She started, and for a moment I feared that she was going to insist upon my giving up the book. She did not do so, however; but I noticed that the hand which was resting upon the banister was grasping the handrail nervously, as though for support, and that she was white to the very lips.
“No; I had forgotten,” she said slowly—“I mean that I had forgotten you had ever asked for it. Take care of it, Philip, and give it me back to-night. It was given to me by a friend and I value it.”
I promised and left the house. My range of pleasures was in some respects a limited one, but it did not prevent me from being an epicure with regard to their enjoyment. I did not glance inside the book, although I was longing to do so, until I had walked five or six miles and had reached one of my favourite halting-places. Then I threw myself down in the shadow of a great rock on the top of Beacon Hill and took the volume from my pocket.
It was a small, olive-green book, delicately bound, and printed upon rough paper. It had been given to my mother, evidently, for her Christian name was inside, written in a fine, dashing hand, and underneath were some initials which had become indistinct. Then, having satisfied myself of this, and handled it for a few moments, I turned over the pages rapidly and began to read.
The first part was composed almost entirely of sonnets and love-poems. One after another I read them and wondered. There was nothing amateurish, nothing weak, here. They were full of glowing imagery, of brilliant colouring, of passion, of fire. Crude some of them seemed to me, who had read no modern poetry and knew many of Shakespeare’s and Milton’s sonnets by heart; but full of genius, nevertheless, and with the breath of life warm in them.
The second portion was devoted to longer poems and these I liked best. There was in some more than a touch of the graceful, fascinating mysticism of Shelley, the passionate outcry of a strong, noble mind, seeking to wrest from Nature her vast secrets and to fathom the mysteries of existence; the wail of bewildered nobility of soul turning in despair from the cold creeds of modern religion to seek some other and higher form of spiritual life.
I read on until the sun had gone down and the shades of twilight had chased the afterglow from the western sky. Then I closed the book and rose suddenly with a great start.
Scarcely a dozen yards away, on the extreme summit of the hill, a man on horseback sat watching me. His unusually tall figure and the fine shape of the coal-black horse which he was riding, stood out against the background of the distant sky with a vividness which seemed almost more than natural. Such a face as his I had never seen, never imagined. I could neither describe it, nor think of anything with which to compare it.
Dark, with jet-black hair, and complexion perfectly clear, but tanned by Southern suns; a small, firm mouth; a high forehead, furrowed with thought; aquiline nose; grey-blue eyes, powerful and expressive—any man might thus be described, and yet lack altogether the wonderful charm of the face into which I looked. It was the rare combination of perfect classical modelling with intensity of character and nobility of intellect. It was the face of a king among men; and yet there were times when a certain smile played around those iron lips, and a certain light flashed in those brilliant eyes, when to look into it made me shudder. But that was afterwards.
He remained looking at me and I at him, for fully a minute. Then he beckoned to me with his whip—a slight but imperious gesture. I rose and walked to his side.
“Who are you?” he asked curtly.
“My name is Philip Morton,” I answered. “I live at Rothland Wood farmhouse.”
“Son of the man who was murdered?”
I assented. He gazed at me fixedly, with the faintest possible expression of interest in his languid grey eyes.
“You were very intent upon your book,” he remarked. “What was it?”
I held it up.
“You should know it, sir,” I answered.
He glanced at the title and shrugged his shoulders slightly. There were indications of a frown upon his fine forehead.
“You should be able to employ your time better than that,” he said.
“I don’t think so. I am fond of reading—especially poetry,” I replied.
The idea seemed to amuse him, for he smiled, and the stem lines in his countenance relaxed for a moment. Directly his lips were parted his whole expression was transformed and I understood what women had meant when they talked about the fascination of his face.
“Fond of reading, are you? A village bookworm. Well, they say that to book-lovers every volume has a language and a mission of its own. What do my schoolboy voices tell you?”
“That you were once in love,” I answered quickly.
A half-amused, half-contemptuous shade passed across his face.
“Youth has its follies, like every other stage of life,” he said. “I daresay I experienced the luxury of the sensation once, but it must have been a long time ago. Come, is that all it tells you?”
“It tells me that men lie when they call you an Atheist.”
