Ravenshoe. By Henry Kingsley.

394 RAVENSHOE.
CHAPTER LXI.
SAVED.
WITH the wailing mother's voice in their ears, those two left
the house. The court was quiet enough now. The poor savages
who would not stop their riot lest they should disturb the dying,
now talked in whispers lest they should awaken the dead.
They passed on quickly together. Not one word had been
uttered between them —not one, — but they pushed rapidly
through the worst streets to a better part of the town, Charles
clinging tight to John Marston's arm, but silent. When they got
to Marston's lodgings, Charles sat down by the fire, and spoke for
the first time. He did not burst out crying, or anything of that
sort. He only said quietly, -
"John, you have saved me. I should never have got home
this night."
But John Marston, who, by finding Charles had dashed fiis
dearest hopes to the ground, did not take things quite so quietly.
Did he think of Mary now? Did he see in a moment that his
chance of her was gone? And did he not see that he loved her
more deeply than ever?
"Yes," I answer to all these three questions. How did he
behave now?
Why, he put his hand on Charles's shoulder, and he said,
"Charles, Charles, my dear old boy, look up and speak to me in
your dear old voice. Don't look wild, like that. Think of Mary,
my boy. She has been wooed by more than one, Charles; but I
think that her heart is yours yet."
"John," said Charles, "that is what has made me hide from
you all like this. I know that she loves me above all men. I
dreamt of it the night I left Ravenshoe. I knew it the night I
saw her at Lord Hainault's. And partly that she should forget a
penniless and disgraced man like myself, and partly (for I have
been near the gates of hell to-night, John, and can see many
things) from a silly pride, I have spent all my cunning on losing
myself, - hoping that you would believe me dead, thinking that
you would love my memory, and dreading lest you should cease
to love myself."
"We loved your memory well enough, Charles. You will
never know how well, till you see how well we love yourself.
We have hunted you hard, Charles. How you have contrived