“Who might he have been, sir?” John inquired curiously.
“Just what I should like to know,” I answered. “He’s a lunatic and a dangerous one, that’s certain—escaped from some asylum, I should think.” And I told him of my adventure on the previous night, to which the whole group listened open-mouthed.
“I’m thinking, sir,” John remarked, when I had finished, “that it’d be as well for Foulds and I to have a scour round and see if we can’t find him, or he’ll be doing someone a mischief.”
“If you are not very busy I wish you would,” I said. “I don’t feel quite easy at the thought of his wandering about round here. If you do find him, lock him up and send word to the police-station at Mellborough.”
After breakfast that morning my mother made a request which startled me almost as much it delighted me.
“I am going to walk over to the monastery, Philip,” she said quietly. “Will you come with me?”
“Of course I will, mother,” I answered promptly. “Nothing could give me greater pleasure. When will you start?”
“I shall be ready in half an hour,” she said, with a faint smile, as though she were pleased at my ready acquiescence. Then she left the room to get ready.
In about the time she had mentioned she came into the garden to me and we started on our walk. It was a very uneventful one, but I don’t think that I shall ever forget it. My mother seemed, after her brief relapse into comparative kindness, to have become more inaccessible than ever; and she walked along by my side, with downcast eyes and a nervous, thoughtful expression on her pale face.
I, too, felt somewhat depressed at starting, but soon the fresh, pure air, becoming stronger and stronger as we left the road and followed the footpath by Beacon Hill, had its invariable effect upon my spirits. All perplexing thoughts and forebodings of trouble passed away from me like magic, and my heart beat and the blood flowed through my veins with all the impetuous ardour of sanguine youth.
At the top of the hill we paused, I to look round upon my favourite scene, my mother to rest for a moment. Then we saw how great had been the storm of the night before.
Here and there were the bare trunks of trees and many a cattle-shed and barn stood roofless. The storm seemed to have worked havoc everywhere, save where, on the summit of its wooded hill, Ravenor Castle, with its great range of mighty battlements, its vast towers, and grey walls of invincible thickness, frowned down upon the country at its feet. Looking across at it, it seemed to me that the place had never seemed so imposing as then.
My mother stood by my side and noticed my intent gaze.
“You admire Ravenor Castle very much, Philip?” she said quietly.
I withdrew my eyes with an effort.
“I do, mother,” I confessed; “very much indeed. The place has a sort of fascination for me—and the man who lives there!”
My mother had turned a little away from me and stood with face upturned to heaven and mutely moving lips. Out of her eyes I could see the tears slowly welling, and her tall slim figure was convulsed with sobs. I sprang to her side and caught hold of her hand.
“What is it, mother?” I cried. “Tell me!”
She shook her head sadly.
“Not now, Philip—not now. Come, let us go!”
Side by side we began to descend the hill. Our path wound around several freshly-planted spinneys and then led through a plantation of pine-trees.
Then we turned with regret, so far as I was concerned, into the muddy road again and walked for more than a mile between high, straight hedges. At last, soon after mid-day, we turned to the left, passed through a farmyard and along a winding path, which led us, now by the side of turnip fields, now across bracken-covered open country, to the summit of our last hill.
Here again we paused. Below us, close up against the background of the colourless hills, drearily situated in the bleakest spot of the austere landscape, the straight spires and severely simple buildings of the monastery were clustered together. A little above it, on an artificial eminence of rock, a rude cross stood out in vivid relief against the sky, and on this my mother’s eyes were fixed with a sort of rapt wistfulness, as we stood side by side on the top of the hill looking downwards.
It was a fitting spot that these men—who counted it among their virtues that in their rigid self-immolation they had cut themselves off even from the beauties of Nature—had chosen for their habitation. But although the place had a peculiar impressiveness of its own, which never failed to exercise a sort of fascination upon me, I was glad to-day when my mother moved forward again.
As we neared the end of our journey and turned in at the long, straight avenue which led to the monastery doors, the strange agitation which I had noticed in my mother’s manner during the earlier part of the day visibly increased. The cold inexpressiveness which had dwelt for so long in her face vanished, and into it there crept a look which, having once seen, I cared not to look upon again. It seemed as though she were endeavouring to brace herself up for some tremendous ordeal, and I would have given anything to have been able to put into words the sympathy which had risen up strongly within me.