He sat quite still on his horse and the smile on his lips became a mocking one.
“Atheism was most unfashionable when those verses were written,” he remarked. “Any other ‘ism’ was popular enough, but Atheism sounded ugly. Besides, I was only a boy then. Perhaps I had some imagination left. It is a gift which one loses in later life.”
“But religion is not dependent upon imagination.”
“Wholly. Religion is an effort of imagination and, therefore, is more or less a matter of disposition. That is one of its chief absurdities. Women and sensitive boys are easiest affected by it. Men of sturdy common-sense, men with brains and the knowledge how to use them, are every day bursting the trammels of an effete orthodoxy.”
“And what can their common-sense and their brains give them in its place?” I asked. “I cannot conceive any practical religion without orthodoxy.”
“A little measure of philosophy. It is all they want. Only the faint-hearted, who have not the courage to contemplate physical annihilation, console themselves by building up a hysterical faith in an impossible hereafter. There is no hereafter.”
“A horrible creed!” I exclaimed.
“By no means. Let men devote half the time and the efforts that they devote to this phantasy of religion to schooling themselves in philosophic thought, and they will learn to contemplate it unmoved. To recognise that the end of life is inevitable is to rob it of most of its terrors, save to cowards. The man who wastes a tissue of his body in regretting what he cannot prevent is a fool. Annihilation is a more comfortable doctrine and a more reasonable one, too. Don’t you agree with me, boy?”
“No; not with a single word!” I cried, growing hot and a little angry, for I could see that he was only half in earnest and I had no fancy to be made a butt of. “Imagination is not the groundwork of religion; common-sense is. Why——”
“Oh, spare me the stock arguments!” he broke in, with a slight shudder. “Keep your religion and hug it as close as you like, if you find it any comfort to you. Where have you been to school?”
“Nowhere,” I answered. “I have read with Mr. Sands, the curate of Rothland.”
He laughed softly to himself, as though the idea amused him, looking at me all the time as though I were some sort of natural curiosity.
“Fond of reading, are you?” he asked abruptly.
“Yes. Fonder than I am of anything else.”
“And your books—where do they come from?”
“Wherever I can get any. From the library at Mellborough, or from Mr. Sands, most of them.” He laughed again and repeated my words, as though amused.
“No wonder you’re behind the times,” he remarked. “Now, shall I lend you some books?”
I shook my head feebly, for I was longing to accept his offer.
“I’m afraid your sort of books would not suit me,” I said. “I don’t want to be converted to your way of thinking. It seems to me that there is such a thing as overtraining of the mind.”
“So you look upon me as a sort of Mephistopheles, eh? Well, I’ve no ambition to make a convert of you. To be a pessimist is to be——”
“An unhappy man,” I interrupted eagerly, “and a very narrow-minded one, too. It is a city-born creed. No one could live out here in the country and espouse it!”
“Boy, how old are you?” he asked abruptly.
“Seventeen next birthday, sir,” I answered.
“You have a glib tongue—the sign of an empty head, I fear.”
“Better empty than full of unhealthy philosophy,” I answered bluntly.
He laughed outright.
“The country air has sharpened your wits, at any rate,” he said. “You’re a fool, Philip Morton; but you will be happier in your folly than other men in their wisdom. There’s a great deal of comfort in ignorance.”
He gave me a careless yet not unkind nod and, wheeling his great horse round with a turn of the wrist, galloped down the hillside and across the soft, spongy turf at a pace which soon carried him out of sight. But I stood for a while on a piece of broken rock on the summit of the hill gazing after his retreating figure, and watching the twinkling lights from the many villages stretched away in the valley below. The sound of his low, strong voice yet vibrated in my ears, and the sad, beautiful face, with its languid grey eyes and weary expression, seemed still by my side. Already I began to feel something of the influence which this man appeared to exercise over everyone whom he came near; and I felt vaguely, even then, that if suffered to grow, it would become an influence all-powerful with me.
When I reached home it was late—so late that my mother, who seldom betrayed any interest or curiosity in my doings, asked me questions. I felt a curious reluctance at first to tell her with whom I had been talking, and it was justified when I saw the effect which my words had upon her. A look almost of horror filled her eyes and her face was white with anger. It was as though a long-expected blow had fallen.
