Читать книгу The Viking's Skull - John R. Carling - Страница 8

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The Ravengars of Ormsby-on-Sea, a town on the Northumbrian coast, come of an ancient stock; for, as students of the Gospel according to St. Burke are aware, the original Ravengar antedates by two centuries that Ultima Thule of heraldry, the Norman Conquest.

Yet, though so ancient a race, one, moreover, that has taken part in all the great events of English History, it was not until the days of the Merry Monarch that the Ravengars entered the charmed and charming circle of the peerage.

At the battle of Naseby that gallant and loyal cavalier, Lancelot Ravengar, contrived to disfigure the face of the great Protector by a sword-cut that left behind it a scar for life. So valuable a service to the State merited right royal recognition. "Something must be done for Ravengar," said the courtiers of the Restoration. That something took the shape of a patent of nobility, a favour the more readily granted by the Monarch, inasmuch as it cost him nothing. So the heretofore plain Lancelot Ravengar became the noble Viscount Walden, and at a later date was advanced to the Earldom of Ormsby, a title derived from the Northumbrian sea-town, whose rents and leases supplied him with the wealth requisite to maintain his dignity.

This Lancelot Ravengar deserves mention, as being not only the first peer of the family, but likewise the originator of a very curious funeral rite instituted by his testamentary authority.

When the Civil War broke out in Charles's days, Ravenhall, the seat of the Ravengars, shared the fate of many other historic mansions: it was besieged by the Puritan soldiery, and notwithstanding a gallant defence, was forced to yield to the foe. Its owner, Lancelot, however, was fortunate enough to escape to a secret subterranean chamber, specially made for such emergencies, where, in addition to the family heirlooms, provisions for many weeks had been stored. The Roundheads, not finding the Cavalier after a long and careful search, concluded that he had fled.

For several days the victors remained at Ravenhall feasting and drinking; and then, larder and wine cellar failing them, they proceeded to plunder and dismantle the place "for the glory of the Lord," and so took their departure.

Now, during this period of hiding, Lancelot, with no companion but a Bible, had ample leisure for meditation. The seclusion became the turning-point in his spiritual life: from that time the hitherto careless Cavalier developed religious tendencies which were not to be shaken by all the gibes of the Merry Monarch.

The place of his conversion naturally became invested with more than ordinary interest in the eyes of Lancelot Ravengar: he spent much of his time there in contemplation and prayer, becoming at last so attached to the spot as to desire it for his place of sepulture.

Accordingly, his last will and testament enjoined that not only his own body, but the bodies likewise of his successors in the earldom should be buried in the secret vault. This rite constituted the condition of an entail, inasmuch as neglect on the part of the next of kin to inter his predecessor in this chamber necessitated the forfeiture of the inheritance. The will furthermore directed that the secret ingress to this crypt should not be made known to more than four persons at a time, viz: the then earl, his heir-apparent, the family lawyer, and any fourth person whom these three should choose to take into their confidence.

When an Earl of Ormsby died his body was carried to the mortuary chapel on the estate, where the burial service of the Anglican Church was read. The coffin was then carried back to Ravenhall: all the servants, without exception, were dismissed for the day, and the four executors proceeded to remove the body to the secret crypt.

Such was the singular testament of Lancelot Ravengar, first Earl of Ormsby, and its injunctions were faithfully observed by all his successors in the title.

Some years prior to the events related in the prologue of this story, the dignity of the family was represented by Urien Ravengar, the tenth peer. He was the father of Olave, Viscount Walden, who, as being the only son, and heir to the title and estates, was naturally the object of his father's affection. The old earl did not keep a steward, being content to leave his affairs in the hands of the young viscount, who consequently managed his father's correspondence, all letters addressed to the earl being freely opened by the son.

Then came a memorable day in the annals of the House of Ravengar.

A letter arrived for the Earl bearing the postmark of a town in Kent. Olave, who was passing through the entrance-hall at the time of its delivery, took it from the servant, and, following his usual practice in regard to his father's letters, opened it.

As he read he was observed to change colour, and to become strangely agitated.

Taking the letter with him he went at once to his father's study.

What passed there no one ever learned, save that there were high words between the two. That in itself was nothing new, the Ravengars being noted for their proud spirit. In the end the study-door was flung open by the earl who, with a face flaming with anger, cried:—

"Leave the house."

Olave, with a scornful glance at his father, obeyed.

He went forth, saying nothing to any one as to the cause of the rupture, making no mention of his destination or plans. Without a word of farewell he disappeared from Ormsby. To all who had known him he became as one dead.

