Introduction to Probability 1st Edition Anderson

Solutions Manual download

https://testbankfan.com/product/introduction-to-probability-1st-
edition-anderson-solutions-manual/

Explore and download more test bank or solution manual

at testbankfan.com
 We believe these products will be a great fit for you. Click
the link to download now, or visit testbankfan.com
to discover even more!

Introduction to Probability 1st Edition Ward Solutions

Manual

https://testbankfan.com/product/introduction-to-probability-1st-
edition-ward-solutions-manual/

Introduction to Probability Models 11th Edition Ross

Solutions Manual

https://testbankfan.com/product/introduction-to-probability-
models-11th-edition-ross-solutions-manual/

Introduction to Flight 8th Edition Anderson Solutions

Manual

https://testbankfan.com/product/introduction-to-flight-8th-edition-
anderson-solutions-manual/

Personal Financial Planning 14th Edition Billingsley Test

Bank

https://testbankfan.com/product/personal-financial-planning-14th-
edition-billingsley-test-bank/
Microeconomics 8th Edition Perloff Test Bank

https://testbankfan.com/product/microeconomics-8th-edition-perloff-
test-bank/

Mechanical Vibrations Theory and Applications 1st Edition

Kelly Solutions Manual

https://testbankfan.com/product/mechanical-vibrations-theory-and-
applications-1st-edition-kelly-solutions-manual/

Managing Human Behavior in Public and Nonprofit

Organizations 5th Edition Denhardt Test Bank

https://testbankfan.com/product/managing-human-behavior-in-public-and-
nonprofit-organizations-5th-edition-denhardt-test-bank/

Parents and Families of Students With Special Needs

Collaborating Across the Age Span 1st Edition McGinley
Test Bank
https://testbankfan.com/product/parents-and-families-of-students-with-
special-needs-collaborating-across-the-age-span-1st-edition-mcginley-
test-bank/

Microeconomic Theory Basic Principles and Extensions 12th

Edition Nicholson Solutions Manual

https://testbankfan.com/product/microeconomic-theory-basic-principles-
and-extensions-12th-edition-nicholson-solutions-manual/
Business Intelligence 2nd Edition Turban Test Bank