“At last! at last!” she murmured to herself, as though forgetful of my presence. Then her eyes closed and her lips moved softly. It seemed to me that she was praying.
I was bewildered and inclined to be angry that she should carry her dislike of Mr. Ravenor so far. Did she think me so weak and impressionable that a few minutes’ conversation with any man could bring me harm?
“You carry your dislike of Mr. Ravenor a little too far, mother,” I ventured to say. “What can you know of him so bad that you see danger in my having talked with him for a few minutes?”
She looked at me fixedly and grew more composed.
“It is too late now, Philip,” she said, in a low tone. “The mischief is done. If I could have foreseen this we would have gone away.”
“To have avoided Mr. Ravenor?” I cried, wondering.
“Yes.”
Late in the afternoon of the following day a visitor rode through the stack-yard and reined in his horse before our door. I was reading in the room which my mother chiefly occupied and, when I glanced out of the side-window, overhung and darkened by jessamine and honeysuckle, I had a great surprise. The book dropped from my fingers and I stood still for a moment, uncertain what to do. For outside, sitting composedly upon his fine black horse and apparently considering as to the best means of making his presence known, was Mr. Ravenor.
He saw me and, with a curt but not ungracious motion of the head, beckoned me out. I went at once and found him dismounted and standing upon the step.
“I want to see your mother, boy,” he said sharply. “Is there no one about who can hold my horse? Where are all the farm men?”
I hesitated and stood there for a moment, awkward and confused. My mother’s strange words concerning him were still ringing in my ears. Supposing she refused to come down and receive, as a visitor, the man of whom she had spoken such mysterious words? Nothing appeared to me more likely. And yet what was I to do?
He watched me, as though reading my thoughts. That he was indeed doing so I very quickly discovered.
“Quick, boy!” he said. “I am not accustomed to be kept waiting. I know as well as you do that I am not a welcome visitor, but your mother will see me, nevertheless. Call one of the men!”
I passed across the garden and entered the farmyard. Jim, the waggoner, was there, turning over a manure-heap, and I returned with him at my heels. Mr. Ravenor tossed him the reins and, stooping low, followed me into our little sitting-room.
He laid his whip upon the table and, selecting the most comfortable chair, sat down leisurely and crossed his legs. He was, of course, entirely at his ease, and was watching my discomposure with a quiet, mocking smile.
“Now go and tell your mother that I desire to see her!” he commanded.
With slow steps I turned away, and, mounting the stairs, knocked at her door.
“Mother, there is a visitor downstairs!” I called out softly. “It is——”
“I know,” she answered calmly. “Go away. I shall be down in a few minutes.”
I went downstairs again and into the sitting-room, breathing more freely. Mr. Ravenor had not stirred, and when I entered appeared to be deep in thought. At the sound of my footsteps, however, his expression changed at once into its former impassiveness. He glanced round the room with an air of lazy curiosity and his half-closed eyes rested upon my little case of books.
“What have you there?” he inquired. “Read me out the titles.”
I did so, with just an inkling of reluctance, for my collection was altogether a haphazard one, precious though it was to me. Half-way through he checked me.
“There, that’ll do!” he exclaimed, laughing softly. “This is really idyllic. ‘Abercrombie’ and ‘Robinson Crusoe,’ ‘Jeremy Taylor’ and ‘Thomas à Kempis.’ My poor boy, if you have a headpiece at all, how it must want oiling!”
I was a little indignant at his tone and answered him quickly.
“I don’t know. I’m not sure that I should care for your kind of books very much.”
He arched his fine eyebrows and the smile still lingered around his lips.
“Indeed! And why not? And how have you been able to divine what sort of books mine are, without having seen them?”
“Well, perhaps I don’t mean that exactly,” I answered, sitting on the edge of the table, and thrusting my hands deep down into my trousers pockets, with the uncomfortable sensation that I was making a fool of myself. “I was judging from what you said you were last night. If study has only brought you to pessimism, I would rather be ignorant.”
