? 
 Why, what my family has done for the Church ought 
 to keep a dozen generations of Eavenshoes from a pos- 
 sibility of perdition, sir. Don't tell me." 
 
 This new and astounding theory of justification by 
 works, which poor Densil had broached in his wrath, 
 was overheard by a round-faced, bright-eyed, curly- 
 headed man about fifty, who entered the room suddenly, 
 followed by James. For one instant you might have 
 seen a smile of intense amusement pass over his merry 
 face ; but in an instant it was gone again, and he 
 gravely addressed Densil. 
 
 " My dear Mr. Eavenshoe, I must use my authority 
 as doctor, to request that your son's spiritual welfare 
 should for the present yield to his temporal necessities. 
 You must have a wet-nurse, my good sir." 
 
 Densil's brow had grown placid in a moment beneath 
 the doctor's kindly glance. " God bless me," he said, " I 
 never thought of it. Poor little lad ! poor little lad ! " 
 
 " I hope, sir," said James, " that you will let Norah 
 have the young master. She has set her heart upon it" 
 
 "I have seen Mrs. Horton," said the doctor, "and 
 I quite approve of the proposal. I think it, indeed, a 
 most special providence that she should be able to 
 undertake it. Had it been otherwise, we might have 
 been undone." 
 
 VOL. I. D 
 
34 EAVENSHOE. 
 
 "Let us go at once," said the impetuous Densil. 
 ' Where is the nurse ? where is the hoy 1 " And, so 
 saying, he hurried out of the room, followed by the 
 doctor and James. 
 
 Mackworth stood alone, looking out of the window, 
 silent. He stood so long that one who watched him 
 peered from his hiding-place more than once to see if 
 he were gone. At length he raised his arm and struck 
 his clenched hand against the rough granite window- 
 sill so hard that he brought blood. Then he moodily 
 left the room. 
 
 As soon as the room was quiet, a child about five 
 years old crept stealthily from a dark corner where he 
 had laid hidden, and with a look of mingled shyness 
 and curiosity on Iris face, departed quietly by another 
 door. 
 
 Meanwhile, Densil, James, and the doctor, accom- 
 panied by the nurse and baby, were holding their way 
 across the court-yard towards a cottage which lay in the 
 wood beyond the stables. James opened the door, and 
 they passed into the inner room. 
 
 A beautiful woman was sitting propped up by pillows, 
 nursing a week-old child. The sunlight, admitted by a 
 half-open shutter, fell upon her, lighting up her delicate 
 features, her pale pure complexion, and bringing a strange 
 sheen on her long loose black hair. Her face was bent 
 down gazing on the child which lay on her breast, and 
 at the entrance of the party she looked up, and displayed 
 a large lustrous dark blue eye, which lighted up with 
 
OUR hero's troubles begin. 35 
 
 infinite tenderness as Densil, taking the wailing boy 
 from the nurse, placed it on her arm beside the other. 
 
 " Take care of that for me, Norah," said Densil. " It 
 has no mother but you, now/' 
 
 " Acushla ma chree," she answered, " bless my little 
 bird. Come to your nest, alanna, come to your pretty 
 brother, my darlin'." 
 
 The child's wailing was stilled now, and the doctor 
 remarked, and remembered long afterwards, that the 
 little waxen fingers, clutching uneasily about, came in 
 contact with the little hand of the other child, and 
 paused there. At this moment, a beautiful little girl, 
 about five years old, got on the bed and nestled her 
 peachy cheek against her mother's. As they went out. 
 he turned and looked at the beautiful group once more. 
 and then he followed Densil back to the house of 
 mourning. 
 
 Reader, before we have done with those three inno- 
 cent little faces, we shall see them distorted and changed 
 by many passions, and shall meet them in many strange 
 places. Come, take my hand, and we will follow them 
 on to the end. 
 
 D 2 
 
3G RAVEXSHOE. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 FATHER MACKWORTH. 
 
 I have noticed that the sayings and doings of young 
 gentlemen before they come to the age of, say seven or 
 eight, are hardly interesting to any but their immediate 
 relations and friends. I have my eye, at this moment, 
 on a young gentleman of the mature age of two, the 
 instances of whose sagacity and eloquence are of greater 
 importance, and certainly more pleasant, to me, than the 
 projects of Xapoleon, or the orations of Bright. And 
 yet I fear that even his most brilliant joke, if committed 
 to paper, would fall dead upon the public ear ; and so 
 for the present I shall leave Charles Ravenshoe to the 
 care of Norah, and pass on to some others who demand 
 our attention more. 
 
 The first thing which John Mackworth remembered 
 was his being left in the loge of a French school at 
 Rouen by an English footman. Trying to push back 
 his memory farther, he always failed to conjure up any 
 previous recollection to that. He had certainly a very 
 indistinct one of having been happier, and having 
 lived quietly in pleasant country places with a kind 
 woman who talked English ; but his first decided im- 
 
FATHER MACKWORTH. 37 
 
 pression always remained the same — that of being at six 
 years old, left friendless, alone, among twenty or thirty 
 French boys older than himself. 
 
 His was a cruel fate. He would have been happier 
 apprenticed to a collier. If the man who sent Mm there 
 had wished to inflict the heaviest conceivable punish- 
 ment on the poor, unconscious little innocent, he could 
 have done no more than simply left him at that school. 
 We shall see how he found out at last who his bene- 
 factor was. 
 
 English boys are sometimes brutal to one another 
 (though not so often as some wish to make out), and 
 are always rough. Yet I must say, as far as my per- 
 sonal experience goes, the French boy is entirely master 
 in the art of tormenting. He never strikes ; he does not 
 know how to clench his fist. He is an arrant coward, 
 according to an English schoolboy's definition of the 
 word ; but at pinching, pulling hair, ear pulling, and 
 that class of annoyance, all the natural ingenuity of his 
 nation comes out, and he is superb ; add to this a com- 
 bined insolent studied sarcasm, and you have an idea of 
 what a disagreeable French schoolboy can be. 
 
 To say that the boys at poor John Mackworth's school 
 put all these methods of torture in force against him, 
 and ten times more, is to give one but a faint idea of his 
 sufferings. The English at that time were hated with a 
 hatred which we in these sober times have but little 
 idea of ; and, with the cannon of Trafalgar ringing as it 
 were in their ears, these young French gentlemen seized 
 
38 EAVENSIIOE. 
 
 on Mackworth as a lawful prize providentially delivered 
 into their hands. We do not know what he may have 
 been under happier auspices, or what he may be yet 
 with a more favourable start in another life ; we have 
 only to do with what he was. Six years of friendless 
 persecution, of life ungraced and uncheered by domestic 
 love, of such bitter misery as childhood alone is capable 
 of feeling or enduring, transformed him from a child 
 into a heartless, vindictive man. 
 
 And then, the French schoolmaster having roughly 
 finished the piece of goods, it was sent to Rome to be 
 polished and turned out ready for the market. Here I 
 must leave him ; I don't know the process. I have seen 
 the article when finished and am familiar with it. I 
 know the trade mark on it as well as I know the Tower 
 mark on my rifle. I may predicate of a glass that it 
 is Bohemian ruby, and yet not know how they gave 
 it the colour. I must leave descriptions of that system 
 to Mr. Steinmetz, and men who have been behind the 
 scenes. 
 
 The red-hot ultramontane thorough-going Catholicism 
 -of that pretty pervert, Lady Alicia, was but ill satisfied 
 with the sensible, old English, cut and dried notions of 
 the good Father Clifford. A comparison of notes with 
 two or three other great ladies, brought about a consul- 
 tation, and a letter to Rome, the result of which was that 
 a young Englishman of presentable exterior, polite man- 
 ners, talking English with a slightly foreign accent, 
 made his appearance at Ravenshoe, and was installed as 
 
FATHER MACKWOBTH. 39 
 
 her ladyship's confessor, about eighteen months before 
 her death. 
 
 His talents were by no means ordinary. In very few- 
 days he had gauged every intellect in the house, and 
 found that he was by far the superior of all in wit and 
 education ; and he determined that as long as he stayed 
 in the house he would be master there. 
 
 Densil's jealous temper sadly interfered with this 
 excellent resolution; he was immensely angry and re- 
 bellious at the slightest apparent infringement of his 
 prerogative, and after his parents' death treated Mack- 
 worth in such an exceedingly cavalier manner, that the 
 latter feared he should have to move, till chance threw 
 into his hand a whip wherewith he might drive Densil 
 where he would. He discovered a scandalous liaison of 
 poor Densil's, and in an indirect manner let him know 
 that he knew all about it. This served to cement his 
 influence until the appearance of Mrs. Eavenshoe the 
 second, who, as we have seen, treated him with such 
 ill-disguised contempt, that he was anything but com- 
 fortable, and was even meditating a retreat to Eome, 
 when the conversation he overheard in the drawing- 
 room made him pause, and the birth of the boy Cuthbert 
 confirmed his resolution to stay. 
 
 For now, indeed, there was a prospect open to him. 
 Here was this child delivered over to him like clay to a 
 potter, that he might form it as he would. It should go 
 hard but that the revenues and county influence of the 
 Eavenshoes should tend to the glory of the Church as 
 
40 UAYENSHOE. 
 
 heretofore. Only one person was in his way, and that 
 was Mrs. Eavenshoe ; after her death he was master of 
 the situation with regard to the eldest of the hoys. He 
 had partly guessed, ever since he overheard the conver- 
 sation of Densil and his wife, that some sort of bargain 
 existed between them about the second child ; but he 
 paid little heed to it. It was, therefore, with the bit- 
 terest anger that he saw his fears confirmed, and Densil 
 angrily obstinate on the matter ; for, supposing Cuthbert 
 were to die, all his trouble and anxiety would avail 
 nothing, and the old house and lands would fall to a 
 Protestant heir, the first time in the history of the 
 island. Father Clifford consoled him. 
 
 Meanwhile, his behaviour towards Densil was gradu- 
 ally and insensibly altered. He became the free and 
 easy man of the world, the amusing companion, the 
 wise counsellor. He saw that Densil was of a nature 
 to lean on some one, and he was determined it should 
 be on him ; so he made himself necessary. But he did 
 more than this ; he determined he would be beloved as 
 well as respected, and with a happy audacity he set to 
 work to win that poor wild foolish heart to himself^ 
 using such arts of pleasing as must have been furnished 
 by his own mother wit, and could never have been 
 learned in a hundred years from a Jesuit college. 
 The poor heart was not a hard one to win ; and, the 
 day they buried poor Father Clifford in the mausoleum, 
 it was with a mixture of pride at his own talents, 
 and contemptuous pity for his dupe, that Mackworth 
 
FATHER MACKWOETH. 41 
 
 listened to Densil as he told him that he was now Ins 
 only friend, and besought him not to leave him — 
 which thing Mackworth promised, with the deepest 
 sincerity, he would not do. 
 
42 RAVENSHOE. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 RANFORD. 
 
 Master Charles, blessed with a placid temper and a 
 splendid appetite, throve amazingly. Before you knew 
 where yon were, he was in tops and bottoms ; before 
 you had thoroughly realized that, he was learning his 
 letters ; then there was hardly time to turn round, before 
 he was a rosy-cheeked boy of ten. 
 
 From the very first gleam of reason, he had been put 
 solely and entirely under the care of Mr. Snell, the old 
 vicar, who had been with his mother when she died, and 
 a Protestant nurse, Mrs. Varley. Faithfully had these 
 two discharged their sacred trust ; and, if love can repay 
 such services, right well were they repaid. 
 
 A pleasant task they had, though, for a more lovable 
 little lad than Charles there never was. His little heart 
 seemed to have an infinite capacity of affection for all 
 who approached him. Everything animate came before 
 him in the light of a friend, to whom he wished to make 
 himself agreeable, from his kind old tutor and nurse 
 down to his pony and terrier. Charles had not arrived 
 at the time of life when it was possible for him to quarrel 
 about women ; and so he actually had no enemies as 
 yet, but was welcomed by pleasant and kind faces 
 
RANFORD. 43 
 
 wherever he went. At one time he would be at his 
 father's knee, while the good-natured Densil made him 
 up some fishing tackle ; next you would find him in the 
 kennel with the whipper-in, feeding the hounds, half- 
 smothered by their boisterous welcome ; then the stables 
 would own him for a time, while the lads were cleaning 
 up and feeding ; then came a sudden flitting to one of 
 the keeper's lodges ; and anon he would be down on the 
 sands wading with half a dozen fisher-boys as happy as 
 himself — but welcome and beloved everywhere. 
 
 Sunday was a right pleasant clay for him. After seeing 
 his father shave, and examining his gold-topped dressing- 
 case from top to bottom — amusements which were not 
 participated in by Cuthbert, who had grown too manly — 
 he would haste through his breakfast, and with his J clean 
 clothes hurry down the village towards the vicarage, 
 which stood across the stream near the church. Not to 
 go in yet, you will observe, because the sermon, he well 
 knew, was getting its finishing touches, and the vicar 
 must not be disturbed. No, the old stone bridge would 
 bring him up ; and there he would stay looking at the 
 brown crystal-clear water rushing and seething among 
 the rocks, lying dark under the oak roots, and flashing 
 merrily over the weir, just above the bridge ; till, 
 " flick ! " a silver bar would shoot quivering into the air, 
 and a salmon would light on the top of the fall, just 
 where the water broke, and would struggle on into the 
 still pool above, or be beaten back by the force, to 
 resume his attempt when he had gained breath. The 
 
44 RAVENSHOE. 
 
 trout, too, under the bridge, bless the rogues, they knew 
 it was Sunday. well enough — how they would lie up 
 there in the swiftest places, where glancing liquid glori- 
 fied the poor pebbles below into living amber, and would 
 hardly trouble themselves to snap at the great fat, silly 
 stoneflies that came floating down. Oh ! it was a ter- 
 rible place for dawdling was that stone bridge, on a 
 summer sabbath morn. 
 
 But now would the country folks come trooping in 
 from far and near, for Eavenshoe was the only church 
 for miles, and however many of them there were, every 
 one had a good hearty West-country greeting for him. 
 And, as the crowd increased near the church door, there 
 was so much to say and hear, that I am afraid the prayers 
 suffered a little sometimes. 
 
 The villagers were pleased enough to see the lad in 
 the old carved horsebox (not to be irreverent) of a pew, 
 beneath the screen in the chancel, with the light from 
 the old rose window shining on his curly brown hair. 
 The older ones would think of the haughty beautiful 
 lady who sat there so few years ago, and oftentimes one 
 of the more sagacious would shake his head and mutter 
 to himself, "Ah! it he were heir." 
 
 Any boy who reads this story, and I hope many will 
 read it, is hereby advertised that it is exceedingly wrong 
 to be inattentive in church in sermon time. It is very 
 naughty to look up through the windows at the white 
 clouds flying across the blue sky, and think how merrily 
 the shadows are sweeping over the upland lawn, where 
 
RANFOHD. 45 
 
 the pewits' nests are, and the blackcock is crowing on 
 the grey stones among the heather. No boy has any right 
 to notice another boy's absence, and spend sermon-time 
 in wondering whether he is catching crabs among the 
 green and crimson sea-weed on the rocks, or bathing in 
 the still pool under the cliff. A boy had better not go 
 to church at all, if he spends his time in thinking about 
 the big trout that lies up in one of the pools in the 
 woodland stream, and whether he will be able to catch 
 a sight of him again by creeping gently through the 
 hazel and king fern. Birds' nests, too, even though it 
 be the ringousel's, who is to lay her last egg this blessed 
 day, and is marked for spoliation to-morrow, should be 
 banished from a boy's mind entirely during church 
 time. Now, I am sorry to say that Charles was very 
 much given to wander in church, and, when asked about 
 the sermon by the vicar next day, would look rather 
 foolish. Let us hope that he will be a warning to all 
 sinners in this respect. 
 
 Then, after church, there would be dinner, at his 
 father's lunch time, in the dark old hall, and there 
 would be more to tell his father and brother than could 
 be conveniently got through at that meal ; then there 
 was church again, and a long stroll in the golden sun- 
 shine along the shore. Ah, happy summer sabbaths ! 
 
 The only two people who were ever cold to Charles, 
 were his brother and Mackwortk. Not that they were 
 openly unkind, but there was between both of them and 
 himself an indefinable gulf, an entire want of sympathy, 
 
46 KAVENSHOE. 
 
 which grieved, him sometimes, though he was as yet too 
 young to "be much troubled by it. He only exhausted all 
 his little arts of pleasing towards them to try and win 
 them ; he was indefatigable in running messages for Cuth- 
 bert and the chaplain ; and once, when kind grandaunt 
 Ascot (she was a Miss Headstall, daughter of Sir Cingle 
 Headstall, and married George Lord Ascot, brother of Lady 
 Alicia, Densil's mother) sent Mm a pineapple in a box, 
 he took it to the priest and would have had him take it. 
 Mackworth refused it, but looked on him not unkindly 
 for a few minutes, and then turned away with a sigh. 
 Perhaps he was trying to recall the time so long, long 
 ago, when his own face was as open and as innocent as 
 that. God knows ! Charles cried a little, because the 
 priest wouldn't take it, and, having given his brother 
 the best slice, ate the rest in the stable, with the 
 assistance of his foster brother and two of the pad 
 grooms. Thereby proving himself to be a lad of low 
 and dissipated habits ! 
 
 Cuthbert was at this time a somewhat good-looking 
 young fellow of sixteen. Neither of the brothers was 
 what would be called handsome, though, if Charles's 
 face was the most pleasing, Cuthbert certainly had the 
 most regular features. His forehead was lofty, although 
 narrow, and flat at the sides ; his cheek bones were high, 
 and his nose was aquiline, not ill-formed, though pro- 
 minent, starting rather suddenly out below his eyes ; the 
 lips were thin, the mouth small and firmly closed, and 
 the chin short and prominent. The tout ensemble was 
 
EANFORD. 47 
 
 hardly pleasing even at this youthful period ; the face 
 was too much formed and decided for so young a man. 
 
 Cuthbert was a reserved methodical lad, with whom 
 no one could find fault, and yet whom few liked. He 
 was studious and devout to an extent rare in one so 
 young ; and, although a capital horseman and a good 
 shot, he but seldom indulged in those amusements, pre- 
 ferring rather a walk with the steward, and soon return- 
 ing to the dark old library to his books and Father 
 Mackworth. There they two would sit, like two cwls, 
 hour after hour, appearing only at meals, and talking 
 French to one another, noticing Charley but little ; who, 
 however, was always full of news, and would tell it, too, 
 in spite of the inattention of tins strange couple. Densil 
 began to respect and be slightly afraid of his eldest son, 
 as his superior in learning and in natural abilities ; but 
 I think Charles had the biggest share in his heart. 
 
 Aunt Ascot had a year before sent for Cuthbert to 
 pay her a visit at Eanford, her son's, Lord Ascot's place, 
 where she lived with him, he being a widower, and kept 
 house for him. Eanford, we all know, or ought to know, 
 contains the largest private racing stud in England, and 
 the Ascot family for many generations had given them- 
 selves up entirely to sporting — so much so, that their 
 marriages with other houses have been to a certain 
 extent influenced by it; and so poor Cuthbert, as we 
 may suppose, was quite like a fish out of water. He 
 detested and despised the men he met there, and they, 
 on their parts, such of them as chose to notice him, 
 
48 RAVENSHOE. 
 
 thought him a surly young book-worm ; and, as for his 
 grandaunt, he hated the very sound of that excellent 
 lady's voice. Her abruptness, her homoeopathic medi- 
 cines, her Protestantism (which she was always airing), 
 and her stable-talk, nearly drove him mad ; while she, 
 on the other hand, thought him one of the most dis- 
 agreeable boys she had ever met in her life. So the 
 visit was rather a failure than otherwise, and not very 
 likely to be repeated. Nevertheless, her ladyship was 
 very fond of young faces, and so, in a twelvemonth, 
 she wrote to Densil as follows : — 
 
 " I am one mass of lumbago all round the small of 
 my back, and I rind nothing like opodeldoc after alL 
 The pain is very severe, but I suppose you would com- 
 fort me, as a heretic, by saying it is nothing to what I 
 shall endure in a few years' time. Bah! I have no 
 patience with you Papists, packing better people than 
 yourselves off somewhere in that free-and-easy way- 
 By-the-bye, how is that father confessor of yours, Mark- 
 worth, or some such name — mind me, Eavenshoe, that 
 fellow is a rogue, and you being, like all Eavenshoes, a 
 fool, there is a pair of you. Why, if one of Ascot's 
 grooms was to smile as that man does, or to whine in 
 his speech as that man does, when he is talking to a 
 woman of rank, I'd have him discharged on the spot, 
 without warning, for dishonesty. 
 
 " Don't put a penny on Ascot's horse at Chester ; he 
 will never stay over the Cup course. Curfew, in my 
 opinion, looks by no means badly for the Derby ; he is 
 
RAOTOBD. 40 
 
 scratched for the Two Thousand — which was necessary, 
 though I am sorry for it, &c. &c. &c. 
 
 " I wish you would send me your boy, will you ? Not 
 the eldest : the Protestant one. Perhaps he mayn't be 
 such ah insufferable coxcomb as his brother." 
 
 At which letter Densil shook his honest sides with 
 uproarious laughter. "Cuthbert, my boy," he said, " you 
 have won your dear aunt's heart entirely ; though she, 
 being determined to mortify the flesh with its affections, 
 does not propose seeing you again, but asks for Charley. 
 The candour of that dear old lady increases with her age. 
 You seem to have been making your court too, father ; 
 she speaks of your smile in the most unqualified terms." 
 
 " Her ladyship must do me the honour to quiz 
 me/' said Mackworth. "If it is possible to judge 
 by her eye, she must like me about as well as a 
 mad dog." 
 
 " For my part, father," said Cuthbert, curling up the 
 corners of his thin lips sardonically, " I shall be highly 
 content to leave my dear aunt in the peaceable enjoy- 
 ment of her favourite society of grooms, horse-jockies, 
 blacklegs, dissenting ministers, and such-like. A month 
 in that house, my dear Charley, will qualify you for a 
 billiard-marker ; and, after a course of six weeks, you 
 will be fit to take the situation of croupier in a low 
 hell on a race-course. How you will enjoy yourself, my 
 dear!" 
 
 " Steady, Cuthbert, steady," said his father ; " I can't 
 allow you to talk like that about your cousin's house. 
 
 vol. i. E 
 
50 RAVENSHOE. 
 
 It is a great house for field sports, but there is uot a 
 better conducted house in the kingdom." 
 
 Cuthbert lay over on the sofa to fondle a cat, and 
 then continued speaking very deliberately, in a slightly 
 louder voice, — 
 
 " I will allow my aunt to be the most polite, intel- 
 lectual, delicate-minded old lady in creation, my dearest 
 father, if you wish it ; only, not having been born (I beg 
 her pardon, dropped) in a racing stable, as she was her- 
 self, I can hardly appreciate her conversation always. 
 As for my cousin, I consider him a splendid sample of 
 an hereditary legislator. Charley, dear, you won't go to 
 church on Sunday afternoon at Kanford; you will go 
 into the croft with your cousin Ascot to see the chickens 
 fed. Ascot is very curious in his poultry, particularly 
 on Sunday afternoon. Father, why does he cut all the 
 cocks' tails square ? " 
 
 " Pooh, pooh," said Densil, " what matter ; many do it, 
 besides him. Don't you be squeamish, Cuthbert — though, 
 mind you, I don't defend cock-fighting on Sunday. 
 
 Cuthbert laughed and departed, taking his cat with him. 
 
 Charles had a long coach journey of one day, and 
 then an awful and wonderful journey on the Great 
 Western Eailway as far as Twyford — alighting at which 
 place, he was accosted by a pleasant-looking, fresh- 
 coloured boy, dressed in close-fitting cord trousers, a 
 blue handkerchief, spotted with white, and a Scotch 
 cap ; who said — 
 
 " Oh ! I'm your cousin Welter. I'm the same age 
 
EANFOKD. 51 
 
 as you, and I'm going to Eton next half. I've brought 
 you over Tiger, because Punch is lame, and the station- 
 master will look after your things ; so we can come at 
 once." 
 
 The boys were friends in two minutes ; and, going 
 out, there was a groom holding two ponies — on the 
 prettiest of which Charley soon found himself seated, 
 and jogging on with his companion towards Henley. 
 
 I like to see two honest lads, just introduced, opening 
 their hearts to one another, and I know nothing more 
 pleasant than to see how they rejoice as each similarity 
 of taste comes out. By the time these two had got to 
 Henley Bridge, Lord Welter had heard the name of every 
 horse in the Eavenshoe stables, and Charley was rapidly 
 getting learned in Lord Ascot's racing stud. The river 
 at Henley distracted his attention for a time, as the 
 biggest he had seen, and he asked his cousin, " Did he 
 think the Mississippi was much bigger than that now?" 
 and Lord Welter supposed, " Oh dear yes, a great deal 
 bigger," he should say. Then there was more conversa- 
 tion about dogs and guns, and pleasant country places 
 to ride through ; then a canter over a lofty breezy clown, 
 and then the river again, far below, and at their feet the 
 chimneys of Kanford. 
 
 The house was very full ; and, as the boys came up 
 there was a crowd of phaetons, dog-carts, and saddle- 
 horses, for the people were just arriving home for dinner 
 after the afternoon drive, and, as they had all been to the 
 same object of attraction that afternoon, they had all 
 
 e2 
 
52 RAVENSHOE. 
 
 come in together and were loitering abont talking, some 
 not yet dismounted, and some on the steps. Welter was 
 at home at once, and had a word with every one ; but 
 Charles was left alone, sitting on his pony, feeling very 
 shy ; till, at last, a great brown man with a great brown 
 moustache, and a gruff voice, came up to him and lifted 
 him off the horse, holding him out at arm's length for 
 inspection. 
 
 " So you are Curly Eavenshoe's boy, hey ? " said he. 
 
 « Yes, sir." 
 
 " Ha ! " said the stranger, putting him down, and lead- 
 ing him towards the door ; " just tell your father you saw 
 General Mainwaring, will you. and that he wanted to 
 know how his old friend was." 
 
 Charles looked at the great brown hand which was 
 in his own, and thought of the Affghan war, and of all 
 the deeds of renown that that hand had done, and was 
 raising his eyes to the general's face, when they were 
 arrested half-way by another face, not the general's. 
 
 It was that of a handsome, grey-headed man, who 
 might have been sixty, he was so well conserve, but who 
 was actually far more. He wore his own white hair, 
 which contrasted strongly with a pair of delicate thin 
 black eyebrows. His complexion was florid, with 
 scarcely a wrinkle, his features were fine and regular, 
 and a pair of sparkling dark grey eyes gave a pleasant 
 light to his face. His dress was wondrously neat, and 
 Charles, looking on him, guessed, with a boy's tact, that 
 he was a man of mark. 
 
RANFORD. 53 
 
 " Whose son did you say he was, general ? " said the 
 stranger. 
 
 " Curly's ! " said Main waring, stopping and smiling. 
 
 " No, really ! M said the other ; and then he looked 
 fixedly at Charles and began to laugh, and Charley, 
 seeing nothing better to do, looked up at the grey eyes 
 and laughed too, and this made the stranger worse ; and 
 then, to crown the joke, the general began to laugh too, 
 though none of them had said a syllable more than what 
 I have written down ; and at last the ridiculous exhibi- 
 tion finished up by the old gentleman taking a great 
 pinch of snuff from a gold box, and turning away. 
 
 Charles was much puzzled, and was still more so 
 when, in an hour's time, having dressed himself and 
 being on his way downstairs to his aunt's room, who 
 had just come in, he was stopped on a landing by this 
 same old gentleman, beautifully dressed for dinner, who 
 looked on him as before. 
 
 He didn't laugh this time, but he did w r orse. He 
 utterly " dumbfoundered " Charley by asking abruptly — 
 
 "How's Jim?" 
 
 "He is very well, thank you, sir. His wife Norah 
 nursed me when mamma died." 
 
 " Oh, indeed," said the other ; " so he hasn't cut your 
 father's throat yet, or anything of that sort ? " 
 
 " Oh dear no," said Charles, horrified ; " bless you, 
 what can make you think of such things ? Why, he is 
 the kindest man in the world." 
 
 w I don't know," said the old gentleman, thoughtfully ; 
 
54? EAVENSHOE. 
 
 " that excessively faithful kind of creature is very apt 
 to do that sort of thing. I should discharge any servant 
 of mine who exhibited the slightest symptoms of affection 
 as a dangerous lunatic ; " with which villainous senti- 
 ment he departed. 
 
 Charles thought what a strange old gentleman he was 
 for a short time, and then slid down the banisters. They 
 were better banisters than those at Eavenshoe, being not 
 so steep, and longer: so he went up, and slid down 
 again ; x after which he knocked at his aunt's door. 
 
 It was w r ith a beating heart that he waited for an 
 answer. Cuthbert had described Lady Ascot as such a 
 horrid old ogress, that he was not without surprise when 
 a cheery voice said, " Come in," and, entering a hand- 
 some room, he found himself in presence of a noble- 
 looking old lady, with grey hair, who was netting in an 
 upright, old-fashioned chair. 
 
 "So you are Charles Eavenshoe, eh?" she began. 
 "Why, my dear, you must be perished with cold and 
 hunger. I should have come in before, but I didn't 
 expect you so soon. Tea will be here directly. You 
 ain't a beauty, my dear, but I think I shall like you. 
 There never was but one really handsome Eavenshoe, 
 and that was poor Petre, your grandfather. Poor Alicia 
 made a great fool of herself, but she was very happy 
 with him. Welter, you naughty boy, be still." 
 
 1 The best banisters for sliding down are broad oak ones, with a 
 rib in the middle. This new narrow sort, which is coming in, are 
 wretched. 
 
RANFORD. 55 
 
 The Right Honourable Viscount "Welter wanted his 
 tea, and was consequently troublesome and fractious. 
 He had picked a quarrel with his grandmother's terrier, 
 which he averred had bitten him in the leg, and he was 
 now heating the poker, in order, he informed the old 
 lad}*, to burn the place out, and prevent hydrophobia. 
 Whether he would have done so or not, we shall never 
 know now, for, tea coming in at that moment, he 
 instantly sat down at table, and called to Charles to <!< » 
 likewise. 
 
 " Call Miss Adelaide, will you, Sims ? " said Lack* 
 Ascot ; and presently there came tripping into the room 
 the loveliest little blonde fair}', about ten years old, that 
 ever you saw. She fixed her large blue eyes on Charley, 
 and then came up and gave him a kiss, which he, the 
 rogue, returned with interest, and then, taking her seat 
 at the table, she turned to Welter, and hoped he was 
 going to be good. 
 
 Such, however, it soon appeared, was not his lord- 
 ship's intention. He had a guest at table, and he was 
 bound in honour to show off before him, besides having 
 to attend to his ordinary duty of frightening his grand- 
 mother as nearly into fits as was safe. Accordingly, he 
 began the repast by cramming buns into his mouth, 
 using the handle of his knife as a rammer, until the 
 salvation of his life appeared an impossibility, at which 
 point he rose and left the room with a rapid, uneven 
 step. On his reappearance he began drinking, but, 
 having caught his grandmother's eye over his teacup, he 
 
5G EAVENSHOE. 
 
 winked at her, and then held his breath till he was 
 purple, and she begun to wring her hands in despair. 
 All this time he was stimulated by Charles's laughter 
 and Adelaide's crying out, continually, " Oh, isn't he a 
 naughty boy, Lady Ascot ? oh, do tell him not to do it." 
 But the crowning performance of this promising young 
 gentleman — the feat which threw everything else into 
 the shade, and which confirmed Charley in his admira- 
 tion of his profound talents — was this. Just as a tall, 
 grave, and handsome footman was pouring water into 
 the teapot, and while her ladyship was inspecting the 
 operation with all the intense interest of an old tea- 
 maker, at that moment did Lord Welter contrive to 
 inflict on the unfortunate man a pinch on the leg, of 
 such a shrewdly agonising nature as caused him to 
 gnash his teeth in Lady Ascot's face, to cry aloud, " Oh, 
 Lord ! " to whirl the kettle within an inch of her vene- 
 rable nose, and finally, to gyrate across the room on one 
 leg, and stand looking like the king of fools. 
 
 Lady Ascot, who had merely seen the effect, and not 
 the cause, ordered him promptly to leave the room, 
 whereupon "Welter explained, and afterwards continued 
 to Charles, with an off-hand candour quite his own, as 
 if no such person as his grandmother was within a 
 hundred miles — 
 
 " You know, Charley, I shouldn't dare to behave like 
 this if my tutor was at home ; she'd make nothing of 
 telling him, now. She's in a terrible wax, but she'll be 
 all right by the time he comes back from his holidays ; 
 won't you, grandma ? " 
 
BANFOBD. 57 
 
 u You wicked boy," she replied, " I hope Hawtrey will 
 cure you ; Keate would have, I know." 
 
 The boys slid ou the banisters ; then they went to 
 dessert. Then they went upstairs, and looked over 
 Welter's cricket apparatus, fishing tackle, and so on ; 
 and then they went into the billiard-room, which was 
 now lighted up and full of guests. 
 
 There were two tables in the room, at one of which a 
 pool was getting up, while the other was empty. Welter 
 was going to play pool, and Charles would have liked to 
 do so too, being a very tolerable player ; only he had 
 promised his old tutor not to play for money till he was 
 eighteen, and so he sat in the corner by the empty 
 table, under the marking-board, with one leg gathered 
 under him, and instantly found himself thinking about 
 the little girl he had seen upstairs. 
 
 Once or twice he was surprised to find himself 
 thinking so much about her, but he found it a pleasant 
 subject, too, for he had sat in his corner more than half 
 an hour without changing it, when he became aware 
 that two men were taking down cues from the rack, and 
 were going to play at his table. 
 
 They were Ins two friends of the afternoon, General 
 Mainwaring and the grey-headed man who laughed. 
 When they saw him they seemed glad, and the old 
 gentleman asked him why he wasn't playing. 
 
 " I musn't play pool," he answered. " I should like 
 to mark for you." 
 
 " Well said, my hero," said the general : " and so Jim's 
 an honest man, is he ? " 
 
58 ILVVENSHOE. 
 
 Charles saw that the old gentleman had told the 
 general what had passed on the stairs, and wondered 
 why he should take such an interest in him ; but he 
 soon fell to thinking about little Adelaide again, and 
 marking mechanically though correctly. 
 
 He was aroused by the general's voice — "Who did 
 you mark that last miss to, my little man ? " he said. 
 
 "To the old gentleman," said Charles, and then 
 blushed at the consciousness of having said a rude 
 thing. 
 
 " That is one for you, Methusaleh," said the general. 
 
 " Never mind," said the old gentleman, " I have one 
 great source of pride, which no one can rob me of ; I am 
 twelve years older than I look." 
 
 They went on playing. " By-the-by," said the general, 
 " who is that exceedingly pretty child that the old lady 
 has got with her ? " 
 
 " A child she has adopted," said the old gentleman. 
 " A grand-daughter of an old friend who died in poverty. 
 She is a noble-hearted old soul, the jockey, with all her 
 absurdities." 
 
 "Who was she?" said the general. "(That was 
 rather a fluke, was it not ? ) " 
 
 "She? Why, a daughter of old Cingle Headstall's, 
 the mad old Cheshire baronet — you don't remember him, 
 of course, but your father knew him. Drove his tandem 
 round and round Berkeley Square for four hours on 
 a foggy night, under the impression he was going home 
 to Hounslow, and then fired at the watchman who tried 
 
RAXFORD. 59 
 
 to put him right, taking him for a highwayman. The son 
 went to France, and was lost sight of in the revolution ; 
 so the girl came in for what money there was : not very 
 much, I take it. This poor thing, who was pretty and 
 clever enough, but without education, having been 
 literally brought up in a stable, captivated the sagacious 
 Ascot, and made him a capital wife." 
 
 " I suppose she'll portion this girl, then ; you say she 
 had money ? " 
 
 "H'm," said the old gentleman, "there's a story about 
 the aforesaid money, which is told in different ways, 
 but which amounts to this, that the money is no more. 
 Hallo, our marker is getting sleepy." 
 
 " Not at all, sir," said Charles. " If you will excuse 
 me a moment I will come back." 
 
 He ran across to Lord Welter, who was leaning on 
 his cue. " Can you tell me," said he, " who is that old 
 gentleman ? " 
 
 "Which old gentleman? " 
 
 "That one, with the black eyebrows, playing with 
 General Mainwaring. There, he is taking snuff." 
 
 " Oh, him ? " said Welter ; " that is Lord Saltire." 
 
GO RAVENSHOE. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE WARREN HASTINGS. 
 
 Time, the inexorable, kept mowing away at poor 
 Charles's flowers until the disagreeable old creature 
 had cut them all down but two or three, and mowed 
 right into the morning when it was necessary that he 
 should go home ; and then Charles, looking forward 
 through his tears, could see nothing at first but the very 
 commonest grass. For was he not going to leave 
 Adelaide, probably never to see her again ? In short, 
 Charles was in love, and going to separate from the 
 object of his affections for the first time ; at which 
 I request you will not laugh, but just reflect how old 
 you were yourself when you first fell in love. 
 
 The little flirt, she must have waited till she heard 
 him coming out of his room, and then have pretended 
 to be coming upstairs all in a hurry. He got a kiss or 
 a dozen, though, and a lock of hair, I believe ; but he 
 hadn't much time to think about it, for Lord Ascot was 
 calling out for him, and when he got into the hall, 
 there was all the household to see him off. Everybody 
 had a kind word for him ; the old lady cried ; Lord 
 Saltire and the general shook hands ; Lord Welter said 
 it was a beastly sell ; and Lord Ascot hummed and 
 
THE WARREN HASTINGS. Gl 
 
 hawed, and told him to tell his father he had been 
 a good boy. They were all sorry he was going, and 
 he felt as though he was leaving old friends ; but the 
 carriage was there, and the rain was pouring down ; 
 and, with one last look at the group of faces, he was in 
 the carriage and away. 
 
 It was a terrible day, though he did not notice it at 
 first. He was thinking how pleasant it was that the 
 people were all so kind to him, just as kind as they 
 were at home. He thought of Adelaide, and wondered 
 whether she would ever think of him. He was rather 
 glad that Welter was such a naughty boy (not really 
 naughty, you know), because she would be less likely to 
 like him. And then he thought how glad the people at 
 home would be to see him ; and then he looked out of 
 window. He had left Lord Ascot's carriage and got 
 into the train some time before this. Now he saw that 
 the train was going very slowly, and nothing was visible 
 through the driving rain. Then he tried to remember 
 whether he had ever heard his father speak of Lord 
 Saltire, and what he had heard about him ; and, 
 thinking about this, the train stopped. — Swindon. 
 
 He got out to go to the refreshment room, and began 
 wondering what the noise was which prevented him 
 from hearing any one when they spoke, and why the 
 people looked scared and talked in knots. Then he found 
 that it was the wind in the roof; and some one told 
 him that a chimney had been blown across the line, and 
 they must wait till it was removed. 
 
62 EAVENSHOE. 
 
 All the day the brave engine fought westward against 
 the wind, and two hours after time Charles found him- 
 self in the coach which would take him to Stonnington. 
 The night crept on, and the coach crawled on its way 
 through the terrible night, and Charles slept. In the 
 cold pitiless morning, as they were going over a loftily 
 exposed moor, the coach, though only going foot's pace, 
 stood for an instant on two wheels, and then fell crashing 
 over on to a heap of road-side stones, awaking Charles, 
 who, being unhurt, lay still for a minute or so, with 
 a faint impression of having been shaken in his sleep, 
 and, after due reflection, made the brilliant discovery 
 that the coach was upset. 
 
 He opened the door over his head and jumped out. 
 For an instant he was blinded by the stinging rain, but 
 turned his back to it ; and then, for the first time, he 
 became aware that this was the most terrible gale of 
 wind he had ever seen in his lifetime. 
 
 He assisted the coachman and guard, and the solitary 
 outside passenger, to lead the poor horses along the 
 road. They fought on for about two hundred yards, and 
 came to an alehouse, on the sight of which Charles 
 knew that they were two stages short of where he 
 thought they had been, for this was the Watershed Inn, 
 and the rain from its roof ran partly into the Bristol 
 Channel and partly into the British. 
 
 After an hour's rest here Charles was summoned to 
 join the coach in the valley below, and they crawled on 
 again. It was a weary day over some very bleak 
 
THE WARREN HASTINGS. G3 
 
 country. They saw in one place a cottage unroofed 
 on a moor, and the terrified family crouched down 
 beneath the tottering walls. In the valleys great trees 
 were down across the road, which were cross-cut and 
 moved by country men, who told of oaks of three 
 hundred years, fallen in the night, and of corn stacks 
 hurried before the blast like the leaves of autumn. 
 Still, as each obstacle was removed, there was the guard 
 up blowing his horn cheerily, and Charles was inside 
 with a jump, and on they went. 
 
 At last, at three o'clock, the coach drove under the gate 
 of the " Chichester Arms," at Stonnington, and Charles, 
 jumping out, was received by the establishment with 
 the air of people who had done a clever thing, and were 
 ready to take their meed of praise with humility. The 
 handsome landlady took great credit to herself for 
 Charles's arrival — so much so, that one would have 
 thought she herself had single-handed dragged the coach 
 from Exeter. " She had been sure all along that Mr. 
 Charles would come." A speech winch, with the 
 cutting glance that accompanied it, goaded the landlord 
 to retort in a voice wheezy with good living, and to 
 remind her that she had said, not ten minutes before, 
 that she was quite sure he wouldn't ; whereupon the 
 landlady loftily begged him not to expose himself 
 before the servants. At winch the landlord laughed, 
 and choked himself; at which the landlady slapped 
 him on the back, and laughed too ; after which they 
 went in. 
 
G4- KAYEXSHOE. 
 
 His father, the landlord told him, had sent his pony 
 over, as he was afraid of a carriage on the moor to-day, 
 and that, if he felt at all afraid to come on, he was to 
 sleep where he was. Charles looked at the comfortable 
 parlour and hesitated ; but, happening to close his eyes 
 an instant, he saw as plain as possible the library at 
 home, and the flickering fire-light falling on the crimson 
 and oak furniture, and his father listening for him 
 through the roaring wind ; and so he hesitated no 
 longer, but said he would push on, and that he would 
 wish to see his servant while he took dinner. 
 
 The landlord eyed him admiringly with his head on 
 one side, and proceeded to remark that com was down 
 another shilling ; that Squire West had sold his chesnut 
 mare for one hundred and twenty pounds ; and that if 
 he kept well under the walls going home he would be 
 out of the wind ; that his missis was took poorly in the 
 night with spasms, and had been cured by two wine- 
 glasses of peppermint ; that a many chimney-pots was 
 blown down, and that old Jim Baker had heard tell 
 as a pig was blowed through the church window. After 
 which he poked the fire and retired. 
 
 Charles was hard at his dinner when his man came 
 in. It was the oldest of the pad grooms — a man with 
 grizzled hair, looking like a white terrier ; and he stood 
 before him smoothing his face with his hand. 
 
 " Hallo, Michael," said Charley, " how came you to 
 come?" 
 
 " Master wouldn't send no other, sir. It's a awful day 
 
THE WARREN HASTINGS. G5 
 
 down there ; there's above a hundred trees down along 
 the road." 
 
 " Shall we be able to get there ? " 
 
 " As much as we shall, sir." 
 
 " Let us try. Terrible sea, I suppose ? " 
 
 "Awful to look at, sir. Mr. Mackworth and Mr. 
 Cuthbert are down to look at it." 
 
 " No craft ashore ? " 
 
 " None as yet. None of our boats is out. Yesterday 
 morning a Pill boat, 52, stood in to see where she was 
 and beat out again, but that was before it came on so 
 bad." 
 
 So they started. They pushed rapidly out of the town, 
 and up a narrow wooded valley which led to the moor 
 which lay between them and Eavenshoe. For some time 
 they were well enough sheltered, and made capital way, 
 till the wood began to grow sparer, and the road to rise 
 abruptly. Here the blast began to be more sensibly 
 felt, and in a quarter of a mile they had to leap three 
 uprooted trees ; before them they heard a rushing noise 
 like the sea. It was the wind upon the moor. 
 
 Creeping along under the high stone walls and bend- 
 ing down, they pushed on still, until, coming to the open 
 moor, and receiving for the first time the terrible tornado 
 full in their faces, the horses reared up and refused to 
 proceed ; but, being got side by side, and their heads 
 being homeward, they managed to get on, though the 
 rain upon their faces was agonising. 
 
 As they were proceeding thus, with Michael on the 
 
 VOL. I. F 
 
66 BAVENSHOE. 
 
 windward side, Charles looked up, and there was 
 another horseman beside him. He knew him directly ; 
 it was Lloyd's agent. 
 
 " Anything wrong, Mr. Lewis ? Any ship ashore ? " he 
 shouted. 
 