Every Sunday the earl, while at Ormsby, attended the parish church with commendable regularity, but vainly did he try to assume a brave air: it was clear to all that he felt the loss of his son, and that he was aging in consequence.

Five—seven—ten years rolled away, and now the old earl lay dying in his grand bedchamber at Ravenhall. A wild evening had set in, and the herring-fishers, on the point of sailing for the Dogger Bank, put off their expedition for more propitious weather.

The dying man moaned uneasily. His mind was wandering, and he frequently murmured the name of the absent Olave.

Louder and ever louder grew the wind, till at length it arose to a gale. The gloom of night was illumined by vivid lightning-flashes accompanied by peals of thunder. The distant roar of the sea could be plainly heard at Ravenhall. News came that a yacht, supposed to be French, was foundering upon the rocks of Ormsby Race in full sight of hundreds of spectators on the beach, who were powerless to give help. None of the servants at Ravenhall, however, felt disposed to go and view the wreck: their master's death, which was hourly expected, affected them far more than the drowning of a hundred strangers. They clustered in the entrance-hall, waiting for the fatal news, and conversing in hushed tones.

Suddenly, out of the darkness, there stalked into the entrance-hall a lofty figure, drenched to the skin, without hat or cloak, his long hair lying wet and lank on his pale cheek.

He looked neither to right nor left, asked no question of the startled servants, but passed quickly up the grand staircase with the air of one to whom the way was familiar, with the air of one, too, who had the right to do as he did. Like the electric flash, he had come and gone in a moment.

"Lord save us!" gasped the butler, a lifelong servitor of the family. "Here's Master Olave come back after all these years!"

Olave it was. He had evidently received some intimation of his father's condition, for he walked to the bedroom where the earl lay dying. To the three persons at the bedside, physician, nurse, and rector, he was a stranger, but his likeness to the patient was sufficiently striking to apprise them at once of the relationship.

The viscount, keeping in the background, addressed himself to the physician.

"How is he?"

"Sinking fast."

"Is his mind clear?"

"Now it is. He wandered earlier in the evening."

"Then leave us, please."

There was something so authoritative in the viscount's manner that the three watchers were constrained to obey.

What took place in their absence was never known. The interview was of short duration, and ended in a cry from the earl, which brought physician and nurse hurrying into the apartment.

"He is dead," said Olave.

There was no trace of sorrow in his voice, nor, in justice be it added, of satisfaction: a quiet, impassive utterance.

He stood with folded arms till his words had been endorsed by the physician, and then, without so little as a glance at the dead earl, the living earl strode from the apartment.

The nurse closed the eyes of her charge, shuddering as she did so, for the countenance of the dead man was marked by a ferocity of expression which showed that his last feelings were those of hatred.

A rumour soon arose that the old earl had died in the very act of cursing his son. The rumour may have been false, but certain it is that the new earl took no pains to contradict it.

Urien, tenth Earl of Ormsby, was interred according to the rite instituted by the first peer: and the returned Olave, after giving the family solicitor sufficient proof of his identity, assumed his station as master of Ravenhall.

Where he had spent the previous ten years was a mystery to everybody except, perhaps, his lawyer. The earl maintained absolute reticence as to this part of his career, and the sternness of his manner when the question was once put to him by an indiscreet lady, checked all further attempts on the part of the inquisitive.

He somewhat scandalised the good folk of Ormsby by marrying within two months of his father's death the daughter of a neighbouring baronet. His wedded life did not last long. Within a year his wife died, leaving an infant son named Ivar.

Henceforth the earl remained single.

He had sadly changed from the lively youth whose pranks had been a constant source of merriment to the people of Ormsby.

His long absence had developed a cold and unsympathetic temperament which led him to avoid society; and though he did not refrain from giving an occasional dinner or ball, he was evidently bored by these social offices. He found his greatest pleasure in the seclusion of the magnificent library at Ravenhall. He withdrew himself more and more from the world of men to the world of books.

More than two decades went by, and the mystery which overhung the earl, became a thing of the past, was forgotten by the people of Ormsby, or at least was rarely recalled. Gossip occupied itself chiefly with the doings of the earl's only son, Ivar, or to give him his courtesy title, Viscount Walden, who was now in his twentieth year.

To this son the earl appeared much attached: he designed him, so it was rumoured, for the diplomatic service: and to this end Ivar, accompanied by a tutor, was supposed to be travelling on the continent, perfecting himself in foreign languages, and studying on the spot the workings of the various European constitutions.