“You really are a wonderfully wise boy for your years,” he said, still smiling. “But you must remember that there are two distinct branches of study. One, the more popular and the more commonly recognised, leads to acquired knowledge—the knowledge of facts and sciences and languages; the other is the pure sharpening and training of the mind, by reading other men’s thoughts and ideas and theories—in short, by becoming master of all the philosophical writers of all nations. Now, it is the latter which you would have to avoid in order to retain your present Arcadian simplicity; but without the former, man is scarcely above the level of an animal.”
“I think I see what you mean,” I admitted. “I should like to be a good classical scholar and mathematician, and know a lot of things. It seems to me,” I added hesitatingly, “that this sort of knowledge is quite sufficient to strengthen and train the mind. The other would be very likely to overtrain it and prove unhealthy, especially if it leads everyone where it has led you.”
“Oh, I wanted no leading!” he said lightly. “I was born a pessimist. Schopenhauer was my earliest friend, Voltaire my teacher, and Shelley my god! Matter of disposition, of course. I had too little imagination to care a rap about cultivating a religion, and too much to be a moralist. Your mother is coming at last, then?”
The door opened and I looked up anxiously. The words of introduction which had been trembling upon my lips were unuttered. I stood as helpless and dumbfounded as a ploughboy, with my eyes fixed upon my mother.
That it was my mother I could not at first believe. She wore a plain dark dress, with a black lace kerchief about her neck; but a dress, simple though it was, of a style and material unlike any that I had ever before seen her wear. Although I knew nothing of her history, I had always suspected that she was of a very different station from my father’s, and at that moment I knew it, for it seemed as though she had, of a sudden, made up her mind to assume her proper position. Not only were her dress and the fashion of arranging her hair unusual, but her manners, her voice, her whole bearing and appearance were utterly changed. It was as though she had, without the slightest warning, dropped the mask of long years, and stepped back, like a flash, into the personality which belonged to her.
Nor was this the only change. A slight pink flush had chased the leaden pallor from her cheeks, and her eyes, which had of late seemed dull and heavy, were full of sparkling light and suppressed animation. Her manners, as well as her personal appearance, all bore witness to some startling metamorphosis. I was more than astonished; I was thunderstruck. What seemed to me most wonderful was that a visit from the man against whom she had so solemnly and passionately cautioned me should thus have galvanised her into another state of being.
Mr. Ravenor rose at her entrance and bowed with the easy grace of a man of the world. My mother returned his greeting with a stately self-possession which matched his own; but it struck me, watching them both closely, that, while he was perfectly collected, she was in reality far from being so. I could see the delicate white fingers of her left hand fold themselves convulsively around the lace handkerchief which she was carrying, and when she entered a shiver—gone in a moment and perceptible only to me, because my eyes were fastened upon her—shook her slim, lithe figure.
But in the few commonplace remarks which first passed between them there was nothing in speech or manner that betrayed the least embarrassment. She answered him as one of his own order, graciously, yet just allowing him to see that his visit was a surprise to her and that she expected him to declare its purpose. I have dwelt somewhat upon this meeting for reasons which will be sufficiently apparent when I have finished my story.
After a few remarks about the farm, the crops, and the favourable weather, he gave the wished-for explanation.
“I have come to say a few words to you about your son, Mrs. Morton,” he began abruptly.
She and I looked equally astonished.
“I am a man of few words,” he continued. “The few which I desire to say upon this subject had better be said, I think, to you alone, Mrs. Morton.”
I would have left the room at once, but my mother prevented me. She laid a trembling hand upon my shoulder, and drew me closer to her.
“You can have nothing to say to me, Mr. Ravenor, which it would not be better for him to hear, especially as you say that it concerns him.”
He shrugged his high, square shoulders, as though indifferent; but I fancied, nevertheless, that a shade of annoyance lingered in his face for a moment.
“Very good!” he said shortly. “Rumour may have told you, Mrs. Morton, if you ever listen to such things, that I am a very wicked man. Possibly! I don’t deny it! At any rate, I am, by disposition and custom, profoundly selfish. I owe to your son a luxury—that of having found my thoughts withdrawn from myself for a few minutes—with me a most rare event.