Unnatural, cold, severe and, at the best of times, indifferent, as she had lately been to me, she was still my mother and I loved her. But I dared not break in with words upon the fierce anguish which was already beginning to leave its marks upon her white, strained face. Only when we stood before the bare stone front of the monastery, and with feeble fingers she had pulled the great iron bell, could I speak at all, and then the words were not such as I wished to speak. Afterwards, when I thought of them—and I often did think of them and of every trifling incident of that memorable walk—they seemed to me weak and ill-chosen.
But, such as they were, I am glad that I spoke them.
She listened as one whose thoughts were far away, but when I ceased, breathless, she laid her hand upon my arm and, with her dim, sad eyes looking into mine, said simply:
“This is for your sake, Philip—for your sake!”
Then, before I could ask her what she meant, the great door slowly opened and the guest-master stood before us. She passed him with a silent salutation and vanished on her way to the chapel; and, though I watched her longingly, I dared not follow. Then, declining Father Bernard’s invitation to go to his room and rest, I turned away from the door and wandered into the grounds.
Hour after hour of the brief winter’s day passed away. Father Bernard came out in search of me and offered me refreshments; but I shook my head. I could not eat, nor drink, nor rest. A strange but powerful apprehension of some coming crisis in my life—some great evil connected with my mother’s visit to this place—had laid hold of me, and all my struggles against it were impotent.
It was late in the afternoon before she came. I had climbed up to the top of “Calvary” and, with sick heart and longing eyes, was watching the door from which she must issue. Suddenly it was opened and she stood for a moment upon the threshold looking around for me. To my dying day I shall think of her as I saw her then.
Her face was the face of a saint—calm, passionless, and happy, with a gentle, chastened happiness. I knew, when I looked upon her, that she had left the burden of her great sorrow behind. But she had paid a price for it. Pale and fragile as she had always appeared, she seemed now to have been wasted by some fierce, scathing ordeal, which had driven out of her features everything human and left only a spiritual life. As she moved slowly forward into the drive and I saw her even more distinctly, she seemed to me to have gained a strange, new beauty; but it was a beauty which made me look upon her with a sudden shuddering fear.
I hurried down to her side and she welcomed me with a smile such as I had seldom seen on her face, and which was altogether in harmony with her softened expression. Then she took my arm and we turned towards home.
“You are happier now, mother?” I ventured to ask her, and she answered me by silently pressing my arm.
We passed down the avenue, thickly strewn with decaying leaves, along the winding lane, and through the gate which led up to Ive’s Head Hill. Once or twice as we were making the ascent I fancied that she hung heavily upon my arm and I asked if she were tired; but she only shook her head. We had reached the summit before the terrible fear which had been gnawing at my heart took definite shape. Then, for the first time since we had started upon our return journey, I was able to look into her face, which she had been keeping averted from me, and when I saw the ghastly change which had crept into it, my heart stood still and all my senses seemed numbed with fear.
“Mother,” I cried, “you are ill! What is the matter? Oh, speak to me—do!”
She had fallen into my arms, and her hands, which touched mine as they fell to her side, were as cold as ice. Her face was like the face of one who has already triumphed over the shadows of death. Far away at our feet the Cross of Calvary was standing out with rugged vividness against the fast darkening sky and upon it her closing eyes were steadily fixed. Her lips were slightly parted in a happy, confident smile, and her whole being seemed absorbed in the most religious devotion. Once she whispered my name and faintly pressed my hand; then her lips moved again and I heard the dread sound of the solemn prayer, faltered out in a broken whisper, “In manus Tuas, Domine!”
In my heart I knew that she was dying, and that human help would be of no avail. Yet I was loth to abandon all hope, and setting her gently down I looked anxiously around. On the summit of the next range of hills a man was sitting on horseback, looking down upon the monastery—a motionless figure against the sky. I cried out to him, and at the sound of my voice he started round and looked towards us; then, suddenly digging the spurs deep into the sides of his great black horse, he came thundering up the side of the hill at a pace which made the ground shake beneath my feet like the tremblings of an earthquake.
“What is wrong?” he cried hoarsely; and, looking into his face, I recognised Mr. Ravenor.