 " Not yet, sir," said the agent. " But there'll be many 
 a good sailor gone to the bottom before to-morrow morn- 
 ing, I am thinking. This is the heaviest gale for forty 
 years." 
 
 By degrees they descended to more sheltered valleys, 
 and after a time found themselves in the court-yard of 
 the hall. Charles was caught up by his father ; Lloyd's 
 agent was sent to the housekeeper's room ; and very 
 soon Charles had forgotten all about wind and weather, 
 and was pouring into his father's ear all his impressions 
 of Eanford. 
 
 " I am glad you like it," said Densil, " and I'll be 
 bound they liked you. You ought to have gone first ; 
 Cuthbert don't suit them." 
 
 " Oh, Cuthbert's too clever for them," said Charles ; 
 M they are not at all clever people, bless you ! " And 
 only just in time too, for Cuthbert walked into the 
 room. 
 
 " "Well, Charley," he said coolly, " so you're come 
 back. Well, and what did you think of Welter, eh ? I 
 suppose he suited you ? " 
 
 " I thought him very funny, Cuthbert," said Charles 
 timidly. 
 
 " I thought him an abominable young nuisance," said 
 
THE WARREN HASTINGS. 67 
 
 Cuthbert. "I hope he hasn't taught you any of his 
 fool's tricks." 
 
 Charles wasn't to be put oft* like this ; so he went and 
 kissed his brother, and then came back to his father. 
 There was a long dull evening, and when they went to 
 complines, he went to bed. Up in his room he could 
 hear that the wind was worse than ever, not rushing up 
 in great gusts and sinking again, as in ordinary gales, 
 but keeping up one continued unvarying scream against 
 the house, which was terrible to hear. 
 
 He got frightened at being alone ; afraid of finding 
 some ghostly thing at his elbow, which had approached 
 him unheard through the noise. He began, indeed, to 
 meditate upon going down stairs, when Cuthbert, coming 
 into the next room, reassured him, and he got into bed. 
 
 This wasn't much better though, for there was a thing 
 in a black hood came and stood at the head of his bed ; 
 and, though he could not see it, he could feel the wind 
 of its heavy draperies as it moved. Moreover, a thing 
 like a caterpillar, with a cat's head, about two feet long, 
 came creep-creeping up the counterpane ; which he 
 valiantly smote, and found it to be his handkerchief 
 — and still the unvarying roar went on till it was 
 unendurable. 
 
 He got up and went to his brother's room, and was 
 cheered to find a light burning ; he came softly in and 
 called " Cuthbert," 
 
 "Who is there?" asked he, with a sudden start. 
 
 " It's I," said Charles ; w can you sleep ? " 
 f2 
 
68 RAVENSHOE. 
 
 " Not I," said Cuthbert, sitting up. " I can hear 
 people talking in the wind. Come into bed ; I'm so 
 glad you're come." 
 
 Charles lay down by his brother, and they talked 
 about ghosts for a long time. Once their father came 
 in with a light from his bed-room next door, and sat on 
 the bed talking, as if he, too, was glad of company, and 
 after that they dozed off and slept. 
 
 It was in the grey light of morning that they awoke 
 together and started up. The wind was as bad as ever, 
 but the whole house was still, and they stared terrified 
 at one another, 
 
 " What was it ? " whispered Charles. 
 
 Cuthbert shook his head and listened again. As he 
 was opening his mouth to speak it came again, and they 
 knew it was that which woke them. A sound like a 
 single footstep on the floor above, light enough, but which 
 shook the room. Cuthbert was out of bed in an instant, 
 tearing on his clothes. Charles jumped out too, and 
 asked him, " What is it ? " 
 
 "A gun!" 
 
 Charles well knew what awful disaster was implied in 
 those words. The wind was N.W., setting into the bay. 
 The ship that fired that gun was doomed. 
 
 He heard his father leap out of bed and ring 
 furiously at his bell. Then doors began to open and 
 shut, and voices and rapid footsteps were heard in the 
 passage. In ten minutes the whole terrified household 
 were running hither and thither, about they hardly knew 
 
THE WARREN HASTINGS. 69 
 
 what. The men were pale, and some of the women were 
 beginning to whimper and wring their hands ; when 
 Densil; Lewis the agent, and Mackworth, came rapidly 
 down the staircase and passed out. Mackworth came 
 back, and told the women to put on hot water and heat 
 blankets. Then Cuthbert joined him, and they went 
 together; and directly after Charles found himself between 
 two men-servants, being dragged rapidly along towards 
 the low headland which bounded the bay on the east. 
 
 When they came to the beach, they found the whole 
 village pushing on in a long straggling line the same 
 way as themselves. The men were walking singly, 
 either running, or going very fast ; and the women wore 
 in knots of twos and threes, straggling along and talking 
 excitedly, with much gesticulation. 
 
 "There's some of the elect on board, I'll be bound," 
 Charles heard one woman say, " as will be supping in 
 glory this blessed night." 
 
 " Ay, ay," said an old woman, " I'd sooner be taken to 
 rest sudden, like they're going to be, than drag on till all 
 the faces you know are gone before." 
 
 " My boy," said another, " was lost in a typhoon in the 
 China sea. Darn they lousy typhoons ! I wonder if he 
 thought of his mother afore he went down." 
 
 Among such conversation as this, with the terrible, 
 ceaseless thunder of the surf upon his left, Charles, 
 clinging tight to his two guardians, made the best 
 weather of it he could, until they found themselves on 
 the short turf of the promontory, with their faces sea- 
 
70 RAVENSHOE. 
 
 ward, and the water right and left of thern. The cape 
 ran out about a third of a mile, rather low, and then 
 abruptly ended in a cone of slate, beyond which, about 
 two hundred yards at sea, was that terrible sunken 
 rock, " the Wolf," on to which, as sure as death, the 
 flowing tide carried every stick which was embayed. 
 The tide was making ; a ship was known to be some- 
 where in the bay ; it was blowing a hurricane ; and 
 what would you more ? 
 
 They hurried along as well as they could among the 
 sharp slates which rose through the turf, until they 
 came to where the people had halted. Charles saw his 
 father, the agent, Mackworth, and Cuthbert together, 
 under a rock ; the villagers were standing around, and 
 the crowd was thickening every moment. Every one 
 had his hand over his eyes, and was peering due to 
 windward, through the driving scud. 
 
 They had stopped at the foot of the cone, which was 
 between them and the sea, and some more adventurous 
 had climbed partly up it, if, perhaps, they might see 
 further than their fellows ; but in vain : they all saw 
 and heard the same — a blinding white cauldron of wind- 
 driven spray below, and all around, filling every cranny 
 — the howling storm. 
 
 A quarter of an hour since she fired last, and no signs 
 of her yet. She must be carrying canvas and struggling 
 for life, ignorant of the four-knot stream. Some one 
 says she may have gone down — hush ! who spoke ? 
 
 Old Sam Evans had spoken. He had laid his hand 
 
THE WARREN HASTINGS. 71 
 
 on the squire's shoulder, and said, " There she is." And 
 hen arose a hubbub of talking from the men, and every 
 one crowded on his neighbour and tried to get nearer. 
 And the women moved hurriedly about, some moaning 
 to themselves, and some saying, " Ah, poor dear ! " " Ah, 
 dear Lord '. there she is, sure enough." 
 
 She hove in sight so rapidly that, almost as soon as 
 they could be sure of a dark object, they saw that it 
 was a ship — a great .ship about 900 tons ; that she was 
 dismasted, and that her decks were crowded. T 
 could see that she was unmanageable, turning her 
 head hither and thither as the sea struck her, and 
 that her people had seen the cliff at the same moment, 
 for they were hurrying aft, and crowding on to the 
 bulwarks. 
 
 Charles and his guardians crept up to his father's party. 
 Densil was standing silent, looking on the lamentable 
 sight ; and, as Charles looked at him, he saw a tear run 
 down his cheek, and heard him say, " Poor fellows ! " 
 Cuthbert stood staring intently at the ship, with his 
 lips slightly parted. Mackwprth, like one who studies 
 a picture, held his elbow in one hand, and kept the other 
 over his mouth ; and the agent cried out, " A troop-ship, 
 by gad. Dear ! dear ! " 
 
 It is a sad sight to see a fine ship beyond control. It 
 is like seeing one one loves gone mad. Sad under any 
 circumstances ; how terrible it is when she is bearing on 
 with her in her mad Bacchante's dance a freight of 
 living human creatures, to untimely destruction ! 
 
72 RAVENSHOE. 
 
 As each terrible feature and circumstance of the 
 catastrophe became apparent to the lookers-on, the ex- 
 citement became more intense. Forward and in the 
 waist, there was a considerable body of seamen clustered 
 about under the bulwarks — some half-stripped. In 
 front of the cuddy door, between the poop and the 
 mainmast, about forty soldiers were drawn up, with 
 whom were three officers, to be distinguished by their 
 blue coats and swords. On the quarter-deck were seven 
 or eight women, two apparently ladies, one of whom 
 carried a baby. A well-dressed man, evidently the 
 captain, was with them ; but the cynosure of all eyes 
 was a tall man in white trousers, at once and correctly 
 judged to be the mate, who carried in his arms a little 
 girl. 
 
 The ship was going straight upon the rock, now only 
 marked as a whiter spot upon the whitened sea, and she 
 was fearfully near it, rolling and pitching, turning her 
 head hither and thither, fighting for her life. She had 
 taken comparatively little water on board as yet ; but 
 now a great sea struck her forward, and she swung with 
 her bow towards the rock, from which she was distant 
 not a hundred yards. The end was coming. Charles saw 
 the mate slip off his coat and shirt, and take the little 
 girl again. He saw the lady with the baby rise very 
 quietly and look forward ; he saw the sailors climbing 
 on the bulwarks ; he saw the soldiers standing steady 
 in two scarlet lines across the deck; he saw the 
 officers wave their hands to one another, and then he 
 
THE WARREN HASTINGS. 73 
 
 hid his face in his hands, and sobbed as if his heart 
 would break. 
 
 They told him after how the end had come ; she had 
 lifted up her bows defiantly, and brought them crashing 
 down upon the pitiless rock as though in despair. Then 
 her stern had swung round, and a merciful sea broke 
 over her, and hid her from their view, though above the 
 storm they plainly heard her brave old timbers crack ; 
 then she floated off, with bulwarks gone, sinking, and 
 drifted out of sight round the headland, and, though they 
 raced across the headland, and waited a few breathless 
 minutes for her to float round into sight again, they 
 never saw her any more. The Warren Hastings had 
 gone down in fifteen fathom. And now there was a new 
 passion introduced into the tragedy, to which it had 
 hitherto been a stranger — Hope. The wreck of part of 
 the mainmast and half the main-topmast, which they 
 had seen, before she struck, lumbering the deck, had 
 floated off, and there were three, four, five men clinging 
 to the futtock shrouds ; and then, they saw the mate 
 with the child hoist himself on to the spar, and part his 
 dripping hair from his eyes. 
 
 The spar had floated into the bay, into which they 
 were looking, into much calmer water ; but, directly to 
 leeward, the swell was tearing at the black slate rocks, 
 and in ten minutes it would be on them. Every man 
 saw the danger, and Densil, running down to the water's 
 edge, cried — 
 
 " Fifty pound to any one who will take 'em a 
 
74 RAVENSHOE. 
 
 rope ! Fifty gold sovereigns down to-night ! Who's 
 going ? " 
 
 Jim Matthews was going, and had been going before 
 he heard of the fifty pound — that was evident ; for he 
 was stripped, and out on the rocks with the rope round 
 his waist. He stepped from the bank of slippery sea- 
 weed into the heaving water, and then his magnificent 
 limbs were in full battle with the tide. A roar 
 announced his success. As he was seen clambering on 
 to the spar, a stouter rope was paid out ; and very soon 
 it and its burden were high and dry upon the little half- 
 moon of sand which ended the bay. 
 
 Five sailors, the first mate, and a bright-eyed little 
 girl were their precious prize. The sailors lay about 
 upon the sand, and the mate, untying the shawl that 
 bound her to him, put the silent and frightened child 
 into the hands of a woman who stood close by. 
 
 The poor little thing was trembling in every limb. 
 " If you please," she said to the woman, " I should like 
 to go to mamma. She is standing with baby on the 
 quarter-deck. Mr. Archer, will you take me back to 
 mamma, please? She will be frightened if we stay 
 away." 
 
 " Well, a deary me," said the honest woman, " she'll 
 break my heart, a darling ; mamma's in heaven, my 
 tender, and baby too." 
 
 " No, indeed," said the child, eagerly ; " she's on the 
 quarter-deck. Mr. Archer, Mr. Archer ! " 
 
 The mate, a tall, brawny, whiskerless, hard-faced 
 
THE WARREN HASTINGS. 75 
 
 man, about six-and-twenty, who had been thrust into a 
 pea-coat, now approached. 
 
 " Where's mamma, Mr. Archer ? " said the child. 
 
 " Where's mamma, my lady-bird ? Oh, dear ! oh, 
 dear ! " 
 
 " And where's the ship, and Captain Dixon, and the 
 soldiers ? " 
 
 " The ship, my pretty love," said the mate, putting his 
 rough hand on the child's wet hair; "why the good 
 ship, Warren Hastings, Dixon master, is a-sunk beneath 
 the briny waves, my darling ; and all on board of her, 
 being good sailors and brave soldiers, is doubtless at 
 this moment in glory." 
 
 The poor little thing set up a low wailing cry, which 
 went to the hearts of all present ; then the women 
 carried her away, and the mate, walking between 
 Mackworth and Densil, headed the procession home- 
 ward to the halL 
 
 " She was the Warren Hastings, of 900 tons," he said, 
 "from Calcutta, with a detachment of the 120th on 
 board. The old story — dismasted, both anchors down, 
 cables parted, and so on. And now I expect you know 
 as much as I do. This little girl is daughter to Captain 
 Corby, in command of the troops. She was always a 
 favourite of mine, and I determined to get her through. 
 How steady those sojers stood, by jingo, as though they 
 were on parade. Well, I always th ought something 
 was going to happen, for we had never a quarrel the 
 whole voyage, and that's curious with troops. Capital 
 
76 EAVENSHOE. 
 
 crow, too. Ah, well, they arc comfortable enough now, 
 eh, sir?" 
 
 That night the mate arose from his bed like a giant 
 refreshed with wine, and posted off to Bristol to " her 
 owners," followed by a letter from Densil, and another 
 from Lloyd's agent, of such a nature that he found 
 himself in command of a ship in less than a month. 
 Periodically, unto this day, there arrive at Raven shoe, 
 bows and arrows (supposed to be poisoned), paddles, 
 punkahs, rice-paper screens ; a malignant kind of pickle, 
 which causeth the bowels of him that eateth of it to 
 burn ; wicked-looking old gods of wood and stone ; 
 models of Juggernaut's car ; brown earthenware moon- 
 shees, translating glazed porcelain bibles ; and many 
 other Indian curiosities, all of which are imported and 
 presented by the kind-hearted Archer. 
 
 In a fortnight the sailors were gone, and save a dozen 
 or so of new graves in the churchyard, nothing remained 
 to tell of the Warren Hastings but the little girl saved 
 so miraculously — little Mary Corby. 
 
 She had been handed over at once to the care of the 
 kind-hearted Norah, Charles's nurse, who instantaneously 
 loved her with all her great warm heart, and about three 
 weeks after the wreck gave Charles these particulars 
 about her, when he went to pay her a visit in the cottage 
 behind the kennels. 
 
 After having hugged him violently, and kissed him 
 till he laughingly refused to let her do it again till she 
 had told him the news, she began — " The beauty-boy, 
 
THE WARREN HASTINGS. 77 
 
 he gets handsomer every day " (this might be true, but 
 there was great room for improvement yet), " and comes 
 and sees his old nurse, and who loves him so well, 
 alanna? It's little I can tell ye about the little girl, 
 me darlin'. She's nine years old, and a heretic, like yer 
 own darlin' self, and who's to gainsay ye from it ? She's 
 book-learned enough, and play she says she can, and I 
 axed her would she like to live in the great house, and 
 she said no. She liked me, and wanted to stay with 
 me. She cries about her mother, a dear, but not so 
 much as she did, and she's now inside and asleep. 
 Come here, Avick." 
 
 She bent down her handsome face to Charles's ear, 
 and whispered, " If my boy was looking out for a little 
 wee fairy wife, eh ? " 
 
 Charles shook his hair, and laughed, and there and 
 then told Xorah all about Adelaide, which attachment 
 Norah highly approved of, and remarked that he'd 
 be old enough to be married before he knew where 
 he was. 
 
 In spite of Densil's letters and inquiries, no friends 
 came forward to claim little Mary. Uncle Corby, when 
 in possession of facts, was far too much a man of busi- 
 ness to do anything of the kind. In a very short time 
 Densil gave up inquiring, and then he began dreading 
 lest she should be taken from him, for he had got 
 wonderfully fond of the quiet, pale, bright-eyed little 
 creature. In three months she was considered as a 
 permanent member of the household, and the night 
 
78 RAVENSHOE. 
 
 before Charles went to school he told her of his grand 
 passion. His lordship considered this step showed deep 
 knowledge of the world, as it would have the effect of 
 crashing in the bud any rash hopes which Mary might 
 have conceived ; and, having made this provision for 
 her peace of mind, he straightway departed to Shrews- 
 bury school. 
 
CHARLES AT THE UNIVERSITY. 79 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 IN WHICH CHARLES AND LORD WELTER DISTINGUISH 
 THEMSELVES AT THE UNIVERSITY. 
 
 It is a curious sensation, that of meeting, as a young 
 man of two or three and twenty, a man one has last 
 seen as a little lad of ten, or thereabouts. One is 
 almost in a way disappointed. You may be asked out 
 to dinner to meet a man called, say, Jones (or if you 
 like the name better, Delamere D'Eresby), whom you 
 believe to be your old friend Jones, and whom you 
 have not seen for a month or so ; and on getting to the 
 house find it is not your Jones at all, but another Jones 
 whom you don't know. He may be cleverer, handsomer, 
 more agreeable than your old friend — a man whom you 
 are glad to know ; and yet you are disappointed. You 
 don't meet the man you expected, and are rather dis- 
 posed to be prejudiced against his representative. 
 
 So it is when you meet a friend in manhood whom 
 you have not seen since you were at school. You have 
 been picturing to yourself the sort of man your friend 
 must have developed into, and you find him different 
 from what you thought. So, instead of foregathering 
 with an old friend, you discover that you have to make 
 a new acquaintance. 
 
80 RAVBNSHOB. 
 
 You will now have to resume the acquaintance of 
 Charles Eavenshoe at two and twenty. I hope you will not 
 be much disappointed in him. He was a very nice boy, if 
 you remember, and you will see immediately that he has 
 developed into a very nice young man indeed. It is 
 possible that I may not be about to introduce him to you 
 under the most favourable circumstances; but he created 
 those circumstances for himself, and must abide by them. 
 As it is not my intention to follow him through any 
 part of his University life, but only to resume his 
 history when he quits it, so it becomes imperatively 
 necessary upon me to state, without any sort of disguise, 
 the reason why he did leave it. And, as two or three 
 other important characters in the story had something 
 to do with it, I shall do so more at length than would 
 at first seem necessary. 
 
 It was nine o'clock on the 6th of November. The 
 sun, which had been doing duty for her Majesty all 
 night at Calcutta, Sydney, &c, had by this time reached 
 Oxford, and was shining aslant into two pretty little 
 Gothic windows in the inner, or library quadrangle of 
 St. Paul's College, and illuminating the features of a 
 young man who was standing in the middle of the room 
 and scratching his head. 
 
 He was a stout-built fellow, not particularly hand- 
 some, but with a very pleasing face. His hair was very 
 dark brown, short, and^ curling ; his forehead was broad 
 and open, and below it were two uncommonly pleasant- 
 looking dark grey eyes. His face was rather marked, 
 
CHARLES AT THE UNIVERSITY. 8] 
 
 his nose very slightly aquiline, and plenty of it, his 
 mouth large and good-humoured, which, when opened to 
 laugh, as it very frequently was, showed a splendid set 
 of white teeth, which were well contrasted with a fine 
 healthy brown and red complexion. Altogether a very 
 pleasant young fellow to look on, and looking none the 
 worse just now, for an expression of droll perplexity, 
 not unmixed with a certain amount of terror, which he 
 had on his face. 
 
 It was Charles Eavenshoe. 
 
 He stood in his shirt and trousers only, in the midst 
 of a scene of desolation so awful, that I who have had 
 to describe some of the most terrible scenes and circum- 
 stances conceivable, pause, before attempting to give any 
 idea of it in black and white. Every moveable article 
 in the room — furniture, crockery, fender, fire-irons — lay 
 in one vast heap of broken confusion in the corner of 
 the room. Not a pane of glass remained in the win- 
 dows ; the bedroom door was broken down ; and the 
 door which opened into the corridor was minus the two 
 upper panels. Well might Charles Eavenshoe stand 
 there and scratch his head. 
 
 " By George," he said at last, soliloquising, " how 
 deuced lucky it is that I never get drunk. If I had 
 been screwed last night, those fellows would have burnt 
 the college down. AVhat a devil that Welter is when 
 he gets drink into him ; and Marlow is not much better. 
 The fellows were mad with fighting, too. I wish thev 
 hadn't come here and made hay afterwards. There'll be 
 
 VOE. I. 
 
82 BAVENSHOE. 
 
 an awful row about this. It's all up, I am afraid. It's 
 impossible to say, though." 
 
 At this moment, a man appeared in the passage, and, 
 looking in through the broken door, as if from a witness- 
 box, announced, " Tbe dean wishes to see you at once, 
 sir." And exit. 
 
 Charles replied by using an expression then just 
 coming into use among our youth, " All serene ! " dressed 
 himself by putting on a pilot coat, a pair of boots, and 
 a cap and gown, and with a sigh descended into the 
 quadrangle. 
 
 There w^ere a good many men about, gathered in 
 groups. The same subject was in everybody's mouth. 
 There had been, the night before, without warning or 
 apparent cause, the most frightful disturbance which, 
 in the opinion of the porter, had graced the college for 
 fifty years. It had begun suddenly at half-past twelve, 
 and had been continued till three. The dons had been 
 afraid to come and interfere, the noise was so terrible. 
 Five out-college men had knocked out at a quarter to 
 three, refusing to give any name but the dean's. A 
 rocket had been let up, and a five-barrel revolver had 
 been let off, and — Charles Ravenshoe had been sent for. 
 
 A party of young gentlemen, who looked very seedy 
 and guilty, stood in his way, and as he came up shook 
 their heads sorrowfully ; one, a tall one, with large 
 whiskers, sat down in the gravel walk, and made as 
 though he would have cast dust upon his head. 
 
 "This is a bad job, Charley," said one of them. 
 
I H WILES AT THE UNIVERSITY. 83 
 
 ■ Some heads must fall," said Charles ; " I hope mine 
 is not among the number. Bather a shame if it is, eh V* 
 
 The man with the big whiskers shook his head. "The 
 state of your room," he said. 
 
 " Who has seen it % " eagerly asked Charles. 
 
 " Sleeping innocent," replied the other, " the porter 
 was up there by eight o'clock, and at half-past the dean 
 himself was gazing on your unconscious face as you lay 
 peacefully sleeping in the arms of desolation." 
 
 Charles whistled long and loud, and proceeded with a 
 sinking heart towards the dean's rooms. 
 
 A tall pale man, with a hard, marked countenance, 
 was sitting at his breakfast, who, as soon as he saw his 
 visitor, regarded him with the greatest interest, and 
 buttered a piece of toast. 
 
 " Well, Mr. Eavenshoe," was his remark. 
 
 " I believe you sent for me, sir," said Charles, adding 
 to himself, * Confound you, you cruel old brute, you are 
 amusing yourself with my tortures." 
 
 " This is a pretty business," said the deaa 
 
 Charles would be glad to know to what he alluded. 
 
 " Well," said the dean, laughing, " I don't exactly 
 know where to begin. However, I am not sure it much 
 matters. You will be wanted in the common room at 
 two. The proctor has sent for your character also. 
 Altogether, I congratulate you. Your career at the 
 University has been brilliant; but, your orbit being 
 highly elliptical, it is to be feared that you will remain 
 but a short time above the horizon. Good morning" 
 
 2 
 
84- RAVENSHOE. 
 
 Charles rejoined the eager knot of friends outside ; 
 and, when he spoke the awful word "common room," 
 every countenance wore a look of dismay. Five more, 
 it appeared, were sent for, and three were wanted by the 
 proctor at eleven. It was a disastrous morning, 
 
 There was a large breakfast in the rooms of the man 
 with the whiskers, to which all the unfortunates were of 
 course going. One or two were in a state of badly con- 
 cealed terror, and fidgetted and were peevish, until they 
 got slightly tipsy. Others laughed a good deal, rather 
 nervously, and took the thing pluckily— the terror was 
 there, but they fought against it ; but the behaviour of 
 Charles extorted applause from everybody. He was as 
 cool and as merry as if he was just going down for the 
 long vacation ; he gave the most comical account of the 
 whole proceedings last night from beginning to end, as 
 he was well competent to do, being the only sober man 
 who had witnessed them ; he ate heartily and laughed 
 naturally, to the admiration of every one. 
 
 One of the poor fellows who had shown greatest 
 signs of terror, and who was as near crying as lie could 
 possibly be without actually doing so, looked up and 
 complimented him on his courage, with an oath. 
 
 " In me, my dear Dick," said Charles, good-naturedly, 
 • you see the courage of despair. Had I half your 
 chances I should be as bad as you. I know there are 
 but a few more ceremonies to be gone through, and 
 then — " 
 
 The other rose and left the room. " Well," said he, 
 
( SABLES AT THE r.'lViJ: 85 
 
 lit, with a choking voice, " I i ... t my old 
 
 riior will cut his throat 01 something; I'm fifteen 
 
 bandied in debt" And bo the dooi closed on the poor 
 
 lad, and the | 
 
 There came in now a young man, to whom I wish 
 dally t<> call your attention. He was an ordinary 
 young man enough, in tin; morning livery of a groom. 
 He was a moderately well-looking ;■ ad there 
 
 seems at first oothing in any way remarkable about him. 
 But look at him again, and you are struck with a resem- 
 blance to .-,om^ one you know, and yet at first you 
 hardly know to whom. It is not decidedly, either, in 
 any one feature, and you are puzzled for a time, till you 
 come to the cone] at every one else does. That 
 
 man is a handsome Ih. Ravenshoe. 
 
 This is OharL r-brother William, whom we 
 
 saw on a former occasion taking refreshment with that 
 young gentleman, and who had for some 4 time he-en 
 elevated to the rank of Mr, Charles's "lad.* \ht had 
 come for orders, 
 
 Tlr no orders hut to exercise the hoi 
 
 Charles believed ; he would tell him in the afternoon if 
 there were, he added sorrowfully. 
 
 " I saw Lord Welter coining away from the proctor's, 
 sir," said William, " Ho told me to ask what train you 
 were going down by. His lordship told me to say, sir, 
 that Lord Welter of Christchurch would leave tin,- Uni- 
 ty at twelve to-morrow, and would not come into 
 residence a^ain till next Michaelmas term" 
 
86 EAVENSHOE. 
 
 " By Jove," said Charles, " he has got a dose ! I 
 didn't think they'd have given him a year. Well, here 
 goes." 
 
 Charles went to the proctor's, but his troubles there 
 were not so severe as he had expected. He had been 
 seen fighting several times during the evening, but half 
 the University had been doing the same. He had been 
 sent home three times, and had reappeared ; that was 
 nothing so very bad. On his word of honour he had 
 not tripped up the marshal ; Brown himself thought he 
 must have slipped on a piece of orange peel. Altogether 
 it came to this ; that Ravenshoe of Paul's had better be 
 in by nine for the rest of term, and mind what he was 
 about for the future. 
 
 But the common room at two was the thing by which 
 poor Charles was to stand or fall. There were terrible 
 odds against him — the master and six tutors. It was 
 no use, he said, sniveling, or funking the thing ; so he 
 went in to do battle valiantly. 
 
 The Master opened the ball, in a voice suggestive of 
 mild remonstrance. In all his experience of college life, 
 extending over a period of forty-live years, he had never 
 even heard of proceedings so insubordinate, so unparal- 
 leled, so — so — monstrous, as had taken place the night 
 before, in a college only a twelvemonth ago considered 
 to be the quietest in the University. A work of fiction 
 of a low and vicious tendency, professing to describe 
 scenes of headlong riot and debauchery at the sister 
 University, called, he believed, " Peter Priggins," had 
 
CHAELES AT THE UNIVERSITY. 87 
 
 been written, and was, lie understood, greatly read by 
 the youth of both seats of learning ; but he was given to 
 understand that the worst described in that book sank 
 into nothing, actually dwindled into insignificance, 
 before last night's proceedings. It appeared, he con- 
 tinued referring to a paper through his gold eye-glasses), 
 that at half-past twelve a band of intoxicated and 
 frantic young men had rushed howling into the college, 
 refusing to give their names to the porter (among wdioni 
 was recognised Mr. Eavenshoe) ; that from that moment 
 a scene of brutal riot had commenced in the usually 
 peaceful quadrangle, and had continued till half-past 
 three ; loaded weapons had been resorted to, and fire- 
 works had been exhibited ; and, finally, that five 
 members of another college had knocked out at half- 
 three, stating to the poller (without the slightest 
 foundation) that they had been having tea with the 
 dean. Xow you know, really and truly, it simply 
 resolved itself into this. Were the}- going to keep St. 
 Paul's College open, or were they not ? If the institu- 
 tion which had flourished now for above five hundred 
 years was to continue to receive undergraduates, the 
 disturbers of last night must be sternly eliminated. In 
 the last case of this kind, where a man was only con- 
 vict ••< I of — eli, Mr. Dean? — pump handle — thank you — 
 was only convicted of playfully secreting the handle of 
 the college pump, rustication had been inflicted. In 
 this case the college would do its duty, however 
 painful. 
 
88 RAVENSHOE. 
 
 diaries was understood to say that he was quite 
 sober, and had tried to keep the fellows out of 
 mischief. 
 
 The Master believed Mr. Eavenshoe would hardly 
 deny having let off a rocket on the grass-plat. 
 
 Charles was ill advised enough to say that he did it 
 to keep the fellows quiet ; but the excuse fell dead, and 
 there was a slight pause. After which, 
 
 The Dean rose, with his hands in his pockets, and 
 remarked that this sort of thing was all mighty fine, 
 you know ; but they weren't going to stand it, and the 
 sooner this was understood the better. He, for one, as 
 long as he remained dean of that college, was not going 
 to have a parcel of drunken young idiots making a row 
 under his windows at all hours in the morning. He 
 should have come out himself last night, but that he 
 was afraid, positively afraid, of personal violence ; and 
 the odds were too heavy against him. He, for one, did 
 not want more words about it. He allowed the fact of 
 Mr. Eavenshoe being perfectly sober, though whether 
 that could be pleaded in extenuation was very doubtful 
 (Did you speak, Mr. Bursar? No. I beg pardon, I 
 thought you did.) He proposed that Mr. Eavenshoe 
 should be rusticated for a year, and that the Dean of 
 Christchurch should be informed that Lord Welter was 
 one of the most active of the rioters. That promising 
 young nobleman had done them the honour to create a 
 disturbance in the college on a previous occasion, when 
 he was, as last night, the guest of Mr. Eavenshoe. 
 
CHABLES AT THE UNIVERSITY. 89 
 
 Charles said that Lord Welter had been rusticated for 
 a year. 
 
 The Dean was excessively glad to hear it, and hoped 
 that he would stay at home and give his family the 
 benefit of his high spirits. As there were five other 
 gentlemen to come before them he would suggest that 
 they should come to a determination. 
 
 The Bursar thought that Mr. Eavenshoe's plea of 
 sobriety should be taken in extenuation. Air. Eavenshoe 
 had never been previously accused of having resorted 
 to stimulants. He thought it should be taken in ex- 
 tenuation. 
 
 The Dean was sorry to be of a diametrically opposite 
 opinion. 
 
 No one else taking up the cudgels for poor Charles, 
 the Master said he was afraid he must rusticate him. 
 
 Charles said he hoped they wouldn't. * 
 
 The DEAN gave a short laugh, and said that if that 
 was all he had to say he might as well have held 
 his tongue. And then the Master pronounced sentence 
 of rustication for a year, and Charles, having bowed, 
 withdrew. 
 
90 RAVEXSHOE. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 JOHN MARSTOK 
 
 Charles returned to his room, a little easier in his mind 
 than when he left it. There still remained one dreadful 
 business to get over — the worst of all ; that of letting his 
 father know. Non-University men sneer at rustication ; 
 they can't see any particular punishment in having to 
 absent yourself from your studies for a term or two. 
 But do they think that the Dons don't know what they 
 are about ? Why, nine spirited young fellows out of ten 
 would snap their fingers at rustication, if it wasn't for 
 the home business. It is breaking the matter to the 
 father, his just anger, and his mother's still more bitter 
 reproaches. It must all come out, the why and the 
 wherefore, without concealment or palliation. The 
 college write a letter to justify themselves, and then a 
 mine of deceit is sprung under the parents' feet, and 
 their eyes are opened to things they little dreamt of. 
 This, it appears, is not the first offence. The college has 
 been long-suffering, and has pardoned when it should 
 have punished repeatedly. The lad who was thought to 
 be doing so well, has been leading a dissipated, riotous 
 life, and deceiving them all. This is the bitterest blow 
 they have ever had. How can they ever trust him 
 
JOHN MARSTON. 91 
 
 again? — And so the wound takes long to heal, and 
 sometimes is never healed at all. That is the meaning 
 of rustication. 
 
 A majority of young fellows at the University deceive 
 their parents, especially if they come of serious houses. 
 It is almost forced upon them sometimes, and in all 
 cases the temptation is strong. It is very unwise to ask 
 too many questions. Home questions are, in some cases, 
 unpardonable. A son can't tell a father, as one man can 
 tell another, to mind his own business. No. The father 
 asks the question suddenly, and the son lies, perhaps, 
 for the first time in his life. If he told the truth his 
 father would knock him down. 
 
 Now Charles was a little better off than most young 
 fellows in this respect. He knew his father would scold 
 about the rustication, and still more at his being in 
 debt. He wasn't much afraid of his father's anger. 
 They two had always been too familiar to be much 
 afraid of one another. He was much more afraid of the 
 sarcasms of Mackworth, and he not a little dreaded his 
 brother ; but with regard to his father he felt but slight 
 uneasint 
 
 He found his scout and his servant William trying 
 to get the room into some order, but it was hopeless. 
 William looked up with a blank face as lie came in, and 
 said — 
 
 " We can't do no good, sir ; I'd better go for Herbert's 
 man, I suppose ? " 
 
 " You may go, William," said Charles, " to the stables, 
 
92 RAVENSHOE. 
 
 and prepare my horses fur a journey. Ward, you may 
 pack up my things, as I go down to-morrow. I am 
 rusticated." 
 
 They both looked very blank, especially William, 
 who, after a long pause, said — 
 
 " I was afraid of something happening yesterday after 
 Hall, when I see my lord — " here William paused 
 abruptly, and, looking up, touched his head to some one 
 who stood in the doorway. 
 
 It was a well-dressed, well-looking young man of 
 about Charles's age, with a handsome, hairless, florid 
 face, and short, light hair. Handsome though his face 
 was, it was hardly pleasing in consequence of a certain 
 lowering of the eyebrow's which he indulged in every 
 moment — as often, indeed, as he looked at any one — and 
 also of a slight cynical curl at the corners of v the mouth. 
 There was nothing else noticeable about Lord Welter 
 except his appearance of great personal strength, for 
 which he was somewhat famous. 
 
 " Hallo, Welter ! " shouted Charles, " yesterday was 
 an era in the annals of intoxication. Nobody ever was 
 so drunk as you. I did all I could for you, more fool I, 
 for things couldn't be worse than they are, and might be 
 better. If I had gone to bed instead of looking after 
 you I shouldn't have been rusticated." 
 
 " I'm deuced sorry, Charley, I am, 'pon my soul. It 
 is all my confounded folly, and I shall write to your 
 father and say so. You are coming home with me, of 
 course?" 
 
JOHN MAESTON. 93 
 
 " By Jove, I never thought of it. That wouldn't be a 
 bad plan, eh ? I might write from Eanford, you know. 
 Yes, I think I'll say yes. William, you can take the 
 horses over to-morrow. That is a splendid idea of yours. 
 I was thinking of going to London." 
 
 " Hang London in the hunting season," said Lord 
 Welter. " By George, how the governor will blow up. 
 I wonder what my grandmother will say. Somebody 
 has told her the world is coming to an end next year. 
 I hope there'll be another Derby. She lias cut homoeo- 
 pathy and taken to vegetable practice. She has deuced 
 near slaughtered her maid with an over-dose of Linum 
 Cathartieum, as she calls it. She goes digging about in 
 waste places like a witch, with a big footman to carry 
 the spade. She is a good old body though ; hanged if 
 she ain't."' 
 
 "What does Adelaide think of the change in Lady 
 Ascot's opinions, medical and religious ? " 
 
 " She don't care, bless you. She laughs about the 
 world coming to an end, and, as for the physic, she won't 
 stand that. She has pretty much her own way with 
 the old lady, I can tell you, and with every one else, as 
 far as that goes. She is an imperious little body ; I'm 
 afraid of her. — How do, Marston?" 
 
 This was said to a small, neatly-dressed, quiet-looking 
 man, with a shrewd, pleasant face, who appeared at this 
 moment looking very grave. He returned "Welter's 
 salutation, and that gentleman sauntered out of the 
 room after having engaged Charles to dinner at the Cross 
 
94 RAVENSHOE. 
 
 at six. The new comer then sat down by Charles, and 
 looked sorrowfully in his face. 
 
 " So it has come to this, my poor boy," said lie, " and 
 only two days after our good resolutions. Charley, do 
 you know what Issachar was like ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " He was like a strong ass stooping between two bur- 
 dens," replied the other, laughing. " I know somebody 
 who is, oh, so very like him. I know a fellow who 
 could do capitally in the schools and in the world, who 
 is now always either lolling about reading novels, or else 
 flying off in the opposite extreme, and running, or 
 riding, or rowing like a madman. Those are his two 
 burdens, and he is a dear old ass also, whom it is 
 very hard to scold, even when one is furiously angry 
 with him." 
 
 " It's all true,. Marston ; it's all true as Gospel," said 
 Charles. 
 
 "Look how well you did at Shrewsbury," continued 
 Marston, " when you w^ere forced to work. And now, 
 you haven't opened a book for a year. Why don't you 
 have some object in life, old fellow ? Tiy to be captain 
 of the University Eight or the Eleven ; get a good 
 degree ; anything. Think of last Easter vacation, 
 Charley. Well, then, 1 won't Be sure that pot- 
 house work won't do. What earthly pleasure can there 
 be in herding with men of that class, your inferiors in 
 everything except strength? and you who can talk quite 
 well enough for any society?" 
 
.tmjix marstox. 95 
 
 " It ain't my fault," broke in Charles, pitcously. " It's 
 a good deal more the fault of the men I'm with. That 
 Easter vacation business was planned by Welter. He 
 wore a velveteen shooting- coat and knee-breeches, and 
 called himself — " 
 
 " That will do, Charley ; I don't want to hear any of 
 that gentleman's performances. I entertain the strongest 
 personal dislike for him. He leads you into all your 
 mischief. You often quarrel ; why don't you break with 
 him?" 
 
 " I can't." 
 
 " Because he is a distant relation ? Nonsense. Your 
 brother never speaks to him." 
 
 " It isn't that." 
 
 " Do you owe him money ? " 
 
 " No, it's the other way, by Jove ! I can't break with 
 that man. I can't lose the run of Banford. I must cr 
 
 o 
 
 there. There's a girl there I care about more than all 
 the world beside ; if I don't see her I shall go mad." 
 
 Marston looked very thoughtful. "You never told 
 
 me of this," he said ; and she has she has refused 
 
 you, I suppose ? " 
 
 " Ay ! how did you guess that ? " 
 
 " By my mother wit. I didn't suppose that Charles 
 Bavenshoe would have gone on as he has, under other 
 circumstances." 
 
 " I fell in love with her," said Charley, rocking him- 
 self to and fro, " when she was a child. I have never 
 had another love but her; and the last time I left 
 
yb RAVEN8H0E. 
 
 Eanford I asked lier — you know — and she laughed in 
 
 my face, and said we were getting too old for that sort 
 of nonsense. And, when T swore I was in earnest, she 
 only laughed the more. And I'm a desperate beggar, by 
 Jove, and I'll go and enlist, by Jove." 
 
 " What a brillant idea ! " said Marston. " Don't be 
 a fool, Charley. Is this girl a great lady ? " 
 
 " Great lady ! Lord bless you, no ; she's a dependant, 
 without a sixpence/' 
 
 " Begin all over again with her. Let her alone a 
 little. Perhaps you took too much for granted, and 
 offended her. Very likely she has got tired of you. By 
 your own confession you have been making love to her 
 for ten years ; that must be a great bore for a girl, you 
 know. I suppose you are thinking of going to Eanford, 
 now ? " 
 
 " Yes. I am going for a time." 
 
 " The worst place you could go to : much better go 
 home to your father. Yours is a quiet, staid, whole- 
 some house, not such a bear-garden as the other place — 
 but, let us change the subject, I am sent after you." 
 
 "By whom?" 
 Musgrave. The University Eight is going down, 
 and he wants you to row four. The match with Cam- 
 bridge is made up." 
 
 "Oh, hang it!" said poor Charles; "I can't show 
 after this business. Get a waterman ; do, Marston. 
 They will know all about it by this time." 
 
 "Nay, I want you to come ; do come, Charles. I want 
 
JOHN MARSTON. 97 
 
 you to contrast these men with the fellows you were 
 with last night, and to see what an effect three such 
 gentlemen and scholars as Dixon, Hunt, and Smith 
 have in raising the tone of the men they are thrown 
 among." 
 
 On the barge Charles met the others of the Eight — 
 quiet, staid, gentlemanly men, every one of whom knew 
 what had happened, and was more than usually polite 
 in consequence. Musgrave, the captain, received him 
 with manly courtesy. He was sorry to hear Eavenshoe 
 was going down — had hoped to have had him in the 
 Eight at Easter ; however, it couldn't be helped ; hoped 
 to get him at Henley ; and so on. The others were 
 very courteous too, and Charles soon began to find that 
 he himself was talking in a different tone of voice, and 
 using different language from that which he would have 
 been using in his cousin's rooms ; and he confessed this 
 to Marston that night. 
 
 Meanwhile the University Eight, with the little blue 
 flag at her bows, went rushing down the river on her 
 splendid course. Past heavy barges and fairy skiffs ; 
 past men in dingys, who ran high and dry on the bank, 
 to get out of the way ; and groups of dandys, who ran 
 with them for a time. And before any man was warm — 
 Iffley. Then across the broad mill-pool, and through the 
 deep crooks, out into the broads, and past the withered 
 beds of reeds which told of coming winter. Bridges, 
 and a rushing lasher — Sandford. No rest here. Out 
 of the dripping well-like lock. Get your oars out and 
 
 VOL. I. H 
 
98 KAYENSHOE. 
 
 away again, past the yellowing willows, past the long 
 wild grey meadows, swept by the singing autumn w T ind. 
 Through the swirling curves and eddies, onward under 
 the westering sun towards the woods of Nunenham. 
 
 It was so late when they got back, that those few who 
 had waited for them, those faithful few who would wait 
 till midnight to see the Eight come in, could not see 
 them, but heard afar off the measured throb and rush of 
 eight oars as one, as they came with rapid stroke up the 
 darkening reach. Charles and Marston walked home 
 together. 
 
 " By George," said Charles, " I should like to do that 
 and nothing else all my life. What a splendid stroke 
 Musgrave gives you, so marked, and so long, and yet so 
 lively. Oh, I should like to be forced to row every day 
 like the watermen." 
 
 "In six or seven years you would probably row as 
 well as a waterman. At least, I mean, as well as some 
 of the second-rate ones. I have set my brains to learn 
 steering, being a small weak man ; but I shall never 
 steer as well as little Tims, who is ten years old. Don't 
 mistake a means for an end — " 
 
 Charles wouldn't always stand his friend's good advice, 
 and he thought he had had too much of it to-day. So 
 he broke out into sudden and furious rebellion, much to 
 Marston's amusement, who treasured up every word he 
 said in his anger, and used them afterwards with fearful 
 effect against him. 
 