“I met him last evening and talked with him. He talked like a fool, it is true, but that has nothing to do with it. Afterwards I thought of him again; wondered what you were going to do with him; remembered—pardon me!—that you must be poor; and remembered, also, that you have suffered through a servant of mine.”
He paused. For nearly half a minute they looked one another in the face—my mother and this man. There was something in her rapt, fascinated gaze, and in the keen, brilliant light which flashed from his dark eyes as he returned it, which seemed strange to me. It was like a challenge offered and accepted—a duel in which neither was vanquished, for neither flinched.
“It occurred to me then,” he continued calmly, “to call and ask you what you intended doing with him, and to plead, as excuses for the suggestion which I am about to make, the reasons which I have just stated. I am a rich man, as you know, and the money would be nothing to me. I wish to be allowed to defray the expenses of finishing your son’s education.”
It seemed to me a magnificently generous offer, but a very simple one. I could not understand the agitation and apparent indecision which it caused my mother. Her prompt refusal I could have understood, although it would have been a blow to me. But this mixture of horror and consternation, of emotion and dismay, I could make nothing of. The feeling which I had imagined would surely be manifested—gratitude—was conspicuous by its absence. What did it all mean?
My mother sat down and Mr. Ravenor leaned back in his armchair, apparently content to wait for her decision. I moved across the room to her side and took her cold fingers into mine.
“Mother,” I cried, with glowing cheeks and voice trembling with eagerness, “what is the matter? Why do you not say ‘yes’? You know how I have wanted to go to college! There is no reason why you should not consent, is there?”
Mr. Ravenor smiled—a very slight movement of the lips.
“If your mother considers your interests at all,” he said calmly, “she will certainly consent.”
I was about to speak, but my mother looked up and I checked the words on my lips.
“Mr. Ravenor,” she said quietly, “I accept your offer and I thank you for it. That is all I can say.”
“Quite enough,” he remarked nonchalantly.
“But there is one thing I should like you to understand,” she added, looking up at him. “I consent, it is true; but, had it not been for another reason, far more powerful with me than any you have urged, I never should have done so. It is a reason which you do not know of—and which I pray that you never may know of,” she added, in a lower key.
He made no answer; indeed, he seemed little interested in my mother’s words. He turned, instead, to me and read in my face all the enthusiasm which hers lacked. I would have spoken, but he held up his hand and checked me.
“Only on one condition,” he said coldly. “No thanks. I hate them! What I do for you I do to please myself. The money which it will cost me is no more than I have thrown away many times on the idlest passing pleasure. I have simply chosen to gratify a whim, and it happens that you are the gainer. Remember that you can best show your gratitude by silence.”
His words fell like drops of ice upon my impetuosity. I remained silent without an effort.
“From what you said just now,” he continued, “I learn that it has been your desire to perfect your education in a fashion which you could not have done here. Have you any distinct aims? I mean, have you any definite ideas as to the future?”
I shook my head.
“I never dared to encourage any,” I answered, truthfully enough. “I knew that we were poor and that I should have to think about earning my living soon—probably as a schoolmaster.”
“You mean to say, then, that you have never had any distinct ambitions—everything has been vague?”
“Except one thing,” I answered slowly. “There is one thing which I have always set before me to accomplish some day, but it is scarcely an ambition and it has nothing to do with a career.”
“Tell it to me!” he commanded.
I did so, without hesitation, looking him full in the face with heightened colour, but speaking with all the determination which I felt in my heart.
“I have made up my mind that some day I will find the man Francis—the man who murdered my father!”
He was silent. I could almost have fancied that he was in some measure moved by my words, and the refined beauty of his dark face was heightened for a moment by the strange, sad look which flashed across it. Then he rose and took up his riding-whip from the table.
“A boyish enthusiasm,” he remarked contemptuously, as he made his way towards the door. “Where the cleverest detectives in England have failed, you hope to succeed. Well, I wish you success. The rascal deserves to swing, certainly. You will hear further from me in a day or two. Good-morning!”
He left the room abruptly and I followed him, stepping bareheaded out into the sunshine to look about for Jim, who was leading his horse up and down the road.
When I returned, Mr. Ravenor was still standing upon the doorstep watching me intently.