https://testbankfan.com/product/business-intelligence-2nd-edition-
turban-test-bank/
Other documents randomly have
different content
"Lady Ascot," said Charles, quietly, "you are evidently speaking of
something of which I have not heard. What has Adelaide done?"
The old lady clasped her hands above her head. "Oh, weary, weary
day! And I thought that he had heard it all, and that the blow was
broken. The cowards! they have left it to a poor old woman to tell
him at last."
"Dear Lady Ascot, you evidently have not heard of what a terrible
fate has befallen me. I am a ruined man, and I am very patient. I
had one hope left in the world, and I fear that you are going to cut it
away from me. I am very quiet, and will make no scene; only tell me
what has happened."
"Adelaide!—be proud, Charles, be angry, furious—you Ravenshoes
can!—be a man, but don't look like that. Adelaide, dead to honour
and good fame, has gone off with Welter!"
Charles walked towards the door.
"That is enough. Please let me go. I can't stand any more at
present. You have been very kind to me and to her, and I thank you
and bless you for it. The son of a bastard blesses you for it. Let me
go—let me go!"
Lady Ascot had stepped actively to the door, and had laid one hand
on the door, and one on his breast. "You shall not go," she said, "till
you have told me what you mean!"
"How? I cannot stand any more at present."
"What do you mean by being the son of a bastard?"
"I am the son of James, Mr. Ravenshoe's keeper. He was the
illegitimate son of Mr. Petre Ravenshoe."
"Who told you this?" said Lady Ascot.
"Cuthbert."
"How did he know it!"
Charles told her all.
"So the priest has found that out, eh?" said Lady Ascot. "It seems
true;" and, as she said so, she moved back from the door. "Go to
your old bedroom, Charles. It will always be ready for you while this
house is a house. And come down to me presently. Where is Lord
Saltire?"
"At Lord Segur's."
Charles went out of the room, and out of the house, and was seen
no more. Lady Ascot sat down by the fire again.
"The one blow has softened the other," she said. "I will never keep
another secret after this. It was for Alicia's sake and for Petre's that I
did it, and now see what has become of it. I shall send for Lord
Saltire. The boy must have his rights, and shall, too."
So the brave old woman sat down and wrote to Lord Saltire. We
shall see what she wrote to him in the proper place—not now. She
sat calmly and methodically writing, with her kind old face wreathing
into a smile as she went on. And Charles, the madman, left the
house, and posted off to London, only intent on seeking to lose
himself among the sordid crowd, so that no man he had ever called
a friend should set eyes on him again.
 CHAPTER XXX.
MR. SLOANE.
Charles Ravenshoe had committed suicide—committed suicide as
deliberately as any maddened wretch had done that day in all the
wide miserable world. He knew it very well, and was determined to
go on with it. He had not hung himself, or drowned himself, but he
had committed deliberate suicide, and he knew—knew well—that his
obstinacy would carry him through to the end.
What is suicide, nine cases out of ten? Any one can tell you. It is the
act of a mad, proud coward, who flies, by his own deed, not from
humiliation or disgrace, but, as he fancies, from feeling the
consequences of them—who flies to unknown, doubtful evils, sooner
than bear positive, present, undoubted ones. All this had Charles
done, buoying him up with this excuse and that excuse, and
fancying that he was behaving, the cur, like Bayard, or Lieutenant
Willoughby—a greater than Bayard—all the time.
The above is Charles's idea of the matter himself, put in the third
person for form's sake. I don't agree with all he says about himself. I
don't deny that he did a very foolish thing, but I incline to believe
that there was something noble and self-reliant in his doing it. Think
a moment. He had only two courses open to him—the one (I put it
coarsely) to eat humble-pie, to go back to Cuthbert and Mackworth,
and accept their offers; the other to do as he had done—to go alone
into the world, and stand by himself. He did the latter, as we shall
see. He could not face Ravenshoe, or any connected with it, again.
It had been proved that he was an unwilling impostor, of base, low
blood; and his sister—ah! one more pang, poor heart!—his sister
Ellen, what was she?
Little doubt—little doubt! Better for both of them if they had never
been born! He was going to London, and, perhaps, might meet her
there! All the vice and misery of the country got thrown into that
cesspool. When anything had got too foul for the pure country air,
men said, Away with it; throw it into the great dunghill, and let it rot
there. Was he not going there himself? It was fit she should be there
before him! They would meet for certain!
How would they meet? Would she be in silks and satins, or in rags?
flaunting in her carriage, or shivering in an archway? What matter?
was not shame the heritage of the "lower orders"? The pleasures of
the rich must be ministered to by the "lower orders," or what was
the use of money or rank? He was one of the lower orders now. He
must learn his lesson; learn to cringe and whine like the rest of
them. It would be hard, but it must be learnt. The dogs rose against
it sometimes, but it never paid.
The devil was pretty busy with poor Charles in his despair, you see.
This was all he had left after three and twenty years of careless
idleness and luxury. His creed had been, "I am a Ravenshoe," and
lo! one morning, he was a Ravenshoe no longer. A poor crow, that
had been fancying himself an eagle. A crow! "by heavens," he
thought, "he was not even that." A nonentity, turned into the world
to find his own value! What were honour, honesty, virtue to him?
Why, nothing—words! He must truckle and pander for his living.
Why not go back and truckle to Father Mackworth? There was time
yet.
No!
Why not? Was it pride only? We have no right to say what it was. If
it was only pride, it was better than nothing. Better to have that
straw only to cling to, than to be all alone in the great sea with
nothing. We have seen that he has done nothing good, with
circumstances all in his favour; let us see if he can in any way hold
his own, with circumstances all against him.
"America?" he thought once. "They are all gentlemen there. If I
could only find her, and tear her jewels off, we would go there
together. But she must be found—she must be found. I will never
leave England till she goes with me. We shall be brought together.
We shall see one another. I love her as I never loved her before.
What a sweet, gentle little love she was! My darling! And, when I
have kissed her, I never dreamed she was my sister. My pretty love!
Ellen, Ellen, I am coming to you. Where are you, my love?"
He was alone, in a railway carriage, leaning out to catch the fresh
wind, as he said this. He said it once again, this time aloud. "Where
are you, my sister?"
Where was she? Could he have only seen! We may be allowed to
see, though he could not. Come forward into the great Babylon with
me, while he is speeding on towards it; we will rejoin him in an
instant.
In a small luxuriously furnished hall, there stands a beautiful woman,
dressed modestly in the garb of a servant. She is standing with her
arms folded, and a cold, stern, curious look on her face. She is
looking towards the hall-door, which is held open by a footman. She
is waiting for some one who is coming in; and two travellers enter, a