 1 [ don't care for you," bawled Charles; "you're a 
 
JOHN MARSTON. 99 
 
 greater fool than I am, and be hanged to you. You're 
 going to spend the best years of your life, and ruin your 
 health, to get a first, A first ! A first ! Why that 
 miserable little beast, Lock, got a first A fellow who is, 
 take him all in all, the most despicable little wretch 
 I know ! If you are very diligent you may raise 
 yourself to Ms level! And, when you have got your 
 precious first, you will find yourself utterly unfit for any 
 trade or profession whatever (except the Church, which 
 you don't mean to enter). What do you know about 
 modern languages or modern history? If you go into 
 the law, you have got to begin all over again. They won't 
 take you in the army ; they are not such muffs. And 
 this is what you get for your fifteen hundred pounds ! " 
 
 Charles paused, and Marston clapped his hands 
 and said, " hear ! hear ! " which made him more angry 
 still 
 
 " I shouldn't care if I was a waterman. I'm sick of 
 all this pretension and humbug ; I'd sooner be anything 
 than what I am, with my debts, and my rustication, 
 and keeping up appearances. I wish I was a billiard 
 marker ; I wish I was a jockey ; I wish I was Alick 
 Eeed's Novice ; I wish I was one of Barclay and 
 Perkins's draymen. Hang it, I wish I was a cabman ! 
 Queen Elizabeth was a wise woman, and she was of my 
 opinion." 
 
 "Did Queen Elizabeth wish she was a cabman?" 
 said Marston gravely. 
 
 "No, she didn't," said Charles, very tartly. "She 
 h2 
 
100 EAVENSHOE. 
 
 wished she was a milkmaid, and I think she was quite 
 right. Now, then ! " 
 
 "So you would like to be a milkmaid?" said the 
 inexorable Marston. " You had better try another 
 Easter vacation with Welter. Mrs. Sherrat will get 
 you a suit of cast-off clothes from some of the lads. 
 Here's the ' Cross,' where you dine. Bye, bye ! " 
 
 John Marston knew, and knew well, nearly every one 
 worth knowing in the University. He did not appear 
 particularly rich ; he was not handsome ; he was not 
 brilliant in conversation ; he did not dress well, though 
 he was always neat ; he was not a cricketer, a rower, or 
 a rider ; he never spoke at the Union ; he never gave 
 large parties ; no one knew anything about his family ; 
 he never betted ; and yet he was in the best set in the 
 University. 
 
 There was, of course, some reason for this ; in fact, 
 there were three good and sufficient reasons, although 
 above I may seem to have exhausted the means of 
 approach to good University society. First, He had 
 been to Eton as a town boy, and had been popular 
 there. Second, He had got one of the great open 
 scholarships. And third, his behaviour had always 
 been most correct and gentlemanly. 
 
 A year before this he had met Charles as a freshman 
 in Lord Welter's rooms, and had conceived a great 
 liking for him. Charles had just come up with a 
 capital name from Shrewsbury, and Marston hoped that 
 he would have done something ; but no. Charles took 
 
JOHN MARSTON. 101 
 
 up with riding, rowing, driving, &c. &c, not to mention 
 the giving and receiving of parties, with all the zest of 
 a young fellow with a noble constitution, enough money, 
 agreeable manners, and the faculty of excelling to a 
 certain extent in every sport he took in hand. 
 
 He very soon got to like and respect Marston. He 
 used to allow him to blow him up, and give him good 
 advice when he wouldn't take it from any one else. 
 The night before he went down Marston came to his 
 rooms, and tried to persuade him to go home, and not 
 to " the training stables," as he irreverently called Ban- 
 ford ; but Charles had laughed and laughed, and joked, 
 and given indirect answers, and Marston saw that he 
 was determined, and discontinued pressing him. 
 
102 RAVENSHOE. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 ADELAIDE. 
 
 The next afternoon Lord Welter and Charles rode up 
 to the door at Eanford. The servants looked surprised ; 
 they were not expected. His lordship was out shooting ; 
 her ladyship was in the poultry-yard ; Mr. Pool was in 
 the billiard-room with Lord Saltire. 
 
 " The deuce ! " said Lord Welter ; "that's lucky. I'll 
 get him to break it to the governor." 
 
 The venerable nobleman was very much amused by 
 the misfortunes of these ingenuous youths, and under- 
 took the commission with great good nature. But, 
 when he heard the cause of the mishap, he altered his 
 tone considerably, and took on himself to give the young 
 men what was for him a severe lecture. He was sorry 
 this had come out of a drunken riot ; he wished it 
 * * * * which, though bad enough, did not carry 
 the disgrace with it that the other did. Let them take 
 the advice of an old fellow who had lived in the world, 
 ay, and moved with the world, for above eighty years, 
 and take care not to be marked, even among their own 
 set, as drinking men. In his day, he allowed, drinking 
 was entirely de rigueur; and indeed nothing could be 
 
ADELAIDE. 103 
 
 more proper and correcl than the whole tiling they had 
 just described to him, if it had happened fifty years ago. 
 But now a drunken row was an anachronism. Nobody 
 drank now. He had made a point of watching the best 
 young fellows, and none of them drank. He made; 
 a point of taking the time from the rising young fellows, 
 as every one ought to, who wished to go with the 
 world. In his day, for instance, it was the custom to 
 talk with considerable freedom on sacred subjects, and 
 he himself had been somewhat notorious for that sort of 
 thing ; but look at him now : he conformed w T ith the 
 times, and went to church. Every one went to church 
 now. Let him call their attention to the fact that a 
 great improvement had taken place in public morals of 
 late years. 
 
 So the good-natured old heathen gave them what, I 
 daresay, he thought was the best of advice. He is gone 
 now to see what his system of morality is worth. I am 
 very shy of judging him, or the men of his time. It 
 gives me great pain to hear the men of the revolutionary 
 era spoken of flippantly. The time was so exceptional. 
 The men of that time were a race of giants. One wonders 
 how the world got through that time at all. Six hundred 
 millions of treasure spent by Britain alone ! How mam 
 millions of lives lost none may guess. What wonder if 
 there were hell-fire clubs and all kinds of monstrosities. 
 Would any of the present generation have attended the 
 fete of the goddess of reason, if they had lived at that 
 time, I wonder? Of course they wouldn't. 
 
104- RAVENSHOE. 
 
 Charles went alone to the poultry-yard ; but no one 
 was there except the head keeper, who was administering 
 medicine to a cock, whose appearance was indictable — 
 that is to say, if the laws against cock-fighting were 
 enforced. Lady Ascot had gone in ; so Charles went in 
 too, and went upstairs to his aunt's room. 
 
 One of the old lady's last fancies was sitting in the 
 dark, or in a gloom so profound as to approach to dark- 
 ness. So Charles, passing out of a light corridor, and 
 shutting the door behind him, found himself unable to 
 see his hand before him. Confident, however, of his 
 knowledge of localities, he advanced with such success 
 that he immediately fell crashing headlong over an 
 ottoman ; and in his descent, imagining that he was 
 falling into a pit or gulf of unknown depth, uttered a 
 wild cry of alarm. Whereupon the voice of Lady Ascot 
 from close by answered, " Come in," as if she thought 
 she'd heard somebody knock. 
 
 "Come up, would be more appropriate, aunt," said 
 Charles. "Why do you sit in the dark? I've killed 
 myself, I believe." 
 
 " Is that you, Charles ? " said she. " What brings you 
 over? My dear, I am delighted. Open a bit of the 
 window, Charles, and let me see you." 
 
 Charles did as he was desired ; and, as the strong 
 light from without fell upon him, the old lady gave a 
 deep sigh. 
 
 "Ah, dear, so like poor dear Petre about the eyes. 
 There never was a handsome Kavenshoe since him, and 
 
ADELAIDE. 1 05 
 
 there never will be another. You were quite tolerable 
 as a boy, my dear; but you've got very coarse, very 
 coarse and plain indeed. Poor Petre ! " 
 
 " You're more unlucky in the light than you were in 
 the darkness, Charles," said a brisk, clear, well-modulated 
 voice from behind the old lady. " Grandma seems in 
 one of her knock-nie-down moods to-day. She had 
 just told me that I was an insignificant chit, when you 
 made your graceful and noiseless entrance, and saved me 
 anything further." 
 
 If Adelaide had been looking at Charles when she 
 spoke, instead of at her work, she would have seen the 
 start which he gave when he heard her voice. As it 
 was, she saw nothing of it ; and Charles, instantly recover- 
 ing himself, said in the most nonchalant voice possible : 
 
 " Hallo, are you here ? How do you contrive to work 
 in the dark?" 
 
 " It is not dark to any one with eyes," was the curt 
 reply. " I can see to read." 
 
 Here Lady Ascot said that, if she had called Adelaide 
 a chit, it was because she had set up her opinion against 
 that of such a man as Dr. Going ; that Adelaide was a 
 good and dutiful girl to her ; that she was a very old 
 woman, and perhaps shouldn't live to see the finish of 
 next year ; and that her opinion still was that Charles 
 was very plain and coarse, and she was sorry she couldn't 
 alter it. 
 
 Adelaide came rapidly up and kissed her, and then 
 went and stood in the light beside Charles. 
 
1 06 RAVENSHOE. 
 
 She had grown into a superb blonde beauty. From 
 her rich brown crepe hair to her exquisite little foot, she 
 was a model of grace. The nose was delicately aquiline, 
 and the mouth receded slightly, while the chin was as 
 slightly prominent ; the eyes were brilliant, and were 
 concentrated on their object in a moment ; and the eye- 
 brows surmounted them in a delicately but distinctly 
 marked curve. A beauty she was, such as one seldom 
 sees ; and Charles, looking on her, felt that he loved her 
 more madly than ever, and that he would die sooner 
 than let her know it. 
 
 "Well, Charles," she said, "you don't seem overjoyed 
 to see me." 
 
 " A man can't look joyous with broken shins, my dear 
 Adelaide. Aunt, I've got some bad news for you. I am 
 in trouble." 
 
 " Oh dear," said the old lady, " and what is the matter 
 now ? Something about a woman, I suppose. You 
 Eavenshoes are always — " 
 
 " No, no, aunt, Nothing of the kind. Adelaide, don't 
 go, pray ; you will lose such a capital laugh. I've got 
 rusticated, aunt." 
 
 " That is very comical, I dare say," said Adelaide, in 
 a low voice ; " but I don't see the joke." 
 
 "I thought you would have had a laugh at me, 
 perhaps," said Charles ; " it is rather a favourite amuse- 
 ment of yours." 
 
 "What, in the name of goodness, makes you so dis- 
 agreeable and cross, to-day. Charles? You were never 
 
ADELAIDE. 107 
 
 so before, when anything happened. I am sure I am 
 very sorry for your misfortune, though I really don't 
 know its extent. Is it a very serious thing ? " 
 
 " Serious, very. I don't much like going home. Welter 
 is in the same scrape ; who is to tell her ? " 
 
 " This is the way," said Adelaide, " I'll show you how 
 to manage her." 
 
 All this was carried on in a low tone, and very 
 rapidly. The old lady had just begun in a loud, queru- 
 lous, scolding voice to Charles, when Adelaide inter- 
 rupted her with — 
 
 " I say, grandma, Welter is rusticated too." 
 
 Adelaide good-naturedly said this to lead the old 
 lady's wrath from Charles, and throw it partly on to her 
 grandson ; but, however good her intentions, the execu- 
 tion of them was unsuccessful. The old lady fell to 
 scolding Charles ; accusing him of being the cause of 
 the whole mishap, of leading Welter into every mischief, 
 and stating her opinion that he was an innocent and 
 exemplary youth, with the fault only of being too easily 
 led away. Charles escaped as soon as he could, and 
 was followed by Adelaide. 
 
 " This is not true, is it V she said. " It is not your 
 fault?" 
 
 " My fault, partly, of course. But Welter would have 
 been sent down before, if it hadn't been for me. He got 
 me into the scrape this time. He mustn't go back there. 
 You must'n't let him go back." 
 
 " I let him go back, forsooth ! What on earth can I 
 
108 EAVENSHOE. 
 
 have to do with his lordship's movements?" she said 
 bitterly. " Do you know who you are talking to ? — a 
 beggarly orphan." 
 
 " Hush : don't talk like that, Adelaide. Your power 
 in this house is very great. The power of the only sound 
 head in the house. You could stop anything you liked 
 from happening." 
 
 They had come together at a conservatory door ; and 
 she put her back against it, and held up her hand to 
 bespeak his attention more particularly. 
 
 " I wish it was true, Charles ; but it isn't. No one 
 has any power over Lord Ascot. Is Welter much in 
 debt?" 
 
 " I should say, a great deal," was Charles's reply. " I 
 think I ought to tell you. You may help him to break 
 it to them." 
 
 " Ay, he always comes to me for that sort of thing. 
 Always did from a child. I'll tell you what, Charles, 
 there's trouble coming or come on this house. Lord 
 Ascot came home from Chester looking like death ; 
 they say he lost fearfully both there and at Newmarket. 
 He came home quite late, and went up to grandma ; 
 and there was a dreadful scene. She hasn't been 
 herself since. Another blow like it will kill her. I 
 suspect my lord's bare existence depends on this colt 
 winning the Derby. Come and see it gallop," she added, 
 suddenly throwing her flashing eyes upon his, and speak- 
 ing with an animation and rapidity very different from 
 the cold stern voice in which she had been telling the 
 
ADELAIDE. 109 
 
 family troubles. u Come, and let us have some oxygen- 
 I have not spoken to a man for a month. I have been 
 leading a life like a nun's ; no, worse than any nun's ; 
 for I have been bothered and humiliated by — ah ! such 
 wretched trivialities, Go and order horses. I will join 
 you directly." 
 
 So she dashed away and left him, and he hurried to 
 the yard. Scarcely were the horses ready when she was 
 back again, with the same stern, cold expression on her 
 face, now more marked, perhaps, from the effect of the 
 masculine habit she wore. She was a consummate horse- 
 woman, and rode the furious black Irish mare, which 
 was brought out for her, with ease and self-possession, 
 seeming to enjoy the rearing and plunging of the sour- 
 tempered brute far more than Charles, her companion, 
 did, who would rather have seen her on a quieter horse. 
 
 A sweeping gallop under the noble old trees, through 
 a deep valley, and past a herd of deer, which scudded 
 away through the thick-strewn leaves, brought them to 
 the great stables, a large building at the edge of the 
 park, close to the downs. Twenty or thirty long-legged 
 elegant, nonchalant-looking animals, covered to the tips 
 of their ears with cloths, and ridden each by a queer- 
 looking brown-faced lad, were in the act of returning 
 from their afternoon exercise. These Adelaide's mare, 
 " Molly Asthore," charged and dispersed like a flock of 
 sheep ; and then, Adelaide pointing with her whip to 
 the downs, hurried past the stables towards a group they 
 saw a little distance off. 
 
1 1 RAVENSHOE. 
 
 There were only four people — Lord Ascot, the stud 
 groom, and two lads. Adelaide was correctly informed ; 
 they were going to gallop the Voltigeur colt (since called 
 Haphazard), and the cloths were now coming off him. 
 Lord Ascot and the stud groom mounted their horses, 
 and joined our pair, who were riding slowly along the 
 measured mile the way the horse was to come. 
 
 Lord Ascot looked very pale and worn ; he gave 
 Charles a kindly greeting, and made a joke with 
 Adelaide ; but his hands fidgeted with his reins, and he 
 kept turning back towards the horse they had left, won- 
 dering impatiently what was keeping the boy. At last- 
 they saw the beautiful beast shake his 'head, give two 
 or three playful plunges, and then come striding rapidly 
 towards them, over the short, springy turf 
 
 Then they turned, and rode full speed : soon they 
 heard the mighty hollow-sounding hoofs behind, that 
 came rapidly towards them, devouring space. Then the 
 colt rushed by them in his pride, with his chin on his 
 chest, hard held, and his hind feet coming forward under 
 his girth every stride, and casting the turf behind him 
 in showers. Then Adelaide's horse, after a few mad 
 plunges, bolted, overtook the colt, and actually raced 
 him for a few hundred yards ; then the colt was pulled 
 up on a breezy hill, and they all stood a little together 
 talking and congratulating one another on the beauty of 
 the horse. 
 
 Charles and Adelaide rode away together over the 
 downs, intending to make a little detour, and so lengthen 
 
ADELAIDE. Ill 
 
 their ride. They had had no chance of conversation since 
 they parted at the conservatory door, and they took it np 
 nearly where they had left it. Adelaide began, and, I 
 may say. vent on, too, as she had most of the talking. 
 
 " I should like to be a duchess ; then I should be 
 mistress of the only thing I am afraid of." 
 • What is that?" 
 
 " Poverty," said she ; " that is my only terror, and 
 that is my inevitable fate." 
 
 " I should have thought, Adelaide, that you were too 
 high-spirited to care for that, or anything." 
 
 " Ah, you don't know ; all my relations are poor. I 
 know what it is ; I know what it would be for a beauty 
 like me." 
 
 "You will never be poor or friendless while Lady 
 Ascot lives." 
 
 " How long will that be ? My home now depends 
 very much on that horse,; oh, if I were only a man, I 
 would welcome poverty; it would force me to action." 
 
 Charles blushed. Not many days before, Marston 
 and he had had a battle royal, in which the former had 
 said, that the only hope for Charles was that he should 
 go two or three times without his dinner, and be made 
 to earn it, and that as long as he had a " mag " to bless 
 himself with, he would always be a lazy, useless hum- 
 bug ; and now here was a young lady uttering the same 
 atrocious sentiments. He called attention to the pro- 
 spect. 
 
 Three hundred feet below them, Father Thames was 
 
112 RAVENSHOE. 
 
 winding along under the downs and yellow woodlands, 
 past chalk quarry and grey farm-house, blood-red beneath 
 the setting sun; a soft, rich, autumnal haze was over 
 everything; the smoke from the distant village hung 
 like a curtain of pearl across the valley; and the long* 
 straight, dark wood that crowned the high grey wold, 
 was bathed in a dim purple mist, on its darkest side ; 
 and to perfect the air of dreamy stillness, some distant 
 bells sent their golden sound floating on the peaceful 
 air. It was a quiet day in the old age of the year ; and 
 its peace seemed to make itself felt on these two wild 
 young birds ; for they were silent more than half the 
 way home ; and then Charles said, in a low voice — 
 
 " Dear Adelaide, I hope you have chosen aright. 
 The time will come when you will have to make a more 
 important decision than any you have made yet. At 
 one time in a man's or woman's life, they say, there is a 
 choice between good and evil. In God's name, think 
 before you make it." 
 
 " Charles," she said, in a low and disturbed voice, " if 
 a conjuror were to offer to show you your face in a 
 glass, as it would be ten years hence, should you have 
 courage to look ? " 
 
 " 1 suppose so ; would not you ? " 
 
 " Oh, no, no, no ! How do you know what horrid 
 thing would look at you, and scare you to death ? Ten 
 years hence ; where shall we be then ? " 
 
lady Ascot's little nap. 113 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 LADY ASCOT'S LITTLE NAP. 
 
 There was a very dull dinner at Eanford that day. 
 Lord Ascot scarcely spoke a word ; lie was kind and 
 polite — he always was that — but he was very different 
 from his usual self. The party missed his jokes ; which, 
 though feeble and sometimes possibly " rather close to 
 the wind," served their purpose, served to show that the 
 maker of them was desirous to make himself agreeable 
 to the best of his ability. He never laughed once during 
 dinner, which was very unusual. It was evident that 
 Lord Saltire had performed his commission, and Charles 
 was afraid that he was furiously angry with Welter ; 
 but, on one occasion, when the latter looked up sud- 
 denly and asked him some question, his father answered 
 him kindly in his usual tone of voice, and spoke to him 
 so for some time. 
 
 Lady Ascot was a host in herself. With a noble sell- 
 sacrifice, she, at the risk of being laughed at, resolved to 
 attract attention by airing some of her most remarkable 
 opinions. She accordingly attacked Lord Saltire on the 
 subject of the end of the world, putting its total de- 
 struction by fire at about nine months from that time. 
 Lord Saltire had no opinion to offer on the probability 
 
 VOL. I. I 
 
114 KA\ 
 
 of Dr. Going's theory, but sincerely hoped that it might 
 last his time, and that lie might he allowed to get out of 
 the way in the ordinary manner. He did not for a 
 moment doubt the correctness of her calculations ; but 
 he put it to her as a woman of the world, whether or no 
 such an occurrence as she described would not be in the 
 last degree awkward and disconcerting? 
 
 Adelaide said she didn't believe a word of it, and 
 nothing should induce her to do so until it took place. 
 This brought the old lady's wrath down upon her and 
 helped the nagging conversation on a little. But, after 
 dinner, it got so dull in spite of every one's efforts, that 
 Lord Sal tire confided to his young friend, as they went 
 upstairs, that he had an idea that something was wrong ; 
 but at all events, that the house was getting so insuf- 
 ferably dull that he must rat, pardieu, for he couldn't 
 stand it. He should rat into Devon to his friend Lord 
 Begur. 
 
 Welter took occasion to tell Charles that Lord Ascot 
 had sent for him, and told him that he knew all about 
 what had happened, and his debts. That he did not 
 wish the subject mentioned (as if I were likely to talk 
 about it !) ; that his debts should, if possible, be paid. 
 That he had then gone on to say, that he did not wish to 
 say anything harsh to Welter on the subject — that he 
 doubted whether he retained the right of reproving his 
 son. That they both needed forgiveness one from the 
 other, and that he hoped in what was to follow they 
 would display that courtesy and mutual forbearance to 
 
LADY ASCOT'S LITTLE NAP. 115 
 
 one another which gentlemen should. " And what the 
 deuce does he mean, eh? He never spoke like this 
 before. Is he going to marry again ? Ay, that's what it 
 is, depend upon it," said this penetrating young gentle- 
 man ; " that will be rather a shame of 1dm, you know, 
 particularly if he has two or three cubs to cut into my 
 fortune;" and so from that time Lord Welter began to 
 treat his father with a slight coolness, and an air of 
 injured innocence most amusing, though painful, to 
 Charles and Adelaide, who knew the truth. 
 
 As for Adelaide, she seemed to treat Charles like a 
 brother once more. She kept no secret from him ; she 
 walked with him, rode with him, just as of old. She 
 did not seem to like Lord Welter's society, though she 
 was very kind to him ; and he seemed too much taken 
 up with his dogs and horses to care much for her. So 
 Charles and she were thrown together, and Charles's love 
 for her grew stronger day by day, until that studied in- 
 different air which he had assumed on his arrival became 
 almost impossible to sustain. He sustained it, neverthe- 
 less, treating Adelaide almost with rudeness, and flinmn^ 
 about his words so carelessly, that sometimes she would 
 look suddenly up indignant, and make some passionate 
 reply, and sometimes she would rise and leave the room 
 — for aught I know, in tears. 
 
 It was a sad house to stay in ; and his heart began to 
 yearn for his western home in spite of Adelaide. After 
 a short time came a long letter from his father, a scolding 
 loving letter, in which Densil showed plainly that he 
 
 t 2 
 
116 RAVENSHOE. 
 
 was trying to be angry, and could not, for joy at having 
 his son home with him — and concluded by saying that 
 he should never allude to the circumstance again, and 
 by praying him to come back at once from that wicked, 
 cock-fighting, horse-racing, Eanford. There was an 
 inclosure for Lord Saltire, the reading of which caused 
 his lordship to take a great deal of snuff, in which he 
 begged him, for old friendship's sake, to send his boy 
 home to him, as he had once sent him home to his 
 father. And so Lord Saltire appeared in Charles's 
 dressing-room before dinner one day, and, sitting down, 
 said that he was come to take a great liberty, and, in 
 fact, was rather presuming on his being an old man, but 
 he hoped that his young friend would not take it amiss 
 from a man old enough to be his grandfather, if he 
 recommended him to leave that house, and go home to 
 his father's. Eanford was a most desirable house in 
 every way ; but, at the same time, it was what he 
 believed the young men of the day called a fast house ; 
 and he would not conceal from his young friend that his 
 father had requested him to use his influence to make 
 him return home ; and he did beg his old friend's son 
 to believe that he was actuated by the best of motives. 
 
 "Dear Lord Saltire," said Charles, taking the old 
 man's hand ; "I am going home to-morrow ; and you 
 don't know how heartily I thank you for the interest 
 you always take in me." 
 
 " I know nothing," said Lord Saltire, " more pleasing 
 to a battered old fellow like myself than to contemplate 
 
LADY ASCOT'S LITTLE NAP. 117 
 
 the ingenuousness of youth, and you must allow me to 
 gay that your ingenuousness sits uncommonly well upon 
 you — in fact, is very becoming. I conceived a con- 
 siderable interest in you the first time I saw you, on 
 that very account. I should like to have had a son 
 like you, but it was not to be. I had a son, who was 
 all that could be desired by the most fastidious person, 
 brought up in a far better school than mine ; but he got 
 shot in his first duel, at one-and-twenty. I remember 
 to have been considerably annoyed at the time," continued 
 the old gentleman, taking a pinch of snuff, and looking 
 steadily at Charles without moving a muscle, "but I 
 flare say it was all for the best ; he might have run in 
 *debt, or married a woman with red hair, or fifty things. 
 Well, I wish you good day, and beg your forgiveness 
 once more for the liberty I have taken." 
 
 Charles slipped away from the dinner-table early that 
 evening, and, w r hile Lady Ascot was having her after- 
 dinner nap, had a long conversation with Adelaide in 
 the dark, which was very pleasant to one of the parties 
 concerned, at any rate. 
 
 " Adelaide, I am going home to-morrow/' 
 * Are you really ? Are you going so suddenly ? " 
 " I am, positively. I got a letter from home to-day. 
 Are you very sorry or very glad ? " 
 
 " I am very sorry, Charles. You are the only friend 
 I have in the world to whom I can speak as I like. 
 Make me a promise." 
 "Well?" 
 
118 RAVEXSHOE. 
 
 " Tliis is the last night we shall he together. Promise 
 that you won't be rude and sarcastic as you are some- 
 times — almost always, now, to poor me — but talk 
 kindly, as we used to do." 
 
 "Very well," said Charles. "And you promise you 
 won't he taking such a black view of the state of affairs 
 as you do in general. Do you remember the conversa- 
 tion we had the day the colt was tried ? " 
 
 " I remember." 
 
 " "Well, don't talk like that, you know." 
 
 " I won't promise that. The time will come very 
 soon when we shall have no more pleasant talks 
 together." 
 
 " When will that be ? " 
 
 " When I am gone out for a governess." 
 
 "What wages will you get? You will not get so 
 much as some girls, because you are so pretty and so 
 wilful, and you will lead them such a deuce of a 
 life." 
 
 " Charles, you said you wouldn't be rude." 
 
 "I choose to be rude. I have been drinking wine, 
 and we are in the dark, and aunt is asleep and snoring, 
 and T shall say just what I like." 
 
 " I'll wake her." 
 
 " I should like to see you. What shall we talk about ? 
 What an old Roman Lord Saltire is. He talked about 
 his son who was killed, to me to-day, just as I should 
 talk about a pointer dog." 
 
 " Then he thought he had been showing some signs 
 
LADY ASCOT'S LITTLE NAP. 119 
 
 of weakness. He always speaks of his son like that 
 when he thinks he has been betraying some feeling." 
 
 "I admire him for it," said Charles. — "So you are 
 going to be a governess, eh ? " 
 
 " I suppose so." 
 
 " Why don't you try being barmaid at a public-house? 
 Welter would get you a place directly; he has great 
 influence in the licensed victualling way. You might 
 come to many a commercial traveller, for anything you 
 know." 
 
 " I would not have believed this," she said, in a fierce, 
 low voice. " You have turned against me and insult me, 
 because Unkind, unjust, ungentlemanlike." 
 
 He heard her passionately sobbing in the dark, and 
 the next moment he had her in his arms, and was 
 covering her face with kisses. 
 
 " Lie there, my love," he said ; " that is your place . 
 All the world can't harm or insult my Adelaide while 
 she is there. Why did you fly from me and repulse me 
 my darling, when I told you I was your own true love ? " 
 
 " Oh, let me go, Charles," she said, trying, ever so 
 feebly, to repulse him. " Dear Charles, pray do ; I am 
 frightened." 
 
 " Not till you tell me you love me, false one." 
 
 H I love you more than all the world." 
 
 " Traitress ! And why did you repulse me and laugh 
 at me?" 
 
 " I did not think you were in earnest." 
 
 " Another kiss for that wicked, wicked falsehood 
 
120 KAVENSHOE. 
 
 Do you know that this rustication business has all come 
 from the despair consequent on your wicked behaviour 
 the other day ? " 
 
 " You said Welter caused it, Charles. But oh, please 
 let me go." 
 
 " Will you go as a governess now?" 
 " I will do nothing but what you tell me." 
 u Then give me one, your own, own self, and I will 
 let you go." 
 
 Have the reader's feelings of horror, indignation, 
 astonishment, outraged modesty, or ridicule, given him 
 time to remember that all this went on in the dark, 
 within six feet of an unconscious old lady? Such, 
 however, was the case. And scarcely had Adelaide 
 determined that it was time to wake her, and barely 
 had she bent over her for that purpose, when the door 
 was thrown open, and — enter attendants with lights. 
 Now, if the reader will reflect a moment, he will see 
 what an awful escape they had ; for the chances were 
 about a thousand to one in favour of two things having 
 happened : 1st, the groom of the chambers might have 
 come into the room half a minute sooner ; and 2d, they 
 might have sat as they were half a minute longer ; in 
 either of which cases, Charles would have been dis- 
 covered with his arm round Adelaide's waist, and a 
 fearful scandal would have been the consequence. And 
 I mention this as a caution to young persons in general, 
 and to remind them that, if they happen to be sitting 
 hand in hand, it is no use to jump apart and look very 
 
LADY ASCOT'S LITTLE NAP. 121 
 
 red just as the door opens, because the incomer can 
 see what they have been about as plain as if he had 
 been there. On this occasion, also, Charles and Ade- 
 laide set down as usual to their own sagacity what was 
 the result of pure accident. 
 
 Adelaide was veiy glad to get away after tea, for she 
 felt rather guilty and confused. On Charles's offering 
 to go, however, Lady Ascot, who had been very silent 
 and glum all tea-time, requested him to stay, as she 
 had something serious to say to him. Which set that 
 young gentleman speculating whether she could possibly 
 have been awake before the advent of candles, and 
 caused him to await her pleasure with no small amount 
 of trepidation. 
 
 Her ladyship began, by remarking that digitalis was 
 invaluable for palpitation, and that she had also found 
 camomile, combined with gentle purgatives, efficient for 
 the same thing, when suspected to proceed from stomach. 
 She opined that, if this weather continued, there would 
 be heavy running for the Cambridgeshire, and Commis- 
 sioner would probably stand as well as any horse. And 
 then, having, like a pigeon, taken a few airy circles 
 through stable-management, theology, and agriculture, 
 she descended on her subject, and frightened Charles 
 out of his five wits, by asking him if he didn't think 
 Adelaide a very nice girl. 
 
 Charles decidedly thought she was a very nice girl; 
 but he rather hesitated, and said — " Yes, that she was 
 charming." 
 
122 RAVEXSHOE. 
 
 "Now, tell me, my dear," said Lady Ascot, ma- 
 noeuvring a great old fan, " for young eyes are quicker 
 than <»ld ones. Did you ever remark anything between 
 her and Welter ? " 
 
 Charles caught up one of his legs, and exclaimed, 
 u The devil ! ■ 
 
 " What a shocking expression, my dear ! "Well, I 
 agree with you. I fancy I have noticed that they enter- 
 tained a decided preference for one another. Of course, 
 Welter will be throwing himself away, and all that sort 
 of thing, but he is pretty sure to do that. I expect 
 every time he comes home, that he will bring a wife 
 from behind the bar of a public-house. Now, Ade- 
 laide—" 
 
 " Aunt ! Lady Ascot 1 Surely you are under a mistake. 
 I never saw anything between them." 
 
 "Hni." 
 
 " I assure you I never did. I never heard Welter 
 speak of her in that sort of way, and I don't think she 
 cares for him." 
 
 " What reason have you for thinking that?" 
 
 " Well — why, you know it's hard to say. The fa< 
 I have rather a partiality for Adelaide myself, and I 
 have watched her in the presence of other men." 
 
 " Oho ! Do you think she cares for you ? Do you 
 know she won't have a sixpence?' 1 
 
 " W T e shall have enough to last till next year, aunt ; 
 and then the world is to come to an end, you know, and 
 we shan't want anything." 
 
LADY ASCOT'S LITTLE NAP. 123 
 
 " Never you mind about the world, sir. Don't you be 
 flippant and impertinent, sir. Don't evade my question, 
 sir. Do you think Adelaide cares for you, sir?" 
 
 Charles looked steadily and defiantly at his aunt, and 
 asked her whether she didn't think it was very difficult 
 to find out what a girl's mind really was — whereby we 
 may conclude that he was profiting by Lord Saltire's 
 lesson on the command of feature. 
 
 " This is too bad, Charles," broke out Lady Ascot, 
 "to put me off like this, after your infamous and 
 audacious conduct of this evening — after kissing and 
 hugging that girl under my very nose — " 
 
 " I thought it ! " said Charles, with a shout of laughter. 
 " I thought it you were awake all the time ! " 
 " I was not awake all the time, sir — " 
 "You were awake quite long enough, it appears, 
 aunty. Now, what do you think of it ] " 
 
 At first Lady Ascot would think nothing of it, but 
 that the iniquity of Charles's conduct was only to be 
 equalled by the baseness and ingratitude of Adelaide's ; 
 but by degrees she was brought to think that it was 
 possible that some good might come of an engagement ; 
 and, at length, becoming garrulous on this point, it 
 leaked out by degrees, that she had set her heart on it 
 for years, that she had noticed for some time Charles's 
 partiality for her with the greatest pleasure, and recently 
 had feared that something had disturbed it. In short, 
 that it was her pet scheme, and that she had been 
 coming to an explanation that very night, but had been 
 anticipated. 
 
124 RAVENSHOF. 
 
 CHAPTEE XL 
 
 GIVES US AX INSIGHT INTO CHARLES'S DOMESTIC RELA- 
 TIONS, AND SHOWS HOW THE GREAT CONSPIRATOR 
 SOLILOQUIZED TO THE GRAND CHANDELIER. 
 
 It may be readily conceived that a considerable amount 
 of familiarity existed between Charles and his servant 
 and foster-brother William. But, to the honour of both 
 of them be it said, there was more than this — a most 
 sincere and hearty affection ; a feeling for one another 
 which, we shall see, lasted through everything. Till 
 Charles went to Shrewsbury he had never had another 
 playfellow. He and William had been allowed to 
 paddle about on the sand, or ride together on the moor, 
 as they would, till a boy's friendship had arisen, 
 sufficiently strong to obliterate all considerations of 
 rank between them. This had grown with age, till 
 William had become his confidential agent at home 
 during his absence, and Charles had come to depend 
 very much on his account of the state of things at 
 head-quarters. He had also another confidential agent, 
 to whom we shall be immediately introduced. She, 
 however, was of another sex and rank. 
 
 William's office was barely a pleasant one. His 
 affection for his master led him most faithfully to 
 attend to his interests ; and, as a Catholic, he was often 
 
CHAELES'S DOMESTIC KELATIONS. 125 
 
 brought into collision with Father Mackworth, who 
 took a laudable interest in Charles's affairs, and con- 
 sidered himself injured on two or three occasions by 
 the docked refusal of "William to communicate the 
 
 CO 
 
 substance and result of a message forwarded through 
 William, from Shrewsbury, to Densil, which seemed to 
 cause the old gentleman some thought and anxiety. 
 William's religious opinions, however, had got to be 
 somewhat loose, and to sit somewhat easily upon him, 
 more particularly since his sojourn at Oxford. He had 
 not very long ago confided to Charles, in a private 
 sitting, that the conviction which was strong on his 
 mind was that Father Mackworth was not to be trusted, 
 God forgive him for saying so ; and, on being pressed 
 by Charles to state why, he point-blank refused to give 
 any reason whatever, but repeated his opinion with 
 redoubled emphasis. Charles had a great confidence in 
 William's shrewdness, and forbore to press him, but 
 saw that something had occurred which had impressed 
 the above conviction on William's mind most strongly. 
 
 He had been sent from Oxford to see how the land 
 lay at home, and had met Charles at the Rose and 
 Crown, at Stonnington, with saddle horses. No sooner 
 were they clear of the town than William, without 
 waiting for Charles's leave, put spurs to his horse and 
 rode up alongside of him. 
 
 " What is your news, William ? " 
 
 "Nothing very great. Master looks bothered and 
 worn." 
 
126 BAVENSHOE. 
 
 " About this business of mine." 
 
 "The priest goes on talking about it, and plaguing 
 him with it, when he wants to forget it." 
 
 "The deuce take him! He talks about me a goo 
 deal." 
 
 u Yes ; he has begun about you again. Master 
 wouldn't stand it the other day. and told him to hold 
 his tongue, just like his own self. Tom heard him. 
 They made it up afterwards, though.*' 
 
 " What did Cuthbert say ? " 
 
 "Master Cuthbert spoke up for you, and said he 
 hoped there wasn't going to be a scene, and that you 
 weren't coming to- live in disgrace, for that would be 
 punishing every one in the house for you." 
 
 "How's Mary?" 
 
 " She's welL Master don't trust her out of his sight 
 much. They will never set him against you while she 
 is there. I wish you would marry her, "Master Charles, 
 if you can give up the other one." 
 
 Charles laughed and told him he wasn't going to do 
 anything of the sort. Then he asked, "Any visitors ?" 
 
 " Ay ; one. Father Tiernay, a stranger." 
 
 " What sort of man ? " 
 
 " A real good one. I don't think our man likes him, 
 though." 
 
 They had now come to the moor's edge, and were 
 looking down on the amphitheatre which formed the 
 domain of Bavenshoe. Far and wide the tranquil sea, 
 vast, dim, and grey, flooded bay and headland, cave and 
 
CHARLES'S DOMESTIC RELATIONS. 127 
 
 islet. Beneath their feet slept the winter woodlands ; 
 from whose brown bosom rose the old house, many- 
 gabled, throwing aloft from its chimneys hospitable 
 columns of smoke, which hung in the still autumn air, 
 and made a hazy cloud on the hill-side. Everything 
 was so quiet that they could hear the gentle whisper of 
 the ground-swell, and the voices of the children at play 
 upon the beach, and the dogs barking in the kennels. 
 
 u How calm and quiet old home looks, William," 
 said Charles ; " I like to get back here after Oxford." 
 
 " No wine parties here. No steeple-chases. No 
 bloomer balls," said William. 
 
 " No ! and no chapels and lectures, and being sent 
 for by the Dean," said Charles. 
 
 " And none of they dratted bones, neither," said 
 William, with emphasis. 
 
 " Ahem ! why, no ! Suppose we ride on." 
 
 So they rode down the road through the woodland to 
 the lodge, and so through the park — sloping steeply up 
 on their left, with many a clump of oak and holly, and 
 many a broad patch of crimson fern. The deer stood 
 about in graceful groups, while the bucks belled and 
 rattled noisily, making the thorn-thickets echo with the 
 clatter of their horns. The rabbits scudded rapidly 
 across the road ; and the blackbird fled screaming from 
 the mountain ash tree, now all afire with golden fruit. 
 So they passed on until a sudden sweep brought them 
 upon the terrace between the old grey house and the 
 murmuring sea. 
 
128 RAVENSHOE. 
 
 Charles jumped off, and William led the horses round 
 to the stable. A young lady in a straw hat and brown 
 gloves, with a pair of scissors and a basket, standing 
 half-way up the steps, came down to meet him, dropping 
 the basket, and holding out the brown gloves before 
 her. This young lady he took in his arms, and kissed ; 
 and she, so far from resenting the liberty, after she 
 was set on her feet again, held him by both hands, and 
 put up a sweet dark face towards his, as if she wouldn't 
 care if he kissed her again. Which he immediately 
 did. 
 
 It was not a very pretty face, but oh ! such a calm, 
 quiet, pleasant one. There was scarcely a good feature 
 in it, and yet the whole was so gentle and pleasing, and 
 withal so shrewd and esjriegle, that to look at it once 
 was to think about it till you looked again ; and to look 
 again was to look as often as you had a chance, and to 
 like the face the more each time you looked. I said 
 there was not a good feature in the face. Well, I mis- 
 led you ; there was a pair of calm, honest, black eyes, 
 a very good feature indeed, and which, once seen, you 
 were not likely to forget. And also, when I tell you 
 that this face and eyes belonged to the neatest, trimmest 
 little figure imaginable, I hope I have done my work 
 sufficiently well to make you envy that lucky rogue 
 Charles, who, as we know, cares for no woman in the 
 world but Adelaide, and who, between you and me, 
 seems to be much too partial to this sort of thing. 
 
 "A thousand welcomes home, Charley," said the 
 
Charles's domestic relations. 120 
 
 pleasant little voice which belonged to this pleasant 
 little personage. " Oh ! I am so glad you're come." 
 
 "You'll soon wish me away again. I'll plague you." 
 
 " I like to be plagued by you, Charley. How is 
 Adelaide?" 
 
 " Adelaide is all that the fondest lover could desire " 
 (for they had no secrets, these two), "and either sent 
 her love, or meant to do so." 
 
 * Charles, dearest," she said eagerly, " come and see 
 him now ! come and see him with me ! " 
 
 "Where is he?" 
 
 " In the shrubbery, with Flying Guilders." 
 
 "Is he alone?" 
 
 " All alone, except the dog." 
 
 " "Where are they ? " 
 
 " They are gone out coursing. Come on ; they will 
 be back in an hour, and the Book never leaves him. 
 Come, come." 
 
 It will be seen that these young folks had a tolerably 
 good understanding with one another, and could carry 
 on a conversation about " third parties " without even 
 mentioning their names. We shall see how this came 
 about presently ; but, for the present, let us follow these 
 wicked conspirators, and see in what deep plot they are 
 engaged. 
 
 They passed rapidly along the terrace, and turned the 
 corner of the house to the left, where the west front 
 overhung the river glen, and the broad terraced garden 
 went down step by step towards the brawling stream. 
 
 vol. I. K 
 
130 KAVENSHOE. 
 
 This they passed, and, opening an iron gate, came 
 suddenly into a gloomy maze of shrubbery that stretched 
 its long vistas up the valley. 
 
 Down one dark alley after another they hurried. 
 The yellow leaves rustled beneath their feet, and all 
 nature was pervaded with the smell of decay. It was 
 hard to believe that these bare damp woods were the 
 same as those they had passed through but four months 
 ago, decked out with their summer bravery — an orches- 
 tra to a myriad birds. Here and there a bright berry 
 shone out among the dull-coloured twigs, and a solitary 
 robin quavered his soft melancholy song alone. The 
 flowers were dead, the birds were flown or mute, and 
 brave, green leaves were stamped under foot ; every- 
 where decay, decay. 
 
 In the dampest, darkest walk of them all, in a far-off 
 path, hedged with holly and yew, they found a bent and 
 grey old man walking with a toothless, grey, old hound 
 for his silent companion. And, as Charles moved for- 
 ward with rapid elastic step, the old man looked up, and 
 tottered to meet him, showing as he did so, the face of 
 Densil Eavenshoe. 
 
 " Now, the Virgin be praised," he said, " for putting it 
 in your head to come so quick, my darling. Whenever 
 you go away now, I am in] terror lest I should die and 
 never see you again. I might be struck with paralysis, 
 ami not know you, my boy. Don't go away from me 
 again." 
 
 "I like never to leave you any more, father 
 
CHARLES'S DOMESTIC RELATIONS. 131 
 
 dear. See how well you get on with my arm. Let us 
 come out into the sun ; why do you walk in this 
 dismal wood ? " 
 
 " Why ? " said the old man, with sudden animation, 
 his grey eye kindling as he stopped. " "Why ? I come 
 here because I can catch sight of a woodcock, lad ! I 
 sprang one by that holly just before you came up. Flip 
 flap, and away through the hollies like a ghost ! Cuth- 
 bert and the priest are away coursing. JSTow you are 
 come, surely I can get on the grey pony, and go up to 
 see a hare killed. You'll lead him for me, won't you ? 
 I don't like to trouble them" 
 
 " We can go to-morrow, dad, after lunch, you and I, 
 and William. We'll have Leopard and Blue-ruin — by 
 George, it will be like old times again." 
 
 "And we'll take our little quiet bird on her pony, 
 won't we ? " said Densil, turning to Mary. " She's such 
 a good little bird, Charley. We sit and talk of you 
 many an hour. Charley, can't you get me down on the 
 shore, and let me sit there ? I got Cuthbert to take me 
 down once ; but Father Mackworth came and talked 
 about the Immaculate Conception through his nose all 
 the time. I didn't want to hear him talk ; I wanted to 
 hear the surf on the shore. Good man ! he thought he 
 interested me, I dare say." 
 