I pointed to my mother’s prostrate figure, and, gazing at him with dry eyes, I answered mechanically:
“She is dying!”
The words had scarcely left my lips before he had leaped from his horse, and, passing his arm around her, bent over her pallid face.
“Oh, this is horrible!” he murmured. “You must not die—you must not die! I have——”
His voice seemed choked with emotion and he did not finish his sentence. She spoke to him, but so softly that I could not hear the words.
I walked a few yards away and once more looked wildly round. Far away on the dark hillside I could see the white-robed figures of the lay brethren bending over their labour. Nearer there was no one. The road below was deserted and a deep stillness seemed brooding over the bare, shadowy landscape. Sick at heart I turned back and fell on my knees by my mother’s side.
We remained there, fearing almost to look into her face, until the twilight deepened upon the hills and slowly blotted out from our view even the dark cross standing up against the grey sky. Then Mr. Ravenor leaned for a moment forward and a low groan escaped from his lips. It told me what I dreaded—that my mother was dead!
The paroxysm of my grief passed slowly away, and I rose to my feet and looked around with streaming eyes. Mr. Ravenor was still by my side, and together we carried my mother back to the monastery. The news of our approach had preceded us, and long before we reached our journey’s end the solemn minute-bell was tolling out to the silent night, awakening strange echoes in the hills and finding a reverberation of its mournfulness in my heart.
Austere and impressive as the great bare front of the monastery had always appeared to me, it had never seemed so cold and desolate as when our melancholy little procession wound round the Hill of Calvary and slowly approached the entrance. The gloom of a winter’s evening was hanging around the building, which, with never a ray of light from any part, looked like a habitation of the dead—a gigantic vault.
But suddenly, as we drew near, the front door was slowly opened and the dark figure of a monk, holding above his head a lighted taper, stood on the steps and in a low monotone repeated a Latin prayer. When he ceased there was a moment’s silence, and then from the chapel there came the sound of deep voices chanting slowly in solemn unison theMiserere.
The remainder of that night seems like a dream to me now, of which I can recall but little. But I remember that, long past midnight, when I had thrown myself down upon the stone floor of the guest-chamber, I heard soft steps and the rustle of garments approaching me, and, looking up, I saw the sweetest face I ever beheld in man or woman looking down into mine from the deep folds of a monk’s cowl.
He stayed with me for a while, speaking welcome words of comfort; then, gathering his robes about him, he stood up, prepared to leave. But first he handed me a small packet.
“This was left in my charge for you, Philip Morton,” he said. “Little did I dream that so soon I should be called upon to fulfil my trust. Take it, my son.”
The packet, which I opened with reverent fingers, was a very small one, and consisted of a single letter only. That I might see the more clearly to read it, I pushed open the narrow, diamond-framed window, and the moonlight filled the little room with a soft, mellowed light. Then I read:
“The Barnwood Monastery of St. Clement’s,“November 19th, 18—.
“The Barnwood Monastery of St. Clement’s,
“November 19th, 18—.
“My dearest Son,—I write these lines to you, Philip, feeling happier than I have done for many years, because I have a deep and sure conviction that my life is drawing fast to a close, and that the end may come at any minute. Alas! my son, I feel that I have not been to you all that a mother should be. It may be that my coldness has alienated from me the love which I know you have been willing to give. It may be so; but I choose rather to believe that you will pity me when I tell you that the coldness which has grown up between us was none of my choosing, but was only part of a terrible punishment which I have had to bear for many weary years.
“What my sin—or let me be merciful to myself and call it my error—was, I do not purpose here to tell you. Some day the person at whose discretion I have left it may deem it well to tell you the whole story. For my sake, Philip, for the sake of the love which I know you bear me—and which, God knows, I have for you—I beg you to wait until that time comes and not seek to hasten it.
“Think of me as kindly as you can, dear. If the path which I chose to follow was not the wisest, I have, at least, suffered terribly for it. For many weary years grief and horror and remorse have been making my life one long purgatory. Yes, I have suffered indeed. But at last I have found peace.
“Do not marvel at what I am going to tell you, Philip. My will—the little I have to leave is yours—is drawn up and signed and I have appointed Mr. Ravenor your guardian. There are reasons for this which you cannot know, but he will be only too glad to accept the charge; and in all things, Philip, even if he should desire you altogether to change your position in life, follow his command and submit to his wishes.