“I am going back to speak to your mother for a moment,” he said slowly, withdrawing his eyes from my face at last. “No; stop where you are!” he added imperatively. “I wish to speak to her alone.”
I obeyed him and wandered about the orchard until I saw him come out and gallop furiously away across the park. Then I hurried into the house.
“Mother!” I exclaimed, calling out to her before I had opened the door of the parlour—“mother, what do you—”
I stopped short and hurried to her side, alarmed at her appearance. Her cheeks, even her lips, were ashen pale and her eyes were closed. She had fainted in her chair.
For the first time in my life I was on my way to Ravenor Castle, summoned there by a brief, imperious note from Mr. Ravenor. Often had I looked longingly from the distant hills of the park upon its grey, rugged towers and mighty battlements; but I had never dared to clamber over the high wall into the inner grounds, nor even to make my way up the servants’ drive to win a closer acquaintance with it.
One reason why I had abstained from doing what, on the face of it, would seem a very natural thing to do, was a solemn promise to my mother, extracted from me almost as soon as I was able to get about by myself, never to pass within that great boundary-wall which completely encircled the inner grounds and wardens of the castle. But, apart from that, the thing would have been impossible for me, in any case.
I have already said that Mr. Ravenor bore the character of being a remarkably eccentric man. Perhaps one of the most striking manifestations of this eccentricity lay in the rigid seclusion in which he chose to live while at the Castle, and the extraordinary precautions which he had taken to prevent all intruders and visitors of every sort from obtaining access to him.
From the outer part there was indeed no attempt to exclude anyone belonging to the neighbourhood who chose to ramble about there, and in Mr. Ravenor’s absence visitors who had obtained permission from the steward were occasionally permitted to drive through; but to the grounds and the Castle itself access was simply an impossibility. Had Ravenor Castle been the abode of a sovereign, and the country around in possession of a hostile people, the precautions could scarcely have been more rigorous.
The high stone wall, which encircled the Castle and gardens for a circuit of three-quarters of a mile, effectually shut them off from the outside world. The postern-gates with which it was pierced were of solid iron, and the locks which secured them were said to have been fashioned by a Hindoo whom Mr. Ravenor had once brought home with him from India, and to be perfectly unique in their design and workmanship. The two main carriage entrances, about half a mile apart, were remarkable for nothing but the fine proportions of the towering iron gates; but they were always kept jealously locked and barred, and the fate of the uninvited guest who presented himself there was inevitable. There was no admittance.
The afternoon was drawing towards a close when I turned the last corner of the winding avenue and approached the entrance. It had been a wild, blustering day; but just before I started from home the wind had dropped and a watery sun, feebly piercing the masses of heavy clouds with which the sky was strewn, was shining down, with a wan, unnatural glow, upon the clumps of fir-trees on either side of the way and the massive, frowning towers of the Castle close above me.
Under foot and around me everything was wet. With the faintest stir of the dying breeze showers of raindrops fell from shrubs and trees, and at every step my feet sank into the soft, soaked gravel, or sent the moisture bubbling up from the layers of rotten leaves and twigs which the morning’s gale had scattered along the road.
It was an afternoon to damp anyone’s spirits; and it was perhaps to the influence of the weather that I owed the sudden sinking of heart and courage which came over me as I slackened my pace before the grim-looking lodges and barred gate. I had started from home, notwithstanding my mother’s white face and nervous, trembling manner, in a state of pleasurable excitement.
I was about to penetrate into a mystery which had been the curiosity of my boyhood; I was to become one of those favoured few who had been permitted to pass within the portals of Ravenor Castle; and, more than that, I was about to visit there as the guest of a man whose marvellous reputation, personality, and career had kindled within me an almost passionate reverence—a man who had long been the object of my devoted, although boyish and unreasonable, hero-worship. Yet, though it would seem that I had everything to gain and nothing to fear or lose from the coming interview, no sooner had I arrived within sight of my destination than my spirits sank to zero.
