CHAPTER III.
IN WHICH OUR HERO'S TROUBLES BEGIN.
If you were a lazy yachtsman, sliding on a summer's day, before a gentleeasterly breeze, over the long swell from the Atlantic, past thesouth-westerly shores of the Bristol Channel, you would find, aftersailing all day beneath shoreless headlands of black slate, that theland suddenly fell away and sunk down, leaving, instead of beetlingcliffs, a lovely amphitheatre of hanging wood and lawn, fronted by abeach of yellow sand--a pleasing contrast to the white surf and darkcrag 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 finebay open to the north; while behind, landward, the downs roll up abovethe woodlands, a bare expanse of grass and grey stone. Half way alongthe sandy beach, a trout-stream comes foaming out of a dark wood, andfinds its way across the shore in fifty sparkling channels; and the eye,caught by the silver thread of water, is snatched away above and beyondit, along a wooded glen, the cradle of the stream, which pierces thecountry landward for a mile or two, till the misty vista is abruptlybarred by a steep blue hill, which crosses the valley at right angles. Apretty little village stands at the mouth of the stream, and straggleswith charming irregularity along the shore for a considerable distancewestward; while behind, some little distance up the glen, a handsomechurch tower rises from among the trees. There are some fishing boats atanchor, there are some small boats on the beach, there is a coastingschooner beached and discharging coal, there are some fishermenlounging, there are some nets drying, there are some boys bathing, thereare two grooms exercising four handsome horses; but it is not uponhorses, men, boats, ship, village, church, or stream, that you will findyour eye resting, but upon a noble, turreted, deep-porched, grey stonemansion, that stands on the opposite side of the stream, about a hundredfeet 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 birchand oak, rise above the dark woodlands, at the culminating point ofwhich, 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 thewest on the wooded glen before mentioned--the house on a ridge dividingthe two. Immediately 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 Henry VIII. Thefacade is exceedingly noble, though irregular; the most striking featurein 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 ofthe building. At the north-west corner (that towards the village) risesanother tower of equal height; and behind, above the irregular groups ofchimneys, the more modern cupola of the stables shows itself as thehighest point of all, and gives, combined with the other towers, acharming 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 thefashion of a college, with a quadrangle in the centre. Two sides ofthis, the north and west, are occupied by the house, the south by thestables, and the east by a long and somewhat handsome chapel, of greaterantiquity than the rest of the house. The centre of this quad, in placeof the trim grass-plat, is occupied by a tan lunging ring, in the middleof which stands a granite basin filled with crystal water from thehills. In front of the west wing, a terraced flower-garden goes step bystep towards the stream, till the smooth-shaven lawns almost mingle withthe 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 parkonly by a deep rampart, runs along beneath the windows; and to the eastthe deer-park stretches away till lawn and glade are swallowed up in theencroaching woodland.
Such is Ravenshoe Hall at the present day, and such it was on the 10thof June, 1831 (I like to be particular), as regards the still life ofthe place; but, if one had then regarded the living inhabitants, onewould have seen signs of an unusual agitation. Round the kitchen doorstood a group of female servants talking eagerly together; and, at theother side of the court, some half-dozen grooms and helpers wereevidently busy on the same theme, till the appearance of the stud-groomentering the yard suddenly dispersed them right and left; to do nothingwith superabundant energy.
To them also entered a lean, quiet-looking man, aged at this timefifty-two. We have seen him before. He was our old friend Jim, who hadattended Densil in the Fleet prison in old times. He had some timebefore this married a beautiful Irish Catholic waiting-maid of LadyAlicia's, by whom he had a daughter, now five years old, and a son agedone week. He walked across the yard to where the women were talking, andaddressed them.
"How is my lady to-night?" said he.
"Holy Mother of God!" said a weeping Irish housemaid, "she's worse."
"How's the young master?"
"Hearty, a darling; crying his little eyes out, he is, a-bless him."
"He'll be bigger than Master Cuthbert, I'll warrant ye," said a portlycook.
"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 anote in his hat as he went; he came to the stud-groom, and saidhurriedly, "A note for Dr. Marcy at Lanceston, sir. What horse am I totake?"
"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, andthen till he saw him disappear like a speck along the mountain road faraloft; then he went into the house, and, getting as near to the sickroom as he dared, waited quietly on the stairs.
It was a house of woe, indeed! Two hours before, one feeble, wailinglittle creature had taken up his burthen, and begun his weary pilgrimageacross the unknown desolate land that lay between him and the grave--fora part of which you and I are to accompany him; while his mother evennow was preparing for her rest, yet striving for the child's sake tolengthen the last few weary steps of her journey, that they two mightwalk, were it never so short a distance, together.
The room was very still. Faintly the pure scents and sounds stole intothe chamber of death from the blessed summer air without; gently camethe murmur of the surf upon the sands; fainter and still fainter camethe breath of the dying mother. The babe lay beside her, and her arm wasround its body. The old vicar knelt by the bed, and Densil stood withfolded arms and bowed head, watching the face which had grown so dear tohim, till the light should die out from it for ever. Only those four inthe chamber of death!