 " I hope he is very kind to you, father i r 
 
 " Kind ! I assure you, my dear boy, he is the kindest 
 creature ; he never lets me out of his sight ; and so 
 attentive ! " 
 
 k2 
 
132 RAVENSHOE. 
 
 "He'll have to be a little less attentive in future, con- 
 found him ! " muttered Charles. "There he is; talk of 
 the devil ! Mary, my dear," he added aloud, " go and 
 amuse the Rooks for a little, and let us have Cuthbert 
 to ourselves." 
 
 The old man looked curious at the idea of Mary 
 talking to the rooks ; but his mind was drawn off by 
 Charles having led him into a warm, southern corner, 
 and set him down in the sun. 
 
 Mary did her errand well ; for, in a few moments, 
 Cuthbert advanced rapidly towards them. Coming up, 
 he took Charles's hand, and shook it with a faint, kindly 
 smile. 
 
 He had grown to be a tall and somewhat handsome 
 young man — certainly handsomer than Charles. His 
 face, even now he was warmed by exercise, was very 
 pale, though the complexion was clear and healthy. His 
 hair was slightly gone from his forehead, and he looked 
 much older than he really was. The moment that the 
 smile was gone his face resumed the expression of 
 passionless calm that it had borne before ; and, sitting 
 down by his brother, he asked him how he did. 
 
 "I am as well, Cuthbert," said Charles, "as youth, 
 health, a conscience of brass, and a whole world full of 
 friends can make me. Fm all right, bless you. But 
 you look very peaking and pale. Do you take exercise 
 enough ? " 
 
 " I ? Oh, dear, yes. But 1 am very glad to see you, 
 Charles. Our father misses you. Don't you, father ? " 
 
chaeles's domestic relations. 133 
 
 - Very much, Cuthbert." 
 
 "Yes. I bore him. I do, indeed. I don't take 
 interest in the things he does ; I can't ; it's not my 
 nature. You and he will be as happy as kings talking 
 about salmon, and puppies, and colts." 
 
 " I know, Cuthbert ; I know. You never cared about 
 those things as we do." 
 
 u No, never, brother ; and now less than ever. I 
 hope you will stay with me — with us. You are my own 
 brother. I will have you stay here," he continued, in a 
 slightly raised voice ; " and I desire that any opposition 
 or impertinence you may meet with may be immedi- 
 ately reported to me." 
 
 " It will be immediately reported to those who use it, 
 and in a way they won't like, Cuthbert. Don't you be 
 afraid; I shan't quarrel. Tell me something about 
 yourself, old boy." 
 
 "I can tell you but little to interest you, Charles. 
 You are of this world, and rejoice in being so. I, day 
 by day, wean myself more and more from it, knowing- 
 its worthlessness. Leave me to my books and my 
 religious exercises, and go on your way. The time will 
 come when your pursuits and pleasures will turn to 
 bitter dust in your mouth, as mine never can. "When 
 the world is like a howling wilderness to you, as it will 
 be soon, then come to me and I will show you where to 
 find happiness. At present you will not listen to me." 
 
 <• Xot I," said Charles. " Youth, health, talent, like 
 yours — are these gifts to despiso ? " 
 
134- RAVENSHOE. 
 
 "They are clogs to keep me from higher things. 
 Study, meditation, life in the past with those good men 
 who have walked the glorious road before us — in these 
 consist happiness. Ambition ! I have one earthly ambi- 
 tion — to purge myself from earthly affections, so that, 
 when I hear the cloister-gate close behind me for ever, 
 my heart may leap with joy, and I may feel that I am 
 in the antechamber of heaven." 
 
 Charles was deeply affected, and bent clown his head. 
 "Youth, love, friends, joy in this beautiful world — 
 all to be buried between four dull white walls, my 
 brother ! " 
 
 " This beautiful earth, which is beautiful indeed — 
 alas ! how I love it still ! shall become a burden to us in 
 a few years. Love ! the greater the love, the greater the 
 bitterness. Charles, remember that, one day, will you, 
 when your heart is torn to shreds ? I shall have ceased 
 to love you then more than any other fellow-creature ; 
 but remember my words. You are leading a life which 
 can only end in misery, as even the teachers of the false 
 and corrupt religion which you profess would tell you. 
 If you were systematically to lead the life you do now, 
 it were better almost that there were no future. You 
 are not angry, Charles ? " 
 
 There was such a spice of truth in what Cuthbert 
 said that it would have made nine men in ten angry. 
 I am pleased to record of my favourite Charles that 
 he was not ; he kept his head bent down, and groaned. 
 
 " Don't be hard on our boy, Cuthbert," said Densil ; 
 
CHAELES'S DOMESTIC RELATIONS^ 135 
 
 " lie is a good boy, though he is not like you. It 
 has always been so in our family — one a devotee and 
 the other a sportsman. Let us go in, boys ; it gets 
 chilL" 
 
 Charles rose up, and, throwing his arm round his 
 brother's neck, boisterously gave him a kiss on the 
 cheek ; then he began laughing and talking at the top 
 of his voice, making the nooks and angles in the grey 
 old facade echo with his jubilant voice. 
 
 Under the dark porch they found a group of three — 
 Mackworth ; a jolly-looking, round-faced, Irish priest, 
 by name Tiernay; and Mary. Mackworth received 
 Charles with a pleasant smile, and they joined in con- 
 versation together heartily. Few men could be more 
 agreeable than Mackworth, and he chose to be agreeable 
 now. Charles was insensibly carried away by the charm 
 of his frank, hearty manner, and for a time forgot who 
 was talking to him. 
 
 Mackworth and Charles were enemies. If we reflect 
 a moment, we shall see that it could hardly be other- 
 wise. 
 
 Charles's existence, holding, as he did, the obnoxious 
 religion, was an offence to him. He had been prejudiced 
 against him from the first ; and, children not being very 
 slow to find out who are well disposed towards them, or 
 the contrary, Charles had early begun to regard the 
 priest with distrust and dislike. So a distant, sarcastic 
 line of treatment on the one hand, and childish inso- 
 lence and defiance on the other, had grown at last into 
 
136 BAVENSHOE. 
 
 something very like hatred on both sides. Every soul 
 in the house adored Charles but the priest ; and, on the 
 other hand, the priest's authority and dignity were 
 questioned by none but Charles. And, all these small 
 matters being taken into consideration, it is not wonder- 
 ful, I say, that Charles and the priest were not good 
 friends even before anything had occurred to bring 
 about an open rupture. 
 
 Charles and Mackworth seldom met of late years 
 without a " sparring match ; " on this day, however 
 — partly owing, perhaps, to the presence of a jolly 
 good-humoured Irish priest — they got through dinner 
 pretty well. Charles was as brave as a lion, and, though 
 by far the priest's inferior in scientific "sparring," 
 had a rough, strong, effective method of fighting, 
 which was by no means to be despised. His great 
 strength lay in his being always ready for battle. As 
 he used to tell his crony William, he would as soon 
 fight as not ; and often, when rebuked by Cuthbert for 
 what he called insolence to the priest, he would exclaim, 
 " I don't care ; what did he begin at me for ? If he lets 
 me alone, I'll let him alone." And, seeing that he had 
 been at continual war with the reverend gentleman for 
 sixteen years or more, I think it speaks highly for the 
 courage of both parties that neither had hitherto yielded. 
 When Charles afterwards came to know what a terrible 
 card the man had held in his hand, he was struck with 
 amazement at his self-possession in not playing it, 
 despite his interest. 
 
CHAKLES'S DOMESTIC RELATIONS. 137 
 
 Mackworth was hardly so civil after dinner as lie was 
 before ; but Cuthbert was hoping that Charles and he 
 would get on without a battle-royal, when a slight 
 accident brought on a general engagement, and threw all 
 his hopes to the ground. Densil and Mary had gone up 
 to the drawing-room, and Charles, having taken as much 
 wine as he cared for, rose from the table and sauntered 
 towards the door, when Cuthbert quite innocently asked 
 him where he was going. 
 
 Charles said also in perfect good faith that he was 
 going to smoke a cigar, and talk to William. 
 
 Cuthbert asked him, Would he get William or one of 
 them to give the grey colt a warm mash with some nitre 
 in it ; and Charles said he'd see it done for him h iinself ; 
 when, without warning or apparent cause, Father Mack- 
 worth said to Father Tiernay, 
 
 " This William is one of the grooms. A renegade, I 
 fancy ! I believe the fellow is a Protestant at heart. He 
 and Mr. Charles Eavenshoe are very intimate ; they 
 keep up a constant correspondence when apart, I assure 
 you." 
 
 Charles faced round instantly, and confronted his 
 enemy with a smile on his lips ; but he said not a word, 
 trying to force Mackworth to continue. 
 
 u Why don't you leave- him alone ? " said Cuthbert. 
 
 "My dear Cuthbert," said Charles, "pray don't 
 humiliate me by interceding ; I assure you I am 
 greatly amused. You see he doesn't speak to me'; he 
 addressed himself to Mr. Tiernay." 
 
138 RAVENSHOE. 
 
 " I wished," said Mackworth, " to call Father Tiernay's 
 attention, as a stranger to this part of the world, to the 
 fact of a young gentleman's corresponding with an 
 illiterate groom in preference to any member of his 
 family." 
 
 "The reason I do it," said Charles, speaking to 
 Tiernay, but steadily watching Mackworth to see if 
 any of his shafts hit, " is to gain information. I like 
 to know what goes on in my absence. Cuthbert here is 
 buried in his books, and does not know everything." 
 
 No signs of flinching there. Mackworth sat with a 
 scornful smile on his pale face, without moving a muscle. 
 
 "He likes to get information," said Mackworth, 
 "about his village amours, I suppose. But, dear me, 
 he can't know anything that the whole parish don't 
 know. I could have told him that that poor deluded 
 fool of an underkeeper was going to marry Mary Lee, 
 after all that had happened. He will be dowering a 
 wife for his precious favourite some day." 
 
 " My precious favourite, Father Tiernay," said Charles, 
 still closely watching Mackworth, " is my foster-brother. 
 He used to be a great favourite with our reverend 
 friend ; his pretty sister Ellen is so still, I believe." 
 
 This was as random an arrow as ever was shot, and 
 yet it went home to the feather. Charles saw Mack- 
 worth give a start and bite his lip, and knew that he 
 had smote him deep ; he burst out laughing. 
 
 " With regard to the rest, Father Tiernay, any man 
 who says that there was anything wrong between me 
 
CHAKLES'S DOMESTIC EELATIOXS. 139 
 
 and Mary Leo tells, saving your presence, a lie. It's 
 infernally hard if a man mayn't play at love-making 
 with the whole village for a confidant, and the whole 
 matter a merry joke, but one must be accused of all 
 sorts of villainy. Isn't ours a pleasant household, 
 Mr. Tiernay?" 
 
 Father Tiernay shook his honest sides with a wonder- 
 ing laugh, and said, " Faix it is. But I hope ye'll allow 
 me to put matters right betune you two. Father Mack- 
 worth begun on the young man ; he was going out to his 
 dudeen as peaceful as an honest young gentleman should. 
 And some of the best quality are accustomed to converse 
 their grooms in the evening over their cigar. I myself 
 can instance Lord Mountdown whose hospitality I have 
 partook frequent. And I'm hardly aware of any act of 
 parliament,brother, whereby a young man shouldn't kiss 
 a pretty girl in the way of fun, as I've done myself, sure. 
 Whist now, both on ye ! I'll come with ye, ye heretic, 
 and smoke a cigar meself." 
 
 "I call you to witness that he insulted me," said 
 Mackworth, turning round from the window. 
 
 " I wish you had let him alone, Father," said Cuthbert 
 peevishly ; " we were getting on very happily till you 
 began. Do go, Charles, and smoke your cigar with 
 Father Tiernay." 
 
 " I am waiting to see if he wants any more," said 
 Charles, with a laugh. " Come on, Father Tiernay, and 
 I'll show you the miscreant, and his pretty sister, too, if 
 you like." 
 
140 RAVENSHOE. 
 
 " I wish he hadn't come home," said Cuthbert, as soon 
 as he and Mackworth were alone together. " Why do 
 you and he fight like cat and dog? You make me 
 perfectly miserable. I know he is going to the devil, 
 in a worldly point of view, and that his portion will be 
 hell necessarily as a heretic ; but I don't see why you 
 should "worry him to death, and make the house 
 miserable to him." 
 
 u It is for his good," 
 
 "Nonsense," rejoined Cuthbert. "You make him 
 hate you ; and I don't think you ought to treat a son of 
 this house in the w T ay you treat him. You are under 
 obligations to this house. Yes, you are. I won't be 
 contradicted now. I will have my say when I am in 
 this temper, and you know it. The devil is not dead 
 yet by a long way, you see. "Why do you rouse him ?" 
 
 " Go on, go on." 
 
 "Yes, I will go on. I'm in my own house, I 
 believe. By the eleven thousand virgins, more or less, 
 of the holy St. Ursula, virgin and martyr, that brother of 
 mine is a brave fellow. Why, he cares as much for you 
 as for a little dog barking at him. And you're a noble 
 enemy for any man. You'd better let him alone, I 
 think ; you won't get much out of him. Adieu." 
 
 " What queer wild blood there is in these Ravens- 
 hoes," said Mackworth to himself, when he was alone. 
 "A younger hand than myself would have been sur- 
 prised at Cuthbert's kicking after so much schooling. 
 Not I. I shall never quite tame him, though he is 
 
Charles's domestic relations. 141 
 
 broken in enough for all practical purposes. He will be 
 on his knees to-morrow for this. I like to make him 
 kick ; I shall do it sometimes for my amusement ; he is 
 so much easier managed after one of these tantrums. 
 By Jove ! I love the man better every day ; he is one 
 after my own heart. As for Charles, I hate him, and 
 yet I like him after a sort. I like to break a pointless 
 lance with that boy, and let him fancy he is my equal. 
 It amuses me. 
 
 " I almost fancy that I could have fallen in love with 
 that girl Ellen. I was uncommon near it. I must be 
 very carefuL What a wild hawk she is ! What a 
 magnificent move that was of hers, risking a prosecution 
 for felony on one single throw, and winning. How 
 could she have guessed that there was anything there ? 
 She couldn't have guessed it. It was an effort of genius. 
 It was a splendid move. 
 
 " How nearly that pigheaded fool of a young nobleman 
 has gone to upset my calculations. His namesake the 
 chessplayer could not have done more mischief by his 
 talents than his friend had by stupidity. I wish Lord 
 Ascot would get ruined as quickly as possible, and then 
 my friend would be safe out of the way. But he won't." 
 
142 EAVENSHOE. 
 
 CHAPTEE XII. 
 
 CONTAINING A SONG BY CHARLES RAVENSHOE, AND 
 ALSO FATHER TIERNAY'S OPINION ABOUT THE 
 FAMILY. 
 
 Charles and the good-natured Father Tiernay wandered 
 out across the old court-yard, towards the stables — a 
 pile of buildings in the same style as the house, which 
 lay back towards the hill. The moon was full, although 
 obscured by clouds, and the whole court-yard was 
 bathed in a soft mellow light. They both paused for a 
 moment to look at the fine old building, standing 
 silent for a time ; and then Charles startled the con- 
 templative priest by breaking into a harsh scornful 
 laugh, as unlike his own cheery Ha ! Ha ! as it was 
 possible to be. 
 
 " What are you disturbing a gentleman's meditations 
 in that way for?" said the Father. "Is them your 
 Oxford manners? Give me ye'r cigar-case, ye liaytlun, 
 if ye can't appreciate the beauties of nature and art 
 combined — laughing like that at the cradle of youi 
 ancestors too." 
 
 Charles gave him the cigar-case, and trolled out in a 
 rich bass voice — 
 
FATHEK TIERS AY'S OPINION ABOUT THE FAMILY, 14-3 
 
 "The old falcon's nest 
 
 Was built up on the crest 
 Of the cliff that hangs over the sea ; 
 
 And the jackdaws and crows, 
 
 As every one knows, 
 Were confounded respectful to he, to he — e— e." 
 
 "Howld yer impudence, ye young heretic doggrel- 
 writer ; can't I see what ye are driving at ? " 
 
 " But the falcon grew old, 
 
 And the nest it grew cold, 
 And the carrion birds they grew bolder ; 
 
 So the jackdaws and crows, 
 
 Underneath his own nose, 
 Gave both the young falcons cold shoulder." 
 
 " Bedad," said the good-natured Irishman, " some one 
 got hot shoulder to-day. Aren't ye ashamed of your- 
 self, singing such ribaldry, and all the servants hearing 
 
 ye?" 
 
 " Capital song, Father ; only one verse more." 
 
 " The elder was quelled, 
 
 But the younger rebelled ; 
 So he spread his wide wings and fled over the sea. 
 
 Said the jackdaws and crows, 
 
 1 He'll be hanged I suppose, 
 But what in the deuce does that matter to we ?' " 
 
 There was something in the wild, bitter tone in 
 which he sang the last verse that made Father Tiernay 
 smoke his cigar in silence as they sauntered across the 
 yard, till Charles began again. 
 
 "Not a word of applause for my poor impromptu 
 song? Hang it, I'd have applauded anything you Bang." 
 
144 RAVENSIIOE. 
 
 "Don't be so reckless and bitter. Mr. Ravenshoe," 
 said Tiernay, laying his Land on his shoulder. " I can 
 feel for you, though there is so little in common 
 between us. You might lead a happy, peaceful life if 
 you were to come over to us ; which you will do, if I 
 know anything of my trade, in the same day that the 
 sun turns pea-green. Allons, as we used to say over 
 the water ; let us continue our travels." 
 
 " Beckless ! I am not reckless. The jolly old world 
 is very wide, and I am young and strong. There will 
 be a wrench when the tooth comes out ; but it will 
 soon be over, and the toothache will be cured." 
 
 Tiernay remained silent a moment, and then in an 
 absent manner sang this line, in a sweet low voice — 
 
 " For the girl of my heart that I'll never see more." 
 
 " She must cast in her lot with me," said Charles. 
 " Ay, and she will do it, too. She will follow me to 
 the world's end, sir. Are you a judge of horses? 
 What a question to ask of an Irishman ! here are the 
 stables." 
 
 The lads were bedding down, and all the great 
 building was alive with the clattering of busy feet and 
 the neighing of horses. The great Eavenshoe Stud 
 was being tucked up for the night ; and over that two 
 thousand pounds' worth of horse-flesh at least six 
 thousand pounds' worth of fuss was being made, under 
 the superintendence of the stud groom, Mr. Dickson. 
 
 The physical appearance of Mr. Dickson was as 
 
FATHER TIERNAY'S OPINION ABOUT THE FAMILY. 145 
 
 though you had taken an aged Newmarket jockey and 
 put a barrel of oysters, barrel and all, inside his waist- 
 coat. His face was thin ; his thighs were hollow ; 
 calves to his legs he had none. He was all stomach. 
 Many years had elapsed since he had been brought to 
 the verge of dissolution by severe training ; and since 
 then all that he had eaten, or drunk, or done, had flown 
 to his stomach, producing a tympanitic action in that 
 organ, astounding to behold. In speech he was, to- 
 wards his superiors, courteous and polite ; towards his 
 equals, dictatorial ; towards his subordinates, abusive, 
 not to say blasphemous. To this gentleman Charles 
 addressed himself, inquiring if he had seen William : 
 and he, with a lofty, though courteous, sense of injury, 
 inquired, in a loud tone of voice, of the stable-men 
 generally, if any one had seen Mr. Charles's pad-groom. 
 
 In a dead silence which ensued, one of the lads was 
 ill-advised enough to say that he didn't exactly know 
 where he was ; which caused Mr. Dickson to remark 
 that, if that was all he had to say, he had better go on 
 with his work, and not make a fool of himself — which 
 the man did, growling out something about always 
 putting his foot in it, 
 
 "Your groom comes and goes pretty much as he 
 likes, sir," said Mr. Dickson. " I don't consider him as 
 under my orders. Had he been so, I should have felt 
 it my duty to make complaint on more than one 
 occasion ; he is a little too much of the gentleman for 
 my stable, sir." 
 
 VOL. I. L 
 
14G BAVENSHOK. 
 
 u Of course, rny good Dickson," interrupted Charles, 
 " the fact of Ins being my favourite makes you madly 
 jealous of him ; that is not the question now. If you 
 don't know where he is, be so good as to hold your 
 tongue." 
 
 Charles was only now and then insolent and abrupt 
 with servants, and they liked him the better for it. It 
 was one of Cuthbert's rules to be coldly, evenly polite, 
 and, as he thought, considerate to the whole household ; 
 and yet they did not like him half so well as Charles, 
 who would sometimes, when anything went wrong, " kick 
 up," what an intelligent young Irish footman used to 
 call " the diwle's own shindy." Cuthbert, they knew, 
 had no sympathy for them, but treated them, as he 
 treated himself, as mere machines ; while Charles had 
 that infinite capacity of good-will which none are more 
 quick to recognise than servants and labouring people. 
 And on this occasion, though Mr. Dickson might have 
 sworn a little more than usual after Charles's departure, 
 yet his feeling, on the whole, was, that he was sorry for 
 having vexed the young gentleman by sneering at his 
 favourite. 
 
 But Charles, having rescued the enraptured Father 
 Tiernay from the stable, and having listened somewhat 
 inattentively to a long description of the Curragh of 
 Kildare, led the worthy priest round the back of the 
 stables, up a short path through the wood, and knocked 
 at the door of a long, low keeper's lodge, which stood 
 within a stone's throw of the other buildings, in an 
 
FATHER TIERXAY'S OPINION ABOUT THE FAMILY. 147 
 
 open, grassy glade, through which flowed a musical, 
 slender stream of water. In one instant, night was 
 hideous with rattling chains and barking dogs, who 
 made as though they would tear the intruders to pieces ; 
 all except one foolish pointer pup, who was loose, and 
 who, instead of doing his duty by barking, came feebly 
 up, and cast himself on his back at their feet, as though 
 they were the car of Juggernaut, and he was a candidate 
 for paradise. Finding that he was not destroyed, lie 
 made a humiliating feint of being glad to see them, 
 and nearly overthrew the priest by getting between his 
 legs. But Charles, finding that his second summons 
 was unanswered, lifted the latch, and went into the 
 house. 
 
 The room they entered was dark, or nearly so, and at 
 the first moment appeared empty ; but, at the second 
 glance, they made out that a figure was kneeling before 
 the dying embers of a fire, and trying to kindle a match 
 by blowing on the coals. 
 
 " Hullo ! " said Charles. 
 
 ""William, my boy," said a voice which made the 
 priest start, " where have you been, lad ? " 
 
 At the same moment a match was lit, and then a 
 candle ; as the light blazed up, it fell on the features of a 
 greyheaded old man, who was peering through, the dark- 
 ness at them, and the priest cried, " Good God ! Mr. 
 Eavenshoe ! " 
 
 The likeness for one moment was very extraordinary ; 
 but, as the eye grew accustomed to the light, one saw 
 
 L 2 
 
H8 EAVENSHOE. 
 
 that the face was the face of a taller man than Densil, 
 and one, too, who wore the dress of a gamekeeper. 
 Charles laughed at the priest, and said — 
 
 " Yon were struck, as many have been, by the like- 
 ness. He has been so long with my father that he has 
 the very trick of his voice, and the look of the eye. 
 "Where have you been to-night, James ? " he added 
 affectionately. " Why do you go out so late alone ? If 
 any of those mining rascals were to be round poaching, 
 you might be killed." 
 
 " I can take care of myself yet, Master Charles," said 
 the old man, laughing ; and, to do him justice, he 
 certainly looked as if he could. 
 
 " Where is Nora ? " 
 
 " Gone down to young James Holby's wife ; she is 
 lying-in." 
 
 " Pretty early, too. Where's Ellen ? " 
 
 " Gone up to the house." 
 
 " See, Father, I shall be disappointed in showing you 
 the belle of Eavenshoe ; and now you will go back to 
 Ireland, fancying you can compete with us." 
 
 Father Tiernay was beginning a story about five Miss 
 Moriartys, who were supposed to rival in charms and 
 accomplishments any five young ladies in the world, 
 when his eye was attracted by a stuffed hare in a glass 
 case, of unusual size and very dark colour. 
 
 " That, sir," said James, the keeper, in a bland, polite, 
 explanatory tone of voice, coming and leaning over him, 
 • is old Mrs. Jewel, that lived in the last cottage on the 
 
FATHER TIERNAY'S OPINION ABOUT THE FAMILY. 149 
 
 right hand side, under the cliff. I always thought it 
 had been Mrs. Simpson, but it was not. I shot this 
 hare on the Monday, not three hundred yards from 
 Mrs. Jewel's house ; and on the Wednesday the neigh- 
 bours noticed the shutters hadn't been down for two 
 days, and broke the door open ; and there she was, sure 
 enough, dead in her bed. I had shot her as she was 
 (Coming home from some of her devilries. A quiet old 
 .soul she was, though. No, I never thought it had been 
 she." 
 
 It would be totally impossible to describe the changes 
 through which the broad, sunny face of Father Tiernay 
 went, during the above astounding narration ; horror, 
 astonishment, inquiry, and humour were so strangely 
 blended. He looked into the face of the old gamekeeper, 
 and met the expression of a man who had mentioned 
 an interesting fact, and had contributed to the scientific 
 experience of the listener. He looked at Charles, and 
 met no expression whatever ; but the latter said — 
 
 " Our witches in these parts, Father, take the form of 
 some inferior animal when attending their Sabbath or 
 general meetings, which I believe are presided over by 
 an undoubted gentleman, who is not generally named 
 in polite society. In this case, the old woman was 
 -caught sneaking home under the form of a hare, and 
 promptly rolled over by James ; and here she is." 
 
 Father Tiernay said, " Oh, indeed ! " but looked as if 
 he thought the more. 
 
 " And there's another of them out now, sir," said the 
 
150 BAVBNSHOB. 
 
 keeper ; " and, Master Charles dear, if you're going to 
 take the greyhounds out to-morrow, do have a turn at 
 that big black hare under Birch Tor — " 
 
 " A black hare ! " said Father Tiernay, aghast. 
 
 "Nearly coal-black, your reverence," said James. 
 "She's a witch, your reverence, and who she is the 
 blessed saints only know. I've seen her three or four 
 times. If the master was on terms with Squire Humby 
 to Hele, we might have the harriers over and run her 
 down. But that can't be, in course. If you take Blue- 
 ruin and Lightning out to-morrow, Master Charles, and 
 turn her out of the brambles under the rocks, and leave 
 the Master and Miss Mary against the corner of the stone 
 wall to turn her down the gully, you must have her." 
 
 The look of astonishment had gradually faded from 
 Father Tiernay's face. It is said, that one of the great 
 elements of power in the Koman Catholic priesthood, is 
 that they can lend themselves to any little bit of — well, 
 of mild deception — which happens to be going. Father 
 Tiernay was up to the situation. He looked from the 
 keeper to Charles with a bland and stolid expression of 
 face, and said — 
 
 "If she is a witch, mark my words, the dogs will 
 never touch her. The way would be to bite up a 
 crooked sixpence and fire at her with that. I shall be 
 there to see the sport. I never hunted a witch yet." 
 
 "Has your reverence ever seen a white polecat?" 
 said the keeper. 
 
 " No, never," said the priest ; " I have heard of them 
 
FATHER TIEENAY'S OPINION ABOUT THE FAMILY. 151 
 
 though. My friend, Mr. Moriarty, of Castledown (not 
 Mountdown Castle, ye understand ; tliat is the sate of 
 my lord Mountdown, whose blessed mother was a 
 Mi >riarty, the heavens he her bed), claimed to have seen 
 one; but, bedad, no one else ever saw it, and he said 
 it turned brown again as the season came round. May 
 the — may the saints have my sowl, if I believe a word 
 of it." 
 
 " I have one, your reverence ; and it is a rarity, I 
 allow. Stoats turn white often in hard winters, but 
 polecats rarely. If your reverence and your honour will 
 excuse me a moment, I will fetch it. It was shot by 
 my Lord Welter when he was staying here last winter. 
 A fine shot is my lord, your reverence, for so young a 
 mam" 
 
 He left the room, and the priest and Charles were left 
 alone together. 
 
 " Does he believe all this rubbish about witches ? " 
 said Father Tiernay. 
 
 "As firmly as you do the liquefaction of the blood 
 of—" 
 
 u There, there ; we don't want all that. Do you 
 believe in it ? " 
 
 " Of course I don't," said Charles ; " but why should 
 I teU him so ? " 
 
 " Why do you lend yourself to such a humbug ? " 
 
 "Why do you?" 
 
 "Begorra, I don't know. I am always lending. I 
 lent a low-browed, hang-jawed spalpeen of a Belgian 
 
152 RAVENSHOE. 
 
 priest two pound the other day, and sorra a halfpenny 
 of it will me mother's son ever see again. Hark ! " 
 
 There were voices approaching the lodge — the voices 
 of two uneducated persons quarrelling ; one that of a 
 man, and the other of a woman. They both made so 
 much out in a moment. Charles recognised the voices, 
 and would have distracted the priest's attention, and 
 given those without warning that there were strangers 
 within ; but, in his anxiety to catch, what was said, he 
 was not ready enough, and they both heard this. 
 
 The man's voice said fiercely, " You did." 
 
 The woman's voice said, after a wild sob, " I did not." 
 
 " You did. I saw you. You are a liar as well as — " 
 
 " I swear I didn't. Strike me dead, Bill, if there's 
 been anything wrong." 
 
 " No. If I thought there had, I'd cut his throat first 
 and yours after." 
 
 " If it had been Mm, Bill, you wouldn't have used me 
 like this." 
 
 " Never you mind that." 
 
 " You want to drive me mad. You do. You hate me. 
 Master Charles hates me. Oh, I wish I was mad." 
 
 "I'd sooner see you chained by the waist in the 
 straw, than see what I saw to-night." Then followed 
 an oath. 
 
 The door was rudely opened, and there entered first of 
 all our old friend, Charles's groom, William, who seemed 
 beside himself with passion, and after him a figure 
 which struck the ^ood Irishman dumb with amazement 
 
153 
 
 and admiration — a girl as beautiful as the summer 
 morning, with her bright brown hair tangled over her 
 forehead, and an expression of wild terror and wrath on 
 her face, such as one may conceive the old sculptor 
 wished to express, when he tried, and failed, to carve 
 the face of the Gorgon. 
 
 She glared on them both in her magnificent beauty 
 only one moment. Yet that look, as of a lost soul out 
 of another world, mad, hopeless, defiant, has never past 
 from the memory of either of them. 
 
 She was gone, in an instant, into an inner room, and 
 William was standing looking savagely at the priest. In 
 another moment his eyes had wandered to Charles, and 
 then his face grew smooth and quiet, and he said — 
 
 " We've been quarrelling, sir ; don't you and this good 
 gentleman say anything about it. Master Charles, dear, 
 she drives me mad sometimes. Things are not going 
 right with her." 
 
 Charles and the priest walked thoughtfully home 
 together. 
 
 " Allow me to say, Eavenshoe," said the priest, " that, 
 as an Irishman, I consider myself a judge of remarkable 
 establishments. I must say honestly that I have seldom 
 or never met with a great house with so many queer 
 "laments about it as yours. You are all remarkable 
 people. And, on my honour, I think that our friend 
 Mackworth is the most remarkable man of the lot." 
 
154 RAVENSHOE. 
 
 CHAPTEE XIII. 
 
 THE BLACK HARE. 
 
 It was a glorious breezy November morning; the sturdy 
 oaks alone held on to the last brown remnants of their 
 summer finery; all the rest of the trees in the vast 
 sheets of wood which clothed the lower parts of the 
 downs overhanging Kavenshoe, had changed the bright 
 colours of autumn for the duller, but not less beautiful, 
 browns and purples of winter. Below, in the park, the 
 deer were feeding among the yellow fern brakes, and the 
 rabbits were basking and hopping in the narrow patches 
 of slanting sun-light, which streamed through the leaf- 
 less trees. Aloft, on the hill, the valiant blackcock led 
 out his wives and family from the whortle-grown rocks, 
 to flaunt his plumage in the warmest corner beneath 
 the Tor. 
 
 And the Tors, too, how they hung aloft above the 
 brown heather, which was relieved here and there by 
 patches of dead, brown, king-fern ; hung aloft like 
 brilliant, clearly defined crystals, with such mighty 
 breadths of light and shadow as Sir Charles Barry never 
 could accomplish, though he had Westminster Abbey to 
 look at every day. 
 
THE BLACK HARE. 155 
 
 Up past a narrow sheep path, where the short grass 
 faded on the one side into feathery broom, and on the 
 other into brown heather and grey stone, under the sha- 
 dow of the Tor which lay nearest to Eavenshoe, and 
 overhung those dark woods in which we saw Densil just 
 now walking with his old hound ; there was grouped, on 
 the morning after the day of Charles's arrival, a happy 
 party, every one of whom is already known to the 
 reader. Of which circumstance I, the writer, am most 
 especially glad. For I am already as tired of introduc- 
 ing new people to you as my lord chamberlain must be 
 of presenting strangers to Her Majesty at a lev^e. 
 
 Densil first, on a grey cob, looking very old and 
 feeble, straining his eyes up the glen whither Charles, 
 and James, the old keeper, had gone with the grey- 
 hounds. At his rein stood William, whom we knew at 
 Oxford. Beside the old man sat Mary on her pony, 
 looking so radiant and happy, that, even if there had 
 been no glorious autumn sun overhead, one glance at 
 her face would have made the dullest landscape in 
 Lancashire look bright. Last, not least, the good Father 
 Tiernay, who sat on his horse, hatless, radiant, scratching 
 his tonsure. 
 
 " And so you're determined to back the blue dog, Miss 
 Mary," said he. 
 
 " I have already betted a pair of gloves with Charles, 
 Mr. Tiernay," said Mary, " and I will be rash enough to 
 do so with you. Euin is the quickest striker we have 
 ever bred." 
 
15G RAVENSHOE. 
 
 " I kuow it ; they all say so," said the priest ; " but 
 come, I must have a bet on the course. I will back 
 Lightning." 
 
 " Lightning is the quicker dog," said Densil ; " but 
 Kuin ! you will see him lie behind the other dog all the 
 run, and strike the hare at last. Father Mackworth, a 
 good judge of a dog, always backs him against the 
 kenneL" 
 
 " Where is Father Mackworth ? " 
 
 " I don't know," said Densil. " I am surprised he is 
 not with us ; he is very fond of coursing." 
 
 "His reverence, sir," said William, "started up the 
 moor about an hour ago. I saw him going." 
 
 " Where was he going to ? " 
 
 u I can't say, sir. He took just over past the rocks 
 ion the opposite side of the bottom from Mr. Charles." 
 
 "I wonder," said Father Tiernay, "whether James 
 will find his friend, the witch, this morning." 
 
 " Ah," said Densil, " he was telling me about that. I 
 am sure I hope not." 
 
 Father Tiernay was going to langh, but didn't. 
 
 " Do you believe in witches, then, Mr. Eavenshoe ? " 
 
 " Why, no," said Densil, stroking his chin thought- 
 fully, " I suppose not. It don't seem to me now, as an 
 old man, a more absurd belief than this new electro- 
 biology and table-turning. Charles tells me that they 
 use magic crystals at Oxford, and even claim to have 
 raised the devil himself in Merton ; which, at this time 
 of day, seems] rather like reverting to first principles. 
 
THE BLACK HARE. 157 
 
 But I am not sure I believe in any of it. I only know 
 that, if any poor old woman has sold herself to Satan, 
 and taken it into her head to transform herself into a 
 black hare, my greyhounds won't light upon her. She 
 must have made such a deuced hard bargain that I 
 shouldn't like to cheat her out of any of the small space 
 left her between this and, and — thingamy." 
 
 William, as a privileged servant, took the liberty of 
 remarking that old Mrs. Jewel didn't seem to have been 
 anything like a match for Satan in the way of a bargain, 
 for she had had hard times of it seven years before she 
 died. From which — 
 
 Father Tiernay deduced the moral lesson, that that 
 sort of thing didn't pay ; and — 
 
 Mary said she didn't believe a word of such rubbish, 
 for old Mrs. Jewel was as nice an old body as ever was 
 seen, and had worked hard for her living, until her 
 strength failed, and her son went down in one of the 
 herring-boats. 
 
 Densil said that his little bird was too positive. There 
 was the witch of Endor, for instance — 
 
 Father Tiernay, who had been straining his eyes and 
 attention at the movements of Charles and the grey- 
 hounds, and had only caught the last word, said with 
 remarkable emphasis and distinctness — 
 
 " A broomstick of the Witch of Endor, 
 Well shod wi' brass," 
 
 and then looked at Densil as though he had helped him 
 
158 EAVENSHOE. 
 
 out of a difficulty, and wanted to be thanked. Densil 
 continued without noticing him — 
 
 " There was the Witch of Endor. And ' thou shalt 
 not suffer a witch to live.' If there weren't such 
 things as witches, you know, St. Paul wouldn't have 
 said that." 
 
 " I don't think it was St. Taul, papa, was it \ " said 
 Mary. 
 
 " It was one of them, my love ; and, for that matter, 
 I consider St. Peter quite as good as St. Paul, if not 
 better. St. Peter was always in trouble, I know ; but 
 he was the only one who struck a blow for the good 
 cause, all honour to him. Let me see, he married 
 St. Veronica, didn't he ? " 
 
 "Marry St. Veronica, virgin and martyr?" said the 
 priest, aghast. " My good sir, you are really talking at 
 random." 
 
 " Ah, well, I may be wrong ; she was virgin, but she 
 was no martyr." 
 
 " St. Veronica," said Father Tiernay, dogmatically, 
 and somewhat sulkily, " was martyred under Tiberius ; 
 no less than that." 
 
 (< I bet you what you like of it," cried Densil, " she 
 died—" 
 
 But what was Densil's opinion about the last days of 
 St. Veronica will for ever remain a mystery ; for at this 
 moment there came a " See, HO ! " from Charles ; in the 
 next a noble hare had burst from a tangled mass of 
 brambles at his feet ; in another the two dogs were on 
 
THE BLACK HARE. 159 
 
 her haunches, and Charles, carrying two little flags 
 furled in his hand, had dashed at the rough rocks on 
 the bottom of the valley, had brought his horse on Iris 
 nose, recovered him, and was half way up the hill after 
 the flying greyhounds. 
 
 It was but a short course. Puss raced for some 
 broken ground under the hill, opposite to- where our 
 party stood. She was too close pressed, and doubled 
 back for the open, but, meeting James, turned as a last 
 desperate chance back to her first point. Too late ; the 
 dogs were upon her. There was a short scuffle, and 
 then Charles, rising in his saddle, unfurled his blue flag, 
 and waved it. 
 
 " Hurrah ! " cried Mary, clapping her hands, " two 
 pairs of gloves this morning ; where will he try now, 
 I wonder ? Here comes James ; let us ask him." 
 
 James approached them with the dead hare, and 
 Densil asked where he was going to try. He said, just 
 where they were. 
 
 Densil asked, had he seen Father Mackworth ? and he 
 was in the act of saying that he was gone over the down, 
 when a shout from Charles, and a still louder one from 
 James, made them all start. A large black hare had 
 burst from the thorns at Charles's feet, and was bowling 
 down the glen straight toward them, with the dogs close 
 behind her. 
 
 " The witch," shouted James, " the witch ! we shall 
 know who she is now." 
 
 It seemed very likely indeed. Densil broke away 
 
160 RAVENSHOE. 
 
 from William, and, spurring his pony down the sheep- 
 path at the risk of his neck, made for the entrance 
 of the wood. The hare, one of such dark colour that 
 she looked almost black, scudded along in a parallel 
 direction, and dashed into the grass ride just in front of 
 Densil ; they saw her flying down it, just under the 
 dogs' noses, and then they saw her dash into a cross 
 ride, one of the dogs making a strike at her as she did 
 so ; then hare and greyhounds disappeared round the 
 corner. 
 
 " She's dead, sir, confound her ! we shall have her 
 now, the witch ! " 
 
 They all came round the corner pell-mell. Here stood 
 the dogs, panting and looking foolishly about them, 
 while, in front of them, a few yards distant, stood Father 
 Mackworth, looking disturbed and flushed, as though he 
 had been running. 
 
 Old James stared aghast ; William gave a long 
 whistle ; Mar}-, for a moment, was actually terrified. 
 Densil looked puzzled, Charles amused ; while Father 
 Tiernay made the forest ring with peal after peal of 
 uproarious laughter. 
 
 " I am afraid T have spoilt sport, Mr. Kavenshoe," 
 said Mackworth, coming forward ; " the hare ran almost 
 against my legs, and doubled into the copse, puzzling 
 the dogs. They seemed almost inclined to revenge 
 themselves on me for a moment," 
 
 " Ha, ha ! " cried the jolly priest, not noticing, as 
 Charles did, how confused the priest was. " So we've 
 
THE BLACK HARE. ](jl 
 
 caught you sneaking home from your appointment with 
 your dear friend." 
 
 " What do you mean, sir, by appointment ? You are 
 overstepping the bounds of decorum, sir. Mr. Eavenshoe, 
 I beg you to forgive me for inadvertently spoiling your 
 sport." 
 
 " Not at all, my dear Father," said Densil, thinking it 
 best, from the scared look of old James, to enter into no 
 urther explanations ; " we have killed one hare, and 
 now I think it is time to come home to lunch." 
 
 " Don't eat it all before I come ; I must run up to 
 the Tor ; I have dropped my whip there," said Charles. 
 " James, ride my horse home ; you look tired. I shall 
 be there on foot in half the time." 
 
 He had cast the reins to James, and was gone, and 
 they all turned homewards together. 
 
 Charles, fleet of foot, was up on the Tor in a few 
 minutes, and had picked up his missing property ; 
 then he sat him down on a stone, thinking. 
 
 " There is something confoundedly wrong somewhere ; 
 and I should like to find out what it is. What had 
 that Jack priest been up to, that made him look so 
 queer ? And, also, what was the matter between Ellen 
 and William last night ? Whom has she been going on 
 with ? I will go down. I wish I could find some trace 
 of him. One thing I know, and one thing only, that he 
 hates me worse than poison ; and that his is not likely 
 to be a passive hatred." 
 
 The wood into which Charles descended was of very 
 
 VOL. I. M 
 
L62 i:av: 
 
 large extent, and composed of the densest copse, inter- 
 sected by long straight grass rides. The day had 
 turned dark and chilly ; and a low moaning wind began 
 to sweep through the bare boughs, rendering still more 
 dismal the prospect of the long-drawn vistas of damp 
 grass and rotting leaves. 
 
 He passed musing on from one ride to another, and, 
 in one of them, came in sight of a low, white building, 
 partly ruinous, which had been built in the deepest 
 recesses of the wood for a summer-house. Years ago 
 Cuthbert and Charles used to come and play there on 
 happy summer holidays — play at being Robinson 
 Crusoe and what not ; but there had been a light with 
 the poachers there, and one of their young men had 
 been kicked in the head by one of the gang, and ren- 
 dered idiotic ; and Charles had seen the blood on the 
 grass next morning ; and so they voted it a dismal 
 place, and never went near it again. Since then it had 
 been taken possession of by the pheasants to dust them- 
 selves in. Altogether it was a solitary, ghostly sort 
 of place ; and, therefore, Charles was considerably 
 startled, on looking in at the low door, to see a female 
 figure, sitting unmoveable in the darkest corner. 
 
 It was not a ghost for it spoke. It said, " Are you 
 come back to upbraid me again? I know my power, 
 and you shall never have it." And Charles said "Ellen ! " 
 
 She looked up, and began to cry. At first a low, 
 moaning cry, and afterwards a wild passionate burst of 
 grief. 
 
THE BLACK HAKE. 163 
 
 He drew her towards him, and tried to quiet her, 
 but she drew away. " Not to-day," she cried, " not 
 to-day." 
 
 " What is the matter, pretty one ? "What is the 
 matter, sister ? " said Charles. 
 
 * Call me sister again," she said, looking up. " I like 
 that name. Kiss me, and call me sister, just for 
 once." 
 
 " Sister dear," said Charles kindly, kissing her on the 
 forehead, " What is the matter ? " 
 
 " I have had a disagreement with Father Mackworth, 
 and he has called me names. He found me here 
 walking with Master Cuthbert." 
 
 "With Cuthbert?" 
 
 " Ay, why not ? I might walk with you or him any 
 time, and no harm. I must go." 
 
 Before Charles had time to say one word of kindness, 
 or consolation, or wonder, she had drawn him towards 
 her, given him a kiss, and was gone down the ride 
 towards the house. He saw her dress nutter round the 
 last comer, and she disappeared. 
 
164« RAY EK SHOE. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 LORD SALTIRE'S VISIT, AND SOME OF HIS OPINIONS. 
 