man and a woman. She goes up to the woman, and says, quietly, "I
bid you welcome, madam." Who are these people? Is that waiting-
woman Ellen? and these travellers, are they Lord Welter and
Adelaide? Let us get back to poor Charles; better be with him than
here!
We must follow him closely. We must see why, in his despair, he took
the extraordinary resolution that he did. Not that I shall take any
particular pains to follow the exact process of his mind in arriving at
his determination. If the story has hitherto been told well it will
appear nothing extraordinary, and, if otherwise, an intelligent reader
would very soon detect any attempt at bolstering up ill-told facts by
elaborate, soul-analysing theories.
He could have wished the train would have run on for ever; but he
was aroused by the lights growing thicker and more brilliant, and he
felt that they were nearing London, and that the time for action was
come.
The great plunge was taken, and he was alone in the cold street—
alone, save for the man who carried his baggage. He stood for a
moment or so, confused with the rush of carriages of all sorts which
were taking the people from the train, till he was aroused by the
man asking him where he was to go to.
Charles said, without thinking, "The Warwick Hotel," and thither they
went. For a moment he regretted that he had said so, but the next
moment he said aloud, "Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die!"
The man turned round and begged his pardon. Charles did not
answer him; and the man went on, wondering what sort of a young
gentleman he had got hold of.
The good landlord was glad to see him. Would he have dinner?—a
bit of fish and a lamb chop, for instance? Then it suddenly struck
Charles that he was hungry—ravenous. He laughed aloud at the
idea; and the landlord laughed too, and rubbed his hands. Should it
be whiting or smelts now? he asked.
"Anything," said Charles, "so long as you feed me quick. And give
me wine, will you, of some sort; I want to drink. Give me sherry, will
you? And I say, let me taste some now, and then I can see if I like it.
I am very particular about my wine, you must know."
In a few minutes a waiter brought in a glass of wine, and waited to
know how Charles liked it. He told the man he could go, and he
would tell him at dinner-time. When the man was gone, he looked at
the wine with a smile. Then he took it up, and poured it into the
coal-scuttle.
"Not yet," he said, "not yet! I'll try something else before I try to
drink my troubles away." And then he plunged into the Times.
He had no sooner convinced himself that Lord Aberdeen was
tampering with the honour of the country by not declaring war, than
he found himself profoundly considering what had caused that great
statesman to elope with Adelaide, and whether, in case of a Russian
war, Lady Ascot would possibly convict Father Mackworth of having
caused it. Then Lady Ascot came into the room with a large bottle of
medicine and a testament, announcing that she was going to attend
a sick gun-boat. And then, just as he began to see that he was
getting sleepy, to sleep he went, fast as a top.
Half an hour's sleep restored him, and dinner made things look
different. "After all," he said, as he sipped his wine, "here is only the
world on the one side and I on the other. I am utterly reckless, and
can sink no further. I will get all the pleasure out of life that I can,
honestly; for I am an honest man still, and mean to be. I love you
Madame Adelaide, and you have used me worse than a hound, and
made me desperate. If he marries you, I will come forward some
day, and disgrace you. If you had only waited till you knew
everything, I could have forgiven you. I'll get a place as a footman,
and talk about you in the servant's hall. All London shall know you
were engaged to me."
"Poor dear, pretty Adelaide: as if I would ever hurt a hair of your
head, my sweet love! Silly——"
The landlord came in. There was most excellent company in the
smoking-room. Would he condescend to join them?
Company and tobacco! Charles would certainly join them; so he had
his wine carried in.
There was a fat gentleman, with a snub nose, who was a
Conservative. There was a tall gentleman, with a long nose, who
was Liberal. There was a short gentleman, with no particular kind of
nose, who was Radical. There was a handsome gentleman, with big
whiskers, who was commercial; and there was a gentleman with
bandy legs, who was horsy.
I strongly object to using a slang adjective, if any other can be got
to supply its place; but by doing so sometimes one avoids a
periphrasis, and does not spoil one's period. Thus, I know of no
predicate for a gentleman with a particular sort of hair, complexion,
dress, whiskers, and legs, except the one I have used above, and so
it must stand.
As Providence would have it, Charles sat down between the landlord
and the horsy man, away from the others. He smoked his cigar, and
listened to the conversation.
The Conservative gentleman coalesced with the Liberal gentleman
on the subject of Lord Aberdeen's having sold the country to the
Russians; the Radical gentleman also come over to them on that
subject; and for a time the Opposition seemed to hold an
overwhelming majority, and to be merely allowing Aberdeen's
Government to hold place longer, that they might commit
themselves deeper. In fact, things seemed to be going all one way,
as is often the case in coalition ministries just before a grand crash,
when the Radical gentleman caused a violent split in the cabinet, by
saying that the whole complication had been brought about by the
machinations of the aristocracy—which assertion caused the
Conservative gentleman to retort in unmeasured language; and then
the Liberal gentleman, trying to trim, found himself distrusted and
despised by both parties. Charles listened to them, amused for the
time to hear them quoting, quite unconsciously, whole sentences out
of their respective leading papers, and then was distracted by the
horsy man saying to him—
"Darn politics. What horse will win the Derby, sir?"
"Haphazard," said Charles, promptly. This, please to remember, was
Lord Ascot's horse, which we have seen before.
The landlord immediately drew closer up.
The horsy man looked at Charles, and said, "H'm; and what has
made my lord scratch him for the Two Thousand, sir?"
And so on. We have something to do with Haphazard's winning the
Derby, as we shall see; and we have still more to do with the result
of Charles's conversation with the "horsy man." But we have
certainly nothing to do with a wordy discussion about the various
horses which stood well for the great race (wicked, lovely darlings,
how many souls of heroes have they sent to Hades!), and so we will
spare the reader. The conclusion of their conversation was the only
important part of it.
Charles said to the horsy man on the stairs, "Now you know
everything. I am penniless, friendless, and nameless. Can you put
me in the way of earning my living honestly?"
And he said, "I can, and I will. This gentleman is a fast man, but he
is rich. You'll have your own way. Maybe, you'll see some queer
things, but what odds?"
"None to me," said Charles; "I can always leave him."
"And go back to your friends, like a wise young gentleman, eh?" said
the other, kindly.
"I am not a gentleman," said Charles. "I told you so before. I am a
gamekeeper's son; I swear to you I am. I have been petted and
pampered till I look like one, but I am not."
"You are a deuced good imitation," said the other. "Good night;
come to me at nine, mind."