The sighing grew louder, and the eye grew once more animated. Shereached out her hand, and, taking one of the vicar's, laid it upon thebaby'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, andlooked at Densil. There were but three in the chamber now.
* * * * *
Densil passed through the weeping women, and went straight to his ownstudy. 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 marriedfor her beauty and her pride, and had thought so cold and hard! Heremembered how the love of her had grown stronger, year by year, sincetheir first child was born. How he had respected her for her firmnessand consistency; and how often, he thought, had he sheltered hisweakness behind her strength!
His right hand was gone, and he was leftalone to do battle by himself!
One thing was certain. Happen what would, his promise should berespected, and this last boy, just born, should be brought up aProtestant as his mother had wished. He knew the opposition he wouldhave from Father Mackworth, and determined to brave it. And, as the nameof that man came into his mind, some of his old fierce, savage naturebroke out again, and he almost cursed him aloud.
"I hate that fellow! I should like to defy him, and let him do hisworst. I'd do it, now she's gone, if it wasn't for the boys. No, hangit, it wouldn't do. If I'd told him under seal of confession, instead ofletting him grab it out, he couldn't have hung it over me like this. Iwish he was--"
If Father Mackworth had had the slightest inkling of the state of mindof his worthy patron towards him, it is very certain that he would nothave chosen that very moment to rap at the door. The most acute of usmake a mistake sometimes; and he, haunted with vague suspicions sincethe conversation he had overheard in the drawing-room before the birthof Cuthbert, grew impatient, and determined to solve his doubts at once,and, as we have seen, selected the singularly happy moment when poorpassionate Densil was cursing him to his heart's content.
"Brother, I am come to comfort you," he said, opening the door beforeDensil had time, either to finish the sentence 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 bealone, 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 defiedfifty such as he now.
"There is one thing, Mr. Ravenshoe," said the priest, in a verydifferent tone, "about which I feel it my duty to speak to you, in spiteof the somewhat unreasonable form your grief has assumed. I wish to knowwhat 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 aturkey-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 handover your son to eternal perdition" (he didn't say perdition, he used astronger word, which we will dispense with, if you have no objection).
"Perdition, sir!" bawled Densil; "how dare you talk of a son of mine inthat free-and-easy sort of way? Why, what my family has done for theChurch ought to keep a dozen generations of Ravenshoes from apossibility of perdition, sir. Don't tell me."
This new and astounding theory of justification by works, which poorDensil had broached in his wrath, was overheard by a round-faced,bright-eyed, curly-headed man about fifty, who entered the roomsuddenly, followed by James. For one instant you might have seen a smileof intense amusement pass over his merry face; but in an instant it wasgone again, and he gravely addressed Densil.
"My dear Mr. Ravenshoe, I must use my authority as doctor, to requestthat your son's spiritual welfare should for the present yield to histemporal necessities. You must have a wet-nurse, my good sir."
Densil's brow had grown placid in a moment beneath the doctor's kindlyglance. "God bless me," he said, "I never thought of it. Poor littlelad! poor little lad!"
"I hope, sir," said James, "that you will let Norah have the youngmaster. She has set her heart upon it."
"I have seen Mrs. Horton," said the doctor, "and I quite approve of theproposal. I think it, indeed, a most special providence that she shouldbe able to undertake it. Had it been otherwise, we might have beenundone."
"Let us go at once," said the impetuous Densil. "Where is the nurse?where is the boy?" And, so saying, he hurried out of the room, followedby the doctor and James.
Mackworth stood alone, looking out of the window, silent. He stood solong that one who watched him peered from his hiding-place more thanonce to see if he were gone. At length he raised his arm and struck hisclenched hand against the rough granite window-sill so hard that hebrought blood. Then he moodily left the room.
As soon as the room was quiet, a child about five years old creptstealthily from a dark corner where he had lain hidden, and with a lookof mingled shyness and curiosity on his face, departed quietly byanother door.
Meanwhile, Densil, James, and the doctor, accompanied by the nurse andbaby, were holding their way across the court-yard towards a cottagewhich lay in the wood beyond the stables. James opened the door, andthey passed into the inner room.
A beautiful woman was sitting propped up by pillows, nursing a week-oldchild. The sunlight, admitted by a half-open shutter, fell upon her,lighting up her delicate features, her pale pure complexion, andbringing a strange sheen on her long loose black hair. Her face was bentdown, gazing on the child which lay on her breast; and at the entranceof the party she looked up, and displayed a large lustrous dark blueeye, which lighted up with infinite tenderness, as Densil, taking thewailing 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 butyou, now."
"Acushla ma chree," she answered; "bless my little bird. Come to yournest, alanna, come to your pretty brother, my darlin'."
The child's wailing was stilled now, and the doctor remarked, andremembered long afterwards, that the little waxen fingers, clutchinguneasily about, came in contact with the little hand of the other child,and paused there. At this moment, a beautiful little girl, about fiveyears old, got on the bed, and nestled her peachy cheek against hermother's. As they went out, he turned and looked at the beautiful grouponce more, and then he followed Densil back to the house of mourning.
Reader, before we have done with those three innocent little faces, weshall see them distorted and changed by many passions, and shall meetthem in many strange places. Come, take my hand, and we will follow themon to the end.