All the collateral branches of the Ravengars had died out with the exception of one family, and even this was limited to a single person—Beatrice, daughter of Victor Ravengar. This Victor, the earl's cousin in the sixth degree, had taken as his wife a widow with one son, Godfrey by name. Beatrice was the sole issue of this marriage.

The earl was naturally much interested in this little maiden as being next in succession after his son: and accordingly when Beatrice became an orphan at the age of sixteen (her parents having died within a month of each other), the earl invited her and her half-brother, Godfrey Rothwell—her senior by seven years—to take up their residence at Ravenhall, offering to settle a handsome annuity upon each.

But to the earl's surprise the favour was declined both by brother and sister. It had happened that Mrs. Victor Ravengar had never been a very welcome visitor at Ravenhall, the marriage having been regarded by the earl as a mésalliance: and though Beatrice was of a forgiving nature, she could not entirely forget sundry slights put upon her mother.

Godfrey was determined not to eat the bread of dependency, and Beatrice, who was devoted to her half-brother, sympathized with him in this feeling, and refused to live apart from him. He had applied himself to the study of medicine, and had lately set up in practice at Ormsby. In Beatrice, Godfrey found a ready assistant. She helped him in his surgery, often accompanied him when visiting his patients, and never hesitated to take upon herself the duty of nurse if occasion required. Hence she was all but worshipped by the people of Ormsby; the earl might take their rents, but Beatrice possessed their hearts, and often was regret expressed that it should be Viscount Walden, and not Beatrice Ravengar, who must succeed to the fair demesne of Ravenhall.

"Absolutely no more patients to visit," remarked Godfrey Rothwell, returning home one afternoon to his neat little villa, called Wave Crest.

"Charming!" said Beatrice, clapping her hands. "It is so long since we had an evening together."

"Humph!" muttered Godfrey, lugubriously. "But we are doomed not to spend it together. We have received an invitation to dine this evening at Ravenhall, where a small and select company is assembling to welcome Master Ivar home. He returns to-night from the continent. The earl's carriage will call for us at six, so we can't very well decline."

Beatrice pouted her pretty lips. Simple in her tastes, unconventional in her habits, she disliked the stately banquets, the funereal grandeur, of Ravenhall. She would not, however, oppose her brother, and that same night found them both within the drawing-room of Ravenhall, conversing with their distant kinsman, the Earl of Ormsby.

He was a man verging upon sixty; his hair and moustache were of an iron grey; his eyes somewhat dimmed by long study; his features fine and striking, but marked by an air of profound melancholy.

He received Godfrey kindly, and made inquiries as to his medical practice, but it was clear to all that his interest centred chiefly in Beatrice, whom he kissed with an old-fashioned courtesy.

Beatrice's figure was small and graceful, and her features, if not precisely regular, were nevertheless very pretty, and rendered more attractive by the sparkling colour and the vivacious expression that played over them. She wore an evening dress of white silk with a cluster of violets at her breast, a diamond star gleaming in her bronzed hair, which was tied in a knot behind in antique Greek fashion. In Godfrey's opinion his sister had never looked more charming than on this evening.

"You have the fairest face in all the county," said the old earl, tenderly stroking her hair. "I wish that Ivar would think so," he added significantly.

It was not the first time that he had given expression to this wish in the presence of Beatrice.

"Did you notice what he said, Trixie," said Godfrey, when he had found an opportunity of whispering to her. "He wants to see you married to Ivar."

But Beatrice Ravengar tossed her head in scorn.

"No one who has sneered at you, as Ivar has, shall ever be husband of mine, though he bring with him title and lands. It will require some one a good deal better than Ivar to separate you and me, Godfrey," she said, pressing his arm affectionately.

Godfrey felt justly proud of his sister's attachment. How many women, he thought, would willingly have thrown over a poor struggling medico of a brother, and have become wild with joy at the idea of obtaining a coronet and the stately towers of Ravenhall?

Godfrey wondered, and not for the first time, why the earl should desire this match, since Beatrice was portionless, and, therefore, from a worldly point of view, no very desirable alliance for the heir of the Ravengars. Godfrey had never quite taken to the earl: in fact, he had a secret distrust of him, he could not tell why: and he refused to believe that that peer's attitude towards Beatrice was dictated by pure disinterestedness, though it was difficult to see how either the earl or Ivar would be advantaged by the match.

While Godfrey was occupied with these thoughts, the butler appeared with the message that the keeper of the lodge had announced by telephone the arrival of the viscount's carriage at the park-gates.

"Let us give the heir of Ravenhall a welcome at his own portal," said Lord Ormsby, rising; and without delay the company made their way to the grand entrance-hall, where the butler, the housekeeper, and the rest of the servants, were assembled to do honour to the young viscount's return.