At this time, Lady Ascot had despatched her letter to Lord Saltire,
and had asked for Charles. The groom of the chambers said that Mr.
Ravenshoe had left the house immediately after his interview with
her ladyship, three hours before.
She started up—"Gone!—Whither?"
"To Twyford, my lady."
"Send after him, you idiot! Send the grooms after him on all my
lord's horses. Send a lad on Haphazard, and let him race the train to
London. Send the police! He has stolen my purse, with ten thousand
gold guineas in it!—I swear he has. Have him bound hand and foot,
and bring him back, on your life. If you stay there I will kill you!"
The violent old animal nature, dammed up so long by creeds and
formulas, had broken out at last. The decorous Lady Ascot was
transformed in one instant into a terrible, grey-headed, magnificent
old Alecto, hurling her awful words abroad in a sharp, snarling voice,
that made the hair of him that heard it to creep upon his head. The
man fled, and shut Lady Ascot in alone.
She walked across the room, and beat her withered old hands
against the wall. "Oh, miserable, wicked old woman!" she cried
aloud. "How surely have your sins found you out! After concealing a
crime for so many years, to find the judgment fall on such an
innocent and beloved head! Alicia, Alicia, I did this for your sake.
Charles, Charles, come back to the old woman before she dies, and
tell her you forgive her."
 CHAPTER XXXI.
LIEUTENANT HORNBY.
Charles had always been passionately fond of horses and of riding.
He was a consummate horseman, and was so perfectly
accomplished in everything relating to horses, that I really believe
that in time he might actually have risen to the dizzy height of being
stud-groom to a great gentleman or nobleman. He had been
brought up in a great horse-riding house, and had actually gained so
much experience, and had so much to say on matters of this kind,
that once, at Oxford, a promising young nobleman cast, so to speak,
an adverse opinion of Charles's into George Simmond's own face. Mr.
Simmonds looked round on the offender mildly and compassionately,
and said, "If any undergraduate could know, my lord, that
undergraduate's name would be Ravenshoe of Paul's. But he is
young, my lord; and, in consequence, ignorant." His lordship didn't
say anything after that.
I have kept this fact in the background rather, hitherto, because it
has not been of any very great consequence. It becomes of some
consequence now, for the first time. I enlarged a little on Charles
being a rowing man, because rowing and training had, for good or
for evil, a certain effect on his character. (Whether for good or for
evil, you must determine for yourselves.) And I now mention the fact
of his being a consummate horseman, because a considerable part
of the incidents which follow arise from the fact.
Don't think for one moment that you are going to be bored by
stable-talk. You will have simply none of it. It only amounts to this—
that Charles, being fond of horses, took up with a certain line of life,
and in that line of life met with certain adventures which have made
his history worth relating.
When he met the "horsy" man next morning, he was not dressed
like a gentleman. In his store he had some old clothes, which he
used to wear at Ravenshoe, in the merry old days when he would be
up with daylight to exercise the horses on the moor—cord trousers,
and so on—which, being now old and worn, made him look
uncommonly like a groom out of place. And what contributed to the
delusion was, that for the first time in his life he wore no shirt collar,
but allowed his blue-spotted neckcloth to border on his honest red
face, without one single quarter of an inch of linen. And, if it ever
pleases your lordship's noble excellence to look like a blackguard for
any reason, allow me to recommend you to wear a dark necktie and
no collar. Your success will be beyond your utmost hopes.
Charles met his new friend in the bar, and touched his hat to him.
His friend laughed, and said, that would do, but asked how long he
thought he could keep that sort of thing going. Charles said, as long
as was necessary; and they went out together.
They walked as far as a street leading out of one of the largest and
best squares (I mean B—lg—e Sq—e, but I don't like to write it at
full length), and stopped at the door of a handsome shop. Charles
knew enough of London to surmise that the first floor was let to a
man of some wealth; and he was right.
The door was opened, and his friend was shown up stairs, while he
was told to wait in the hall. Now Charles began to perceive, with
considerable amusement, that he was acting a part—that he was
playing, so to speak, at being something other than what he really
was, and that he was, perhaps, overdoing it. In this house, which
yesterday he would have entered as an equal, he was now playing
at being a servant. It was immensely amusing. He wiped his shoes
very clean, and sat down on a bench in the hall, with his hat
between his knees, as he had seen grooms do. It is no use
wondering; one never finds out anything by that. But I do wonder,
nevertheless, whether Charles, had he only known in what relation
the master of that house stood to himself, would or would not have
set the house on fire, or cut its owner's throat. When he did find out,
he did neither the one thing nor the other; but he had been a good
deal tamed by that time.
Presently a servant came down, and, eyeing Charles curiously as a
prospective fellow-servant, told him civilly to walk up stairs. He went
up. The room was one of a handsome suite, and overlooked the
street. Charles saw at a glance that it was the room of a great
dandy. A dandy, if not of the first water, most assuredly high up in
the second. Two things only jurred on his eye in his hurried glance
round the room. There was too much bric-a-brac, and too many