“Farewell, my beloved son—farewell! God grant that your life may be good and happy, and that your last days may be as peaceful as mine. I can wish you nothing better. Once more, farewell!—Your affectionate
“Mother.”
“Mother.”
My mother’s death marked an epoch in my life, for immediately afterwards a great change came over my circumstances and position. Of the dreary days just before and after the funeral I shall here say but little. Their sadness is for me and me alone.
Until after the ceremony I remained at the monastery, seeking relief from my thoughts by rambles over the hills, by watches at dead of night before the spot where, with many candles burning round her open coffin, my mother lay, and by long conversations with Father Alexander, my comforter. When the time of the funeral came, Mr. Ravenor stood by my side, the only other mourner, and I knew that the banks of choice white flowers, which smothered the coffin and perfumed the winter air, were his gift.
After it was all over he came to me where I stood, a little apart, and put his hand upon my shoulder.
“Philip, my boy,” he said kindly, “will you come back to the Castle with me? I am your guardian now, you know.”
I drew a long breath.
“Let me go back to the farm for a week by myself,” I said; “then I will come to you. Be ready to go to Dr. Randall’s.”
“Let it be so, then,” he answered. “Perhaps it is best.”
I said good-bye to the monks, especially to Father Alexander, with regret, for they had all been very good to me. Then I accompanied Mr. Ravenor to his carriage and was driven swiftly homewards.
The week that followed I spent in solitude, and as the days passed by the bitterness of my grief left me. Not that the memory of my mother grew less dear—rather the reverse; but I began to recognise that what had happened was best. Better that she should have died thus, full of thoughts of holy things and with a conscience at rest, than that she should still be bearing with aching heart a burden which she had never deserved.
On the last day of the week I was told that a visitor had arrived and wished to see me, and before I could ask his name he had entered the room. It was Mr. Marx.
The man was surely an admirable actor. Instinct told me that he cared not a jot for either my mother or me; but his few words of sympathy were excellently chosen and gracefully spoken. Then he at once changed the subject and talked pleasantly of other things; and as he went on I suddenly remembered that I had not seen him since the night of our drive home from Torchester, and that, therefore, he could know nothing of the adventure which had befallen me after his departure. I took advantage, therefore, of a pause in the conversation to tell him all about it; and, impassive though his face was, I could see that it made a great impression.
“Do you remember what the man was like?” he asked, knitting his brows. “Can you describe him?”
I did so as well as I could and in the midst of my narration, making some trivial excuse, he moved his chair out of the light into the shadows of the room. But if he wished to escape my scrutiny he was a little too late, for I had already noticed his blanched face and trembling hands. Evidently there was something more in this midnight attack than I had thought. Who was the lunatic? I wondered. I felt sure, looking at him closely, that Mr. Marx knew. No need now for Mr. Ravenor to warn me against the companionship of this man. Already my passive dislike had grown into an active aversion.
Instinctively I felt that he was both unscrupulous and untrustworthy. I felt that he was seeking me for ends of his own, and all the time I was half afraid of him.
Doubtless my manner showed that he was no welcome visitor, but still he lingered. At last my housekeeper brought me in my afternoon cup of tea and I was compelled to ask him to join me. He did so, drank it thoughtfully, and immediately afterwards rose to go.
“I have been wondering what can have become of this poor lunatic,” he said carelessly. “Scarcely a pleasant person to meet on a dark evening.”
I shrugged my shoulders as I walked out into the hall with him.
“It is nearly a fortnight ago,” I remarked; “he can hardly have remained in the neighbourhood and in hiding all this time.”
“Still, if he had been captured we should have heard of it,” Mr. Marx objected.
“Probably. And yet I don’t see why. I should not, at any rate, as I have been away at the monastery; and you, I don’t know how you would have heard of it, unless you read the local papers.”
“A weakness of which I am not guilty,” he answered drily. “Nor have I been outside the grounds. We have been hard at work.”
“Did you walk here?” I asked.
He shook his head.
“I came down in a trap from the Castle, but the man was going to Mellborough and I told him not to wait for me. You won’t walk across the park with me, I suppose, just to get an appetite for dinner? It’s a splendid evening.”