 There followed on the events above narrated two or 
 three quiet months — a time well remembered by Charles, 
 as one of the quietest and most peaceful in his life, in 
 all the times which followed. Every fine day there 
 was a ramble with his father through the kennels and 
 stables, and down through the wood, or over the farm. 
 Charles, who at Oxford thought no day complete, after 
 riding with the drag, or Drakes, or rowing to Sandford ; 
 without banquier, vingt-et-un, or loo, till three o'clock 
 in the morning, now found, greatly to his astonishment, 
 that he got more pleasure by leaning over a gate with 
 his father, and looking at fat beasts and pigs, chewing a 
 straw the while. A noisy wine party, where he met the 
 same men he had met the night before, who sang the 
 same songs, and told the same silly stories, was well 
 enough ; but he began to find that supper in the oak 
 dining-room, sitting between Mary and his father, and 
 talking of the merest trifles, was a great deal pleasanter. 
 Another noticeable fact was, that Father Mackworth's 
 sarcasms were turned off with a good-natured laugh, 
 and that battle was on all occasions refused to the wor- 
 thy priest. In short, Charles, away from company and 
 
LORD BALTIRE'S VISIT. 1G5 
 
 dissipation, was himself. The good, worthy fellow, whom 
 I learnt to like years ago. The man whose history I am 
 proud to write. 
 
 Lord Saltire had arrived meanwhile ; he had written 
 to Densil, to say that he was horribly bored ; that he 
 wished, as an ethical study, to settle, once for all, the 
 amount of boredom a man could stand without dying 
 under it ; that, having looked carefully about him, to 
 select a spot and a society where that object could be 
 obtained, he had selected Eavenshoe, as being the most 
 eligible ; that he should wish his room to have a south 
 aspect ; and that his man would arrive with his things 
 three days after date. To this Densil had written an 
 appropriate reply, begging his kind old friend to come 
 and make his house his home ; and Lord Saltire had 
 arrived one evening, when every one was out of the way 
 but Mary, who received him in the hall. 
 
 She was in some little trepidation. She had read and 
 heard enough of " the wild prince and Poyns," and of 
 Lord Saltire's powers of sarcasm, to be thoroughly 
 frightened at her awful position. She had pictured to 
 herself a terrible old man, with overhanging eyebrows, 
 and cruel gleaming eyes beneath them. Therefore she 
 was astonished to see a gentleman, old it is true, but 
 upright as a young oak, of such remarkable personal 
 beauty, and such a pleasant expression of countenance 
 as she had never seen before. 
 
 She was astonished, I said ; but, mind you, Mary was 
 too much of a lady to show too much of it. She sailed 
 
166 RAVENSHOE. 
 
 towards him through the gloom of the old hall with a 
 frank smile, and just that amount of admiration in her 
 sweet eyes which paid Lord Saltire the truest compli- 
 ment he had had for many a day. 
 
 * Mr. Eavenshoe will be sorry to have missed receiv- 
 ing you, my lord," she said. 
 
 " If Mr. Eavenshoe is sorry," he said, " I certainly am 
 not. Mr. Eavenshoe has done me the honour to show 
 me the most beautiful thing in his house first. I rather 
 think that is a pretty compliment, Miss Corby, unless I 
 am getting out of practice." 
 
 " That is a very pretty compliment, indeed," she an- 
 swered, laughing. " I most heartily thank you for it. I 
 know nothing in life so pleasant as being flattered. May 
 I introduce Father Mackworth ? " 
 
 Lord Saltire would be delighted. Father Mackworth 
 came forward, and Mary saw them look at one another. 
 She saw at a glance that either they had met before, or 
 there was some secret which both of them knew. She 
 never forgot Mackworth's defiant look, or Lord Saltire's 
 calm considerate glance, which said as plain as words, 
 " This fellow knows it." 
 
 This fellow knew it — had known it for years. The 
 footman who had left Mackworth at the lodge of the 
 French Lye£e, the nameless domestic, who formed the 
 last link with his former life— this man had worn Lord 
 Saltire's livery, and he remembered it. 
 
 " I see," said Lord Saltire, " that Miss Corby is pre- 
 pared for walking. I guess that she is going to meet 
 
LORD SALTIRE'S VISIT. 167 
 
 Mr. Ravenshoe, and, if my surmise is correct, I beg to 
 be allowed to accompany her." 
 
 "You are wonderfully correct, my lord. Cuthbert 
 and Charles are shooting pheasants in the wood, and Mr. 
 Ravenshoe is with them on his pony. If you will walk 
 with me, we shall meet them." 
 
 So the grand old eagle and the pretty sweet-voiced 
 Bobin passed out on to the terrace, and stood looking 
 together, under the dull December sky, at the whisper- 
 ing surges. Eight and left the misty headlands seemed 
 to float on the quiet grey sea, which broke in sighs at 
 their feet, as the long majestic groundswell rolled in 
 from the ocean ; and these two stood there for a minute 
 or more without speaking. 
 
 " The new school of men," said Lord Saltire at last, 
 looking out to sea, " have perhaps done wisely, in think- 
 ing more of scenery and the mere externals of nature 
 than we did. We lived the life of clubs and crowds, 
 and we are going to our places one after another. There 
 are but few left now. These Stephensons and Taxtons 
 are fine men enough. They are fighting inert matter, but 
 we fought the armies of the Philistine. We had no time 
 for botany and that sort of thing ; which was unfortunate. 
 You young folks shouldn't laugh at us though." 
 
 " I laugh at you ! " she said suddenly and rapidly ; 
 "laugh at the giants who warred with the gods. My 
 lord, the men of our time have not shown themselves 
 equal to their fathers." 
 
 Lord Saltire laughed. 
 
168 RAVENSHOE. 
 
 " No, not yet," she continued ; " when the time comes 
 they will. The time has not come yet." 
 
 "Not yet, Miss Corby. It will come, — mind the 
 words of a very old man ; an old fellow who has seen a 
 confounded deal of the world." 
 
 " Are we to have any more wars, Lord Saltire ? " 
 
 " Wars such as we never dreamt of, young lady." 
 
 "Is all this new inauguration of peace to go for 
 nothing ? " 
 
 " Only as the inauguration of a new series of wars, 
 more terrible than those which have gone before." 
 
 " France and England combined can give the law to 
 Europe." 
 
 Lord Saltire turned upon her and laughed. " And so 
 you actually believe that France and England can ac- 
 tually combine for anything more important than a raid 
 against Eussia. Not that they will ever fight Eussia 
 you know. There will be no fight. If they threaten 
 loud enough, Eussia will yield. Nicholas knows his 
 weakness, and will give way. If he is fool enough to 
 fight the Western powers, it will end in another duel a 
 Voutrance between France and England. They will 
 never work together for long. If they do, Europe is 
 enslaved, and England lost." 
 
 M But why, Lord Saltire ? " 
 
 " Well, well ; I think so. Allow me to say that I 
 was not prepared to find a deep-thinking, though mis- 
 guided politician in such an innocent-looking young 
 lady. God defend the clear old land, for every fresh acre 
 
LORD SALTIRE'S VISIT. 1G9 
 
 I see of it confirms my belief that it is the first country 
 in the world." 
 
 They were crossing the old terraced garden towards 
 the wood, where they heard the guns going rapidly, and 
 both were silent for a minute or so. The leafless wood 
 was before them, and the village at their feet. The 
 church spire rose aloft among the trees. Some fisher- 
 man patriarch had gone to his well-earned rest that 
 day, and the bell was tolling for him. Mary looked at 
 the quiet village, at the calm winter's sea, and then up 
 at the calm stern face of the man who walked beside 
 her, and said — 
 
 " Tell me one thing, Lord Saltire ; you have travelled 
 in many countries. Is there any land, east or west, that 
 can give us what this dear old England does — settled 
 order, in which each man knows his place and his 
 duties ? It is so easy to be good in England." 
 
 * Well, no. It is the first country in the world. A 
 few bad harvests would make a hell of it, though. Has 
 Eavenshoe got many pheasants down here ?" 
 
 And, so talking, this strange pair wandered on towards 
 the wood, side by side. 
 
 Charles was not without news in his retirement, for a 
 few friends kept him pretty well au fait with what was 
 going on in the world. First, there was news from Ox- 
 ford ; one sort of which was communicated by Charles 
 Marston, and another sort by one Marker of Brazenose, 
 otherwise known as " Bodger," though why, I know not, 
 nor ever could get any one to tell me. He was purveyor 
 
170 RAVENSHOE. 
 
 of fashionable intelligence, while Charles Marston dealt 
 more in example and advice. About this time the latter 
 wrote as follows : — 
 
 " How goes Issachar ? Is the ass stronger or weaker 
 than formerly ? Has my dearly-beloved ass profited, or 
 otherwise, by his stay at Eanford ? How is the other 
 ass, my Lord Welter ? He is undoubtedly a fool, but I 
 think an honest one, so long as you keep temptation out 
 of his way. He is shamefully in debt ; but I suppose, 
 if their horse wins the Derby, he will pay ; otherwise I 
 would sooner be my lord than his tradesmen. How 
 goes the ' grand passion,' — has Chloe relented ? She is 
 a great fool if she does. Why, if she refuses you, she 
 may marry Lord Welter, and he may settle his debts on 
 her. A word in your ear. I have an invitation to 
 Eanford. I must go, I suppose. The dear old woman, 
 whose absurdities your honour is pleased to laugh at, 
 has been always kind to me and mine ; and I shall go. 
 I shall pay my just tribute of flattery to the noble 
 honest old soul, who is struggling to save a falling house. 
 Don't you laugh at lady Ascot, you impudent young 
 rascal. I have no doubt that she offers some prominent 
 points for the exercise of your excellency's wit, but she 
 is unmoasurably superior to you, you young scape- 
 grace. 
 
 " Bless your dear old face ; how I long to see it 
 again ! I am coming to see it. I shall come to you at 
 the beginning of the Christmas vacation. I shall come 
 to you a beaten man, Charley. I shall only get a 
 
LORD SALTIEES VISIT. 171 
 
 second. Never mind ; I would sooner come to you 
 and yours and hide my shame, than to any one else. 
 
 •• Charles, old friend, if I get a third, T shall break my 
 heart. Don't show this letter to any one. I have lost 
 the trick of Greek prose. Oh, old Charley !. believe 
 this, that the day once lost can never, never come back 
 any more ! They preach a future hell ; but what hell 
 could be worse than the eternal contemplation of oppor- 
 tunities thrown away — of turning-points in the affairs 
 of a man's life, when, instead of rising, he has fallen — 
 not by a bold stroke, like Satan, but by laziness and 
 neglect ? " 
 
 Charles was very sorry, very grieved, and vexed, to 
 find his shrewd old friend brought to this pass by over- 
 reading, and over-anxiety about a subject, which, to a non- 
 university man, does not seem of such vital importance. 
 He carried the letter to his father, in spite of the pro- 
 hibitation contained in it, and he found his father alone 
 with the good, honest Father Tiernay ; to whom, not 
 thinking that thereby he was serving his friend ill, he 
 read it aloud. 
 
 " Charley dear," said his father, half rising from his 
 chair, " he must come to us, my boy ; he must come 
 here to us, and stay with us till he forgets his dis- 
 appointment. He is a noble lad. He has been a good 
 friend to my boy ; and, by George, the house is his 
 own." 
 
 "I dout think, dad," said Charles, looking from 
 Densil to Father Tiernay, "that he is at all justified in 
 
172 RAVENSHOE. 
 
 the dark view he is taking of matters. The clever 
 fellows used to say that he was safe of his first. You 
 know he is going in for mathematics as well." 
 
 " He is a good young man, any way," said Father 
 Tiernay ; " his sentiments do honour to him ; and none 
 the worst of them is his admiration for my heretic 
 young friend here, which does him most honour of all. 
 Mr. Eavenshoe, I'll take three to one against his double 
 first ; pity he 'aint a Catholic. What the diwle do ye 
 Prothestants mean by absorbing (to use no worse 
 language) the rints and revenues left by Catholic 
 testators for the good of the hooly Church, for the 
 edication of heretics? Tell me that, now." 
 
 The other letter from Oxford was of a very different 
 tenor. Mr. Marker, of Brazenose, began by remarking 
 that — 
 
 " He didn't know what was come over the place ; it 
 was getting confoundedly slow, somehow. They had had 
 another Bloomer ball at Abingdon, but the thing was a 
 dead failure, sir. Jemmy Dane, of University, had 
 driven two of them home in a cart, by way of Nunen- 
 ham. He had past the Pro's at Magdalen turnpike, 
 and they never thought of stopping him, by George. 
 Their weak intellects were not capable of conceiving 
 such glorious audacity. Both the Proctors were down 
 at Coldharbour turnpike, stopping every man who came 
 from Abingdon way. Toreker, of Exeter, was coming 
 home on George Simmond's Darius, and, seeing the 
 Proctors in the light of the turnpike-gate, had put his 
 
LOUD SALTIRE'S VISIT. 173 
 
 horse at the fence (Charles would remember it, a stubbed 
 hedge and a ditch), had got over the back water by the 
 White House, and so home by the Castle. Above forty 
 men had been rusticated over this business, and some 
 good fellows too." (Here followed a list of names, 
 which I could produce, if necessary; but seeing that 
 some names on the list are now rising at the bar or in 
 the Church, think it better not.) "Pembroke had won 
 the fours, very much in consequence of Exeter having 
 gone round the flag, and, on being made to row again, 
 of fouling them in the gut. The water was out heavily, 
 and had spoilt the boating. The Christchurch grind 
 had been slow, but the best that year. L — n was going 
 down, and they said was going to take the Pychley. 
 C — n was pretty safe of his first — so reading men said. 
 Martin of Trinity had got his testamur, at which event 
 astonishment, not unmixed with awe, had fallen on the 
 University generally. That he himself was in for his 
 viva voce two days after date, and he wished himself 
 out of the hands of his enemies." 
 
 There was] a postscript, which interested Charles as 
 much as all the rest of the letter put together. It ran 
 thus : — 
 
 " By-the-bye, Welter has muckered ; you know that by 
 this time. But, worse than that, they say that Charles 
 Marston's classical first is fishy. The old cock has 
 over-worked himself, they say." 
 
 Lord Saltire never went to bed without having Charles 
 up into his drawiug-room for a chat. r * Not having," as 
 
174 KAVEXSHOE. 
 
 his lordship most truly said, " any wig to take off, or 
 any false teeth to come out. I cannot see why I should 
 deny myself the pleasure of my young friend's company 
 at night. Every evening, young gentleman, we are one 
 day older, and one day wiser. I myself have got so 
 confoundedly wise with my many years that I have 
 nothing left to learn. But it amuses me to hear your 
 exceedingly naive remarks on tilings in general, and it 
 also natters and soothes me to contrast my own consum- 
 mate wisdom with your folly. Therefore, I will trouble 
 you to come up to my dressing-room every night, and 
 give me your crude reflections on the events of the 
 day." 
 
 So Charles came up one night, with Mr. Marker's 
 letter, which he read to Lord Saltire, while his valet was 
 brushing his hair ; and then Charles, by way of an 
 easily answered question, asked Lord Saltire, What did 
 he think of his friend's chances ? 
 
 u I must really remark," said Lord Saltire, " even if I 
 use unparliamentary language, which I should be very 
 sorry to do ; that that is one of the silliest questions I 
 ever had put to me. When I held certain seals, I used 
 to have some very foolish questions put to me (which, 
 by the way, I never answered), but I don't know that I 
 ever had such a foolish question put to me as that. 
 Why, how on earth can I have any idea of what your 
 friend's chances are 1 Do be reasonable." 
 
 " Dear Lord Saltire, don't be angry with me. Tell 
 me, as far as your experience can. how far a man who 
 
LOKD BALTERE'S VISIT. 175 
 
 knows iris work, by George, as well as a man can know 
 it, is likely to fail through nervousness. You have seen 
 the same thing in Parliament You know how much 
 mischief nervousness may do. Now, do give me your 
 opinion." 
 
 " Well, you are putting your question in a slightly 
 more reasonable form ; but it is a very silly one yet. 
 I have seen a long sort of man, with black hair and a 
 hook nose, like long Montague, for instance, who has 
 been devilishly nervous till he got on his legs, and then 
 has astonished every one, and no one more than myself, 
 not so much by his power of declamation, as by the 
 extraordinary logical tenacity with which he clung to 
 his subject. Yes, I don't know but what I have heard 
 more telling and logical speeches from unprepared men 
 than I ever have from one of the law lords. But I am 
 a bad man to ask. I never was in the lower house. 
 About your friend's chance ; — well, I would not give 
 two-pence for it ; in after life he may succeed. But, 
 from what you have told me, I should prepare myself 
 for a disappointment." 
 
 Very shortly after this, good Lord Saltire had to 
 retire for a time in the upper chambers ; he had a 
 severe attack of gout. 
 
 There had been no more quarrelling between Father 
 Mackworth and Charles ; Peace was proclaimed, — an 
 armed truce ; and Charles was watching, watching in 
 silence. Never since he met her in the wood had he 
 had an opportunity of speaking to Ellen. She always 
 
176 EAVENSHOE. 
 
 avoided him. William, being asked confidentially by 
 Charles what he thought was the matter, said that 
 Ellen had been " carrin on " with some one, and he had 
 been blowing her up ; which was all the explanation 
 he offered. In the mean time, Charles lived under the 
 comforting assurance that there was mischief brewing, 
 and that Mackworth was at the bottom of it. 
 
CHARLES'S "LIDDELL AND SCOTT.' ' 177 
 
 CHAPTEE XV. 
 
 CHARLES'S "LIDDELL AND SCOTT." 
 
 A growing anxiety began to take possession of Charles 
 shortly before Christmas, arising from the state of his 
 father's health. Densil was failing. His memory was 
 getting defective, and his sense dulled. His eye always 
 was searching for Charles, and he was uneasy at his 
 absence. So it was with a vague sense of impending 
 misfortune that he got a letter from the dean of his 
 college, summoning him back after the Christmas 
 vacation. 
 
 Mr. Dean said, "That Mr. Eavenshoe's case had 
 been re-considered, and that, at the warm, and, he 
 thought, misguided, intercession of the Bursar, a de- 
 termination had been come to, to allow Mr. Eavenshoe 
 to come into residence again for the Lent term. He 
 trusted that this would be a warning, and that, while 
 there was time, he would arrest himself in that 
 miserable career of vice and folly which could only 
 have one termination — utter ruin in this world, and in 
 the next." 
 
 A college " Don " by long practice, acquires a power 
 of hurting a young man's feelings, utterly beyond com- 
 petition, save by a police magistrate. Charles winced 
 
 VOL. I. M 
 
178 RAVENSHOE. 
 
 under this letter ; but the same day Mary, coming 
 singing down stairs as was her wont, was alarmed by 
 the descent of a large opaque body of considerable 
 weight down the well of the staircase, which lodged in 
 the wood basket at the bottom, and which, on examin- 
 ing, she found to be a Liddell and Scott's Lexicon. At 
 which she rejoiced ; for she concluded that Charles had 
 taken to reading again, though why he should begin by 
 throwing his books down stairs she could not well 
 understand, until he joined her and explained that he 
 had been dusting it on the landing, and that it had 
 slipped out of his hand. 
 
 " What a crack it came down," added he ; "I wish 
 Father Mackworth's head had been underneath it." 
 
 " I have no doubt of it, young gentleman," said the 
 priest quietly from behind ; and there he was with his 
 hand on the library door, and in he went and shut it 
 behind him. 
 
 Mary and Charles were both awfully disconcerted. 
 Mary felt horribly guilty; in fact, if the priest had 
 remained quiet one moment more, he would un- 
 doubtedly have heard one or two candid, and far from 
 complimentary remarks about himself from that young 
 lady, which would have made Ins ears tingle. 
 
 " Confound him," said Charles ; " how he glides 
 about ! He learned that trick, and a few others, at that 
 precious Jesuit College of his. They teach them that 
 sort of thing as the old Jews teach the young pick- 
 pockets. The old father inquisitor puts the door ajar 
 
Charles's "liddell asd scott." 179 
 
 with a bell against it, and they all have to come in one 
 after another. The one who rings it gets dropped on to 
 like blazes." 
 
 Mary was going to ask what exact amount of 
 personal suffering being dropped on to like blazes 
 involved; but Charles stopped her, and took her 
 hand 
 
 " Mary dear,'' he said, " do you ever think of the 
 future?" 
 
 •• Night and day, Charles, — night and day." 
 
 " If he dies, Mary % When he dies ? " 
 
 " Night and day, brother," she answered, taking one 
 of his great brown hands between her two white little 
 palms. "I dream in my sleep of the new regime 
 which is to come, and I see only* trouble, and again 
 trouble." 
 
 "And then?" 
 
 " There is a God in heaven, Charles." 
 
 " Ay, but, Mary, what will you do ? " 
 
 " I ? " and she laughed the merriest little laugh ever 
 you heard. " Little me ? Why, go for a governess to 
 be sure. Charles, they shall love me so that this life 
 shall be a paradise. I will go into a family where 
 there are two beautiful girls ; and, when I am old and 
 withered, there shall be two nurseries in which I shall 
 be often welcome, where the children shall come 
 babbling to my knee, the darlings, and shall tell me 
 how they love me, almost as well as their mother. 
 There is my future. Would you change it ? " 
 
 k2 
 
180 EAVENSHOE. 
 
 Charles was leaning against the oak banister; and, 
 when he saw her there before him, when he saw that 
 valiant true-hearted face, in the light which streamed 
 from the old window above, he was rebuked, and bent 
 down his head on the rail. The Dean's letter of that 
 morning had done something; but the sight of that 
 brave little woman, so fearless with all the world before 
 her, did more. She weak, friendless, moneyless, and 
 so courageous ! He with the strong arm, so cowardly ! 
 It taught him a lesson indeed, a lesson he never forgot. 
 But oh ! for that terrible word — too late ! 
 
 Ah ! too late ! What word is so terrible as that ? 
 You will see what I mean soon. That is the cry which 
 one writer puts in the mouths of the lost spirits in 
 hell. God's mercy 4s infinite, and it is yet a question 
 whether it were better for Charles to have fallen into 
 the groove of ordinary life, or to have gone through 
 those humiliating scenes through which we must 
 follow him. 
 
 rt Charley dear," said Mary, laying her hand on his 
 shoulder, " it is not about myself I am thinking ; it is 
 about you. What are you going to do w T hen he is 
 gone ? are you going into the Church ? " 
 
 " Oh, no ! " said Charles, " I couldn't bear the idea of 
 that." 
 
 " Then, why are you at Oxford ? " 
 
 " To get an education, I suppose." 
 
 " But what use will a university education be to you, 
 Charles ? Have you no plans ? " 
 
CHARLES'S "LIDDELL AND SCOTT." 181 
 
 " I give you my word, my dear Mary, that I am as 
 much in the dark about the future as a five days old 
 puppy." 
 
 " Has he made any provision for you ? " 
 " Oh, yes ! I am to have six thousand." 
 " Do you know that the estate is involved, Charles ? " 
 " No." 
 
 "I believe it is. There has been a great deal of 
 state kept up here, and I believe it is the case." 
 " Cuthbert would soon bring that round." 
 "I tremble to think of the future, Charles. Are 
 your debts at Oxford heavy ? " 
 
 " Pretty well. Five hundred would clear me." 
 h Don't get any more in debt, that's a dear." 
 "No, Mary dear, I won't. I don't care for the 
 future. I shall have 1801. a year. That will be 
 enough for William and me. Then I shall go to the 
 bar and make a deuce of a lot of money, and marry 
 Adelaide. Then you will come to live with us, and we 
 shall have such jolly times of it. — Take that, you 
 villain!" 
 
 This last elegant apostrophe was addressed to William 
 (who at that moment had come in by the side door), 
 and was accompanied by the dexterous delivery of the 
 Liddell and Scott, in the manner of a cricket ball. 
 Our friend William stood to catch it in a style worthy 
 of Box, with his knees a yard apart, and one palm over 
 the other ; but, as luck would have it, he missed it, and 
 it alighted full on the shins of Father Mackworth, who 
 
182 EAVENSHOE. 
 
 had selected that time for coming out of the library ; 
 and so it lay sillily open at \a/j,, Xep, at his feet. 
 
 Mackworth really thought that it was intentional, and 
 was furious. He went hack into the library; and 
 Charles, seeing what must come, followed him, while 
 Mary fled upstairs. There was no one in the room but 
 Cuthbert and Father Tiernay. 
 
 " I will be protected from insult in this house," began 
 Mackworth ; " twice to-day I have been insulted by 
 Mr. Charles Bavenshoe, and I demand protection." 
 
 "What have you been doing, Charley?" said Cuth- 
 bert, "I thought you two had given, up quarrelling. 
 You will wear my life out. Sometimes, what with one 
 thing and another, I wish I were dead. Oh ! if the 
 great problem were solved! Surely my brother may 
 avoid brawling with a priest, a man sacred by his 
 office, though of another faith. Surely my brother has 
 taste enough to see the propriety of that." 
 
 " Your brother has no taste or sense, sir," said Father 
 Mackworth. " He has no decency. He has no gentle- 
 manly feeling. Within ten minutes he has dropped a 
 book downstairs, and lamented, to my face, that it hadn't 
 fallen on my head ; and just now he has thrown the 
 same book at me, and hit me with it." 
 
 " I thank God, Charles," said poor weary Cuthbert, 
 "that our father is spared this. It would kill him. 
 Brother, brother, why do you vex me like this? I have 
 always stood on your side, Charley. Don't let me be 
 killed with these ceaseless brawls.'' 
 
CHAELES'S "LIDDELL AND SCOTT." 183 
 
 u They will soon cease, sir," said Father Mackworth ; 
 " I leave this house to-morrow." 
 
 " Cuthbert, hear me now. I never intended to insult 
 him." 
 
 " Why did you throw your Look at him, Charley ? It 
 is not decorous. You must know when you wound him 
 you wound me. And I have fought such battles for 
 you, Charley." 
 
 " Cuthhert ! brother ! do hear me. And let him hear 
 me. And let Father Tiernay hear me. Cuthbert, you 
 know I love you. Father Tiernay, you are a good and 
 honest man ; hear what I have to say. You Mackworth, 
 you are a scoundrel. You are a double-dyed villain 
 What were you doing with that girl in the wood, the 
 day you hunted the black hare a month ago ? Cuthbert, 
 tell me, like an honest gentleman, did you ever walk in 
 the wood with Ellen ? " 
 
 " I ? " said Cuthbert, scared ; " I never walked with 
 Ellen there. I have walked with Mary there, brother. 
 Why should I not?" 
 
 " There, look at the lie that this man has put into her 
 mouth. She told me that he had found you and her 
 walking together there." 
 
 " I am not answerable for any young woman's lies," 
 said Father Mackworth, " I decline to continue this 
 discussion. It is humiliating. As for you. yon poor 
 little moth," he said, turning to Charles, "when tho time 
 comes, I will crush you with my thumb against the 
 wall My liking for your father prevents my doing my 
 duty as yet. In that I err. Wait." 
 
184 RAVENSROE. 
 
 Charles had been in a passion before this ; but, seeing 
 danger, and real danger abroad, he got cool, and said — 
 
 " Wait." 
 
 And they both waited, and we shall see who waited 
 the longest. 
 
 " I have done it now, Mary dear," said Charles, re- 
 turning upstairs with the unlucky lexicon. " It is all 
 over now." 
 
 i: Has there been a scene?" 
 
 " A terrible scene. I swore at him, and called him a 
 villain." 
 
 " Why did you do that, Charles ? Why are you so 
 violent ? You are not yourself, Charles, when you give 
 way to your temper like that." 
 
 " Well, I'll tell you, my Eobin. He is a villain." 
 
 " I don't think so, Charles. I believe he is a high- 
 minded man." 
 
 " I know he is not, birdie. At least, I believe he is 
 not." 
 
 " I believe him to be so, Charles." 
 
 " I know him to be otherwise ; at least, I think so." 
 
 " Are you doing him justice, Charley dear ? Are you 
 sure you are doing him justice ? " 
 
 "I think so." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " I cannot tell you, Mary. When the end of all things 
 comes, and you and I are thrown abroad like two corks 
 on the great sea, you will know. But I cannot tell you." 
 
 "I believe, dear, that you are so honest that you 
 
GHABLBS'8 " LIDDELL AND SCOTT." 185 
 
 would not do injustice even to him. But, oh ! be sure 
 that you are right. Hush ! Change the subject. What 
 were you going to read when that unlucky book fell 
 downstairs ? " 
 
 " Demosthenes." 
 
 " Let me come in and sit with you, Charley dear, and 
 look out the words ; you don't know how clever I am. 
 Is it the "De Corona"? 
 
 Charles took her hand and kissed it ; and so they two 
 poor fools went on with their Demosthenes. 
 
18G RAVENSHOE. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 MARSTON'S ARRIVAL. 
 
 The night after the terrible lexicon quarrel, which, you 
 will observe, arose entirely from Charles's good resolu- 
 tion to set to work reading — whereby we should take 
 warning not to be too sanguine of good resolutions, 
 taken late, bringing forth good fruit — the very evening 
 I say after this fracas, Charles, his father, and Mary, 
 were sitting in the library together. Of course Densil 
 had heard nothing of the disturbance, and was, good old 
 gentleman, as happy as you please ; all his elements of 
 pleasure were there. Father Mackworth was absent. 
 Father Tiernay was throwing his whole hearty soul into 
 a splendid copy of Bewick's birds, date 1799. Cuthbert 
 was before the upper fireplace, beyond the pillar, poring 
 over goodness only knows what monkish lore ; while 
 close to him was bird Mary sewing, and Charles leading 
 aloud a book, very often quoted in everyday life, un- 
 consciously. 
 
 Charles read how Mr. Quilp begged Mr. Brass would 
 take particular care of himself, or he would never forgive 
 him ; how there was a dog in the lane who had killed a 
 boy on Tuesday, and bitten a man on Friday; how the 
 
MARSTOX'S ARRIVAL. 187 
 
 dog lived on the right hand side, but generally lurked 
 on the left, ready for a spring : and they were laughing 
 over Mr. Brass's horror, when there came a noise of 
 wheels on the gravel. 
 
 " That is Marston, father, for a thousand pounds," 
 said Charles. 
 
 He hurried into the hall, as the men were undoing 
 the door ; Mary, dropping her work, went after him ; 
 and Densil, taking his stick, came too. Cuthbert looked 
 up from the further end of the room, and then bent his 
 head over his book again. Father Tiernay looked up, 
 inquisitive and interested, but sat still. They who 
 followed into the hall saw this. 
 
 Charles stood in front of the hall door, and out of the 
 winter's darkness came a man, with whom, as Mary 
 once playfully said, she had fallen in love at once. It 
 was Marston. 
 
 Charles went up to him quickly with both hands out, 
 and said — 
 
 " We are so glad." 
 
 " It is very kind of you. God bless you ; how did 
 you know it ? " 
 
 "We know nothing, my dear Marston, except that 
 you are welcome. Now put me out of my pain." 
 
 "Why, well," said the other, "I don't know how it 
 has happened ; but I have got my double first." 
 
 Charles gave a wild cheer, and the others were all on 
 him directly — Densil, Tiernay, Cuthbert, and all. Never 
 was such a welcome ; not one of them, save Charles, had 
 
188 RAVENSHOE. 
 
 ever seen him before, yet they welcomed him as an old 
 friend. 
 
 " Yon have not been to Eanford then ? " said 
 Charles. 
 
 " Why, no. I did not feel inclined for it after so 
 much work. I must take it on my way back." 
 
 Lord Saltire's gout was better to-night, and he was 
 down stairs. He proceeded to remark that, having been 
 
 in ; well, he wouldn't shock Miss Corby by saying 
 
 where — for a day or so, he had suddenly, through no 
 merit of his own, got promoted back into purgatory. 
 That, having fought against the blue devils, and come 
 down stairs, for the sole purpose of making himself dis- 
 agreeable, he had been rewarded, for that display of 
 personal energy and self-sacrifice, by most unexpectedly 
 meeting a son of his old friend, Jackdaw Marston. He 
 begged to welcome his old friend's son, and to say that, 
 by Jove, he was proud of him. His young friend's 
 father had not been a brilliant scholar, as his young 
 friend was ; but had been one of the first whist-players 
 in England. His young friend had turned his attention 
 to scholastic honours, in preference to whist, which 
 might or might not be a mistake : though he believed 
 he was committing no breach of trust in saying that the 
 position had been thrust on his young friend from pecu- 
 niary motives. Property had an infernal trick of deterio- 
 rating. His own property had not happened to deterio- 
 rate (none knew why, for he had given it every chance) ; 
 but the property of his young friend's father having 
 
marston's arrival. 189 
 
 deteriorated in a confounded rapid sort of way, he must 
 say that it was exceedingly creditable in his young 
 friend to have made such a decided step towards bring- 
 ing matters right again as he had." 
 
 " My father's son, my Lord, thanks you for your kind 
 remembrance of his father. I have always desired to see 
 and meet my father's old friends, of whom you, Mr. 
 Kavenshoe, were among the kindest. We have given 
 up the greater vices lately, my Lord, but we do our best 
 among the smaller ones." 
 
 There was a quiet supper, at which Lord Saltire con- 
 sented to stay, provided no one used the expression 
 " cheese ; " in which case he said he should have to retire. 
 There wasn't cheese on the table, but there was more 
 than cheese ; there was scolloped cockles, and Lord 
 Saltire ate some. He said at the time that they would 
 have the same effect on him as swallowing the flreshoveL 
 But, to relieve your mind at once, I may tell you that 
 they didn't do him any harm at all, and he was as well 
 as ever next morning. 
 
 Father Tiernay said grace ; and, when the meal was 
 half over, in came Father Mackworth. Densil said, 
 "Father Mackworth, Mr. Marston;" and Marston 
 said, after a moment's glance at him, " How do you 
 do, sir?" 
 
 Possibly a more courteous form of speaking to a new 
 acquaintance might have been used. But Marston had 
 his opinions about Father Mackworth, and had no objec- 
 tion that the holy father should know them. 
 
190 RAVENSHOE. 
 
 " We got, Mary, said Cutlibert suddenly, " more cocks 
 than pheasants to-day. Charles killed five couple, and 
 I four. I was very vexed at being beaten by Charles, 
 because I am so much the better shot." 
 
 Charles looked up and met his eyes — a look he never 
 forgot. Accompanying the apparent petulance of the 
 remark was a look of love and pity and sorrow. It pleased 
 him, above everything, during the events which were 
 to come, to recall that look, and say, " Well, he liked 
 me once." 
 
 That evening Charles and Marston retired to Charles's 
 study (a deal of study had been carried on there, you may 
 depend), and had a long talk over future prospects. 
 Charles began by telling him all about Madam Adelaide, 
 and Marston said, " Oh, indeed ! what are you going to 
 do, Charley, boy, to keep her? She comes out of an 
 extravagant house, you know." 
 
 " I must get called to the bar." 
 
 " Hard work for nothing, for many years, you 
 know." 
 
 " I know. But I won't go into the Church ; and what 
 else is there ? " 
 
 "Nothing I know of, except billiard marking and 
 steeple-chase riding." 
 
 " Then, you approve of it ? " 
 
 " I do, most heartily. The work will be good for you. 
 You have worked before, and can do it again, liemem- 
 ber how well you got on at Shrewsbury." 
 
 Then Charles told him about the relations between 
 
maeston's arrival. 191 
 
 himself and Father Mackworth, and what had happened 
 that day. 
 
 "Yon and he have had disgraceful scenes like this 
 before, haven't yon ? " 
 
 " Yes, but never so bad as this. 
 
 " He is a very passionate man, isn't he ? You took 
 utterly wrong grounds for what you did to-day. Don't 
 you see that you have no earthly grounds for what you 
 said, except your own suspicions? The girl's own 
 account of the matter seems natural enough. That she 
 was walking with your most saint-like brother, and the 
 priest found them, and sent them to the right-about with 
 fleas in their ears." 
 
 " I believe that man to be a gre'at villain," said Charles. 
 
 " So may I," said the other, " but I shan't tell him so 
 till I can prove it. As for that quarrel between Wil- 
 liam and Ms sister the night you came home, that proves 
 nothing, except that she has been going too far with 
 some one. But who ? What have you been doing that 
 empowers him to say that he will crush you like a 
 moth?" 
 
 " Oh, bravado, I take it ! You should have seen how 
 mad he looked when he said it." 
 
 " I am glad I did not. Let us talk no more about 
 him. Is that sweet little bird Mary Corby ? " 
 
 "You know it is." 
 
 " Well, so I do know, but I wanted an excuse for say- 
 ing the name over again. Charles, you are a. fool." 
 11 That is such a very novel discovery of yours," said 
 
192 RAVEN SHOE. 
 
 Charles, laughing. What have I been a-doing on 
 now?" 
 
 "Why didn't you fall in love with Mary Corby 
 instead of Madam Adelaide ? " 
 
 " I am sure I don't know. Why, I never thought of 
 such a thing as that." 
 
 " Then you ought to have done so. Now go to bed." 
 
ANOTHER SHIPWRECK. 193 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 IN WHICH THERE IS ANOTHER SHIPWRECK. 
 
 Time jogged on very pleasantly to the party assembled 
 at Ravenshoe that Christmas. There were woodcocks 
 and pheasants in the woods ; there were hares, snipes, 
 and rabbits on the moor. In the sea there were fish ; 
 and many a long excursion they had in the herring-boats 
 — sometimes standing boldly out to sea towards the dis- 
 tant blue island in the main, sometimes crawling lazily 
 along under the lofty shoreless cliffs which towered 
 above their heads from 200 to 1,100 feet high. 
 
 It was three days before Christmas-day, and they 
 were returning from fishing along the coast, and were 
 about ten miles or so from home. I say returning, 
 though in fact there was not a breath of wind, and the 
 boat was drifting idly along on the tide. Two handsome 
 simple-looking young men were lolling by the useless 
 tiller; an old man, hale and strong as a lion, with a 
 courteous highbred look about him, was splicing a rope ; 
 and a tall, pale, black-haired man was looking steadily 
 seaward, with his hands in his pockets, while Charles 
 and Marston were standing in the bows smoking. 
 
 "What a curious, dream}', dosy, delicious kind of 
 winter you have down here," said Marston 
 
 vol. i. o 
 
194« RAVENSHOE. 
 
 " T am very fond of it," said Charles ; " it keeps you 
 in continual hope for the spring that is coming. In the 
 middle of frost and snow and ice one is apt to lose one's 
 faith in waving boughs and shady pools." 
 
 " I have had such a quiet time with you down here, 
 Charley. I am so pleased with the way in which you 
 are going on. You are quite an altered man. I think 
 we shall both look back to the last few quiet weeks 
 as a happy time." 
 
 " Here the tall dark man, who was looking out to sea, 
 suddenly said — 
 
 " Bain and hail, snow and tempest, stormy wind ful- 
 filling His word." 
 
 " Ay, ay," said the old man ; ** going to blow to-night, 
 I expect." 
 
 " We shall go home pretty fast, may be." 
 
 "Not us, Master Charles dear," said the tall man. 
 " We are going to have it from south and by west, and 
 so through west round to north. Before which time 
 there'll be souls in glory, praise be to God." 
 
 The old man took off his hat reverently. 
 
 "There won't be amuch surf on when we beaches 
 she," said one of the young men. "It won't get up 
 afore the wind be full round west for an hour." 
 
 " You're a spaking like a printed buke, Jan," said the 
 old man. 
 
 " I'm a thinking differently, Master Evans," said the 
 dark man. "It will chop round very sudden, and be 
 west before we know where we are. I speak with 
 
ANOTHER SHIPWRECK. 195 
 
 humility to a man who has seen the Lord's wonders in 
 the deep so many years longer nor me. But I think, 
 under God, I am right."' 
 
 "You most in general be right. They aa converses 
 with the Lord night and day, day and night, like as 
 you do, knows likely more of his works nor we, as ain't 
 your gii; 
 
 " The Lord has vouchsafed me nothing in the way of 
 a vision, about this afternoon, Master Evans." 
 
 " Didn't 'ee dream never at all last night ? " said one 
 of the young men, " Think 'ee now." 
 
 "Xought to bear on wind or weather, Jan. I judges 
 from the glass. It's a dropping fast." 
 
 Jan would have had more faith in one of Matthew's 
 dreams, and didn't seem to think much of the barometer. 
 Meanwhile Marston had whispered Charles — 
 
 " Who is Matthews ? What sect is he ? " 
 
 (i Oh, he's a Brianite." 
 
 " What is that ? " 
 
 " A sort of Ranter, I believe." 
 
 Marston looked up, and saw the two great black eyes 
 under the lofty forehead fixed full upon him. With the 
 instinct of a gentleman, he said at once — 
 
 " I was asking Mr. Charles what sect you were of ; 
 that was all. He tells me you are a Brianite, and I had 
 never heard of that sect before. I hope you will let me 
 talk to you about your matters of belief some day." 
 
 Matthews took off his hat, and said — That with the 
 Lord's will he would speak to his honour. " Will your 
 
 02 
 
1 96 RAVENSHOE. 
 
 honour bear with a poor fisherman, ignorant of the 
 world's learning, but who has had matters revealed to 
 him by the Lord in dreams and visions of the night. 
 Peter was only a fisherman, your honour, and, oh, if we 
 could only hear him speak now ! " 
 
 He paused, and looked again to seaward. Charles 
 had gone again into the bow, and Marston was standing 
 among the men right aft. Suddenly Matthews turned 
 again upon him, and said — 
 
 " In the beaching of this here boat to-night, your 
 honour, there may be danger. In such case my place 
 will be alongside of him," pointing to Charles. " There'd 
 be a many kind hearts aching, if aught happened to 
 him. You stick close to these young men. They'll see 
 after you, sir." 
 
 " You keep close alongside of we, sir. You hold on 
 of we, sir. We'll see you all right, sir," said the two 
 young men. 
 
 " But, my dear good souls, I am as good a swimmer 
 as any in England, and as active as a cat. Pray, don't 
 mind me." 
 
 w You keep hold of we and run, sir," said one of the 
 young men, " that's all you're a'got to do, sir." 
 
 " I shall most certainly run," said Marston laughing, 
 but I decline drowning any one but myself — " 
 
 Charles said at this moment, "Do come here, and 
 look at this." 
 
 It was worth looking at, indeed. They were about a 
 mile from shore, floating about anyhow on an oily 
 
ANOTHER SHIPWRECK. 197 
 
 smooth sea ; for the tide had changed, and they were 
 making no headway. Before them one of the noblest 
 headlands on the coast, an abrupt cone of slate, nigh a 
 thousand feet high, covered almost entirely with grass, 
 sloped suddenly into the water ; and in advance of it, 
 but slightly on one side, a rugged mound of black rock, 
 nearly six hundred feet, stood out into the sea, and con- 
 trasted its horrid jagged lines with the smooth green of 
 the peak behind. Round its base, dividing it from the 
 glossy sea, ran a delicate line of silver — the surf caused 
 by the ground swell ; and in front the whole promontory 
 was dimly mirrored in the quietly heaving ocean. 
 
 "What a noble headland," said Marston ; "is that 
 grass on the further peak too steep to walk upon ? " 
 
 " There's some one a'walking on it now," said old 
 Evans. " There's a woman a'walking on it." 
 
 Xone could see it but he, except Matthews, who said 
 he couldn't tell if it was a sheep or no. 
 
 Charles got out his glass, and the old man was right. 
 A woman was walking rapidly along the peak, about 
 the third of the way down. 
 
 " What a curious place for a woman to be in 1 " he 
 remarked. " It is almost terrible to look at." 
 
 "I never saw any one there before, save the shep- 
 herd," said the old man. 
 
 * It's a sheep-path," said one of the young ones. " I 
 have been along there myself. It is the short way 
 round to Coombe." 
 
 Charles would have thought more of the solitary 
 
198 RAVENSHOE. 
 
 female figure on that awful precipice, but that their 
 attention was diverted by something else. From the 
 south-westward black flaws of wind began to creep 
 towards them, alternated with long irregular bands of 
 oily calm. Soon the calm bands disappeared, and the 
 wind reached them. Then they had steerage, and in a 
 very short time were roaring out to sea close hauled, 
 with a brisk and ever increasing breeze. 
 
 The}- saw that they would have to fetch a very long 
 .ml make a great offing, in order to reach Eavenshoe 
 at all. The wind Avas freshening every moment, chang- 
 ing to the west, and the sea was getting up. It took 
 them three hours to open Eavenshoe bay ; and, being 
 about five miles from the shore, they could see that 
 already there was an ugly side-sirrf sweeping in, and 
 that the people were busy on the beach, hauling up their 
 boats out of harm's way. 
 
 " How beautifully these craft sail," said Marston, as 
 they were all hanging on by her weather gunwale, and 
 the green sea was rushing past to leeward, almost under 
 their feet, in sheets of angry foam. 
 
 " It is amazing what speed is got out of them on a 
 wind," said Charles, " but they are dangerous craft:' 
 
 " Why so ? " 
 
 " These lug-sails are so awkward in tacking, you will 
 see." 
 