flowers. "I wonder if he is a gentleman," thought Charles. His friend
of the night before was standing in a respectful attitude, leaning on
the back of a chair, and Charles looked round for the master of the
house, eagerly. He had to cast his eyes downward to see him, for he
was lying back on an easy chair, half hidden by the breakfast table.
There he was—Charles's master: the man who was going to buy
him. Charles cast one intensely eager glance at him, and was
satisfied. "He will do at a pinch," said he to himself.
There were a great many handsome and splendid things in that
room, but the owner of them was by far the handsomest and most
splendid thing there.
He was a young man, with very pale and delicate features, and a
singularly amiable cast of face, who wore a moustache, with the
long whiskers which were just then coming into fashion; and he was
dressed in a splendid uniform of blue, gold, and scarlet, for he had
been on duty that morning, and had just come in. His sabre was cast
upon the floor before him, and his shako was on the table. As
Charles looked at him, he passed his hand over his hair. There was
one ring on it, but such a ring! "That's a high-bred hand enough,"
said Charles to himself. "And he hasn't got too much jewellery on
him. I wonder who the deuce he is?"
"This is the young man, sir," said Charles's new friend.
Lieutenant Hornby was looking at Charles, and after a pause, said—
"I take him on your recommendation, Sloane. I have no doubt he
will do. He seems a good fellow. You are a good fellow, ain't you?"
he continued, addressing Charles personally, with that happy
graceful insolence which is the peculiar property of prosperous and
entirely amiable young men, and which charms one in spite of
oneself.
Charles replied, "I am quarrelsome sometimes among my equals,
but I am always good-tempered among horses."
"That will do very well. You may punch the other two lads' heads as
much as you like. They don't mind me; perhaps they may you. You
will be over them. You will have the management of everything. You
will have unlimited opportunities of robbing and plundering me, with
an entire absence of all chance of detection. But you won't do it. It
isn't your line, I saw at once. Let me look at your hand."
Charles gave him the great ribbed paw which served him in that
capacity. And Hornby said—
"Ha! Gentleman's hand. No business of mine. Don't wear that ring,
will you? A groom mustn't wear such rings as that. Any character?"
Charles showed him the letter Lord Ascot had written.
"Lord Ascot, eh? I know Lord Welter, slightly."
"The deuce you do," thought Charles.
"Were you in Lord Ascot's stables?"
"No, sir. I am the son of Squire Ravenshoe's gamekeeper. The
Ravenshoes and my Lord Ascot's family are connected by marriage.
Ravenshoe is in the west country, sir. Lord Ascot knows me by
repute, sir, and has a good opinion of me."
"It is perfectly satisfactory. Sloane, will you put him in the way of his
duties? Make the other lads understand that he is master, will you?
You may go."
 CHAPTER XXXII.
SOME OF THE HUMOURS OF A LONDON MEWS.
So pursuing the course of our story, we have brought ourselves to
the present extraordinary position. That Charles Ravenshoe, of
Ravenshoe, in the county Devonshire, Esquire, and some time of St.
Paul's College, Oxford, has hired himself out as groom to Lieutenant
Hornby, of the 140th Hussars, and that also the above-named
Charles Ravenshoe was not, and never had been Charles Ravenshoe
at all, but somebody else all the time, to wit, Charles Horton, a
gamekeeper's son, if indeed he was even this, having been
christened under a false name.
The situation is so extraordinary and so sad, that having taken the
tragical view of it in the previous chapter, we must of necessity begin
to look on the brighter side of it now. And this is the better art,
because it is exactly what Charles began to do himself. One blow
succeeded the other so rapidly, the utter bouleversement of all that
he cared about in the world. Father, friends, position, mistress, all
lost in one day, had brought on a kind of light-hearted desperation,
which had the effect of making him seek company, and talk
boisterously and loud all day. It was not unnatural in so young and
vigorous a man. But if he woke in the night, there was the cold claw
grasping his heart. Well, I said we would have none of this at
present, and we won't.
Patient old earth, intent only on doing her duty in her set courses,
and unmindful of the mites which had been set to make love or war
on her bosom, and the least of whom was worth her whole well-
organised mass, had rolled on, and on, until by bringing that portion
of her which contains the island of Britain, gradually in greater
proximity to the sun, she had produced that state of things on that
particular part of her which is known among mortals as spring. Now,
I am very anxious to please all parties. Some people like a little
circumlocution, and for them the above paragraph was written;
others do not, and for them, I state that it was the latter end of May,
and beg them not to read the above flight of fancy, but to consider it
as never having been written.
It was spring. On the sea-coast, the watchers at the lighthouses and
the preventive stations began to walk about in their shirt-sleeves,
and trim up their patches of spray-beaten garden, hedged with tree-
mallow and tamarisk, and to thank God that the long howling winter
nights were past for a time. The fishermen shouted merrily one to
another as they put off from the shore, no longer dreading a twelve
hours' purgatory of sleet and freezing mist and snow; saying to one
another how green the land looked, and how pleasant mackerel time
was after all. Their wives, light-hearted at the thought that the wild
winter was past, and that they were not widows, brought their work