I looked at him furtively, but closely. Yes, Mr. Marx was a coward, in addition to his other slight demerits.
“No, thanks,” I answered shortly. “I’ve had a long walk already today. Good evening!”
I turned back into the sitting-room, but before I had reached my easy-chair I began to think that I was scarcely behaving well. After all, Mr. Marx was a middle-aged man, and it was possible that his strength might have been sapped by the brain labour in which he was constantly engaged and his sedentary life.
Supposing he were to encounter this lunatic and suffer at his hands, perhaps even lose his life, should I not blame myself? I came to a speedy decision. I would let him have his fright, but I would follow him at a little distance and see that he came to no harm.
I took a short, heavy stick from the rack and, crossing the stackyard, vaulted over the palings into the park, purposely avoiding the gate. About a hundred yards in front Mr. Marx was walking quickly along, with both hands in his ulster pockets, and looking frequently around him. Men had been busy in the park on the previous day cutting the bracken, and along the side of the road were many stacks of it waiting to be carted away. I noticed that whenever Mr. Marx drew near one of these he gave it a wide berth and I smiled to myself at this evidence of his anxiety.
I was walking on the turf, that he might not hear my footsteps, and was able to keep him easily in sight, for it was a clear, frosty evening, and the full moon was shining in a cloudless sky. At a sudden bend in the road he came in sight of a place where stacks of bracken had been left on either side opposite to each other. I saw him pause as though hesitating which he should avoid, and at the same moment I distinctly saw some dark body crouched down behind one of them and swaying slightly backwards and forwards.
I broke at once into a run, but before the echoes of my warning shout had died away a figure sprang like a wild cat at Mr. Marx’s throat. There was a flash and a sharp report, but from the direction of the former I could see that the revolver had been knocked up into the air and exploded harmlessly.
When at last I reached the assailant and his victim it was a fearful sight I looked upon. The face of the lunatic was ghastly and his wild eyes almost started from their sockets in his rage.
White and emaciated as a skeleton’s, his face was still capable of expression—and such an expression. A frenzied desire to kill seemed to be his sole aim, and his long, skinny fingers clutched Mr. Marx’s throat as in a vice. The latter’s eyeballs were protruding from his head and his breath was coming in short, agonised pants; yet all the while Mr. Marx was holding the madman in such a fierce grip that I could hear his ribs snapping like whalebone.
My arrival saved Mr. Marx from a speedy death by strangulation. Though I lifted the lunatic up in my arms and strained every muscle to pull him away, his fingers never relaxed till I stopped his breath and rendered him momentarily unconscious.
I waited for Mr. Marx to come to himself, my foot resting lightly upon the prostrate body of his assailant. Soon he rose slowly to his feet and began groping about in the road.
“What do you want?” I asked. “Lost anything?”
“My revolver.”
I pointed to where it lay gleaming in the moonlight. He picked it up and set it to an undischarged barrel. I watched him curiously.
“You won’t want that again,” I remarked. “What are you going to do with it?”
“I am going to put that beast out of his misery,” he answered.“Stand out of the way!”
“Nonsense! You will do nothing of the sort!” I cried hotly. “What! kill an insensible man? He has as much right to live as you. You shall not commit murder in my presence: and, least of all, shall you kill a poor insane creature like this. Put that thing up!”
An awful look flashed into his face, and, as he suddenly raised his arm, I looked into the dark muzzle of his revolver.
With a quick spring I wrenched the revolver from his hand, and, bending backwards, threw it far away into the bracken.
“I don’t know what you were going to do, Mr. Marx,” I said, looking at him steadily, “but it seems to me that you are not a fit person to be trusted with firearms.”
He stood still, speechless with rage. I turned my back upon him and found, to my surprise, that the man whose life Mr. Marx had so much desired was lying on his side, looking at me with wide-open eyes.
“Well, have your own way,” Mr. Marx said, quietly; “I dare say you are right. There was no need to be violent, or to throw away my favourite revolver. What do you propose to do with him?”
Mr. Marx advanced, but at the sight of him the lunatic, who was leaning heavily upon my arm, and groaning with pain, shrank down upon the ground, cowering at my feet like a dog. He covered his face with his hands and broke into one of the most pitiful cries of distress that I have ever heard from human lips. I motioned Mr. Marx back.