 They ran considerably past Eavenshoe and about six 
 miles to sea. when the word was given to go about. In 
 an instant the half-deck was lumbered with the heavy 
 
ANOTHER SHIPWRECK. 109 
 
 red sails ; and, after five minutes of unutterable confu- 
 sion, she got about. Marston was expecting her to 
 broach to every moment during this long five minutes, 
 but fortune favoured them. They went freer on this 
 tack, for the wind was now north of west, and the brave 
 little craft went nearly before it at her finest pace. The 
 men kept on her as much sail as she could stand, but 
 that was very little ; fast ^as they went, the great seas 
 went faster, as though determined to be at the dreadful 
 rendezvous before the boat. Still the waves rose higher 
 and the wind howled louder. They were nearing the 
 shore rapidly. 
 
 Xow they began to see, through the mist, the people 
 gathered in a crowd on the shore, densest at one point, 
 but with a few restless stragglers right and left of that 
 point, who kept coming and going. This spot was where 
 they expected to come ashore. They were apparently 
 the last boat out, and all the village was watching them 
 with the deepest anxiety. 
 
 They began to hear a sound other than the howling 
 of the wind in the rigging, and the rush of waters 
 around them — a continuous thunder, growing louder 
 each moment as the boat swept onward. The thimder 
 of the surf upon the sand. And, looking forward, they 
 could see just the top of it as it leapt madly up. 
 
 It was a nervous moment. They stood ready in their 
 shirts and trousers, for a rush, should it be necessary. 
 And the old man was at the helm. They saw the seas 
 begin to curl. Then they were in the middle of them. 
 
200 BAVENSHOE. 
 
 Then the water left them on the sand, and three brave 
 fellows from the shore dashed to hook on the tackles ; 
 bnt they were too late. Back with a roar like a hungry 
 lion came the sea ; the poor boat broached to, and took 
 the whole force of the deluge on her broadside. In a 
 moment more, blinded and stunned, they were all in the 
 water, trying to stand against the backward rush which 
 took them near midthigh. Old Master Evans was nearest 
 to Marston ; he was tottering to fall when Marston got 
 hold of him, and saved him. The two young men got hold 
 of both of them. Then three men from the shore dashed 
 in and got hold of Charles ; and then, as the water went 
 down and they dared move their feet, they all ran for 
 their lives. Marston and his party got on to diy land 
 on their feet, but Charles and his assistants were 
 tumbled over and over, and washed up ignominiously 
 covered with sand. Charles, however, soon recovered 
 himself, and, looking round to thank those who had 
 done him this service, found that one of them was 
 William, who, when the gale had come on, had, with 
 that bland indifference to the stud-groom's personal 
 feelings which we have seen him exhibit before, left his 
 work, and dressed in a Jersey and blue trousers, and 
 come down to lend a hand. He had come in time to 
 help his foster-brother out of the surf. 
 
 " I am so very thankful to you," said Charles to the 
 two others. " I will never forget you. I should have 
 been drowned but for you. William, when I am in 
 trouble I am sure to find you at my elbow." 
 
ANOTHER SHIPWKECK. 201 
 
 "You won't find me far off, Master Charles," said 
 William. They 'didn't say any more to one another 
 those two. There was no need. 
 
 The tall man Matthews had been cast up with 
 a broken head, and, on the whole, seemed rather 
 disappointed at not finding himself in paradise. 
 He had stumbled in leaping out of the boat, and 
 hurt his foot, and had had a hard time of it, poor 
 fellow. 
 
 As Charles and William stood watching the poor boat 
 breaking up, and the men venturing their lives to get 
 the nets out of her, a hand was laid on Charles's 
 shoulder, and, turning round, he faced Cuthbert. 
 
 " Oh, Charles, Charles, I thought I had lost you. 
 Come home and let us dry you, and take care of you. 
 William, you have risked your life for one who is very 
 dear to us. God reward you for it ! Brother, you are 
 shivering with cold, and you have nothing but your 
 trousers and Jersey on, and your head and feet are bare, 
 and your poor hair is wet and full of sand ; let me 
 carry you up, Charles, the stones will cut your feet. 
 Let me carry you, Charles. I used to do it when you 
 were little." 
 
 There was water in Charles's eyes (the salt water out 
 of his hair, you understand), as he answered : 
 
 " I think I can walk, Cuthbert ; my feet are as hard 
 as iron." 
 
 " No, but I must carry you," said Cuthbert. " Get 
 up, brother." 
 
202 RAVENSHOE. 
 
 Charles prepared to comply, and Cuthbert suddenly 
 pulled off his shoes and stockings, and made ready. 
 
 li Oh, Cuthbert, don't do that," said Charles, "You 
 break my heart." 
 
 "Do let me, dear Charles. I seldom ask you a 
 favour. If I didn't know that it was acceptable to God, 
 do you think I would do it ? " 
 
 Charles hesitated one moment ; but he caught 
 William's eye, and William's eye and William's face said 
 so plainly " do it," that Charles hesitated no longer, but 
 got on his brother's back. Cuthbert ordered William, 
 who was bare-foot, to put on his discarded shoes 
 and stockings, which William did ; and then Cuth- 
 bert went toiling up the stony path towards the 
 hall with his brother on his back — glorying in his 
 penance. 
 
 Is this ridiculous ? I cannot say I can see it in this 
 light. I may laugh to scorn the religion which teaches 
 men that, by artificially producing misery and nervous 
 terror, and in that state flying to religion as a comfort 
 and refuge, we in any way glorify God, or benefit our- 
 selves. I can laugh, I say, at a form of religion like 
 this ; but I cannot laugh at the men who believe in it, 
 and act up to it. No. I may smoke my pipe, and say 
 that the fool Cuthbert Eavenshoe took off his shoes, 
 and gave them to the groom, and carried a twelve-stone 
 brother for a quarter of a mile barefoot, and what a fool 
 he must be, and so forth. But the sneer is a failure, 
 and the laugh dies away ; and I say, " Well, Cuthbert, 
 
ANOTHER SHIPWRECK. 203 
 
 if you are a fool, you are a consistent and manly one at 
 all events." 
 
 Let us leave these three toiling up the steep rocky 
 path, and take a glance elsewhere. When the gale had 
 come on, little Mary had left Densil, and, putting on 
 her bonnet, gone down to the beach. She had asked 
 the elder fishermen whether there would be any danger 
 in beaching the boat, and they had said in chorus, " Oh, 
 bless her sweet ladyship's heart, no. The young men 
 would have the tackles on her and have her up, oh, ever 
 so quick ; n and so she had been reassured, and walked 
 up and down. But, as the wind came stronger and 
 stronger, and she had seen the last boat taken in half 
 full of water — and as the women kept walking up and 
 down uneasily, with their hands under their aprons — 
 and as she saw many an old eagle eye, shaded by a 
 horny hand, gazing anxiously seaward, at the two brown 
 sails plunging about in the offing — she had lost heart 
 again, and had sat her down on a windlass apart, with a 
 pale face, and a sick heart, 
 
 A tall gaunt brown woman came up to her and said, 
 
 " My lady musn't fret. My lady would never do for 
 a fisherman's wife. Why, my dear tender flesh, there's 
 a hundred strong arms on the beach now, as would 
 fetch a Eavenshoe out of anywhere a'most. 'Tis a cross 
 surf, Miss Mary; but, Lord love ye, they'll have the 
 tackles on her afore she's in it. Don't ye fret, dear, 
 don't ye fret." 
 
 But she had set apart and fretted nevertheless ; and, 
 
204 RAVENSHOE. 
 
 when she saw the brown bows rushing madly through 
 the yellow surf, she had shut her eyes and prayed, and 
 had opened them to see the boat on her beam ends, and 
 a dozen struggling figures in the pitiless water. 
 
 Then she had stood up and wrung her hands. 
 
 They were safe. She heard that, and she buried her 
 face in her hands, and murmured a prayer of thanks- 
 giving. 
 
 Some one stood beside her. It was Marston, bare- 
 headed and barefooted. 
 
 " Oh, thank God/' she said. 
 
 " We have given you a sad fright." 
 
 ■' I have been terribly frightened. But you must not 
 stand dripping there. Please, come up, and let me 
 attend you." 
 
 So she got him a pair of shoes, and they went up 
 together. The penance procession had passed on before ; 
 and a curious circumstance is this, that, although on 
 ordinary occasions Marston was as lively a talker as 
 need be, on this occasion he was an uncommonly 
 stupid one, as he never said one word all the way up 
 t< i the hall, and then separated from her with a formal 
 little salutation. 
 
marston's disappointment. 205 
 
 CHAPTEK XYIII. 
 
 MARSTON'S DISAPPOINTMENT. 
 
 Mary did not wonder at Marston's silence. She ima- 
 gined that perhaps he had been sobered by being cast 
 on shore so unceremoniously, and thought but little 
 more of it. Then she dressed for dinner, and went and 
 stood in one of the deep windows of the hall, looking out. 
 
 The great fire which leapt and blazed in the hall 
 chimney was fast superseding the waning daylight out- 
 side. It was very pleasant to look at the fire, and the 
 firelight on wall and ceiling, on antler and armour, and 
 then to get behind the curtain and look out into the 
 howling winters evening, over the darkening raging 
 sea, and the tossing trees, and think how all the boats 
 were safe in, and the men sitting round the pleasant 
 fires with their wives and children, and that the dogs 
 were warm in the kennels, and the horses in the stable ; 
 and to pity the poor birds, and hope they had good 
 warm nooks and corners to get to ; and then to think 
 of the ships coming up the channel, and hope they 
 might keep a good offing. 
 
 This brought her to thinking, for the first time, of her 
 own little self — how, so many years ago, she had been 
 cast up like a little piece of sea-weed out of that awful 
 
206 KAVENSHOE. 
 
 ocean. She thought of the Warren Hastings, and how 
 she and Charles, on summer-days, when out gathering 
 
 shells on the rocks, used to look over to where the ship 
 lay beneath the sea, and wonder whereabout it was. 
 Then she had a kindly smile on her face as she thought 
 of Mr. Archer, the brave and good (now I am happy to 
 say Captain Archer), and looked over the hall to a 
 hideous and diabolical graven image, which he had 
 sent the year before, among some very valuable presents, 
 and had begged her to be particularly careful of, as he 
 had risked his life in getting it ; and which she and 
 Charles had triumphantly placed in the hall, and main- 
 tained there, too, in spite of the sarcasms of Father 
 Mackworth, and the pious horror of the servants and 
 villagers. And so she went on thinking — thinking of 
 her dead parents, of the silence maintained by her 
 relations, of old Densii's protection, and then of the 
 future. That protection must cease soon, and then — 
 
 A governess ! There were many stories about gover- 
 nesses not being well treated. Perhaps it was their 
 own fault, or they were exceptional cases. She would 
 like the nursery best, and to keep away from the 
 drawing-room altogether ! " Yes," she said, " I will 
 make them love me ; I will be so gentle, patient, and 
 obliging. I am not afraid of the children — I know I 
 can win them — or of my mistress much ; I believe I can 
 win her. I am most afraid of the superior servants ; 
 but, surely, kindness P"d submission will win them 
 in time. 
 
marston's disappointment. 207 
 
 " My sheet-anchor is old Lady Ascot. She got very 
 fond of me during that six months I staid with her ; 
 and she is very kind. Surely she will get me a place 
 where I shall be well treated ; and, if not, why then — 
 I shall only be in the position of thousands of other 
 girls. I must fight through it. There is another life 
 after this. 
 
 "It will be terribly hard parting from all the old 
 friends though ! After that, I think I shall have no 
 heart left to suffer with. Yes ; I suppose the last details 
 of the break-up will be harder to bear than anything 
 which will follow. That will tear one's heart terribly. 
 That over, I suppose my salary will keep me in drawing 
 materials, and give rue the power, at every moment of 
 leisure, of taking myself into fairyland. 
 
 " I suppose actual destitution is impossible. I should 
 think so. Yes, yes; Lady Ascot would take care of 
 that. If that were to come though ? They say a girl 
 can always make fourpence a day by her needle. How 
 I would fight, and strive, and toil! And then how 
 sweet death would be ! " 
 
 She paused, and looked out on the darkened ocean. 
 " And yet," she thought again, " I would follow — follow 
 him to the world's end : — 
 
 " ' Across the hills, and far away, 
 
 Beyond their utmost purple rim ; 
 Beyond the night, across the day, 
 The happy princess followed him.' " 
 
 A door opened into the hall, and a man's step was on 
 
208 RAVENSHOE. 
 
 the stone-floor : she raised the curtain to see who it 
 was. It was Marston ; and he came straight towards 
 her, and stood beside her, looking out over the wild 
 stormy landscape. 
 
 " Miss Corby," he said, " I was coming to try and 
 find you." 
 
 "You were very lucky in your search," she said, 
 smiling on him. " I was alone here with the storm ; 
 and, if I had not raised the curtain, you would never 
 have seen me. How it blows ! I am glad you are not 
 out in this. This is one of your lucky days." 
 
 " I should be glad to think so. Will you listen to me 
 for a very few minutes, while I tell you something % " 
 
 " Surely," she said. " Who is there that I would 
 sooner listen to ? " 
 
 " I fear I shall tire your patience now, though. I am 
 a comparatively poor man." 
 
 " And what of that, my dear Mr. Marston ? You are 
 rich in honour, in future prospects. You have a noble 
 future before you." 
 
 "Will you share it, Mary?" 
 * Oh ! what do you mean ? " 
 
 " Will you be my wife ? I love you beyond all the 
 riches and honours of the world — I love you as you will 
 never be loved again. It is due to you and to myself 
 to say that, although I call niyself poor, I have enough 
 to keep you like a lady, and all my future prospects 
 beside. Don't give me a hasty answer, but tell me is it 
 possible yuu can become my wife ? " 
 
marston's disappointment. 209 
 
 " Oh, I am so sorry for this ! " said poor Mary. " I 
 never dreamt of this. Oh, no ! it is utterly and entirely 
 impossible, Mr. Marston — utterly and hopelessly impos- 
 sible ! You must forgive me, if you can ; but you must 
 never, never think about me more." 
 
 " Is there no hope ? " said Marston. 
 
 " "No hope, no hope ! " said Mary. " Please never 
 think about me any more, till you have forgiven me ; 
 and then, with your children on your knee, think of me 
 as a friend who loves you dearly." 
 
 " I shall think of you till I die. I was afraid of this : 
 it is just as I thought." 
 
 "What did you think?" 
 
 " Nothing — nothing ! Will you let me kiss your 
 hand?" 
 
 " Surely ; and God bless you ! " 
 
 " Are we to say good-bye for ever, then ?" said poor 
 Marston. 
 
 " I hope not. I should be sorry to think that," said 
 poor Mary, crying. " But you must never speak to me 
 like this again, dear Mr. Marston. God bless you, once 
 more ! " 
 
 Charles was dressing while this scene was going on, 
 and was thinking, while brushing his hair, what there 
 was for dinner, and whether there would be a turbot or 
 not, and whether the cook would send in the breast 
 of the venison. The doe, Charles sagely reflected, 
 had been killed five days before, and the weather had 
 been warm : surely That Woman would let them have 
 
 VOL. 1. P 
 
210 ENSHOE. 
 
 the breast. He was a fool not to have told her of it in 
 the morning before he went out; but she was such an 
 irate old catamaran that she very likely wouldn't 
 have done it. "There was no greater mistake," this 
 young Heliogabalna proceeded to remark, than "hang- 
 ing your breasts too long. Now, your haunch, on the 
 other hand — " but we cannot follow him into such a 
 vast and important field of speculation. " There would 
 • couple of cocks, though — pretty high, near about 
 the mark " 
 
 The door opened, and in walked Father Mackworth. 
 
 " Hallo, Father ! " said Charles, " how are you ? Did 
 you hear of our spill to-day? We were deuced near 
 done for, I assure you." 
 
 " Charles," said the priest, " your nature is frank and 
 noble. I was in terror to-day lest you should go to 
 your account bearing me malice." 
 
 " A Eavenshoe never bears malice, Father," said 
 Charles. 
 
 "A Eavenshoe never does, I am aware," said Father 
 Mackworth, with such a dead equality of emphasis, that 
 Charles could not have sworn that he laid any on tin- 
 word " Eavenshoe." 
 
 " But I have got an apology to make to you, Father," 
 said Charles: "I have to apologize to you for losing 
 my temper with you the other day, and breaking out 
 into T can't say what tirade of unjust anger. I pray 
 you t<> forgive me. We don't love one another, you 
 know. How can we? But I behaved like a black- 
 
BCABSTOtfS DISAPPOINTMENT. ■ 211 
 
 guard, as I always do when I am in a passion. "Will 
 you forgive me ? " 
 
 " I had forgotten the circumstance." (" Good heaven ! " 
 said Charles to himself, " can't this man help lying \ *') 
 " But, if I have anything to forgive, I freely do so. 
 I have come to ask for a peace. As long as your father 
 lives, let there be outward peace between us, if no 
 more." 
 
 "I swear there shall," said Charles. "I like you 
 to-night, sir, better than ever I did before, for the kind- 
 ness and consideration you show to my father. "When 
 he is gone there will be peace between us, for I shall 
 leave this house and trouble you no more." 
 
 " I suppose you will," said Father Mackworth, with 
 the same deadness of emphasis remarked before. And 
 so he departed. 
 
 " That is a manly young fellow, and a gentleman," 
 thought Father Mackworth. " Obstinate and headstrong, 
 without much brains ; but with more brains than the 
 other, and more education. The other will be very 
 troublesome and headstrong ; but I suppose I shall be 
 able to manage him." 
 
 "What person do you think Father Mackworth meant 
 by the " other ?" He didn't mean Cuthbert. 
 
 At dinner Densil was garrulous, and eager to hear 
 of their shipwreck. He had made a great rally the last 
 fortnight, and was Iris old self again. Lord Saltire, 
 whose gout had fled before careful living and moderate 
 exercise, informed them, after the soup, that he intended 
 
 p2 
 
212 EAVBNSHOE. 
 
 to leave them after four days' time, as he had business 
 
 in another part of the country. They were rather sur- 
 prised at his abrupt departure, and he said that he was 
 very sorry to leave such pleasant society, in which he 
 had been happier than he had been for many years. 
 
 " There is a pleasant, innocent, domestic sort of atmo- 
 sphere which radiates from you, my old friend," he said, 
 " such as I seldom or never get, away from you or 
 Marnwaring, grim warrior though he be (you remember 
 him at Ranford, Charles ?) But the law of the Medes 
 and Persians is not amenable to change, and I go on 
 Thursday." 
 
 The post arrived during dinner, and there was a letter 
 for Charles, It was from Ranford. " Welter comes on 
 Thursday, father — the very day Lord Saltire goes. 
 How annoying ! " 
 
 " I must try to bear up under the affliction ! " said 
 that nobleman, taking snuff, and speaking veiy drily. 
 
 " Where is he to go, I wonder ? " mused Mary, aloud. 
 " He must go into the west wing, for he always smokes 
 in his bed-room." 
 
 Charles expected that Cuthbert would have had a 
 sneer at Welter, whom he cordially disliked ; but Cuth- 
 bert had given up sneering lately. " Not much more 
 reading for you, Charles ! " he said. 
 
 " I am afraid not," said Charles. " I almost wish he 
 wasn't coming ; we were very happy before." 
 
 Charles was surprised to see Marston so silent at 
 dinner. He feared he might have offended him, but 
 
marston's disappointment. 213 
 
 couldn't tell how. Then he wondered to see Mary so 
 silent too, for she generally chirruped away like a lark; 
 but he didn't refer the two similar phenomena to a 
 common cause, and so he arrived at no conclusion. 
 
 When Lord Saltire went to bed that night, he dis- 
 missed Charles from attendance, and took Marston's 
 arm ; and, when they were alone together, he thus 
 began : — 
 
 "Does your shrewdness connect my abrupt departure 
 with the arrival of Lord "Welter 2 " 
 
 " I was inclined to, my lord ; but I did not see how 
 you were to have known of it." 
 
 " I heard yesterday from Lady Ascot. " 
 
 " I am sorry he is coming/' said Marston. 
 
 • So am I. I cant stay in the house with him. The 
 contrast of his loud coarse voice and stable slang to the 
 sort of quiet conversation we have had lately would be 
 intolerable ; besides, he is an atrocious young ruffian, 
 and will ruin our boy if he can.'' 
 
 " Charles wont let him, now, Lord Saltire.' ' 
 
 " Charles is young and foolish. I am glad, however, 
 that Welter does not go back to Oxford with him. But 
 there will be Welter's set in their glory, I suppose, 
 unless some of them have got hung. I would sooner 
 see him at home. He is naturally quiet and domestic. 
 I suppose he was in a sad set up there." 
 
 " He was in a very good set, and a very bad one. 
 He was a favourite everywhere." 
 
 "He had made some acquaintances he ought to be 
 
214 RAVENSHOE. 
 
 proud of, at least/' said Lord Saltire, in a way which 
 made honest Marston blush. " I wish he wasn't going 
 to Eanford." 
 
 "Beport says,'' said Marston, " that affairs are getting 
 somewhat shaky there : Welter's tradesmen can't get 
 any money." 
 
 " Lord Saltire shook his head significantly, and then 
 said : " Xow I want to speak to you about yourself. 
 Did not you have a disappointment to-day ! " 
 
 " Yes, my lord." 
 
 "Ha!" 
 
 They both sat silent for a moment. 
 
 " How did you guess that, Lord Saltire ? " 
 
 " I saw what was going on ; and, by your manner 
 and hers to-day, I guessed something had taken place. 
 Is there no hope for you ?" 
 
 " None." 
 
 " I feared not ; but what right had I to tell you so ? " 
 
 " Perhaps, my lord, I should not have believed you if 
 you had," said Marston, smiling. 
 
 " "What man would have ? You are not angry ? " 
 
 " How could I be ? The world is out of joint, that 
 is all." 
 
 "You are a true gentleman. I swear to you," said 
 the old man, eagerly, "that there is no one in fault. 
 She has given her honest little heart away — and what 
 wonder ! — but, believe me, that you are behaving as a 
 man should behave, in not resenting it. If you were 
 a heathen and a Frenchman (synonymous terms, my 
 
marston's disappointment. 
 
 dear boy), you might find it your duty to cut somebody's 
 throat; but, being a' Christian and a gentleman, you 
 will remain a true friend to somebody who loves you 
 dearly, and is worth loving in return. This sort of thing 
 cuts a man up confoundedly. It happened to me on* e 
 but, believe me, you will get over it." 
 
 " I mean to do so. How kind and generous you aTe 
 to me ! how shall 1 ever repay you ? " 
 
 " By kindness to those I love/' said the old man. " I 
 take this opportunity of telling you that your fortunes 
 are my particular care. I cannot get you the wife you 
 love, but I am rich and powerful, and can do much. 
 Not another word. Go to bed, sir — to bed/' 
 
 Marston, sitting on his bed-side that night, said aloud 
 to himself, "And so that is that dicing old rowe, Sal- 
 tire, is it ? Well, well ; it is a funny world. "What 
 a noble fellow he would have been if he had had a 
 better chance. Nay, what a noble fellow he is. I am 
 ten years older since this morning " (he wasn't, but he 
 thought it). And so he said his prayers like an honest 
 man, and prayed for the kind old heathen who had such 
 a warm heart; and then, being nowise ashamed to do so, 
 he prayed that he might sleep well ; and, for a time, he 
 forgot all about his disappointment, and slept like a 
 child. 
 
 Lord Saltire's valet was a staid and sober-minded 
 gentleman of sixty-four. Generally, when he was put- 
 ting his lordship to bed, he used to give him the news 
 of the day ; but to-night Lord Saltire said, " Never mind 
 
21G RAVEXSHOK. 
 
 the news, Simpson, if you please ; I am thinking of 
 something." My lord used to wear a sort of muffler, 
 like a footless stocking, to keep his old knees warm in 
 bed. He remained silent till he got one on, and then, 
 without taking the other from the expectant Simpson, 
 he addressed the fire-irons aloud. 
 
 •This is a pretty clumsy contrivance to call a world!" 
 he said, with profound scorn. " Look here (to the poker), 
 here's as fine a lad as ever you saw, goes and falls in 
 love with a charming girl, who cares no more for him 
 than the deuce. He proposes to her, and is refused. 
 Why ? because she has given her heart away to another 
 fine young fellow, who don't care twopence for her, and 
 has given his heart away to the most ambitious young 
 Jezebel in the three kingdoms, who I don't believe cares 
 so very much for him. I am utterly disgusted with the 
 whole system of mundane affairs ! Simpson, give me 
 that muffler, if you please ; and pray don't wake me 
 before nine. I must try to sleep off the recollection of 
 some of this follv." 
 
ELLEN'S FLIGHT. 217 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 ELLEN'S FLIGHT. 
 
 After all the fatigues and adventures of tlie day before, 
 Charles slept well — long pleasant dreams of roaming in 
 sunny places on summer days fell to his happy lot — 
 and so he was not pleased when he found himself shaken 
 by the shoulder. 
 
 It was William come to wake him. Charles was at 
 once alarmed to see him there, and started up, saying — 
 
 " Is anything the matter, Will ? is my father ill ? " 
 
 " The master's well, I trust, Master Charles. I want 
 to tell you something that I want others to find out for 
 themselves." 
 
 • What is it?'' said Charles, seriously alarmed, for he 
 had had his suspicions lately, though he had dreaded to 
 give them a name. 
 
 " Ellen is gone ! " 
 
 * My dear lad," said Charles hurriedly, " what makes 
 you think so ? Since when have you missed her ? " 
 
 " Since yesterday afternoon." 
 
 " Have you been in her room ? " 
 
 " Yes. She has not been to bed, and the window is 
 open just as it was yesterday morning at bed-making 
 time." 
 
218 B1VENSH0E, 
 
 " Hush — wait ! There may be time yet. Go down 
 and saddle two horses at once. I will tell you what I 
 know as we ride, but there is not time now. Tell me 
 only one thing, Is there any one she would be likely to 
 go to at Coombe ? " 
 
 " No one that I know r of." 
 
 YVilliain departed to get the horses. Charles had sud- 
 denly thought of the solitary female figure he had seen 
 passing along the dizzy sheep-path the day before, and 
 he determined to follow that till he lost sight of it. 
 
 " For the poor dear girl's sake — for the honour of the 
 old house — I wonder who is at the bottom of all this ? 
 I must tell Marston," he said, when he was out on the 
 landing. " George, tell them to get me some coffee in- 
 stantly. I am going out hunting." 
 
 Marston thought as Charles did. The right thing to do 
 would be to follow her, see that she wanted for nothing, 
 and leave her brother w T ith her for a time. " He won't 
 quarrel ■with her now, you'll see. He is a good fellow, 
 mind you, Charles, though he did lose his temper with 
 her that night." 
 
 So they rode forth side by side into the wild winter's 
 morning. The rain had ceased for a time, but the low 
 dark clouds were hurrying swiftly before the blast, and 
 eddying among the loftier tors and summits. The wind 
 was behind them, and their way was east, across the 
 lofty downs. 
 
 "William," said Charles at last, "who is at the bottom 
 of this?" 
 
ELLENS PLIGHT. 210 
 
 "I don't know. Master Charles. If I did there would 
 be mischief, unless it was one of two." 
 
 " Ay, Will, 1 ait it ain't. Yon don't think it is Cuth- 
 bert ? "' 
 
 " No, no ! He, forsooth ! Father Mackworth km 
 I believe, more than we do." 
 Y'uu do not suspect him ? " 
 
 " Certainly not. I did, but I don't now. I suspect 
 he knows, as I said, more than we do. He has been 
 speaking harshly to her about it." 
 
 They had arrived at the hill round which Charles 
 suspected he had seen her pass the day before. It was 
 impossible to pass round the promontory on horseback in 
 the best of weathers ; now doubly so. They would have 
 to pass inland of it. They both pulled up their horses 
 and looked. The steep slope of turf, the top of winch, 
 close over head, was hid by flying mists, trended sud- 
 denly downwards, and disappeared. Eight hundred feet 
 below was the raging sea. 
 
 As they stood there, the same thought came across 
 both of them. It was a dreadful place. They neither 
 spoke at all, but spurred on faster, till the little grey 
 village of Coombe, down at their feet, sheltered from the 
 storm by the lofty hills around, opened to their view ; 
 and they pushed on down the steep rocky path. 
 
 No. No one had seen her yesterday at such a time. 
 The streets would have been full of the miners coming 
 from work ; or, if she had come earlier, there would have 
 been plenty of people to see her. It was a small place, 
 
220 KAVENSHOE. 
 
 and no stranger, they said, could eve)- pass through it 
 unnoticed. 
 
 And, though they scoured the country far and wide, 
 and though for months after the fishermen fished among 
 the quiet bays beneath the cliffs in fear, lest they should 
 find there something which should be carried in silent 
 awe up the village, and laid quietly in the old church- 
 yard, beneath the elm : yet Ellen was gone— gone from 
 their ken like a summer cloud. They thought it a pious 
 fraud to tell Densil that she was gone — with some excuse, 
 I forget what, but which satisfied him. In a conclave 
 held over the matter, Cuthbert seemed only surprised 
 and shocked, but evidently knew nothing of the matter. 
 Father Mackworth said that he expected something of 
 the kind for some little time, and William held his 
 peace. The gossips in the village laid their heads to- 
 gether, and shook them. There was but one opinion 
 there. 
 
 " Never again shall she put garland "en ; 
 Instead of it she'll wear sad cypress now, 
 And bitter elder broken from the bough." 
 
 Nora— poor old Nora — took to her bed. Father Mack- 
 worth was with her continually, but she sank and sank. 
 Father Mackworth was called away across the moors, 
 one afternoon, to an outlying Catholic tenant's family ; 
 and, during his absence, William was sent to Charles 
 to pray him to come, in God's name, to his mother. 
 Charles ran across at once, but Nora was speechless. 
 She had something to say to Charles ; but the great 
 
ELLEN'S FLIGHT. 221 
 
 Sower, which shall sow us all in the ground, and tread 
 us down, had his hand heavy on her, and she could not 
 speak. In the morning; when the gale had broken, and 
 the white seahirds were soaring and skimming between 
 the blue sky and the noble green rolling sea, and the 
 ships were running up channel, and the fishing-boats 
 were putting out gaily from the pier, and all nature was 
 brilliant and beautiful, old Xora lay dead, and her secret 
 with her. 
 
 •• Master Charles," said William, as they stood on the 
 shore together, " she knew something, and Ellen knows 
 it too, I very much suspect. The time will come, 
 Master Charles, when we shall have to hunt her through 
 the world, and get the secret from her." 
 
 " William, I would go many weary journeys to bring 
 poor Ellen back into the ways of peace. The fact of 
 her being your sister would be enough to make me do 
 that." 
 
222 RAVEXSHOE. 
 
 CHAPTEK XX. 
 
 RANFORD AGAIN. 
 
 Charles, though no genius, had a certain amount of 
 common sense, and, indeed, more of that commodity 
 than most people gave him credit for. Therefore he did 
 not pursue the subject with William. Firstly, because 
 he did not think he could get any more out of him (for 
 William had a certain amount of sturdy obstinacy in his 
 composition) ; and secondly, because he knew William 
 was, in the main, a sensible fellow, and loved the ground 
 he stood on. Charles would never believe that William 
 would serve him falsely ; and he was right. 
 
 He told Marston of the curious words which William 
 had used, and Marston had said — 
 
 "I don't understand it. The devil is abroad. Are 
 you coming into any money at your father's death ? " 
 
 "I am to have 180?. a year." 
 
 " I wouldn't give 50?. a year for your chance of it. 
 What is this property worth ? " 
 
 " 9,000/. a year. The governor has lived very extra- 
 vagantly. The stable establishment is fit for a duke 
 now ; and, then, look at the servants ! " 
 
 " He is not living up to ten thousand a year now, I 
 should say." 
 
BANFOBD ACAIX. 223 
 
 "No; but it is only the other day he gave up the 
 hounds. They cost him two thousand a year ; and, 
 while he had them, the house was carried on very ex- 
 travagantly. The governor has a wonderful talent for 
 muddling away money ; and, what is more, I believe he 
 was bit with the railways. You know, I believe, the 
 estate is involved." 
 
 "Bathershin. But still, Cuthbert won't many, and 
 his life is a bad one, and you are a heretic, my poor 
 little innocent." 
 
 • And then?" 
 
 " Heaven only knows what then. I am sure I don't. 
 At what time does the worthy and intellectual Welter 
 arrive?" 
 
 " He will be here about six." 
 
 "Two hours more rational existence for one, then. 
 After that a smell as of ten thousand stables and fifty 
 stale copies of Bell's Life in one's nose, till his lordship 
 takes his departure. I don't like your cousin, Charles." 
 
 " What an astounding piece of news ! He says you 
 are a conceited prig, and 'jive yourself airs." 
 
 "He never said a wiser or truer thing in his life. I 
 am exactly that ; and he is a fifth-class steeplechase 
 rider, with a title." 
 
 "How you and he will fight ! ; ' 
 
 " So I expect. That is, if he lias the courage for battle, 
 which I rather doubt. He is terribly afraid of me." 
 
 "I think you are hard on poor Welter/' said Charles; 
 " I do, indeed. He is a generous, ^ood-hearted fellow." 
 
224 RAVEXS1I0E. 
 
 " Oh ! we are all generous, good-hearted fellows," said 
 Marston, " as long as we have plenty of money and good 
 digestions. You are right, though, Charley. He is what 
 you say, as far as T know ; but the reason I hate him is 
 this : — You are the dearest friend I have, and I am 
 jealous of him. He is in eternal antagonism to me. I 
 am always trying to lead you right, and he is equally 
 diligent in leading you into wrong." 
 
 H Well, he sha'n't lead me into any more, I promise 
 you now. Do be civil to him." 
 
 " Of course I will, you gaby. Did you think 1 was 
 going to show fight in your house ? " 
 
 When Marston came down to dinner, there was Lord 
 Welter sitting beside old Densil, and kindly amusing 
 him with all sorts of gossip — stable and other. 
 
 " How do, Marston ? " said he, rising and coming 
 forward. 
 
 " How d'ye do, Lord Welter ? " said Marston. 
 
 " I am very glad to meet you here," said Lord Welter, 
 with a good-humoured smile, " although I am ashamed 
 to look you in the face. Marston, my dear Mr. Bavens- 
 hoe, is Charles's good genius, and I am his evil one ; 
 I am always getting Charles into mischief, and he 
 is always trying to keep him out of it. Hitherto, 
 however, I have been completely successful, and he 
 has made a dead failure." 
 
 Old Densil laughed " You are doing yourself in- 
 justice, Welter," he said. " Is he not doing himself an 
 injustice, Mr. Marston?" 
 
EANFORD AGAIN. 225 
 
 " Not in the least, sir," said Marston. And the two 
 young men shook hands more cordially than they had 
 ever done before. 
 
 That'evening Lord Welter fulfilled Mary's prophecy, 
 that he would smoke in his bed-room, and not only 
 smoked there himself, but induced Charles to come and 
 do so also. Marston was not in the humour for the 
 style of conversation he knew he should have there, 
 and so he retired to bed, and left the other two to 
 themselves. 
 
 "Well, Charles," said Welter. "Oh, by-the-bye, I 
 have got a letter for you from that mysterious madcap, 
 Adelaide. She couldn't send it by post ; that would not 
 have been mysterious and underhand enough for her. 
 Catch hold." 
 
 Charles caught hold, and read his letter. Welter 
 watched him curiously from under the heavy eyebrows, 
 and, when he had finished, said — 
 
 " Come put that away, and talk That sort of thing 
 is pretty much the same in all cases, I take it. As far 
 as my own experience goes, it is always the same. Scold 
 and whine and whimper; whimper, whine, and scold. 
 How's that old keeper of yours ? " 
 
 " He has lost his wife." 
 
 " Poor fellow ! I remember his wife — a handsome 
 Irish woman." 
 
 "My nurse?" 
 
 " Ay, ay. And the pretty girl, Ellen ; how is 
 she?"* 
 
 VOL. I. Q 
 
226 KAVENSHOE. 
 
 " Poor Ellen ! She has run away, Welter ; gone to 
 the had, I fear." 
 
 Lord Welter sat in just the same position, gazing on 
 the fire. He then said, in a very deliberate voice : — 
 
 " The deuce she is ! I am very sorry to hear that. I 
 was in hopes of renewing our acquaintance." 
 
 The days flew by, and, as you know, there came no 
 news from Ellen. The household had been much 
 saddened by her disappearance and by Nora's death, 
 though not one of the number ever guessed what had 
 passed between Mary and Marston. They were not 
 a very cheerful household ; scarce one of them but had 
 some secret trouble. Father Tiernay came back after a 
 week or so ; and, if good-natured kindly chatter could 
 have cheered them at all, he would have done it. But 
 there was a settled gloom on the party which nothing 
 could overcome. Even Lord Welter, boisterous as his 
 spirits usually were, seemed often anxious and distraught ; 
 and, as for poor Cuthbert, he would, at any time, within 
 the knowledge of man, have acted as a " damper" on the 
 liveliest party. His affection for Charles seemed, for 
 some reason, to increase day by day, but it was some- 
 times very hard to keep the peace between Welter and 
 him. If there was one man beyond another that Cuth- 
 bert hated, it was Lord Welter ; and sometimes, after 
 dinner, such a scene as this would take place. 
 
 You will, perhaps, have remarked that I have never 
 yet represented Cuthbert as speaking to Mary. The 
 real fact is, that he never did speak to her, or to any 
 
KANFORD AGAIN. 227 
 
 woman, anything beyond the meresl common places 
 — a circumstance which made Charles very much 
 doubt the truth of Ellen's statement — that the priest 
 had caught them talking together in the wood. How- 
 ever, Cuthhert was, in his way, fond enough of the 
 bonny little soul (I swear I am in love with her myself, 
 over head and ears) ; and so, one day, when she came 
 crying in, and told him — as being the first person she 
 met — that her little bantam-cock had been killed by the 
 dorking, Cuthbert comforted her, bottled up his wrath, 
 till his father had gone into the drawing-room with 
 her after dinner, and the others were sitting at their 
 wine. Then he said, suddenly : — 
 
 "Welter, did you have any cock-fighting to-day?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, by-the-bye, a splendid turn-up. There was 
 a noble little bantam in an inclosed yard challenging a 
 great dorking, and they both seemed so very anxious for 
 sport that I thought it would be a pity to baulk them ; 
 so I just let the bantam out. I give you my word, it is 
 my belief that the bantam would have been the best 
 man, but that he was too old. His attack was splendid ; 
 but he met the fate of the brave." 
 
 "You should not have done that, Welter," said 
 Charles ; " that was Mary's favourite bantam." 
 
 " I don't allow any cock-fighting at Eavenshoe. 
 Welter,'" said Cuthbert. 
 
 "You don't allow it ! " said Lord Welter, scornfully. 
 
 "No, by heaven," said Cuthbert, "I don't allow it ! " 
 
 " Don't you ? " said Welter ; " you are not master 
 Q2 
 
228 RAVENSHOE. 
 
 here, nor ever Avill be. No Ravenshoe was ever master 
 of his own house yet." 
 
 " I am absolute master here," said Cuthbert, with a 
 rising colour. " There is no appeal against me here." 
 
 " Only to the priest," said Welter. (I must do him 
 justice to say that neither Mackworth nor Tiemay was 
 iu the room, or he would not have said it.) 
 
 " You are insolent, Welter, and brutal. It is your 
 nature to be so," said Cuthbert, fiercely. 
 
 ]\larston, who had been watching Welter all this time, 
 saw a flash come from his eyes, and, for one moment, 
 a terrible savage setting of the teeth. " Ha, ha ! my 
 friend," thought he, "I thought that stupid face was 
 capable of some such expression as that. I am obliged 
 to you, my friend, for giving me one little glimpse of 
 the devil inside/' 
 
 " By gad, Cuthbert," said Lord Welter, " if you hadn't 
 been at your own table, you shouldn't have said that, 
 cousin or no cousin, twice." 
 
 " Stop now," said Charles ; " don't turn the place into 
 a bear-pit. Cuthbert, do be moderate. Welter, you 
 shouldn't have set the cocks fighting. Now don't begin 
 quarrelling again, you two, for heaven's sake ! " 
 
 And so the peace was made : but Charles was very 
 glad when the time came for the party to break up ; 
 and he went away to Ranford with Welter, preparatory 
 to his going back to Oxford. 
 
 His father was quite his own old self again, and 
 seemed to have rallied amazingly ; so Charles left him 
 
KAN FORD AGAIN. 229 
 
 without much anxiety ; and there were reasons we 
 know of why his heart should hound when he heard 
 the word Eanford mentioned, and why the raging speed 
 of the Great Western Eailway express seemed all too 
 slow for him. Lord Ascot's horses were fast, the mail- 
 phaeton was a good one, and Lord Welter's worst 
 enemies could not accuse him of driving slow ; yet 
 the way from Didcot to Eanford seemed so interminabl y 
 long that he said : — 
 
 " By Jove, I wish we had come by a slower train, 
 and gone on to Twyford 1 " 
 
 "Why so?" 
 
 "I don't know. I think it is pleasanter driving 
 through Waigrave and Henley." 
 
 Lord Welter laughed, and Charles wondered why. 
 There were no visitors at Eanford ; and, when they 
 arrived, Welter of course adjourned to the stables, 
 while Charles ran upstairs and knocked at Lady Ascot's 
 door. 
 
 He was bidden to come in, by the old lady's voice. 
 Her black and tan terrier, who was now so old that his 
 teeth and voice were alike gone, rose from the hearth, 
 and went through the motion and outward semblance of 
 barking furiously at Charles, though without producing 
 any audible sound. Lady Ascot rose up and welcomed 
 him kindly. 
 
 " I am so glad to see your honest face, my dear boy 
 I have been sitting here all alone so long. Ascot is 
 very kind, and comes and sits with me, and I give him 
 
'2oO RAVEN8HOE. 
 
 some advice about his horses, which he never takes. 
 But I am very lonely." 
 
 " But where is Adelaide, aunt dear ? " 
 
 " She's gone." 
 
 " Gone ! My dear aunt, where to ? " 
 
 " Gone to stay ten days with Lady Hainault." 
 
 Here was a blow. 
 
 " I know you are very disappointed, my poor boy, 
 and I told Welter so expressly to tell you in my last 
 letter. He is so shockingly careless and forgetful ! " 
 
 " So Welter knew of it," said Charles to himself. 
 
 Ami that is what made him laugh at my hurry. It is 
 very ungentlemanly behaviour." 
 
 But Charles's anger was like 'a summer cloud. "I 
 think, aunt," he said, "that Welter was having a joke 
 with me ; that was all. When will she be back ?" 
 
 " The end of next week." 
 
 • And I shall be gone to Oxford. I shall ride over to 
 Casterton and see her." 
 
 •'You knew Hainault at Shrewsbury? Yes. Well, 
 you had better do so, child. Yes, certainly." 
 
 " What made her go, aunt, I wonder ? " 
 
 " Lady Hainault was ill, and would have her, and I 
 was forced to let her go." 
 
 Oh, Lady Ascot, Lady Ascot, you wicked old fibster ! 
 Didn't you hesitate, stammer, and blush, when you said 
 that ? I am very much afraid you didn't. Hadn't you 
 had, three days before, a furious fracas with Adelaide 
 about something, and hadn't it ended by her declaring 
 
EANFORD AGAIN. 231 
 
 that she would claim the protection of Lady Hainault? 
 Hadn't she ordered out the pony-carriage and driven off 
 with a solitary bandbox, and what I choose to call a 
 crinoline-chest ? And hadn't you and Lady Hainault 
 had a brillant passage-of-arms over her ladyship's 
 receiving and abetting the recalcitrant Adelaide ? 
 
 Lady Ascot was perfectly certain of one thing — that 
 Charles would never hear about this from Adelaide ; 
 and so she lied boldly and with confidence. Other- 
 wise, she must have made a dead failure, for few people 
 had practised that great and difficult art so little as her 
 ladyship. 
 
 That there had been a furious quarrel between Lady 
 Ascot and Adelaide about this time, I well know from 
 the best authority. It had taken place just as I have 
 described it above. I do not know for certain the cause 
 of it, but can guess ; and, as I am honestly going to tell 
 you all I know, you will be able to make as good a 
 guess as I hereafter. 
 
 Lady Ascot said furthermore, that she was very 
 uneasy in her mind about Ascot's colt, which she felt 
 certain would not stay over the Derby course. The 
 horse was not so well ribbed up as he should be, and 
 had hardly quarter enough to suit her. Talking of that, 
 her lumbago had set in worse than ever since the frost 
 hod come on, and her doctor had had the impudence to tell 
 her that her liver was deranged, whereas, she knew it 
 proceeded from cold in the small of her back. Talking 
 of the frost, she was told that there had been a very 
 
232 RAVENSHOE. 
 
 good sheet of ice on the carp-pond, where Charles might 
 have skated, though she did hope he would never go 
 on the ice till it was quite safe — as, if he were to get 
 drowned, it would only add to her vexation, and surely 
 she had had enough of that, with that audacious chit of 
 a girl, Adelaide, who was enough to turn one's hair 
 grey ; though for that matter it had been grey many 
 years, as all the world might see. 
 