out to the doors, and gossiped pleasantly in the sun, while some of
the bolder boys began to paddle about in the surf, and try to believe
that the Gulf Stream had come in, and that it was summer again,
and not only spring.
In inland country places the barley was all in and springing, the
meadows were all bush-harrowed, rolled, and laid up for hay; nay, in
early places, brimful of grass, spangled with purple orchises, and in
moist rich places golden with marsh marigold, over which the south-
west wind passed pleasantly, bringing a sweet perfume of growing
vegetation, which gave those who smelt it a tendency to lean
against gates, and stiles, and such places, and think what a delicious
season it was, and wish it were to last for ever. The young men
began to slip away from work somewhat early of an evening, not (as
now) to the parade ground, or the butts, but to take their turn at the
wicket on the green, where Sir John (our young landlord) was to be
found in a scarlet flannel shirt, bowling away like a catapult, at all
comers, till the second bell began to ring, and he had to dash off
and dress. Now lovers walking by moonlight in deep banked lanes
began to notice how dark and broad the shadows grew, and to wait
at the lane's end by the river, to listen to the nightingale, with his
breast against the thorn, ranging on from height to height of
melodious passion, petulant at his want of art, till he broke into one
wild jubilant burst, and ceased, leaving night silent, save for the
whispering of new-born insects, and the creeping sound of reviving
vegetation.
Spring. The great renewal of the lease. The time when nature-
worshippers made good resolutions, to be very often broken before
the leaves fall. The time the country becomes once more habitable
and agreeable. Does it make any difference in the hundred miles of
brick and mortar called London, save, in so far as it makes every
reasonable Christian pack up his portmanteau and fly to the green
fields, and lover's lanes before-mentioned (though it takes two
people for the latter sort of business)? Why, yes; it makes a
difference to London certainly, by bringing somewhere about 10,000
people, who have got sick of shooting and hunting through the
winter months, swarming into the west end of it, and making it what
is called full.
I don't know that they are wrong after all, for London is a mighty
pleasant place in the season (we don't call it spring on the paving-
stones). At this time the windows of the great houses in the squares
begin to be brilliant with flowers; and, under the awnings of the
balconies, one sees women moving about in the shadow. Now, all
through the short night, one hears the ceaseless low rolling thunder
of beautiful carriages, and in the daytime also the noise ceases not.
All through the west end of the town there is a smell of flowers, of
fresh-watered roads, and Macassar oil; while at Covent Garden, the
scent of the peaches and pine-apples begins to prevail over that of
rotten cabbage-stalks. The fiddlers are all fiddling away at concert
pitch for their lives, the actors are all acting their very hardest, and
the men who look after the horses have never a minute to call their
own, day or night.
It is neither to dukes nor duchesses, to actors nor fiddlers, that we
must turn our attention just now, but to a man who was sitting in a
wheelbarrow, watching a tame jackdaw.
The place was a London mews, behind one of the great squares—
the time was afternoon. The weather was warm and sunny. All the
proprietors of the horses were out riding or driving, and so the
stables were empty, and the mews were quiet.
This was about a week after Charles's degradation, almost the first
hour he had to himself in the daytime, and so he sat pondering on
his unhappy lot.
Lord Ballyroundtower's coachman's wife was hanging out the
clothes. She was an Irishwoman off the estate (his lordship's Irish
residences, I see, on referring to the peerage, are, "The Grove,"
Blarney, and "Swatewathers," near Avoca). When I say that she was
hanging out the clothes, I am hardly correct, for she was only fixing
the lines up to do so, and being of short stature, and having to reach
was naturally showing her heels, and the jackdaw, perceiving this,
began to hop stealthily across the yard. Charles saw what was
coming, and became deeply interested. He would not have spoken
for his life. The jackdaw sidled up to her, and began digging into her
tendon Achilles with his hard bill with a force and rapidity which
showed that he was fully aware of the fact, that the amusement, like
most pleasant things, could not last long, and must therefore be
made the most of. Some women would have screamed and faced
round at the first assault. Not so our Irish friend. She endured the
anguish until she had succeeded in fastening the clothes-line round
the post, and then she turned round on the jackdaw, who had
fluttered away to a safe distance, and denounced him.
"Bad cess to ye, ye impident divvle, sure it's Sathan's own sister's
son, ye are, ye dirty prothestant, pecking at the hales of an honest
woman, daughter of my lord's own man, Corny O'Brine, as was a
dale bether nor them as sits on whalebarrows, and sets ye on too't
—" (this was levelled at Charles, so he politely took off his cap, and
bowed).
"Though, God forgive me, there's some sitting on whalebarrows as
should be sitting in drawing-rooms, may be (here the jackdaw raised
one foot, and said 'Jark'). Get out, ye baste; don't ye hear me
blessed lady's own bird swearing at ye, like a gentleman's bird as he
is. A pretty dear."
This was strictly true. Lord Ballyroundtower's brother, the
Honourable Frederick Mulligan, was a lieutenant in the navy. A short
time before this, being on the Australian station, and wishing to
make his sister-in-law a handsome present, he had commissioned a
