216 RAVENSHOE. BY HENRY KINGSLEY, AUTHOR OF 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 which 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 Radcliff, the third dome in England, and, beyond, the straight façade of St. Mary's, gathering its lines upward ever, till, tired of window and spout, of crocket, finial, and what-not, 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 togetherover the noble mass of architecture. Passing from the straight lines, and abrupt corner of the Radcliff, on to the steeple of St. Mary's, they stood silent for a moment, and then Marston said "Serve him right." "Why?" said Charles. "Because he had no business to be driving tandem at all. He can't afford īt. 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 pitchforked through the schools, and get a family living." "GEOFFRY HAMLYN." "Well, well," said Charles; "I was very fond of him." "Psha;" 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 will have it." said "Never, my boy, never;" Charles; "I haven't head for it." "Nonsense. You are a great fool; but you may get your first." 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 down Oriel Lane, "And so by Merton," as the fox-hunters say, to Christ Church Meadow. "I am glad you are in the University eight, Charley," 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 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 speaking, old man, I think you have had something to vex you, since you came up yesterday. I havn't seen you since you were at Ravenshoe, and you are deucedly altered, do you know?" "I am sure you are wrong, Charley. I have had nothing-Well, I never lie. I have been disappointed in something, 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." "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 Ravenshoe." "Why? 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?" "She's 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?" "Oh, yes, very much so; she didn't take much nonsense 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'm gwine for a ride on the watter, Jan Lee." "Be gwine in the Varsity eight, Charles Ravenshoe?" "Iss, sure." "How do'e feel. Dont'e feel afeard?" "Ma dear soul, I've a got such a wambling in my innards, and-" "We are waiting for you, Ravenshoe," said the Captain; 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." CHAPTER XXIII.1 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 balcony 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 seven 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 police-boats are busy clearing the course. Now there is a cheer of admiration. Cambridge 1 The short description of the University boat-race which begins this chapter was written last August, 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. 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 George, Oxford can't keep that terrible quick strokegoing 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 πολλοὶ don't know why. Cambridge has made a furious rush, and gained slightly on 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 flattering 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 his 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 Charles, dear; 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? 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 about. come 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 otherwise 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 wings of the wind to tell them, and how the old man would brighten up with joy at the news. Yesterday 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." 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. 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 deli cious 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 nothing 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 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 heard. For Charles had come too late. Densil Ravenshoe was dead. CHAPTER XXIV. THE FIRST GLIMPSE OF THE NEW WORLD. In the long dark old room with the mullioned windows looking out on the ocean, in the room that had been Charles's bedroom, study, and play-room, since he was a boy, there sat Charles Ravenshoe, 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 Ravenshoe was not there. There was another man in his place, bearing his likeness, 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 |