 " Has Adelaide been vexing you, aunt dear ? " inter- 
 rupted Charles. 
 
 " No, my clear boy, no," replied the old woman. " She 
 is a little tiresome sometimes, but I dare say it is more 
 my fault than hers." 
 
 " You will not be angry with her, aunt dear ? You 
 will be long-suffering with her, for my sake ? " 
 
 " Dear Charles," said the good old woman, weeping, 
 "I will forgive her till seventy times seven. Some- 
 times, dear, she is high-spirited, and tries my temper. 
 And I am very old, dear, and very cross and cruel 
 to her. It is all my fault, Charles, all my fault." 
 
 Afterwards, when Charles knew the truth, he used to 
 bless the memory of this good old woman, recalling this 
 conversation, and knowing on which side the fault lay. 
 At this time, blindly in love as he was with Adelaide, 
 he had sense enough left to do justice. 
 
 " Aunt, dear," he said, " you are old, but you are 
 neither cross nor cruel. You are the kindest and most 
 generous of women. You are the only mother I ever 
 had, aunt. I dare say Adelaide is tiresome sometimes ; 
 
RANFORD AGAIN. 233 
 
 bear with her for my sake. Tell me some more about 
 the horses. God help ns, they are an important subject 
 enough in this house now ! " 
 
 Lady Ascot said, having dried her tears and kissed 
 Charles, that she had seen this a very long time : that 
 she had warned Ascot solemnly, as it was a mother's 
 duty to do, to be careful of Eamoneur blood, and that 
 Ascot would never listen to her ; that no horse of 
 that breed had ever been a staying horse; that she 
 believed, if the truth could be got at, that the Pope of 
 Eome had been, indirectly perhaps, but certainly, the 
 inventor of produce stakes, which had done more to 
 ruin the breed of horses, and consequently the country, 
 than fifty reform bills. Then her ladyship wished 
 
 to know if Charles had read Lord Mount-E 's book 
 
 on the Battle of Armageddon, and, on receiving a nega- 
 tive answer, gave a slight abstract of that most pro- 
 phetical production, till the gong sounded and Charles 
 went up to dress for dinner. 
 
234 RAVENSHOE. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXI. 
 
 CLOTHO, LACHESIS, AND ATROPOS. 
 
 The road from Eanford to Casterton, which is the name 
 of Lord Hainault's place, runs through about three 
 miles of the most beautiful scenery. Although it may 
 barely come up to Cookham or Cliefden, yet it surpasses 
 the piece from Wargrave to Henley, and beats Pang- 
 bourne hollow. Leaving Eanford Park, the road passes 
 through the pretty village of Eanford. And in the 
 street of Eanford, which is a regular street, the principal 
 inn is the White Hart, kept by Mrs. Foley. 
 
 Here, in summer, all through the long glorious days, 
 which seem so hard to believe in in winter time, come 
 anglers, and live. Here they order their meals at 
 impossible hours, and drive the landlady mad by not 
 coming home to them. Here, too, they plan mad 
 expeditions with the fishermen, who are now in all their 
 glory, wearing bright-patterned shirts, scornful of half- 
 crowns, and in a general state of obfuscation, in con- 
 sequence of being plied with strange liquors by their 
 patrons, out of flasks, when they are out fishing. Here, 
 too, come artists, with beards as long as your arm, and 
 pass the day under wliite umbrellas, in pleasant places 
 by the waterside, painting. 
 
CLOTHO, LACHESIS, AND ATEOPOS. 235 
 
 The dark old porch of the inn stands ont in the 
 street, but the back of the ouse goes down to the river. 
 At this porch there is generally a group of idlers, or 
 an old man sunning himself, or a man on horseback 
 drinking. On this present occasion there were all 
 three of these things, and also Lord Ascot's head-keeper* 
 with a brace of setters. 
 
 As Charles rode very slowly towards the group, the 
 keeper and the groom on horseback left off talking. 
 Charles fancied they had been talking about him, and I, 
 who know every thing, also know that they had. When 
 Charles was nearly opposite him, the keeper came 
 forward and said — 
 
 H I should like to show you the first trout of the 
 season, sir. Jim, show Mr. Bavenshoe that trout." 
 
 A beautiful ten-pounder was immediately laid on the 
 stones. 
 
 " He would have looked handsomer in another month, 
 Jackson," said Charles. 
 
 " Perhaps he would, sir. My lady generally likes to 
 get one as soon as she can." 
 
 At this stage the groom, who had been standing 
 apart, came up, and touching his hat, put into Charles's 
 hand a note.j 
 
 It was in Adelaide's handwriting. The groom knew 
 it, the keeper knew it, they all knew it, and Charles 
 knew they knew it ; but what cared he — all the 
 world might know it. But they knew and had been 
 talking of something else before he came up, which 
 
236 EAVENSHOE. 
 
 Charles did not know. If anything is going wrong, all 
 the country side know] it before the person principally 
 concerned. And all the country side knew that there 
 had been a great and scandalous quarrel between 
 Adelaide and Lady Ascot — all, except Charles. 
 
 He put the note in his pocket without opening it ; 
 he gave the groom half-a-crown ; he bade good-bye to 
 the keeper ; he touched his hat to the loiterers ; and 
 then he rode on his way toward Casterton, down the 
 village street. He passed the church among the leaf- 
 less walnut-trees, beneath the towering elms, now noisy 
 with building rooks ; and then, in the broad road under 
 the lofty chalk downs, with the elms on his left, and 
 glimpses of the flashing river between their stems, there 
 he pulled up his horse, and read his love-letter. 
 
 " Dear Charles, — 
 
 "Ain't you very cross at my having been 
 away when you came ? I don't believe you are, for you 
 are never cross. I couldn't help it, Charles, dear. Aunt 
 wanted me to go. 
 
 "Aunt is very cross and tiresome. She don't like 
 me as well as she used. You mus'n't believe all she 
 says, you know. It ain't one word of it true. It is 
 only her fancy. 
 
 "Do come over and see me. Lord Hainault" (this, 
 I must tell you, reader, is the son, not the husband, of 
 Lady Ascot's most cherished old enemy) " is going to 
 be married, and there will be a great wedding. She is 
 
CLOTHO, LACHESIS, AND ATROPOS. 237 
 
 that long Burton girl, whom you may remember. I 
 have always had a great dislike for her ; but she has 
 asked me to be bridesmaid, and, of course, one can't 
 refuse. Lady Emily Montfort is 'with me/ as the 
 lawyers say, and, of course, she will have her mother's 
 pearls in her ugly red hair." — 
 
 Charles couldn't agree as to Lady Emily's hair being 
 red. He had thought it the most beautiful hair he had 
 ever seen in his life. — 
 
 " Pour mot, I shall w T ear a camelia, if the gardener will 
 give me one. How I wish I had jewels to beat hers ! 
 She can't wear the Cleveland diamonds as a bridesmaid ; 
 that is a comfort. Come over and see me. I am in 
 agony about what aunt may have said to you. 
 
 " Adelaide." 
 
 The reader may see more in this letter than Charles 
 did. The reader may see a certain amount of selfishness 
 and vanity in it : Charles did not. He took up his 
 reins, and rode on ; and, as he rode, said, " By Jove, 
 Cuthbert shall lend me the emeralds ! " 
 
 He hardly liked asking for them ; but he could not 
 bear the idea of Lady Emily shining superior to Adelaide 
 in consequence of her pearls. Had he been a wise man 
 (which I suppose you have, by this time, found out that 
 he is decidedly not. Allow me to recommend this last 
 sentence in a grammatical point of view), he would have 
 seen that, with two such glorious creatures as Adelaide 
 and Lady Emily, no one would have seen whether they 
 
238 KAVENSHOE. 
 
 were clothed in purple and fine linen, or in sackcloth 
 and ashes. But Charles was a fool. He was in love, 
 and he was riding out to see his love. 
 
 The Scotchman tells us about Spey leaping out a' 
 glorious giant from among the everlasting hills ; the 
 Irishman tells you of Shannon rambling on past castle, 
 and mountain, gathering new beauty as he goes ; the 
 Canadian tells you of the great river which streams 
 over the cliff between Erie and Ontario ; and the 
 Australian tells you of Snowy pouring eternally from 
 his great curtain of dolomite, seen forty miles away by 
 the lonely traveller on the dull grey plains ; but the 
 Englishman tells you of the Thames, whose valley is 
 the cradle of Freedom, and the possessors of which are 
 the arbiters of the world. 
 
 And along the Thames valley rode Charles. At first 
 the road ran along beneath some pleasant sunny heights ; 
 but, as it gradually rose, the ground grew more abrupt, 
 and, on the right, a considerable down, with patches of 
 gorse and juniper, hung over the road ; while, on the 
 left, the broad valley stretched away to where a distant 
 cloud of grey smoke showed where lay the good old 
 town of Casterton. Now the road entered a dark beech 
 wood beneath lofty banks, where the squirrels, merry 
 fellows, ran across the road and rattled up the trees, 
 and the air was faint with the scent of last year's 
 leaves. Then came a break in the wood to the right, 
 and a vista up a long-drawn valley, which ended in a 
 chalk cliff. Then a break in the wood to the left, and a 
 
CLOTHO, LACHESIS, AND ATROPOS. 239 
 
 glance at the flat meadows, the gleaming river, and the 
 dim grey distance. Then the wood again, denser and 
 darker than ever. Then a sound, at first faint and 
 indistinct, but growing gradually upon the ear until it 
 could be plainly heard above the horse's footfall. Then 
 suddenly the end of the wood, and broad open sunlight. 
 Below, the weirs of Casterton, spouting by a hundred 
 channels, through the bucks and under the mills. Hard 
 by, Casterton town, lying, a tumbled mass of red brick 
 and grey flint, beneath a faint soft haze of smoke, 
 against the vast roll in the land called Marldown. On 
 the right, Casterton Park, a great wooded promontory, so 
 steep that one can barely walk along it, clothed with 
 beech and oak from base to summit, save in one place, 
 where a bold lawn of short grass, five hundred feet high, 
 stoops suddenly down towards the meadows, fringed at 
 the edges with broom and fern, and topped with three 
 tall pines — the landmark for ten miles along the 
 river. 
 
 A lodge, the white gate of which is swung open by a 
 pretty maiden ; a dark oak wood again, with a long 
 vista, ended by the noble precipitous lull on which the 
 house stands ; a more open park, with groups of deer 
 lying about and feeding ; another dark wood, the road 
 now rising rapidly ; rabbits, and a pot-valiant cock- 
 pheasant standing in the middle of the way, and M cur- 
 rucking," under the impression that Charles is in pos- 
 session of all his domestic arrangements, and has come 
 to disturb them; then the smooth gravel road, getting 
 
240 EAVENSHOE. 
 
 steeper and steeper ; then the summit ; one glimpse of 
 a glorious panorama ; then the front door and footmen. 
 
 Charles sent his card in, and would be glad to know 
 if Lady Hainault could see him. While he waited for 
 an answer, his horse rubbed its nose against its knee, 
 and yawned, while the footmen on the steps looked at 
 the rooks. They knew all about it too. (The footmen I 
 mean, not the rooks) ; though I wouldn't swear against 
 a rook's knowing anything, mind you. 
 
 Lady Hainault would see Mr. Eavenshoe — which was 
 lucky, because, if she wouldn't have done so, Charles 
 would have been obliged to ask for Adelaide. So Charles's 
 horse was led to the stable, and Charles vv T as led by the 
 butler through the hall, and shown into a cool and empty 
 library, to purge himself of earthly passions, before he 
 was admitted to The Presence. 
 
 Charles sat himself down in the easiest chair he could 
 find, and got hold of " Euskin's Modern Painters." That 
 is a very nice book : it is printed on thick paper, with 
 large print ; the reading is very good, full of the most 
 beautful sentiments ever you heard ; and there are also 
 capital plates in it. Charles looked through the pictures : 
 he didn't look at the letter-press, I know — for, if he had, 
 he would have been so deeply enchained with it that he 
 wouldn't have done what he did — get up, and look out of 
 the window. The window looked into the flower-garden. 
 There he saw a young Scotch gardener, looking after his 
 rose-trees. His child, a toddling bit of a thing, four 
 years old (it must have been his first, for he was a very 
 
CLOTHO, LACHESIS, AND ATROPOS. 241 
 
 young man), was holding the slips of matting for him ; 
 and glancing up between whiles at the great facade of 
 the house, as though wondering what great people were 
 inside, and whether they were looking at him. This 
 was a pretty sight to a good whole-hearted fellow like 
 Charles ; but he got tired of looking at that even, after a 
 time ; for he was anxious, and not well at ease. And so, 
 after his watch had told him that he had waited half an 
 hour, he rang the bell. 
 
 The butler came, almost directly. , 
 
 " Did you tell Lady Hainault that I was here ? " said 
 Charles. 
 
 " My lady was told, sir.' 5 
 
 " Tell her again, will you ? " said Charles, and yawned. 
 
 Charles had time for another look at Euskin, and 
 another look at the gardener and his boy, before the 
 butler came back and said, "My lady is disengaged, 
 sir." 
 
 Charles was dying to see Adelaide, and was getting 
 very impatient ; but he was, as you have seen, a very 
 contented sort of fellow : and, as he had fully made up 
 his mind not to leave the house without a good half- 
 hour with her, he could afford to wait. He crossed the 
 hall behind the butler, and then went up the great stair- 
 case, and through the picture-gallery. Here he was 
 struck by seeing the original of one of the prints he had 
 seen downstairs, in the book, hanging on the wall among 
 others. He stopped the butler, and asked, "What 
 picture is that ? " 
 
 VOL. I. R 
 
242 BAVENSHOE. 
 
 ■That, sir,'" said the butler, hesitatingly, " that, sir — 
 that is the great Turner, sir. Yes, sir," he repeated, after 
 a glance at a Francia on the one side, and a Eembrandt 
 on the other, " yes, sir, that is the great Turner, sir." 
 
 Charles was shown into a boudoir on the south side 
 of the house, where sat Lady Hainault, an old and not 
 singularly agreeable looking woman, who was doing 
 crochet-work, and her companion, a strong-minded and 
 vixenish-looking old maid, who was also doing crochet- 
 work. They looked so very like two of the Fates, 
 weaving woe, that Charles looked round for the third 
 sister, and found her not. 
 
 " How d'ye do, Mr. Eavenshoe ? " said Lady Hainault. 
 * I hope you haven't been kept waiting ? " 
 
 " Not at all," said Charles ; and if that was not a 
 deliberate lie, I want to know what is. 
 
 If there was any one person in the world for whom 
 Charles bore a cherished feeling of dislike, it was this 
 virtuous old lady. Charles loved Lady Ascot dearly, 
 and Lady Hainault was her bitterest enemy. That 
 would have been enough ; but she had a horrid trick of 
 sharpening her wit upon young men, and saying things 
 to them in public which gave them a justifiable desire 
 to knock her down and jump on her, as the Irish reapers 
 do to their wives ; and she had exercised this talent on 
 Charles once at Eanfurd, and he hated her as much as 
 he could hate any one, and that was not much. Lord 
 Saltire used to say, that he must give her the credit of 
 being the most infernally disagreeable woman in Europe. 
 
CLOTHO, LACHESIS, AND ATROPUS. 243 
 
 Charles thought, by the twitching of her long fingers 
 over her work, that she was going to be disagreeable 
 now T , and he was prepared. But, to Charles's great 
 astonishment, the old lady was singularly gracious." 
 
 " And how," she said, " is dear Lady Ascot ? I have 
 been coming, and coming, for a long time, but I never 
 have gone so far this winter." 
 
 " Lucky for aunt ! " thought Charles. Then there was 
 a pause, and^a very awkward one. 
 
 Charles said, very quietly, " Lady Hainault, may I 
 see Miss Summers ? " 
 
 " Surely ! I wonder where she is. Miss Hicks, ring 
 the bell." 
 
 Charles stepped forward and rang ; and Miss Hicks, 
 as Clotho, who had half-risen, sat down again, and wove 
 her w r eb grimly. 
 
 Atropos appeared, after an interval, looking as beau- 
 tiful as the dawn. So Charles w 7 as looking too intently 
 at her to notice the quick, eager glances that the old 
 women threw at her as she came into the room. His 
 heart leapt up as he w r ent forward to meet her ; and he 
 took her hand and pressed it, and would have done so 
 if all the furies in Pandemonium were there to prevent 
 him. 
 
 It did not please her ladyship to see this; and so 
 Charles did it once more, and then they sat down 
 together in a window. 
 
 "And how am I looking?" said Adelaide, gazing 
 at him full in the face. "Not a single pretty cool- 
 ie 
 
244 RAVENSHOE. 
 
 pliment for me after so long ? I require compliments ; 
 I am used to them. Lady Hainault paid me some this 
 morning." 
 
 Lady Hainault, as Lachcsis, laughed and woved, 
 Charles thought, " I suppose she and Adelaide have 
 been having a shindy. She and aunt fall out some- 
 times." 
 
 Adelaide and Charles had a good deal of quiet con- 
 versation in the window ; but what two lovers could 
 talk with Clotho and Lachesis looking on, weaving ? I, 
 of course, know perfectly well what they talked of, but 
 it is hardly worth setting down here. I find that lovers' 
 conversations are not always interesting to the general 
 public. After a decent time, Charles rose to go, and 
 Adelaide went out by a side door. 
 
 Charles made his adieux to Clotho and Lachesis, and 
 departed at the other end of the room. The door had 
 barely closed on him, when Lady Hainault, eagerly 
 thrusting her face towards Miss Hicks, hissed out — 
 
 " Did I give her time enough ? Were her eyes red ? 
 Does he suspect anything ? " 
 
 " You gave her time enough, I should say," said Miss 
 Hicks, deliberately. " I didn't see that her eyes were 
 reel But he must certainly suspect that you and she 
 are not on the best of terms, from what she said." 
 
 " Do you think he knows that Hainault is at home ? 
 Did he ask for Hainault ? " 
 
 11 1 don't know," said Miss Hicks. 
 
 " She shall not stop in the house. She shall go back 
 
CLOTHO, LACIIESIS, AND ATROPUS. 245 
 
 to Lady Ascot. I won't have her in the house," said the 
 old lady, furiously. 
 
 " Why did you have her here, Lady Hainault ? " 
 
 " You know perfectly well, Hicks. You know I only 
 had her to spite old Ascot. But she shall stay here no 
 longer." 
 
 " She must stay for the wedding now," said Miss 
 Hicks." 
 
 " I suppose she must," said Lady Hainault ; " but, 
 after that, she shall pack. If the Burton people only 
 knew what was going on, the match would be broken 
 off." 
 
 "I don't believe anything is going on," said Miss 
 Hicks ; " at least, not on his side. You are putting 
 yourself in a passion for nothing, and you will be ill 
 after it ." 
 
 " I am not putting myself in a passion, and I won't 
 be ill, Hicks ! And you are impudent to me, as you 
 always are. I tell you that she must be got rid of, and 
 she must marry that young booby, or we are all undone. 
 I say that Hainault is smitten with her." 
 
 "I say he is not, Lady Hainault. I say that what 
 there is is all on her side." 
 
 "She shall go back to Eanford after the wedding. I was 
 a fool to have such a beautiful vixen in the house at alL" 
 
 We shall not see much more of Lady Hainault. Her 
 son is about to marry the beautiful Miss Burton, and 
 make her Lady Hainault, We shall see something of 
 her by-and-bye. 
 
2-iG RAVENSHOE. 
 
 The wedding came off the next week. A few days 
 previously Charles rode over to Casterton and saw 
 Adelaide. He had with him a note and jewel-case. 
 The note was from Cuthbert, in which he spoke of her 
 as his future sister, and begged her to accept the loan of 
 "these few poor jewels." She was graciously pleased to 
 do so ; and Charles took his leave very soon, for the 
 house was turned out of the windows, and the next day 
 but one " the long Burton girl " became Lady Hainault, 
 and Lady Ascot's friend became Dowager. Lady Emily 
 did not wear pearls at the wedding. She wore her own 
 splendid golden hair, which hung round her lovely face 
 like a glory. None who saw the two could say which 
 was the most beautiful of these two celebrated blondes — 
 Adelaide, the imperial, or Lady Emily, the gentle and 
 the winning. 
 
 But, when Lady Ascot heard that Adelaide had 
 appeared at the wedding with the emeralds, she was 
 furious. "She has gone," said that deeply injured lady 
 — " she, a penniless girl, has actually gone, and, without 
 my consent or knowledge, borrowed the Eavenshoe 
 emeralds, and flaunted in them at a wedding. That 
 girl would dance over my grave, Brooks." 
 
 "Miss Adelaide," said Brooks, "must have looked 
 very well in them, my lady ! " for Brooks was good- 
 natured, and wished to turn away her ladyship's wrath. 
 
 Lady Ascot turned upon her and withered her. She 
 only said, " Emeralds upon pink ! Heugh ! " But Brooks 
 was withered nevertheless. 
 
CLOTHO, LACHBSIS, AND ATBOP 247 
 
 I cannot give you any idea as to how Lady Ascot 
 said " Heugh ! " as I have written it above. We don't 
 know how the Greeks pronounced the amazing interjec- 
 tions in the Greek plays. We can only write them 
 down. 
 
 "Perhaps the jewels were not remarked, my lady 
 said the maid, making a second and worse shot. 
 
 " Not remarked, you foolish woman ! " said the angry 
 old lady. "Not remark a thousand pounds' worth of 
 emeralds upon a girl who is very well known to he a 
 pensioner of mine. And I daren't speak to her, or we 
 shall have a scene with Charles. I am glad of one 
 thing, though ; it shows that Charles is thoroughly in 
 earnest. Now let me get to bed, that's a good soul ; 
 and don't be angry with me if I am short tempered, for 
 heaven knows I have enough to try me ! Send one 
 of the footmen across to the stable to know if Mahratta 
 has had her nitre. Say that I insist on a categorical 
 answer. Has Lord Ascot come home ? " 
 " Yes, my lady." 
 
 " He might have come and given me some news about 
 the horse. But there, poor boy, I can forgive him." 
 
248 RAVENSHOE. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 THE LAST GLIMPSE OF OXFORD. 
 
 Oxford. The front of Magdalen Hall, about which 
 the least said the soonest mended. On the left, further 
 on, All Souls, which seems to have been built by the 
 same happy hand winch built the new courts of St. 
 John's Cambridge, (for they are about equally bad). 
 On the right, the Clarendon and the Schools, blocking 
 out the western sky. Still more to the right, a bit of 
 Exeter, and all Brazenose. In front the Badclirf, the 
 third dome in England, and, beyond, the straight facade 
 of St. Mary's, gathering its lines upward ever, till, tired 
 ■of window and buttress, of crocket, finial, gargoyle, and 
 all the rest of it, it leaps up aloft in one glorious crystal, 
 and carries up one's heart with it into the heaven above. 
 
 Charles Ravenshoe and Marston. They stood side by 
 side on the pavement, and their eyes roamed together 
 over the noble mass of architecture, passing from the 
 straight lines, and abrupt corner of the EadclifF, on to 
 the steeple of St. Mary's. The) stood silent for a 
 moment, and then Marston said — 
 
 " Serve him right," 
 
 "Why?" said Charles. 
 
 " Because lie had no business to be driving tandem at 
 
THE LAST GLIMPSE OF OXFORD. 249 
 
 alL He can't afford it. And, besides, if he could, why 
 should he defy the authorities by driving tandem? 
 Nobody would drive tandem if it wasn't forbidden." 
 
 "Well, he is sent down, and therefore your virtue 
 may spare him." 
 
 " Sent down ! " said Marston, testily, " he never ought 
 to have come up. He was only sent here to be pitch- 
 forked through the schools, and get a family living." 
 
 " Well, well," said Charles ; " I was very fond of 
 him." 
 
 "Pish!" said Marston. Whereat Charles laughed 
 uproariously, and stood in the gutter. His mirth was 
 stopped by his being attacked by a toothless black and 
 tan terrier, who was so old that he could only bark in 
 a whisper, but whose privilege it was to follow about 
 one of the first divinity scholars of the day, round the 
 sunniest spots in the town. The dog having been 
 appeased, Charles and Marston stood aside, and got a 
 kindly smile from the good old man, in recognition of 
 their having touched their caps to him. 
 
 " Charley," said Marston, " I am so glad to hear of 
 your going on so well. Mind you, if you had stuck to 
 your work sooner, you would have had more than a 
 second in Moderations. You must, and you shall, get a 
 first, you know. I w r ill have it." 
 
 " Never, my boy, never ; " said Charles ; " I haven't 
 head for it," 
 
 " Nonsense. You are a great fool ; but you may get 
 your first." 
 
250 KAVENSHOE. 
 
 Thereupon Charles laughed again, louder than before, 
 and wanted to know what his friend had been eating to 
 upset his liver. To which Marston answered " Bosh ! " 
 and then they went clown Oriel Lane, " And so by Mer- 
 ton," as the fox-hunters say, to Christ Church Meadow. 
 
 "I am glad you are in the University eight," said 
 .Marston; "it will do you a vast deal of good. You 
 used to over- value that sort of thing, but I don't think 
 that you do so now. You can't row or ride yourself 
 into a place in the world, but that is no reason why you 
 should not row or ride. I wish I was heavy enough 
 to row. Who steers to-day ? 
 
 " The great Panjandrum." 
 
 " I don't like the great Panjandrum. I think him 
 slangy. And I don't pardon slang in any one beyond a 
 very young bachelor." 
 
 " I am very fond of him," said Charles, " and you are 
 bilious, and out of humour with every one in heaven 
 and earth, except apparently me. But, seriously speak- 
 ing, old man, I think you have had something to vex 
 you, since you came up yesterday. I hav'n't seen you 
 since you were at Kavenshoe, and you are deucedly 
 altered, do you know ? * 
 
 " I am sure you are wrong, Charles. I have had 
 nothing — Well, I never lie. I have been disappointed 
 in sometliing, but I have fought against it so, that I am 
 sure you must be wrong. I cannot be altered." 
 
 " Tell me what has gone wrong, Marston. Is it in 
 money matters ? If it is, I know I can help you there." 
 
THE LAST GLIMPSE OF OXFORD. 251 
 
 " Money. Oh ! dear, no ; " said Marston. " Charley, 
 you are a good fellow. You are the best fellow I ever 
 met, do you know ? But I can't tell you what is the 
 matter now." 
 
 "Have I been doing anything ? " said Charles eagerly. 
 
 " You have been doing a great deal to make me like 
 and respect you, Charles ; but nothing to make me 
 unhappy. Now, answer me some questions, and let us 
 change the subject. How is your father ? " 
 
 " Dear old dad is very welL I got a letter from him 
 to-day." 
 
 " And how is your brother ? " 
 
 "Well in health, but weak in mind, I fear. I am 
 very much afraid that I shall be heir of Eavenshoe." 
 
 " Why 1 is he going mad ? " 
 
 "Not a bit of it, poor lad. He is going into a 
 religious house, I am afraid. At least he mentioned 
 that sort of thing the last time he wrote to me, as if he 
 was trying to bring me face to face with the idea ; and 
 be sure my dearly beloved Father Mackworth will never 
 let the idea rest." 
 
 " Poor fellow ! And how is Adelaide the beautiful ? " 
 
 " Shes all right," said Charles. " She and Aunt are 
 the best friends in the world." 
 
 " They always were, weren't they ? " 
 
 " Why, you see," said Charles, " sometimes Aunt was 
 cross, and Adelaide is very high-spirited, you know. 
 Exceedingly high-spirited?' 
 
 "Indeed?" 
 
252 EAVENSHOE. 
 
 " Oh, yes, very much so ; she didn't take much non- 
 sense from Lady Hainault, I can tell you." 
 
 " Well," said Marston, " to continue my catechizing, 
 how is William?" 
 
 " He is very well. Is there no one else you were 
 going to ask after ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes. Miss Corby \ " 
 
 " She is pretty well, I believe, in health, but she does 
 not seem quite so happy as she was," said Charles, 
 looking at Marston, suddenly. 
 
 He might as well have looked at the Taylor building, 
 if he expected any change to take place in Marston's 
 face. He regarded him with a stony stare, and said — 
 
 " Indeed. I am sorry to hear that." 
 
 " Marston," said Charles, " I once thought that there 
 was something between you and her." 
 
 " That is a remarkable instance of what silly notions 
 get into vacant minds," said Marston steadily. Whereat 
 Charles laughed again. 
 
 At this point, being opposite the University barge, 
 Charles was hailed by a West-countryman of Exeter, 
 whom we shall call Lee, who never met with Charles 
 without having a turn at talking Devonshire with him. 
 He now began at the top of his voice, to the great 
 astonishment of the surrounding dandies. 
 
 "Where be gwine? Charles Ravenshoe, where be 
 gwine ? " 
 
 " We'ni gwine for a ride on the watter, Jan Lee." 
 
 " Be gwine in the Varsity eight, Charles Ravenshoe?" 
 
THE LAST GLIMPSE OF OXFORD. 253 
 
 " Iss, sure." 
 
 " How do'e feel ? Dont'e feel afeard ? M 
 
 "Ma dear soul, I've got such a wambling in my 
 innards, and — " 
 
 " We are waiting for you, Bavenshoe," said the Cap- 
 tain ; and, a few minutes after, the University eight 
 rushed forth on her glorious career, clearing her way 
 through the crowd of boats, and their admiring rowers, 
 towards Iffley. 
 
 And Marston sat on the top of the University barge, 
 and watched her sweeping on towards the distance, and 
 then he said to himself — 
 
 " Ah ! there goes the man I like best in the world, 
 who don't care for the woman I love best in the world, 
 who is in love with the man before mentioned, who is 
 in love with a woman who don't care a hang for him. 
 There is a certain left-handedness in human affairs." 
 
254 EAVENSHOE. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIIL* 
 
 THE LAST GLIMPSE OF THE OLD WORLD.] 
 
 Putney Bridge at half an hour before high tide ; 
 thirteen or fourteen steamers ; five or six thousand 
 boats, and fifteen or twenty thousand spectators. This 
 is the morning of the great University race, about 
 which every member of the two great Universities, and 
 a very large section of the general public, have been 
 fidgeting and talking for a month or so. 
 
 The bridge is black, the lawns are black, every bal- 
 cony and window in the town is black ; the steamers 
 are black with a swarming, eager multitude, come to see 
 the picked youths of the upper class try their strength 
 against one another. There are two friends of ours 
 nearly concerned in the great event of the day. Charles 
 is rowing three in the Oxford boat, and Marston is 
 steering. This is a memorable day for both of them, and 
 more especially for poor Charles. 
 
 Now the crowd surges to and fro, and there is a 
 cheer. The men are getting into their boats. The 
 
 1 The Bhort description of the University boat-race which begins 
 this chapter was written two years ago, from the author's recollections 
 of the race of 1852. It would do for a description of this year's race, 
 quite as well as of any other year, substituting " Cambridge " for 
 " Oxford," according to the year. 
 
THE LAST GLIMPSE OF THE OLD WOELD. 255 
 
 police-boats are busy clearing the course. Now there is 
 a cheer of admiration. Cambridge dashes out, swings 
 round, and takes her place at the bridge. 
 
 Another shout. Oxford sweeps majestically out and 
 takes her place by Cambridge. Away go the police- 
 galleys, away go all the London club-boats, at ten miles 
 an hour down the course. Now the course is clear, and 
 there is almost a silence. 
 
 Then a wild hubbub ; and people begin to squeeze and 
 crush against one another. The boats are off; the fight 
 has begun; then the thirteen steamers come roaring 
 on after them, and their wake is alive once more with 
 boats. 
 
 Everywhere a roar and a rushing to and fro. Frantic 
 crowds upon the towing-path, mad crowds on the 
 steamers, which make them sway and rock fearfully. 
 Ahead Hammersmith Bridge, hanging like a black bar, 
 covered with people as with a swarm of bees. As an 
 eye-piece to the picture, two solitary flying-boats, and the 
 flashing oars, working with the rapidity and regularity 
 of a steam-engine. 
 
 '•' Who's in front ? " is 'asked by a thousand mouths ; 
 but who can tell ? We shall see soon. Hammersmith 
 Bridge is stretching across the water not a hundred 
 yards in front of the boats. For one half- second a light 
 shadow crosses the Oxford boat, and then it is out into 
 the sunlight beyond. In another second the same 
 shadow crosses the Cambridge boat. Oxford is ahead. 
 
 The men with light-blue neckties say that, " By 
 
256 BAVENSHOBL 
 
 George, Oxford can't keep that terrible quick stroke 
 going much longer ;" and the men with dark-blue ties 
 say, "Can't she, by Jove!" Well, we shall know all 
 about it soon, for here is Barnes Bridge. Again the 
 shadow goes over the Oxford boat, and then one, two, 
 three, four seconds before the Cambridge men pass 
 beneath it. Oxford is winning ! There is a shout from 
 the people at Barnes, though the iroWol don't know 
 why. Cambridge has made a furious rush, and [drawn 
 nearly up to Oxford ; but it is useless. Oxford leaves 
 rowing, and Cambridge rows ten strokes before they are 
 level. Oxford has won ! 
 
 Five minutes after, Charles was on the wharf in front 
 of the Ship Inn at Mortlake, as happy as a king. He 
 had got separated from his friends in the crowd, and the 
 people round him were cheering him, and passing flat- 
 tering remarks on his personal appearance, which caused 
 Charles to laugh, and blush, and bow, as he tried to 
 push through his good-natured persecutors, when he 
 suddenly, in the midst of a burst of laughter caused by 
 a remark made by a drunken bargeman, felt somebody 
 clasp his arm, and turning round, saw William. 
 
 He felt such a shock that he was giddy and faint. 
 " Will ! " he said, " what is the matter ? " 
 
 " Come here, and I'll tell you." 
 
 He forced Iris way to a quieter place, and then turned 
 round to his companion, — " Make it short, Will ; that's 
 a dear fellow. I can stand the worst." 
 
 ' Master was took very bad two days ago, Master 
 
THE LAST GLIMPSE OF THE OLD WORLD. 257 
 
 Charles ; and Master Cuthbert sent me off for you at 
 once. He told me directly I got to Paddington to ask 
 for a telegraph-message, so that you might hear the last 
 accounts ; and here it is." 
 
 He put what we now call a " telegram " into Charles's 
 hand, and the burden of it was mourning and woe. 
 Densil Ravenshoe was sinking fast, and all that steam 
 and horse-flesh could do would be needed, if Charles 
 would see him alive. 
 
 " Will, go and find Mr. Marston for me, and I will 
 wait here for you. How are we to get back to Putney?" 
 
 " I have got a cab waiting." 
 
 William dashed into the inn, and Charles waited. He 
 turned and looked at the river. 
 
 There it was winding away past villa and park, 
 bearing a thousand boats upon its bosom. He looked 
 once again upon the crowded steamers and the busy 
 multitude, and even in his grief felt a rush of honest 
 pride as he thought that he was one of the heroes of the 
 day. And then he turned, for William was beside him 
 again. Marston was not to be found. 
 
 " I should like to have seen him again," he said ; 
 " but we must fly, Will, we must fly ! " 
 
 Had he known under what circumstances he was 
 next to see a great concourse of people, and under what 
 circumstances he was next to meet Marston, who knows 
 but that in his ignorance and short-sightedness he would 
 have chosen to die where he stood in such a moment of 
 triumph and honour ? 
 
 VOL. I. s 
 
258 RAYENSHOB. 
 
 In the hurry of departure he had no time to ask 
 questions. Only when he found himself in the express 
 train, having chosen to go second-class with his servant, 
 and not be alone, did he find time to ask how it had 
 come about. 
 
 There was but little to be told. Densil had been 
 seized after breakfast, and at first so slightly that they 
 were not much alarmed. He had been put to bed, and 
 the symptoms had grown worse. Then William had 
 been despatched for Charles, leaving Cuthbert, Mary, 
 and Father Mackworth at his bedside. All had been 
 done that could be done. He seemed to-be in no pain, 
 and quite contented. That was all. The telegraph told 
 the rest. Cuthbert had promised to send horses to 
 Crediton, and a relay forty miles nearer home. 
 
 The terrible excitement of the day, and the fact that 
 he had eaten nothing since breakfast, made Charles less 
 able to bear up against the news than he would other- 
 wise have been. Strange thoughts and fears began 
 to shape themselves in his head, and to find voices in 
 the monotonous jolting of the carriage. 
 
 Not so much the fear of his father's death. That he 
 did not fear, because he knew it would come ; and, as 
 to that, the bitterness of death was past, bitter, deeply 
 bitter, as it was : but a terror lest his father should die 
 without speaking to him — that he should never see 
 those dear lips wreathe into a smile for him any more. 
 
 Yesterday he had been thinking of this very journey 
 — of how, if they won the race, he would fly down on 
 
THE LAST GLIMPSE OF THE OLD WORLD. 259 
 
 the wings of the wind to tell them, and how the old 
 
 man would brighten up with joy at the news. Yester- 
 day he was a strong, brave man ; and now what deadly 
 terror was this at his heart ? 
 
 " William, what frightens me like this ? " 
 " The news I brought you, and the excitement of the 
 race. And you have been training hard for a long 
 time, and that don't mend a man's nerves ; and you are 
 hungry." 
 "Not I." 
 
 " "What a noble race it was ! I saw you above a mile 
 off. I could tell the shape of you that distance, and see 
 how you was pulling your oar through. I knew that 
 my boy was going to be in the winning boat, Lord bless 
 you ! before the race was rowed. And when I saw Mr. 
 
 C come in with that tearing, licking quick stroke 
 
 of his, I sung out for old Oxford, and pretty nearly forgot 
 the photograph for a bit." 
 
 u Photograph, Will ? what photograph ? " 
 " Telegraph, I mean. It's all the same." 
 Charles couldn't talk, though he tried. He felt an 
 anxiety he had never felt before. It was so ill-defined 
 that he could not trace it to its source. He had a right 
 to feel grief, and deep anxiety to see his father alive ; 
 but this was sheer terror, and at what ? 
 
 At Swindon, William got out and returned laden with 
 this and with that, and forced Charles to eat and drink. 
 He had not tasted wine for a long time ; so he had 
 to be careful with it ; but it seemed to do him no good. 
 
 s2 
 
2G0 RAVEXSHOE. 
 
 But, at last, tired nature did something for him, and he 
 fell asleep. 
 
 When he awoke it was night, and at first he did not 
 remember where he was. But rapidly his grief came 
 upon him ; and up, as it were out of a dark gulf, came 
 the other nameless terror and took possession of his 
 heart. 
 
 There was a change at Exeter ; then at Crediton they 
 met with their first relay of horses, and, at ten o'clock 
 at night, after a hasty supper, started on their midnight 
 ride. The terror was gone the moment Charles was on 
 horseback. 
 
 The road was muddy and dark, often with steep 
 banks on each side ; but a delicious April moon was 
 over head, and they got on bravely. At Bow there was 
 a glimpse of Dartmoor towering black, and a fresh puff 
 of westerly wind, laden with scents of spring. At 
 Hatherleigh, there were fresh horses, and one of the 
 Ravenshoe grooms waiting for them. The man had 
 heard uothing since yesterday ; so at one o'clock they 
 started on again. After this, there were none but cross- 
 country roads, and dangerous steep lanes ; so they got 
 on slowly. Then came the morning with voice of ten 
 thousand birds, and all the rich perfume of awaking 
 nature. And then came the woods of home, and they 
 stood on the terrace, between the old house and the 
 sea. 
 
 The white surf was playing and leaping around the 
 quiet headlands ; the sea-birds were floating merrily in 
 
THE LAST GLIMPSE OF THE OLD WORLD. 2(jl 
 
 the sunshine ; the April clouds were racing their purple 
 shadows across the jubilant blue sea ; but the old house 
 stood blank and dull. Every window was closed, and 
 not a sound was heart 1. 
 
 For Charles had come too late. Densil Eavenshoe 
 was dead. 
 
262 EAVENSHOE. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 THE FIRST GLIMPSE OF THE NEW WORLD. 
 
 In the long dark old room with the mullioned windows 
 looking ont on the ocean, in the room that had been 
 Charles's bed-room, study, and play-room, since he was 
 a boy, there sat Charles Eavenshoe, musing, stricken 
 down with grief, and forlorn. 
 
 There were the fishing rods and the guns, there were 
 the books and the homely pictures in which his soul 
 had delighted. There was "The Sanctuary and the 
 Challenge," and Bob Coombes in his outrigger. All 
 were there. But Charles Eavenshoe was not there. 
 There was another man in his place, bearing his like- 
 ness, who sat and brooded with his head on his hands. 
 
 Where was the soul which was gone? Was he an 
 infant in a new cycle of existence? or was he still 
 connected with the scenes and people he had known 
 and loved so long ? Was he present ? Could he tell at 
 last the deep love that one poor foolish heart had borne 
 for him ? Could he know now the deep, deep grief 
 that tore that poor silly heart, because its owner had not 
 been by to see the last faint smile of intelligence flutter 
 over features that he was to see no more ?" 
 
 "Father! Father 1 Where are you. Don't leave me 
 
THE FIRST GLIMPSE OF THE NEW WORLD. 2G3 
 
 all alone, father." No answer! only the ceaseless heat- 
 ing of the surf upon the shore. 
 
 He opened the window, and looked out. The terrace, 
 the woods, the village, and beyond the great unmeasure- 
 able ocean ! What beyond that ? 
 
 What was this death, which suddenly made that 
 which we loved so well, so worthless ? Could they none 
 of them tell us ? One there was who triumphed over 
 death and the grave, and was caught up in His earthly 
 body. Who is this Death that he should triumph over 
 us ? Alas, poor Charles ! There are evils worse than 
 death. There are times when death seems to a man like 
 going to bed. Wait ! 
 
 There was a picture of Mary's, of which he bethought 
 himself. One we all know. Of a soul being carried 
 away by angels to heaven. They call it St. Catherine, 
 though it had nothing particular to do with St. Cathe- 
 rine, that I know of; and he thought he would go 
 see it. But, as he turned, there stood Mary herself 
 before him. 
 
 He held out his hands towards her, and she came and 
 sat beside him, and put her arm round his neck. He 
 kissed her ! Why not ? They were as brother and sister. 
 
 He asked her why she had come. 
 
 " I knew you wanted me," she said. 
 
 Then she, still with her arm round his neck, talked 
 to him about what had just happened. " He asked for 
 you soon after he was taken on the first day, and told 
 Father Mackworth to send off for you. Cuthbert had 
 
2G4 RAVEN SHOE. 
 
 sent two hours before, and he said he was glad, and 
 hoped that Oxford would win the race " 
 
 " Charles," said Mary again, " do you know that old 
 James has had a fit, and is not expected to live ? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Yes, as soon as he heard of our dear one's death he 
 was taken. It has killed him." 
 
 " Poor old James ! " 
 
 They sat there some time, hand in hand, in sorrowful 
 communion, and then Charles said suddenly — 
 
 " The future, Mary ? The future, my love ? " 
 
 " We discussed that before, Charles, dear. There is 
 only one line of life open to me." 
 
 "Ah!" 
 
 " I shall write to Lady Ascot to-morrow. I heard 
 from Adelaide the other day, and she tells me that young 
 Lady Hainault is going to take charge of poor Lord 
 Charles's children in a short time ; and she will want a 
 nursery governess ; and I will go." 
 
 " I would sooner you were there than here, Mary. I 
 am very glad of this. She is a very good woman. I will 
 go and see you there very often." 
 
 " Are you going back to Oxford, Charles ? " 
 
 " I think not" 
 
 " Do you owe much money there ? " 
 
 " Very little, now. He paid it almost all for me." 
 
 " What shall you do 1 " 
 
 " I have not the remotest idea. I cannot possibly con' 
 ceive. I must consult Marston." 
 
THE FIRST GLIMPSE OF THE NEW WORLD. 265 
 
 There passed a weary week — a week of long brooding 
 days and sleepless nights, while outside the darkened 
 house the bright spring sun flooded all earth with light 
 and life, and the full spring wind sang pleasantly through 
 the musical woods, and swept away inland over heather 
 and crag. 
 
 Strange sounds began to reach Charles in his solitary 
 chamber ; sounds which at first made him fancy he was 
 dreaming, they were so mysterious and inexplicable. 
 The first day they assumed the forms of solitary notes of 
 music, some almost harsh, and some exquisitely soft and 
 melodious. As the day went on they began to arrange 
 themselves into chords, and sound slightly louder, though 
 still a long way off. At last, near midnight, they seemed 
 to take form, and flow off into a wild, mournful piece of 
 music, the like of which Charles had never heard before ; 
 and then all was still. 
 