A woman would have called it a presentiment and have accepted it with mute despair. To me it seemed only an unreasonable reaction from my previous state of suppressed excitement—a feeling to be crushed at any cost, lest I should stand, with gloomy, unthankful face, before the man in whose power it lay to raise me from my present distasteful position and prospects. So I threw my head back and quickened my steps, keeping resolutely before me in my thoughts all that I had ventured to hope from my forthcoming interview; and by the time I stood before the great iron gates and stretched out my hand to ring the bell, the depression had almost passed away, and the eagerness which I felt was, no doubt, fully reflected m my countenance.
I had no need to ring. My last quick footstep had fallen upon a harder substance than the gravel upon which I had been walking, and the contact of my feet with it made my presence known in a manner which surprised me not a little. There was a shrill ringing from the lodge door on my right, and almost simultaneously it opened and a servant came out in the dark Ravenor livery.
“Will you be so good, sir, as to step off the planking?” he said.
I moved a yard or two backwards, and the bell—it was an electric bell, of course—instantly ceased. It was my first experience of any such means of communication, and I stood for a moment looking down in some bewilderment.
“Your name and business, sir?” the man inquired respectfully. “Did you wish to see Mr. Clemson?” Mr. Clemson was the steward.
“My name is Morton, and my business is with Mr. Ravenor,” I answered. “I want to see him.”
“I am afraid that Mr. Ravenor will not be able to see you, sir,” he said. “Have you an appointment?”
“Yes; for five o’clock,” I answered. And the words had scarcely left my lips before the first stroke of the hour boomed out from the great Castle clock. Perhaps, more than anything else could have done, that sound brought home to me the realisation of where I was. Hour after hour, all through my life, from the depths of Rothland Wood, from the home meadows, or in my long rambles over the far-away Barnwood Hills, I had heard those deep, throbbing chimes; sometimes faint and low, when the wind bore the sound away from me, sometimes harsh and piercing in the storm, and often as dear and distinct as though only a sheet of water stretched between us. And now I stood almost within a stone’s throw of them, and marvelled no longer that the deep, resounding notes should travel so far over hill and moor that I had never yet been able to wander out of hearing of them.
The man accepted my explanation after a moment’s hesitation, and, standing aside from the doorway out of which he had issued, motioned me to enter. I did so and received a fresh surprise. Instead of finding myself in the home of one of the servants of the estate, which would have seemed the natural thing, I found myself in a most luxuriously furnished waiting-room, hung with mirrors and oak-framed paintings upon a dark panelled wall. My feet sank into a thick carpet, and I subsided, a little dazed, into a low, crimson velvet chair, and found beside me a table covered with magazines.
The man followed me into the room, and, as he passed on his way to its upper end, he wheeled towards me a smaller table on which were decanters and glasses and a long box of cigarettes. Scarcely glancing at them, I watched him unlock a tall cupboard and half vanish inside it.
He remained there for a space of almost five minutes. Then he stepped out, carefully locked it and advanced towards me. I fancied that there was a shade more respect in his manner and certainly some surprise.
“Mr. Ravenor’s servant will be here in a few minutes, sir, to show you the way to the Castle.”
I thought that I could have found it very well by myself, but, of course, I could not say so. I occupied myself by examining the contents of the room, and struggled for a few moments between a feeling of strong curiosity and a natural disinclination to ask questions of a servant, especially one whose manner seemed so little to invite them. Finally the former conquered.
“How did you find that out without leaving this room?” I asked.
He pointed to the cupboard.
“We have a telephone there in connection with the Castle, sir,” he explained. Then he busied himself arranging some papers on a table at the other end of the apartment, with the obvious air of not desiring to be questioned further.
The explanation was so simple that I smiled. I began to realise the very insufficient causes which had given rise to the stories which were always floating about concerning the mystery in which the master of Ravenor Castle chose to dwell. What more natural than that a man of liberal education, with a passion for absolute solitude, should seek to insure it by some such means as these, by the application of very simple scientific devices, common enough in a city, but unheard of in our quiet country neighbourhood?
I was kept waiting for about a quarter of an hour. Then the door was opened noiselessly from without and a tall, dark man, clean-shaven and dressed in black, relieved by an immaculate white tie, entered and looked at me. I rose to my feet and threw down the magazine which I had been pretending to read.