Sydney Jew bird-dealer to get him a sulphur-crested cockatoo, price
no object, but the best talker in the colony. The Jew faithfully
performed his behest; he got him the best talking cockatoo in the
colony, and the Hon. Fred brought it home in triumph to his sister-in-
law's drawing-room in Belgrave Square.
The bird was a beautiful talker. There was no doubt about that. It
had such an amazingly distinct enunciation. But then the bird was
not always discreet. Nay, to go further, the bird never was discreet.
He had been educated by a convict bullock-driver, and finished off by
the sailors on board H.M.S. Actæon; and really, you know,
sometimes he did say things he ought not to have said. It was all
very well pretending that you couldn't hear him, but it rendered
conversation impossible. You were always in agony at what was to
come next. One afternoon, a great many people were there, calling.
Old Lady Hainault was there. The bird was worse than ever.
Everybody tried to avoid a silence, but it came inexorably. That awful
old woman, Lady Hainault, broke it by saying that she thought Fred
Mulligan must have been giving the bird private lessons himself.
After that, you know, it wouldn't do. Fred might be angry, but the
bird must go to the mews.
So there the bird was, swearing dreadfully at the jackdaw. At last,
her ladyship's pug-dog, who was staying with the coachman for
medical treatment, got excited, bundled out of the house, and
attacked the jackdaw. The jackdaw formed square to resist cavalry,
and sent the dog howling into the house again quicker than he came
out. After which the bird barked, and came and sat on the dunghill
by Charles.
The mews itself, as I said, was very quiet, with a smell of stable,
subdued by a fresh scent of sprinkled water; but at the upper end it
joined a street leading from Belgrave Square towards the Park,
which was by no means quiet, and which smelt of geraniums and
heliotropes. Carriage after carriage went blazing past the end of the
mews, along this street, like figures across the disk of a magic
lanthorn. Some had scarlet breeches, and some blue; and there
were pink bonnets, and yellow bonnets, and Magenta bonnets; and
Charles sat on the wheelbarrow by the dunghill, and looked at it all,
perfectly contented.
A stray dog lounged in out of the street. It was a cur dog—that any
one might see. It was a dog which had bit its rope and run away, for
the rope was round its neck now; and it was a thirsty dog, for it
went up to the pump and licked the stones. Charles went and
pumped for it, and it drank. Then, evidently considering that
Charles, by his act of good nature, had acquired authority over its
person, and having tried to do without a master already, and having
found it wouldn't do, it sat down beside Charles, and declined to
proceed any further.
There was a public-house at the corner of the mews, where it joined
the street; and on the other side of the street you could see one
house, No. 16. The footman of No. 16 was in the area, looking
through the railings. A thirsty man came to the public-house on
horseback, and drank a pot of beer at a draught, turning the pot
upside down. It was too much for the footman, who disappeared.
Next came a butcher with a tray of meat, who turned into the area
of No. 16, and left the gate open. After him came a blind man, led
by a dog. The dog, instead of going straight on, turned down the
area steps after the butcher. The blind man thought he was going
round the corner. Charles saw what would happen; but, before he
had time to cry out, the blind man had plunged headlong down the
area steps and disappeared, while from the bottom, as from the pit,
arose the curses of the butcher.
Charles and others assisted the blind man up, gave him some beer,
and sent him on his way. Charles watched him. After he had gone a
little way, he began striking spitefully at where he thought his dog
was, with his stick. The dog was evidently used to this amusement,
and dexterously avoided the blows. Finding vertical blows of no
avail, the blind man tried horizontal ones, and caught an old
gentleman across the shins, making him drop his umbrella and catch
up his leg. The blind man promptly asked an alms from him, and,
not getting one, turned the corner; and Charles saw him no more.
The hot street and, beyond, the square, the dusty lilacs and
laburnums, and the crimson hawthorns. What a day for a bathe!
outside the gentle surf, with the sunny headlands right and left, and
the moor sleeping quietly in the afternoon sunlight, and Lundy, like a
faint blue cloud on the Atlantic horizon, and the old house——He
was away at Ravenshoe on a May afternoon.
They say poets are never sane; but are they ever mad? Never. Even
old Cowper saved himself from actual madness by using his
imagination. Charles was no poet; but he was a good day-dreamer,
and so now, instead of maddening himself in his squalid brick prison,
he was away in the old bay, bathing and fishing, and wandering up
the old stream, breast high among king-fern under the shadowy
oaks.
Bricks and mortar, carriages and footmen, wheelbarrows and
dunghills, all came back in one moment, and settled on his outward
senses with a jar. For there was a rattle of horse's feet on the
stones, and the clank of a sabre, and Lieutenant Hornby, of the
140th Hussars (Prince Arthur's Own), came branking into the yard,
with two hundred pounds' worth of trappings on him, looking out for
his servant. He was certainly a splendid fellow, and Charles looked at
him with a certain kind of pride, as on something that he had a
share in.
"Come round to the front door, Horton, and take my horse up to the
barracks" (the Queen had been to the station that morning, and his
guard was over).
Charles walked beside him round into Grosvenor Place. He could not
avoid stealing a glance up at the magnificent apparition beside him;
