When William left Charles in his room at Ravenshoe, the latter sat down in his chair and began thiriking.
The smart of the blow, which had fallen so heavily at first, had become less painful. He knew by intuition that it would be worse on the morrow, and on many morrows; but at present it was alleviated. He began to dread sleeping, for fear of the waking.
He dreaded the night and dreams; and, more than all, the morrow and the departure. He felt that he ought to see Cuthbert again, and he dreaded that. He dreaded the servants seeing him go. He had a horror of parting from all he had known so long, formally. It was natural It would be so much pain to all concerned; were it not better avoided? He thought of all these things, and tried to persuade himself that these were the reasons which made him do what he had as good as determined to do an hour or two before, what he had in his mind when he called William back in the corridor — to go nway alone, and hide and mope Like a wounded stag for a little time.
It was his instinct to do so. Perhaps it would have been the best thing for him. At all events, he determined on it, and packed up a portmanteau and carpet-bag, and then sat down again, waiting.
“Yes,” he said to himself, “it will be better to do this. I must get away from William, poor lad. He must not follow my fortunes, for many reasons.”
His dog had been watching him, looking, with his bright loving eyes, first at him and then at his baggage, wondering what journey they were going on now. When Charles had done packing, and had sat down again in his chair before the fire, the dog leapt up in his lap unbidden, and laid his head upon his breast
“Grip, Grip!” said Charles, “I am going away to leave you for ever, Grip. Dogs don’t live so long as men, my boy; you will be quietly under the turf and at rest, when I shall have forty long years more to go through with.”
The dog wagged his tail, and pawed his waistcoat He wanted some biscuit. Charles got him some, and then went on talking.
“I am going to London, old dog. I am going to see what the world is like. I sha’n’t come back before you are dead. Grip, I expect. I have got to win money and a name for the sake of one who is worth “svinning it for. Very likely I shall go abroad, to the land where the stuff comes from they make sovereigns of, and try my luck at getting some of the yellow rubbish. And she will wait in the old house at Ranford.”
He paused here. The thought came upon him, “Would it not be more honourable to absolve Adelaide rom her engagement? Was he acting generously iu demanding of her to waste the best part of her life in waiting till a mined man had won fortune and means?”
The answer came. “She loves me. If I can wait why not she?”
“I have wronged her by such a thought, Grip. Haven’t I, my boy?” — and so on. I needn’t continue telling you the nonsense Charles talked to his dog. Men will talk nonsense to their dogs and friends when they are in love; and such nonsense is but poor reading at any time. To us who know what had happened, and how worthless and false Adelaide was, it would be merely painful and humiliating to hear any more of it. I only gave you so much to show you how completely Charles was in the dark, poor fool, with regard to Adelaide’s character, and to render less surprising the folly of his behaviour after he heard the news at Ranford.
Charles judged eyevy one by his own standard She had told him that she loved him; and perhaps she did, for a time. He believed her. As for vanity, selfishness, fickleness, calculation, coming in and conquering love, he knew it was impossible in his own case, and so he conceived it impossible in hers. I think I have been very careful to impress on you that Charles was not wise. At all events, if I have softened matters so far hitherto as to leave you in doubt, his actions, which we shall have to chronicle immediately, will leave not the slightest doubt of it. I love the man. I love his very faults in a way. He is a reality to me, though I ay not have the art to make him so to you. His mad, impulsive way of forming a resolution, and his honourable obstinacy in sticking to that resolution afterwards, even to the death, are very great faults; but they are, more or less, the faults of many men who have made a very great figure in the world, or I have read history wrong. Men with Charles Ravenshoe’s character, and power of patience and application superadded, turn out very brilliant characters for the most part. Charles had not been drilled into habits of application early enough. Densil’s unthinking indulgence had done him much harm, and he was just the sort of boy to be spoilt at school — a favourite among the masters and the boys; always just up to his work, and no more. It is possible that Eton in one way, or Eugby in another, might have done for him what Shrewsbury certainly did not. A............