On the panelled wall within the Gothic doorway, and suspended by a silver chain, was a bugle of ivory, wrought with gold, and decorated with runic letters.

It was a relic of ancient days, credited to have belonged originally to the old Norse chieftain who had founded the House of Ravengar. Owing to the peculiar construction of this bugle some practice was required by those desirous of blowing it. Indeed, it was a family tradition that in former times the only persons gifted with the power of sounding it were the lord of Ravenhall and his immediate heir, all others essaying the feat being foredoomed to failure. Hence, in mediæval times, when the lords of Ravenhall returned from a Crusade, or some other equally protracted war, it was their practice to sound this horn as a guarantee of the legitimacy of their title.

"We will greet the heir in the ancient fashion of our house," cried the earl, a great upholder of the traditional usages of his family. "Pass me the bugle. Jocelyn, the wine!"

The butler, who was standing by, holding a silver tray with a decanter on it, poured some port into the broad funnel-shaped end of the horn, the tight-fitting silver cap over the mouthpiece preventing the emission of the liquid.

"Custom enjoins that a lady should hand the bugle to the returning heir, and wish him welcome," said Lord Ormsby, fixing his eyes on Beatrice.

With some reluctance she accepted the bugle from the hand of the earl, who briefly instructed her—Beatrice being not very well versed in the Ravengar traditions—as to the form of words to be used in this ceremony.

The rattle of wheels was now heard coming along the avenue of chestnuts, and amid murmurs of "Here he is!" from those assembled at the porch, a brougham rolled up. When it had stopped, there alighted a figure, fair, slight, and, though youthful, of decidedly blasé appearance. He was dressed in a light travelling ulster, and held a cigar between his fingers, throwing it away, however, as soon as he beheld the company.

"Welcome, Ivar," said the earl, warmly returning the clasp of his son's hand: and then, waving him towards Beatrice, he continued, "But one moment: we must not neglect the ancient custom of our house. Now, Beatrice, you know the words."

And Beatrice, holding aloft the horn of wine, in an attitude that displayed all the grace of her figure, approached the young viscount.

"Is it peace, O heir of Ravenhall?"

"It is peace, O lady fair," replied the viscount, using the words of the traditional formula.

"Then drink of thine own, O heir of Ravenhall," continued Beatrice, extending the bugle to him.

"To the souls of the departed warriors," replied Ivar, tossing off the contents at one draught. "Hum! port. Very good liquor for boys; but, I confess, I like my aliquid amari stronger."

This last sentence formed no part of the Ravengar ritual, and the earl, who liked everything en régle, frowned slightly.

"Now prove thy title, heir of Ravenhall."

"Prove it? Ay, with a blast that shall rival that of the immortal Roland."

Removing the silver cap from the narrow end of the bugle, and placing the mouthpiece to his lips, Ivar blew with all his might. But no sound issued from the horn other than that of a faint soughing. The viscount, surprised at this result, removed the bugle from his mouth, and eyed it curiously. Then, thinking he had perhaps employed too much force, he blew again, but this time more gently.

The bugle continued silent. The company looked at each other in surprise, tinged with amusement. The earl, however, seemed to take it much amiss. Beatrice found his eyes set upon her, and upon her only, with a look that made her feel uncomfortable, for it somehow conveyed to her mind the idea that he was mentally blaming her for his son's failure!

"This is a very serious matter, you know," said the viscount, looking round upon the company with an air of mock gravity. "The ancestral bugle refuses—positively refuses—to acknowledge me as the heir of Ravenhall."

"Try again, Ivar," said the earl.

"Not I. Devil take the bugle," exclaimed Ivar laughing. "Let us read a parable in my failure. In days of old the blast of the horn was the sign of battle; its silence implies that we Ravengars have no longer to vindicate our title by arms. But it permits me to drink, thereby symbolizing that peace and festivity are now to be our lot. Have I not said?" he added, theatrically, turning to his father. "And now, this fantasia being over—— Why? what? is this little Trixie?"

Till that moment he had not recognized Beatrice, so much did she differ from her appearance when last seen by him; but now that recognition came, he stopped short in surprise at her loveliness.

"Trixie!" he repeated.

He bent forward as if to kiss her, but, with quiet dignity, Beatrice drew back, offering her hand.

"What, and must we dispense with the sweet greeting of old days? Nay, then."

And with this he seized her in his arms, and pressed his lips to hers in kisses of a distinctly vinous flavour.

"How dare you?" exclaimed Beatrice, breaking breathlessly and indignantly from his embrace.