and, as he did so, he met a pair of kind grey eyes looking down on
him.
"You mustn't sit and mope there, Horton," said the lieutenant; "it
never does to mope. I know it is infernally hard to help it, and of
course you can't associate with servants, and that sort of thing, at
first; but you will get used to it. If you think I don't know you are a
gentleman, you are mistaken. I don't know who you are, and shall
not try to find out. I'll lend you books or anything of that sort; but
you mustn't brood over it. I can't stand seeing my fellows wretched,
more especially a fellow like you."
If it had been to save his life, Charles couldn't say a word. He looked
up at the lieutenant and nodded his head. The lieutenant understood
him well enough, and said to himself—
"Poor fellow!"
So there arose between these two a feeling which lightened
Charles's servitude, and which, before the end came, had grown into
a liking. Charles's vengeance was not for Hornby, for the injury did
not come from him. His vengeance was reserved for another, and we
shall see how he took it.
 CHAPTER XXXIII.
A GLIMPSE OF SOME OLD FRIENDS.
Hitherto I have been able to follow Charles right on without leaving
him for one instant: now, however, that he is reduced to sitting on a
wheelbarrow in a stable-yard, we must see a little less of him. He is,
of course, our principal object; but he has removed himself from the
immediate sphere of all our other acquaintances, and so we must
look up some of them, and see how far they, though absent, are
acting on his destiny—nay, we must look up every one of them
sooner or later, for there is not one who is not in some way
concerned in his adventures past and future.
By reason of her age, her sex, and her rank, my Lady Ascot claims
our attention first. We left the dear old woman in a terrible taking on
finding that Charles had suddenly left the house and disappeared.
Her wrath gave way to tears, and her tears to memory. Bitterly she
blamed herself now for what seemed, years ago, such a harmless
deceit. It was not too late. Charles might be found; would come
back, surely—would come back to his poor old aunt! He would never
—hush! it won't do to think of that!
Lady Ascot thought of a brilliant plan, and put it into immediate
execution. She communicated with Mr. Scotland Yard, the eminent
ex-detective officer, forwarding a close description of Charles, and a
request that he might be found, alive or dead, immediately. Her
efforts were crowned with immediate and unlooked-for success. In a
week's time the detective had discovered, not one Charles
Ravenshoe, but three, from which her ladyship might take her
choice. But the worst of it was that neither of the three was Charles
Ravenshoe. There was a remarkable point of similarity between
Charles and them, certainly; and that point was that they were all
three young gentlemen under a cloud, and had all three dark hair
and prominent features. Here the similarity ended.
The first of the cases placed so promptly before her ladyship by
Inspector Yard presented some startling features of similarity with
that of Charles. The young gentleman was from the West of
England, had been at college somewhere, had been extravagant
("God bless him, poor dear! when lived a Ravenshoe that wasn't?"
thought Lady Ascot), had been crossed in love, the inspector
believed (Lady Ascot thought she had got her fish), and was now in
the Coldbath Fields Prison, doing two years' hard labour for
swindling, of which two months were yet to run. The inspector
would let her ladyship know the day of his release.
This could not be Charles: and the next young gentleman offered to
her notice was a worse shot than the other. He also was dark-haired;
but here at once all resemblance ceased. This one had started in life
with an ensigncy in the line. He had embezzled the mess funds, had
been to California, had enlisted, deserted, and sold his kit, been a
billiard-marker, had come into some property, had spent it, had
enlisted again, had been imprisoned for a year and discharged—here
Lady Ascot would read no more, but laid down the letter, saying,
"Pish!"
But the inspector's cup was not yet full. The unhappy man was
acting from uncertain information, he says. He affirmed, throughout
all the long and acrimonious discussion which followed, that his only
instructions were to find a young gentleman with dark hair and a
hook nose. If this be the case, he may possibly be excused for
catching a curly-headed little Jew of sixteen, who was drinking
himself to death in a public-house off Regent Street, and producing
him as Charles Ravenshoe. His name was Cohen, and he had stolen
some money from his father and gone to the races. This was so
utterly the wrong article, that Lady Ascot wrote a violent letter to the
ex-inspector, of such an extreme character, that he replied by
informing her ladyship that he had sent her letter to his lawyer. A
very pretty quarrel followed, which I have not time to describe.
Welcome to our website – the perfect destination for book lovers and
knowledge seekers. We believe that every book holds a new world,
offering opportunities for learning, discovery, and personal growth.
That’s why we are dedicated to bringing you a diverse collection of
books, ranging from classic literature and specialized publications to
self-development guides and children's books.

More than just a book-buying platform, we strive to be a bridge

connecting you with timeless cultural and intellectual values. With an
elegant, user-friendly interface and a smart search system, you can
quickly find the books that best suit your interests. Additionally,
our special promotions and home delivery services help you save time
and fully enjoy the joy of reading.

Join us on a journey of knowledge exploration, passion nurturing, and

personal growth every day!

testbankfan.com