“You are Mr. Morton?” he inquired, in a subdued tone, glancing steadily at me the while with somewhat puzzled, criticising gaze, which, perhaps unreasonably, annoyed me extremely. It was an annoyance which I took pains not to show, however, for something about the personality of the man impressed me. His manner, though studiously respectful, was not without a certain quiet dignity, and his thin oval face—thin almost to emaciation—had in it more than a suspicion of refinement. My first glance, whilst I was undergoing his brief scrutiny, assured me that this was no ordinary servant.
“That is my name,” I answered. “You have come to take me to Mr. Ravenor?”
“If you will be so good as to follow me, sir.”
I took up my cap and did so, taking long, swinging strides up the steep ascent, hoping thereby to gain his side and ask him a few questions about the place. But he prevented this by hurrying on when I was close behind him; so, after the third attempt I gave it up, and contented myself by looking around me as much as I could, and making the most of the short walk.
On one side of the drive—I had been along few highways as wide—was a tall yew hedge, which shut out little from my view, for the thick black pine-wood which overtopped and formed so striking a background to the grand old Castle had never been thinned in this direction, and stretched away in a wide, irregular belt, skirting the long line of out-buildings to the hills and beyond. But on the right hand only a low ring-fence separated us from the grounds immediately in front of the Castle, which a sudden bend in the sharply winding road brought into full view.
My absolute ignorance of architecture forbids my attempting to describe it, save in its general effect. I remember even now what that effect was upon me when I stood for the first time almost at its foot. At a distance its frowning battlements and worn grey turrets had a majestic appearance; but, standing as I did then, within a few hundred yards of its vast, imposing front, and almost under the shadow of its walls and towers, its effect was nothing short of awe-inspiring.
I almost held my breath as I gazed upon it and the terrace lawns, sloping away below, smooth-shaven, velvetty, the very perfection of English turf. Not that I had much time to look about me. On the contrary, my conductor never once slackened his pace, and when I involuntarily paused for a moment, with eyes riveted upon the magnificent pile before me, he looked round sharply and beckoned me impatiently to proceed.
“Mr. Ravenor is not used to be kept waiting, sir,” he remarked, “and will be expecting us.”
I pulled myself together with an effort and followed him more closely. We passed under a bridge of solid masonry, moss-encrusted, and indented with the storms of ages and the ruder marks of battering-ram and cannon, across a wide, circular courtyard protected by massive iron gates, which rolled slowly open before us with many ponderous creakings and gratings, as though reluctant to admit a stranger, into a great, white, stone-paved hall, dimly lighted, yet sufficiently so to enable me to perceive the long rows of armoured warriors which lined the walls, and the lances and spears and shields which flashed above their heads.
We passed straight across it, our footsteps awakening clattering echoes as they fell on the polished flags, through a door on the opposite side, into a room which nearly took my breath away. From the high, vaulted ceiling to the floor, on every side of the apartment, were books—nothing but books.
Two men—one old, the other of about my own age—looked up from a table as we entered and paused in their work, which seemed to be cataloguing; but my guide passed them without remark or notice, and walked straight across the room to where a crimson curtain, hanging down in thick folds, concealed a black oak door. Here he knocked, and I waited by his side until the answer came in that clear, low tone, which, though I had heard it but once or twice before, I could have recognised in a thousand. Then my guide turned the handle and, silently motioning me to enter, left me.
At first I had eyes only for the dark figure seated a few yards away from me at a small writing-table drawn into the centre of the room. He was bending low over his desk and never even raised his eyes or ceased writing at my entrance. Before him on the table, and scattered around his chair on the floor, were many sheets of white foolscap covered with his broad, firm handwriting, some with the ink scarcely dry upon them; and while I stood before him he impatiently swept another one from his desk and, without waiting to see it flutter to the ground, began a fresh sheet.
A glass of water, a few dry biscuits, and a little pile of books—some turned face-downwards—were by his side. Nothing else was on the table, save a great pile of unused paper, a watch detached from its chain, and a heavily-shaded lamp, which threw a ghastly light upon his white, worn face, and his dry, brilliant eyes, under which were faintly engraven the dark rims of the student.