 Charles went to bed, believing either that the sounds 
 were supernatural or that they arose from noises in his 
 head. He came to the latter conclusion, and thought 
 sleep would put an end to them; but, next morning, 
 when he had half opened the shutters, and let in the 
 blessed sunlight, there came the sound again — a wild, 
 rich, triumphant melody, played by some hand, whether 
 earthly or unearthly, that knew its work well. 
 
 " What is that, William ? " 
 
 " Music." 
 
 "Where does it come from?" 
 
 "Out of the air. The rjixies make such music at 
 
266 KAVEXSHOE. 
 
 times. Maybe it's the saints in glory with their golden 
 harps, welcoming Master and Father." 
 
 " Father ! " 
 
 " He died this morning at daybreak ; not long after 
 his old master, eh ? He was very faithful to him. He 
 was in prison with him once, I've heard tell. I'll be as 
 faithful to you, Charles, when the time comes." 
 
 And another day wore on in the darkened house, and 
 still the angelic music rose and fell at intervals, and 
 moved the hearts of those that heard it strangely. 
 
 " Surely," said Charles to himself, " that music must 
 sound louder in one place than another." , And then he 
 felt himself smiling at the idea that he half believed it 
 to be supernatural. 
 
 He rose and passed on through corridor and gallery, 
 still listening as he went. The music had ceased, and all 
 was stilL 
 
 He went on through parts of the house he had not 
 been in since a boy. This part of the house was very 
 much deserted ; some of the rooms he looked into were 
 occupied as inferior servants' bed-rooms ; some were 
 empty, and all were dark. Here was where he, Cuth- 
 bert, and William would play hide-and-seek on wet days; 
 and well he remembered each nook and lair. A window 
 was open in one empty room, and it looked into the 
 court-yard They were carrying things into the chapel, 
 and he walked that way. 
 
 In the dark entrance to the dim chapel a black figure 
 stood aside to let him pass ; lie bowed, and did so, but 
 
THE FIRST GLIMPSE OF THE NEW WORLD. 267 
 
 was barely in the building when a voice he knew said, 
 " It is Charles," and the next moment he was clasped by 
 both hands, and the kind face of Father Tiernay was 
 beaming before him. 
 
 " I'm so glad to see you, Father Tiernay. It is so 
 kind of you to come." 
 
 " You look pale and worn," said the good man ; " you 
 have been fretting. I won't have that, now that I am 
 come. I will have you out in the air and sunshine, my 
 boy, along the shore "' 
 
 The music again! Not faint and distant as heretofore, 
 but close overhead, crashing out into a mighty jubilate, 
 which broke itself against rafter and window in a thou- 
 sand sweet echoes. Then, as the noble echoes began to 
 sink, there arose a soft flute-like note, which grew more 
 intense until the air was filled with passionate sound ; 
 and it trilled and ran, and paused, and ran on, and died 
 you knew not where. 
 
 " I can't stand much of that, Father Tiernay," said 
 Charles. " They have been mending the organ, I see. 
 That accounts for the music I have heard I suppose 
 there will -be music at the funeral, then." 
 
 " My brother Murtagh," said Father Tiernay, " came 
 over yesterday morning from Lord Segur's. He is or- 
 ganist there, and he mended it. Bedad he is a sweet 
 musician. Hear what Sir Henry Bishop says of him." 
 
 There came towards them, from the organ-loft, a young 
 man, wearing a long black coat and black bands with 
 white edges, and having of his own one of the sweetest, 
 
268 EAVENSIIOE. 
 
 kindliest faces eye ever rested on. Father Tiernay 
 looked on him with pride and affection, and said — 
 
 " Murty, me dear brother, this is Mr. Charles Eavens- 
 hoe, me very good friend, I hope you'll become ac- 
 quaintances, for the reason that two good fellows should 
 know one another." 
 
 " I am almost afraid," said the young man, with a 
 frank smile, "that Charles Eavenshoe has already a preju- 
 dice against me for the disagreeable sounds I was making 
 all day yesterday in bringing the old organ into work 
 again." 
 
 " Nay, I was only wondering where such noble bursts 
 of melody came from," said Charles. "If you had 
 made all the evil noises in Pandemonium, they would 
 have been forgiven for that last piece of music. Do 
 you know that I had no idea the old organ could be 
 played on. Years ago, when we were boys, Cuthbert 
 and I tried to play on it ; I blew for him, and he 
 sounded two or three notes, but it frightened us, and we 
 ran away, and never went near it again." 
 
 "It is a beautiful old instrument," said young 
 Tiernay ; " will you stand just here, and listen to it ? " 
 
 Charles stood in one of the windows, and Father 
 Tiernay beside him. He leant his head on his arm, 
 and looked forth eastward and northward, over the 
 rolling woods, the cliffs, and the bright blue sea. 
 
 The music began with a movement soft, low, melodi- 
 ous, beyond expression, and yet strong, firm, and re- 
 gular as of a thousand armed men marching to victory. 
 
THE FIRST GLIMPSE OF THE NEW WORLD. 269 
 
 It grew in volume and power till it was irresistible, yet 
 still harmonious and perfect. Charles understood it. 
 It was the life of a just man growing towards perfection 
 and honour. 
 
 It wavered and fluttered, and threw itself into 
 sparkling sprays and eddies. It leapt and laughed 
 with joy unutterable, yet still through all the solemn 
 measure went on. Love had come to gladden the per- 
 fect life, and had adorned without disturbing it. 
 
 Then began discords and wild sweeping storms of 
 sound, harsh always, but never unmelodious ; fainter 
 and fainter grew the melody, till it was almost lost. 
 Misfortunes had come upon the just man, and he was 
 bending under them. 
 
 Xo. More majestic, more grand, more solemn than 
 ever the melody reasserted itself : and again, as though 
 purified by a furnace, marched solemnly on with a 
 clearness and sweetness greater that at first. The just 
 man had emerged from his sea of troubles ennobled. 
 Charles felt a hand on his shoulder. He thought it had 
 been Father Tiernay. Father Tiernay was gone. It 
 was Cuthbert. 
 
 " Cuthbert ! I am so glad you have come to see me. 
 I was not surprised because you would not see me 
 before. You didn't think I was offended, brother, did 
 you ? I know you. I know you ! " 
 
 Charles smoothed his hair and smiled pleasantly 
 upon him. Cuthbert stood quite still and said nothing. 
 
 "Cuthbert," said Charles, "you are in pain. In 
 bodily pain I mean." 
 
270 EAVENSHOE. 
 
 " I am. I spent last night on these stones praying, 
 and the cold has got into my very "bones." 
 
 "Yon pray for the dead, I know," said Charles. 
 "But why destroy the health God has given you 
 because a good man has gone to sleep ? " 
 
 "I was not praying for him so much as for you." 
 
 " God knows I want it, dear Cuthbert. But can you 
 benefit me by killing yourself?" 
 
 " Who knows ? I may tiy. How long is it since we 
 were boys together, Charles ? " 
 
 " How long ? Let me see. Why, it is nineteen years 
 at least since I can first remember you." , 
 
 " I have been sarcastic and distant with you some- 
 times, Charles, but I have never been unkind." 
 
 " Cuthbert ! I never had an unkind word or action 
 from you. Why do you say this ? " 
 
 "Because Charles, do you remember the night 
 
 the Warren Hastings came ashore ? " 
 
 " Ay," said Charles wonderingly. 
 
 " In future, when you call me to mind, will you try 
 to think of me as I was then, not as I have been lately. 
 We slept together, you remember, through the storm, 
 and he sat on the bed. God has tried me very hard. 
 Let us hope that heaven will be worth the winning. 
 After this you will see me no more in private. Good- 
 bye!" 
 • Charles thought he knew what he meant, and had 
 expected it. He would not let him go for a time. 
 
LOED SALTIRE AND MACKWOETH. 271 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 FATHER MACKWORTH BRINGS LORD SALTIRE TO BAY, 
 
 AND WHAT CAME OF IT. 
 
 Old James was to be buried side by side with his old 
 master in the vault under the altar. The funeral was 
 to be on the grandest scale, and all the Catholic gently 
 of the neighbourhood, and most of the Protestant, were 
 coming. Father Mackworth, it may be conceived, was 
 very busy, and seldom alone. All day he and the 
 two Tiernays were arranging and ordering. When 
 thoroughly tired out, late at night, he would retire to 
 his room and take a frugal supper (Mackworth was no 
 glutton) and sit before the fire musing. 
 
 One night, towards the middle of the week, he was 
 sitting thus before the fire when the door opened, and 
 some one came in ; thinking it was the servant, he did 
 not look round ; but, when the supposed servant came 
 up to the fire-place and stood still, he cast his eyes 
 suddenly up, and they fell upon the cadaverous face of 
 Outhbert. 
 
 He looked deadly pale and wan as he stood with his 
 face turned to the nickering fire, and Mackworth felt 
 deep pity for him. He held an open letter towards 
 Mackworth, and said — 
 
272 KAVENSHOE. 
 
 "This is from Lord Saltire. He proposes to come 
 here the night before the funeral and go away in Lord 
 Segur's carriage with Mm after it is over. Will you 
 kindly see after his rooms, and so on? Here is the 
 letter." 
 
 " I will," said Mackworth. " My dear boy, you look 
 deadly ill." 
 
 " I wish I were dead." 
 
 "So do all who hope for heaven," said Mackworth. 
 
 " Who would not look worn and ill with such a scene 
 hanging over their heads ? " 
 
 " Go away and avoid it." 
 
 " Not I. A Eavenshoe is not a coward. Besides, I 
 want to see him again. How cruel you have been! 
 Why did you let him gain my heart ? I have little 
 enough to love." 
 
 There was a long pause — so long that a bright-eyed 
 little mouse ran out from the wainscot and watched. 
 Both their eyes were bent on the fire, and Father 
 Mackworth listened with painful intentness for what 
 was to come. 
 
 "He shall speak first," he thought, "How I 
 wonder " 
 
 At last Cuthbert spoke slowly, without raising his 
 eyes — 
 
 " Will nothing induce you to forego your purpose \ " 
 
 "How can I forego it, Cuthbert, with common 
 honesty ? I have foregone it long enough." 
 
 " Listen now," said Cuthbert unheedingly ; " I have 
 
LORD SALTIRE AND MACKWORTIF. 273 
 
 been reckoning up what I can afford, and I find that T 
 can give you five thousand pounds down for that paper, 
 and five thousand more in bills of six, eight, and twelve 
 months. Will that content you ? " 
 
 Father Mackworth would have given a finger to have 
 answered promptly " No," but he could not. The offer 
 was so astounding, so unexpected, that he hesitated 
 long enough to make Cuthbert look round, and 
 say— 
 
 "Ten thousand pounds is a large sum of money, 
 Father." 
 
 It was, indeed ; and Lord Saltire coming next week ! 
 Let us do the man justice ; he acted with a certain 
 amount of honour. When you have read this book to 
 the end you will see that ten thousand pounds was only 
 part of what was offered to him. He gave up it all 
 because he would not lower himself in the eyes of 
 Cuthbert, who had believed in him so long. 
 
 " I paused," said he, " from astonishment, that a 
 gentleman could have insulted me by such a proposi- 
 tion." 
 
 " Your pause," said Cuthbert, " arose from hesitation, 
 not from astonishment. I saw your eyes blaze when I 
 made you the offer. Think of ten thousand pounds. 
 You might appear in the world as an English Roman 
 Catholic of fortune. Good heavens ! with your talent, 
 you might aspire to the cardinal's chair ! " 
 
 "No, no, no!" said Mackworth, fiercely. "I did 
 hesitate, and I have lied to you; but I hesitate no 
 
 VOL. i. T 
 
274 RAVENSB 
 
 longer. I won't haye the subject mentioned to me 
 again, sir. What sort of a gentleman are you to come 
 to men's rooms in the dead of night,, with your father 
 lying dead in the house, and tempt men to felony? I 
 will not." 
 
 "God knows,'' said Cuthbert, as lie passed out, 
 " whether I have lost heaven by trying to save him." 
 
 Mackworth heard the door close behind him, and 
 then looked eagerly towards it. He heard Cuthbert's 
 footsteps die along the corridor, and then, rising up, he 
 opened it and looked out. The corridor was empty. 
 He walked hurriedly back to the fireplace. 
 
 "Shall I call him back?" he said. "It is not too 
 late. Ten thousand pounds ! A greater stake than I 
 played for ; and now, when it is at my feet, I am throw T - 
 ing it away. And for what ? For honour, after I have 
 
 acted the " (he could not say the word). " After I 
 
 have gone so far. I must be a gentleman. A common 
 rogue would have jumped at the offer. By heaven ! 
 there are some things better than money. If I were to 
 take his offer he would know me for a rogue. And I 
 love the lad. No, no ! let the fool go to his prayers. I 
 will keep the respect of one man at least. 
 
 " What a curious jumble and puzzle it all is, to be 
 sure. Am I any worse than my neighbours ? I have 
 made a desperate attempt at power, for a name, and an 
 ambition ; and then, because the ball comes suddenly at 
 my feet, from a quarter I did not expect, 1 dare not 
 strike it because I fear the contempt of one single pair 
 
LORD SALTIRE AXD MACKWORTH. 275 
 
 of eyes from which I have been used to receive nothing 
 hut love and reverence. 
 
 "Yet, he cannot trust me, as T thought he did, or he 
 would not have made the offer to me. And then he 
 made it in such a confident way that he must have 
 thought I was going to accept it. That is strange. He 
 has never rebelled lately. Am I throwing away sub- 
 stance for shadow ? I have been bound to the Church 
 body and soul from my boyhood, and I must go on. I 
 have refused a cardinal's chair this night. But who will 
 ever know it ? 
 
 " I must go about with my lord Saltire. I could go 
 at him with more confidence if I had ten thousand 
 pounds in the bank though, in case of a failure. I am 
 less afraid of that terrible old heretic than I am of those 
 great eyes of Cuthbert's turned on me in scom. I have 
 lived so long among gentlemen that I believe myself to 
 be one. He knows, and he shall tell. 
 
 " And, if all fails, I have served the Church, and the 
 Church shall serve me. What fools the best of us are ! 
 Why did I ever allow that straightforward idiot Tiernay 
 into the house ? He hates me, I know. I rather like 
 the fooL He will take the younger one's part on Mon- 
 day ; but I don't think my gentleman will dare to say 
 too much." 
 
 After this soliloquy, the key to which will appear 
 very shortly, Father Mackworth took off his clothes and 
 got into bed. 
 
 The day before the funeral, Cuthbert sent a nies- 
 T 2 
 
276 RAVENSHOE. 
 
 sage to Charles, to beg that he would be kind enough 
 to receive Lord Saltire ; and, as the old man was 
 expected at a certain hour, Charles, about ten minutes 
 before the time, went down to the bottom of the hall- 
 steps on to the terrace, to be ready for him when he 
 came. 
 
 Oh the glorious wild freshness of the sea and sky- 
 after the darkened house ! The two old capes right and 
 left ; the mile-long stretch of sand between them ; and 
 the short crisp waves rolling in before the westerly wind 
 of spring ! Life and useful action in the rolling water ; 
 budding promise in the darkening woods ; young love in 
 every bird's note ! 
 
 William stood beside him before he had observed 
 him. Charles turned to him, and took Iris arm in his. 
 
 " Look at this," he said. 
 
 " I am looking at it." 
 
 "Does it make you glad and wild?" said Charles. 
 "Does it make the last week in the dark house look 
 like twenty years ? Are the two good _ souls which are 
 gone looking at it now, and rejoicing that earth should 
 still have some pleasure left for us ? " 
 
 " I hope not," said William, turning to Charles. 
 
 "And why?" said Charles, wondering rather what 
 William would say. 
 
 "I wouldn't," said William, "have neither of their 
 hearts broke with seeing what is to come." 
 
 " Their hearts broke ! " said Charles, turning full 
 round on his foster-brother. "Let them see how we 
 
LORD SALTIKE AND MACKWORTH. 277 
 
 behave under it, William. That will never break their 
 hearts, my boy." 
 
 " Charles," said William, earnestly, " do you know 
 what is coming ? " 
 
 " No ; nor care." 
 
 " It is something terrible for you, I fear," said 
 William. 
 
 " Have you any idea what it is ? " said Charles. 
 
 "Not the least. But look here. Last night, near 
 twelve, I went down to the chapel, thinking to say an 
 ave before the coffin, and there lay Master^Cuthbert on 
 the stones. So I kept quiet and said my prayer. And 
 of a sudden he burst out and said, 1 1 have risked my 
 soul and my fortune to save him : Lord, remember it !'" 
 
 " Did he say that, William ? " 
 
 " The very words." 
 
 u Then he could not have been speaking of me," said 
 Charles. " It is possible that by some means I may not 
 come into the property I have been led to expect; but 
 that could not have referred to me. Suppose I was to 
 leave the house, penniless, to-morrow morning, William, 
 should I go alone ? I am very strong, and very patient, 
 and soon learn anything. Cuthbert would take care of 
 me. Would you come with me, or let me go alone ? " 
 
 " You know. Why should I answer % " 
 
 "We might go to Canada and settle. And then 
 Adelaide would come over when the house was ready ; 
 and you would marry the girl of your choice ; and our 
 boys would grow up to be such friends as you and I 
 
278 EAVEXSHOE. 
 
 are. And then my boy should many your girl, 
 and " 
 
 Poor, dreaming Charles, all unprepared for what was 
 to come ! 
 
 A carriage drove on to the terrace at this moment, 
 with Lord Saltire's solemn servant on the box. 
 
 Charles and William assisted Lord Saltire to alight. 
 His lordship said that he was getting devilish stiff and 
 old, and had been confoundedly cut up by his old 
 friend's death, and had felt bound to come down to 
 show Iris respect to the memory of one of the best and 
 honestest men it had ever been his lot to meet in a 
 tolerably large experience. And then, standing on the 
 steps, went on — 
 
 " It is veiy pleasant to me to be greeted by a face I 
 like as yours, Charles. I was gratified at seeing your 
 name in the Times as being one of the winners of that 
 great boat-race- the other clay. My man pointed it out 
 to me. That sort of thing is very honourable to a 
 young fellow, if it does not lead to a neglect of other 
 duties, in which case it becomes very mischievous ; in 
 yours it has not. That young man is, I believe, your 
 foster-brother. Will he be good enough to go and find 
 Miss Corby, and tell her that Lord Saltire wants her to 
 come and walk with him on the terrace ? Give me your 
 shoulder." William ran right willingly on his errand. 
 
 " Your position here, Charles," continued Lord Saltire, 
 " will be a difficult one." 
 
 u It will, indeed, my Lord." 
 
LOBD 8ALTIKE AND MACKWORTH. 279 
 
 "I intend you to spend most of your time with me in 
 
 future. I want some one to take care of me. In ret urn 
 for boring you all day, I shall get you the run of all the 
 best houses, and make a man of you. Hush ! not a 
 word now ! Here conies our Robin Redbreast I am 
 glad I have tempted her out into the air and the sunshine. 
 How peaked you look, my dear ! How are you ? " 
 
 Poor Mary looked pale and wan, indeed, but bright- 
 ened up at the sight of her old friend. They three 
 walked and talked in the fresh spring morning an hour 
 or more. 
 
 That afternoon came a servant to Lord Saltire with a 
 note from Father Mackworth, requesting the honour of 
 ten minutes' conversation with Lord Saltire in private. 
 
 "I suppose I must see the fellow,"' said the old man 
 to himself. 
 
 " My compliments to Mr. Mackworth, and I am alone 
 in the library. The fool," continued he, when the man 
 had left the room, " why doesn't he let well alone ? I 
 hate the fellow. I believe he is as treacherous as his 
 mother. If he broaches the subject, he shall have the 
 whole truth." 
 
 Meanwhile, Father Mackworth was advancing to- 
 wards him through the dark corridors, and walking 
 slower, and yet more slow, as he neared the room where 
 sat the grim old man. He knew that there would be a 
 fencing match ; and of all the men in broad England he 
 feared his lordship most. His determination held, how- 
 ever ; though, up to the very last, he had almost deter- 
 
280 RAVEXSHOE. 
 
 mined to speak only about comparatively indifferent 
 subjects, and not about that nearest to his heart. 
 
 " How do you do, my good sir ? " said Lord Saltire, as 
 he came in ; "I have to condole with you on the loss of 
 our dear old friend. We shall neither of us ever have a 
 better one, sir." 
 
 Mackworth uttered some common-places; to which 
 Lord Saltire bowed, without speaking, and then sat with 
 his elbows on the arms of his chair, making a triangle 
 of his two fore fingers and thumbs, staring at Father 
 Mackworth. 
 
 " I am going, Lord Saltire, to trouble you with some 
 of my early reminiscences as a boy." 
 
 Lord Saltire bowed, and settled himself easily in his 
 chair, as one does who expects a good story. Mackworth 
 went on — 
 
 " One of my earliest recollections, my lord, is of being 
 at a French lycee." 
 
 " The fault of those establishments," said Lord Saltire, 
 pensively, "is the great range of subjects which are 
 superficially taught. I ask pardon for interrupting you. 
 Do you take snuff? " 
 
 Mackworth declined, with great politeness, and con- 
 tinued — 
 
 " I was taken to that school by a footman in livery." 
 
 " Upon my honour, then, I owe you an apology. I 
 thought, of course, that the butler had gone with you. 
 But, in a large house, one never really knows what one's 
 people are about." 
 
LORD SALTIRE AND MACKWORTH. 281 
 
 Father Mackworth did not exactly like this. It was 
 perfectly evident to him, not only that Lord Saltire 
 knew all about his birth and parentage, but also was 
 willing to telL 
 
 " Lord Saltire," he said, u I have never had a parent's 
 care, or any name but one I believe to be fictitious. You 
 can give me a name — give me, perhaps, a parent — 
 possibly, a brother. Will you do this for me \ " 
 
 " I can do neither the one thing nor the other, my 
 good sir. I entreat you, for your own sake, to inquire 
 no further." 
 
 There was a troubled expression in the old man's 
 face as he answered. Mackworth thought he was gain- 
 ing his point, and pressed on. 
 
 " Lord Saltire, as you are a gentleman, tell me who 
 my parents were ; " and, as he said this, he rose up and 
 stood before him, folding his arms. 
 
 " Confound the impudent, theatrical jackanapes ! " 
 thought Lord Saltire. " His mother all over . I will 
 gratify your curiosity, sir," he said aloud, angrily. " You 
 are the illegitimate son of a French ballet-dancer ! " 
 
 " But who was my father, my lord ? Answer me that, 
 on your honour;' 
 
 " "Who was your father? Pardieu, that is far more 
 than I can tell. If any one ever knew, it must have 
 been your mother. You are assuming a tone with me, 
 sir, which I don't intend to put up with. I wished to 
 spare you a certain amount of humiliation. I shall not 
 trouble myself to do so now, for many reasons. Now 
 
282 RAVENBHOE. 
 
 listen to ine, sir — to the man who saved you from the 
 kennel, sir — and drop that theatrical attitude. Your 
 mother was my brother's mistress, and a clever woman 
 in her way ; and meeting her here and there, in the 
 green-room and where not, and going sometimes to her 
 house with my brother, I had a sort of acquaintance 
 with her, and liked her as one likes a clever brilliant 
 woman of that sort. My brother died. Some time 
 after your mother fell into poverty and disgrace under 
 circumstances into which I should advise you not to 
 inquire, and on her death-bed recommended you to my 
 care as an old acquaintance, praying that. you might be 
 brought up in her own religion. The request was, under 
 the circumstances, almost impudent ; but, remembering 
 that I had once liked the woman, and calling to mind 
 the relation she had held towards poor dear John, I 
 complied, and did for you what I have done. You were 
 a little over a twelvemonth old at the time of your 
 mother's death, and my brother had been dead nearly or 
 quite five years. Your mother had changed her pro- 
 tector thrice during that time. Now, sir ! " 
 
 Mack worth stood before Lord Saltire all this time as 
 firm as a rock. He had seen from the old man's eye 
 that every word was terribly true, but he had never 
 flinched — never a nerve in his face had quivered ; but 
 he had grown deadly pale. "When Lord Saltire had 
 finished he tried to speak, but found his mouth as 
 dry as dust. He smiled, and, with a bow, reaching past 
 Lord Saltire, took up a glass of lemonade which stood 
 
LORD SALTIEE AND MACKWOETH. 283 
 
 at his elbow and drank it. Then he spoke clearly and 
 well. 
 
 " Yon see how you have upset me, my lord. In seek- 
 ing this interview I had some hopes of having forced a 
 confession from your lordship of my relationship with 
 you, and thereby serving my personal ambition. I have 
 failed. It now remains to me to thank you heartily and 
 frankly for the benefits I have received from you, and to 
 beg you to forgive my indiscretion." 
 
 " You are a brave man, sir," said Lord Saltire. u I 
 don't think you are an honest one. But I can respect 
 manliness." 
 
 " You have a great affection for Charles Eavenshoe, 
 my lord." 
 
 " Yes," said Lord Saltire ; " I love Charles Eavenshoe 
 more than any other human being." 
 
 " Perhaps the time may come, my lord, when he will 
 need all your love and protection." 
 
 " Highly possible. I am in possession of the tenor 
 of his father's will ; and those who try to set that will 
 aside, unless they have a very strong case, had better con- 
 sider that Charles is backed up by an amount of ready 
 money sufficient to ruin the Eavenshoe estate in law. 
 
 " No attempt of the kind will be made, my lord. But 
 I very much doubt whether your lordship will continue 
 your protection to that young man. I wish you good 
 afternoon." 
 
 " That fellow," said Lord Saltire, " has got a card to 
 play which I don't know of. What matter ? I can 
 
284 RAVEXSHOE. 
 
 adopt Charles, and he may defy them. I wish I could 
 give him my title ; but that will be extinct, I am glad 
 little Mary is going to Lady Hainault. It will be the 
 best place for her till she marries. I wish that fool of a 
 boy had fallen in love with her. But he wouldn't." 
 
 Mackworth hurried away to his room ; and, as he 
 went, he said, " I have been a fool. A fool. I should 
 have taken Cuthbert's offer. None but a fool would 
 have done otherwise. A cardinal's chair thrown to the 
 dogs ! " 
 
 " I could not do it this morning ; but I can do it now. 
 The son of a figurante, and without a father. Perhaps 
 he will offer it again." 
 
 " If he does not, there is one thing certain. That 
 young ruffian Charles is ruined. All, ah ! my lord 
 Saltire, I have you there. I should like to see that old 
 man's face when I play my last card. It will be a finer 
 sight than Charles's. You'll make him your heir, will 
 you, my lord ? Will you make him your groom ? ", 
 
 He w T ent to his desk, took out an envelope, and looked 
 at it. He looked at it long, and then put it back. " It 
 will never do to tempt him with it. If he were to refuse 
 his offer of this morning, I should be ruined. Much 
 better to wait and play out the ace boldly. I can keep 
 my hold over him ; and William is mine, body and soul, 
 if he dies." 
 
 With which reflections the good Father dressed for 
 dinner. 
 
THE GEAXD CEASH. 285 
 
 ( i I A P T E R XXVI. 
 
 THE GRAND CRASH. 
 
 The funeral was over. Charles had waited with poor 
 weeping Mary to see the coffin carried away tinder the 
 dark grim archway of the vault, and had tried to comfort 
 her who would not be comforted. And, when the last 
 wild wail of the organ had died away, and all the dark 
 figures but they two had withdrawn from the chapel, 
 there stood those two poor orphans alone together. 
 
 It was all over, and they began for the first time to 
 realize it ; they began to feel what they lost. King 
 Densil was dead and King Cuthbert reigned. When a 
 prime minister dies the world is shaken; when a county 
 member dies the county is agitated, and the opposition 
 electors, till lately insignificant, rise suddenly into im- 
 portance, and the possible new members are suddenly 
 great men. So, when a mere country gentleman dies, 
 the head of a great family dies, relations are changed 
 entirely between some score or so of persons. The dog 
 of to-day is not the dog of yesterday. Servants are 
 agitated, and remember themselves of old impertinences, 
 and tremble. Farmers wonder what the new Squire's 
 first move will be. Perhaps, even the old hound wonders 
 whether he is to keep his old place by the fire or no, and 
 younger brothers bite their nails and wonder too, about 
 many things. 
 
286 RAVENSHOE. 
 
 Charles wondered profoundly in his own room that 
 afternoon, whither he retired after having dismissed 
 Mary at her door with a kiss. In spite of his grief 
 he wondered what was coming, and tried to persuade 
 himself that he didn't care. From this state of mind 
 he was aroused by William, who told him that Lord 
 Segur was going and Lord Saltire with him, and that 
 the latter wanted to speak to him. 
 
 Lord Saltire had his foot on the step of the carriage. 
 " Charles, my dear boy," he said, " the moment things 
 are settled come to me at Segur Castle. Lord Segur 
 wants you to come and stay there while I am there." 
 
 Lord Segur from the carriage hoped Charles would 
 come and see them at once. 
 
 " And mind, you know," said Lord Saltire, " that you 
 don't do anything without consulting me. Let the 
 little bird pack off to Lady Ascot's and help to blow up 
 the grooms. Don't let her stay moping here. Now, 
 good-bye, my dear boy. I shall see you in a day or so." 
 
 And so the old man was gone. And, as Charles 
 watched the carriage, he saw the sleek grey head thrast 
 from the window and the great white hand waved to 
 him. He never forgot that glimpse of the grey head 
 and the white hand, and he never will. 
 
 A servant came up to him, and asked him, Would he 
 see Mr. Eavenshoe in the library? Charles answered 
 Yes, but was in no hurry to go. So he stood a little 
 longer on the terrace, watching the bright sea, and the 
 gulls, and the distant island. Then he turned into the 
 
THE GRAND CRASH. 287 
 
 darkened house again, and walked slowly towards the 
 library door. 
 
 Some one else stood in the passage — it was William, 
 with his hand on the handle of the door. 
 
 " I waited for you, Master Charles," he said ; " they 
 have sent for me too. Xow you will hear something to 
 your advantage. 
 
 " I care not/' said Charles, and they went in. 
 
 Once, in lands far away, there was a sailor lad, a 
 good-humoured, good-looking, thoughtless fellow, who 
 lived alongside of me, and with whom I was always 
 joking. We had a great liking for one another. I left 
 him at the shaft's mouth at two o'clock one summer's 
 day, roaring with laughter at a story I had told him ; 
 and at half-past five I was helping to wind up the 
 shattered corpse, which when alive had borne his 
 name. A flake of gravel had come down from the 
 roof of the drive and killed him, and his laughing 
 and story-telling were over for ever. How terrible these 
 true stories are ! Why do I tell this one ? Because, 
 whenever I think of this poor lad's death, I find myself 
 not thinking of the ghastly thing that came swinging 
 up out of the darkness into the summer air, but of the 
 poor fellow as he was the morning before. I try to 
 think how he looked, as leaning against the windlass 
 with the forest behind and the mountains beyond, and 
 if, in word or look, he gave any sign of his coming fate 
 before he went gaily down into his tomb. 
 
 So it was with Charles Ravenshoe. He remembers 
 
288 RAVENSHOE. 
 
 part of the scene that followed perfectly well ; but lie 
 tries more than all to recall how Cutlibert looked, and 
 how Mackworth looked before the terrible words were 
 spoken. After it was all over he remembers, he tells 
 me, every trifling incident well. But his memory is a 
 little gone about the first few minutes which elapsed 
 after 'he and William came into the room. He says 
 that Cuthbert was sitting at the table very pale, with 
 his hands clasped on . the table before him, looking 
 steadily at him without expression on his face ; and 
 that Mackworth leant against the chimney-piece, and 
 looked keenly and curiously at him. 
 
 Charles went up silently and kissed his brother on 
 the forehead. Cuthbert neither moved nor spoke. 
 Charles greeted Mackworth civilly, and then leant 
 against the chimney-piece by the side of him, and 
 said what a glorious day it was. William stood at a 
 little distance, looking uneasily from one to another. 
 
 Cuthbert broke silence. " I sent for you," he said. 
 
 " I am glad to come to you, Cuthbert, though I think 
 you sent for me on business, which I am not very well 
 up to to-day." 
 
 "On business," said Cuthbert; "business which must 
 be gone through with to-day, though I expect it will 
 kill me." 
 
 Charles, by some instinct (who knows what ( it was 
 Dothing reasonable, he says) moved rapidly towards 
 William, and laid his hand on his shoulder. I take it 
 that it arose from that curious gregarious feeling that 
 
THE GRAND CRASH. 289 
 
 men have in times of terror. He could not have done 
 better than to move towards his truest friend, whatever 
 it was. 
 
 " I should like to prepare you for what is to come," 
 continued Cuthbert, speaking calmly, with the most 
 curious distinctness ; " but that would be useless. 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 said, Ho ! like a great sigh. William put his 
 arm round him, and, raising his finger, and looking inta 
 his face with his calm honest eyes, said with a smile — 
 
 " This was it, then. We know it all now." 
 
 Charles burst out into a wild laugh, and said, " Father 
 Mackworth's ace of trumps ! He has inherited a talent 
 for melodrama from his blessed mother. Stop. I beg 
 your pardon, sir, for saying that ; I said it in a hurry. 
 It was blackguardly. Let's have the proofs of this, and 
 all that sort of thing, and witnesses too, if you please. 
 Father Mackworth, there have been such things as 
 prosecutions for conspiracy. I have Lord Saltire and 
 Lord Ascot at my back. You have made a desperate 
 cast, sir. My astonishment is that you have allowed 
 your hatred for me to outrun your discretion so far. 
 This matter will cost some money before it is settled." 
 
 VOL. I. u 
 
290 RA.VENSHOE. 
 
 Father Mackworth smiled, and Charles passed him, 
 and rang the bell. Then he went back to William and 
 took his arm. 
 
 " Fetch the Fathers Tiernay here immediately/' said 
 Charles to the servant who answered the bell 
 
 In a few minutes the worthy priests were in the 
 room. The group was not altered. Father Mackworth 
 still leant against the mantel-piece, Charles and William 
 stood together, and Cuthbert sat pale and calm with his 
 hands clasped together. 
 
 Father Tiernay looked at the disturbed group and 
 became uneasy. " Would it not be better to defer the 
 settlement of any family disagreements to another day ? 
 On such a solemn occasion " 
 
 " The ice is broken, Father Tiernay," said Charles. 
 " Cuthbert, tell him what you have told me." 
 
 Cuthbert, clasping his hands together, did so, in a low, 
 quiet voice. 
 
 "There," said Charles, turning to Father Tiernay, 
 " what do you think of that ? M 
 
 " I am so astounded and shocked that T don't know 
 what to say," said Father Tiernay ; " your mind must be 
 abused, my dear sir. The likeness between yourself 
 and Mr. Charles is so great that I cannot believe it. 
 Mackworth, what have you to say to this ? " 
 
 " Look at William, who is standing beside Charles," 
 said the priest, quietly, " and tell me which of those 
 * wo is most like Cuthbert." 
 
THE GRAND CRASH. 291 
 
 •' Charles and William are very much alike, certainly," 
 said Tiernay ; but " 
 
 "Do you remember James Horton, Tiernay?" said 
 Mackworth. 
 
 " Surely." 
 
 11 Did you ever notice the likeness between him and 
 Densil Pavenshoe ? " 
 
 " I have noticed it, certainly ; especially one night. 
 One night I went to his cottage last autuma Yes — 
 well?" 
 
 " James Horton was Densil Eavenshoe's half-brother. 
 He was the illegitimate son of Petre." 
 
 - Good God ! " 
 
 " And the man whom you call Charles Ravenshoe, 
 whom I call Charles Horton, is his son." 
 
 Charles was looking eagerly from one to the other, 
 bewildered. 
 
 " Ask him, Father Tiernay," he said, " what proofs he 
 has. Perhaps he will tell us." 
 
 " You hear what Mr. Charles says, Mackworth. I 
 address you because you have spoken last. You must 
 surely have strong proofs for such an astounding state- 
 ment." 
 
 " I have his mother's handwriting," said Father 
 Mack worth. 
 
 " My mother's, sir," said Charles, flushing up, and 
 advancing a pace towards him. 
 
 " You forget who your mother was," said Mackworth. 
 u2 
 
292 KAVENSHOE. 
 
 " Your mother was Norah, James Horton's wife. She 
 confessed the wicked fraud she practised to me, and has 
 committed that confession to paper. I hold it. You 
 have not a point of ground to stand on. Fifty Lord 
 Saltires could not help you one jot. You must submit. 
 You have been living in luxury and receiving an ex- 
 pensive education when you should have been cleaning 
 out the stable. So far from being overwhelmed by this, 
 you should consider how terribly the balance is against 
 you." 
 
 He spoke with such awful convincing calmness that 
 Charles's heart died away within him. He knew the man. 
 
 " Cuthbert," he said, " you are a gentleman. Is this 
 true?" 
 
 " God knows how terribly true it is," said Cuthbert, 
 quietly. Then there was a silence, broken by Charles 
 in a strange thick voice, the like of which none there 
 had heard before. 
 
 " I want to sit down somewhere. I want some drink. 
 
 Will, my own boy, take this d d thing from round 
 
 my neck ! I can't see ; where is there a chair ! Oh, God !" 
 
 He fell heavily against William, looking deadly white, 
 without sense or power. And Cuthbert looked up at 
 the priest, and said, in a low voice — 
 
 " You have killed him." 
 
 Little by little he came round again, and rose on his 
 feet, looking round him as a buck or stag looks when 
 run to soil, and is watching to see which dog will come, 
 
THE GRAND CRASH. 293 
 
 with a piteous wild look, despairing and yet defiant. 
 There was a dead silence. 
 
 " Are we to be allowed to see this paper ? " said 
 Charles, at length. 
 
 Father Mackworth immediately handed it to him, and 
 he read it. It was completely conclusive. He saw 
 that there was not a loophole to creep out of. The two 
 Tiernays read it, and shook their heads. William read 
 it and turned pale. And then they all stood staring 
 blankly at one another. 
 
 " You see, sir," said Father Mackworth, " that there 
 are two courses open to you. Either on the one hand, 
 to acquiesce in the truth of this paper ; or, on the other, 
 to accuse me in a court of justice of conspiracy and 
 fraud. If you were to be successful in the latter course, 
 I should be transported out of your way, and the matter 
 would end so. But any practical man would tell you, 
 and you would see in your calmer moments, that no 
 lawyer would undertake your case. What say you, 
 Father Tiernay?" 
 
 " I cannot see what case he has, poor dear," said 
 Father Tiernay. " Mackworth," he added, suddenly. 
 
 Father Mackworth met his eye with a steady stare, 
 and Tiernay saw there was no hope of explanation 
 there. 
 
 " On the other hand," continued Father Mackworth, 
 " if this new state of things, is quietly submitted to (as 
 it must be ultimately, whether quietly or otherwise you 
 
294? RAVEXSHOE. 
 
 yourself will decide), I am authorized to say that the 
 very handsomest provision will be made for you, and 
 that, to all intents and purposes, your prospects in the 
 world will not suffer in the least degree. I am right in 
 saying so, I believe, Mr. Eavenshoe ? " 
 
 "You are perfectly right, sir," said Cuthbert, in a 
 quiet, passionless voice. " My intention is to make 
 a provision of three hundred a year for this gentleman, 
 whom, till the last few days, I believed to be my brother. 
 Less than four and twenty hours ago, Charles, I offered 
 Father Mackworth ten thousand pounds for this paper, 
 with a view to destroy it. I would, for your sake, 
 Charles, have committed an act of villany which would 
 have entailed a life's remorse, and have robbed William, 
 my own brother, of his succession. You see what a poor 
 w r eak rogue I am, and what a criminal I might become 
 with a little temptation. Father Mackworth did his 
 duty, and refused me. I tell you this to show you that 
 he is, at all events, sincere enough in his conviction of 
 the truth of tins." 
 
 " You acted like yourself, Cuthbert. Like one who 
 would risk body and soul for one you loved." 
 
 He paused ; but they waited for him to speak again. 
 And very calmly, in a very low voice, he continued — 
 
 " It is time that this scene should end. No one's 
 interest will be served by continuing it. I want to say 
 a very few words, and I want them to be considered as 
 the words, as it were, of a dying man ; for no one here 
 
THE GRAND CRASH. 295 
 
 present will see me again till the day when I come 
 back to claim a right to the name I have been bearing 
 so long — and that day will be never." 
 
 Another pause. He moistened his lips, which were 
 dry and cracked, and then went on — 
 
 " Here is the paper, Father Mackworth ; and may 
 the Lord of Heaven be judge between us if that paper 
 be not true 1 " 
 
 Father Mackworth took it, and, looking him steadily 
 in the face, repeated Ins words, and Charles's heart sank 
 lower yet as he watched him, and felt that hope was 
 dead. 
 
 " May the Lord of Heaven be judge between us two, 
 Charles, if that paper be not true ! Amen." 
 
 " I utterly refuse," Charles continued, u the assistance 
 winch Mr. Ravenshoe has so nobly offered. I go forth 
 alone into the world to make my own way, or to be 
 forgotten. Cuthbert and William, you will be sorry for 
 a time, but not for long. You will think of me some- 
 times of dark winter nights when the wind blows, won't 
 you ? I shall never write to you, and shall never return 
 here any more. Worse things than this have happened 
 to men, and they have not died." 
 
 All this was said with perfect self-possession, and 
 without a failure in the voice. It was magnificent 
 despair. Father Tiernay, looking at William's face, 
 saw there a sort of sarcastic smile, which puzzled him 
 amazingly. 
 
296 RAVENSHOE, 
 
 "I had better," said Charles, "make my will. I 
 should like William to ride my horse Monte\ He has 
 thrown a curb, sir, as you know," he said, turning to 
 William ; " but he will serve you well, and I know you 
 will be gentle with him." 
 
 William gave a short, dry laugh. 
 
 " I should have liked to take my terrier away with 
 me, but I think I had better not. I want to have 
 nothing with me to remind me of this place. My grey- 
 hound and the pointers I know you will take care of. 
 It would please me to think that William had moved 
 into my room, and had taken possession of all my guns, 
 and fishing-rods, and so on. There is a double-barrelled 
 gun left at Venables', in St. Aldate's, at Oxford, for 
 repairs. It ought to be fetched away." 
 
 " Now, sir," he said, turning to Cuthbert, ° I should 
 like to say a few words about money matters. I owe 
 about 150?. at Oxford. It was a great deal more at one 
 time, but I have been more careful lately. I have the 
 bills upstairs. If that could be paid " 
 
 " To the utmost farthing, my dear Charles," said 
 Cuthbert; "but " 
 
 " Hush ! " said Charles, " I have five and twenty 
 pounds by me. May I keep that?" 
 
 " I will write you a check for five hundred. I shall 
 move your resolution, Charles," said Cuthbert. 
 
 " Never, so help me God ! " said Charles ; " it only 
 remains to say good-bye. I leave this room without a 
 
THE GRAND CRASH. k J!)7 
 
 hard thought towards any one in it. I am at peace 
 with all the world. Father Mackworth, I beg your for- 
 giveness. I have been often rude and brutal to you. 
 I suppose that you always meant kindly to me. Good- 
 bye." 
 
 He shook hands with Mackworth, then with the 
 Tiernays ; then he offered his hand to William, who 
 took it smiling ; and, lastly, he went up to Cuthbert, 
 and kissed him on the cheek, and then walked out of 
 the door into the hall. 
 
 William, as he was going, turned as though to speak- 
 to Cuthbert, but Cuthbert had risen, and he paused 
 a moment. 
 
 Cuthbert had risen, and stood looking wildly about" 
 him, then he said, " Oh, my God, he is gone ! * And 
 then he broke through them, and ran out into the hall, 
 crying, " Charles, Charles, come back. Only one more 
 word, Charles." And then they saw Charles pause, and 
 Cuthbert kneel down before him, calling him his own 
 dear brother, and saying he would die for him. And 
 then Father Tiernay hastily shut the library door, and 
 left those two wild hearts out in the old hall together 
 alone. 
 
 Father Tiernay came back to William, and took 
 both his hands. "What are you going to do?" he said. 
 
 "I am going to follow him wherever he goes," said 
 William. " I am never going to leave him again. If he 
 goes to the world's end, I will be with him." 
 
298 RAVENSHOE. 
 
 " Brave fellow ! " said Tiernay. " If he goes from 
 here, and is lost sight of, we may never see him again. 
 If you go with him, you may change his resolution." 
 
 " That I shall never do," said William ; " I know him 
 too well. But I'll save him from what I am frightened 
 to think of. I will go to him now. I shall see you 
 again directly ; but I must go to him." 
 
 He passed out into the hall. Cuthbert was standing 
 alone, and Charles was gone. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
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