“I can manage him alone, I think; and the sight of you upsets him. Will you follow us down?”
Mr. Marx advanced a step or two, his eyes flashing with anger. Then suddenly he turned his back upon us, and, without a word, walked rapidly away. I raised my prisoner, and half carried, half dragged him back to the farm.
In a few hours the doctor from Rothland had arrived and speedily set the broken bones. He seemed much interested in the case and made a careful examination.
“Do you think he has been a lunatic long?” I asked.
The doctor shook his head.
“On the contrary,” he replied, “I should say his madness has come on quite recently—the effect of some severe shock probably. If he is treated properly there is no doubt that he will regain his reason.”
In a few days the lunatic was pronounced well enough in health to be moved; and as all inquiries and advertisements about him proved fruitless, he was consigned to the county asylum at Torchester.
On the third day after my adventure in the park Mr. Ravenor called to see me. He came in splashed from head to foot and had evidently ridden a long distance and fast. I offered him a chair and some refreshment, for he looked pale and tired, but he declined both, and walked slowly up and down the room, his hands grasping a long riding-whip behind his back.
“I can only give you a minute or two now, Morton,” he said, with some slight return of his former brusquehauteur; “I am expecting visitors from London to-night and must get back to receive them. But there is something I must say to you. You will be surprised to hear that your mother has left you a considerable property?”
I was very much surprised.
“Are you quite sure of this, Mr. Ravenor?” I ventured to ask. “My mother always spoke to me as though we were poor.”
“I do not make mistakes,” he answered, pausing in his walk and looking down upon me from his great height with knitted brows and piercing eyes, “least of all in matters of such importance. How much the exact sum will amount to I cannot tell yet, but it is more than twenty thousand pounds, so you will be able to choose your own profession. What will it be, I wonder—the Bar, the Army, the Church, agriculture? Come, you are a boy of imagination and have never been in love. You must have had day-dreams of some sort. Whither have they led you?”
“Not to any of the professions which you have mentioned,” I answered promptly.
“Then where? Tell me. I am curious to know.”
“My ideas have always been very vague,” I said slowly. “I should like to live quite away from any town, to read a good deal, and to spend the rest of my time out of doors; and then, perhaps, after a time, I might try to think something out and put it into words.”
“In short, you would like to be an author,” Mr. Ravenor broke in, with a slight smile.
“Yes; but I should not want to write to amuse people, or to become famous,” I went on, encouraged by Mr. Ravenor’s gravity. “I should like to make people think. I should like to make them turn aside from the groove of their daily life and realise that the world is full of greater and higher things than mere material prosperity. Men seem to me to find their daily work and pleasure too absorbing. They think of themselves and others only as individuals, never as limbs of a great common humanity with a mighty destiny. The world grows narrower and narrower for them as they grow older, instead of broader and broader. It is because they neglect the use of their imagination—at least, so it seems to me.”
“Have you read Hibbet’s little pamphlets?” Mr. Ravenor asked.
“Both of them,” I answered. “I like his ideas.”
“Have your clothes come from Torchester?” he inquired, with apparent irrelevance.
“Yes; they came last week,” I told him, wondering.
“Very well; put on your dress-suit and come up to the Castle at eight o’clock to-night. You shall dine with me and meet Hibbet.”
Meet Sir Richard Hibbet! Dine at the same table! My cheeks flushed and my heart beat fast. Life was opening out for me.
“Yes; he and Marris and Williams, the publisher, you know, are all staying at the Castle. There will be some more of them down to-night. Don’t be late. I will find time, if I can, to have some talk with you, for I want you to go to Dr. Randall’s next week.”
He nodded and took his departure. I watched him mount his horse and gallop away across the open park. Then I started for a solitary walk, to ponder my altered prospects.
At a quarter to eight I stood in the great hall of Ravenor Castle. On my first visit its vastness and gloom had somewhat chilled me; now it was altogether different. A small army of servants in picturesque livery and with powdered hair were moving noiselessly about. Soft lights were burning on many brackets, dispelling the deep shades which had hung somewhat drearily about; and there was a fragrant perfume of flowers and a pleasant sense of warmth in the air. I began to understand at once the stories I had heard of the luxury and magnificence with which Mr. Ravenor entertained his guests on the rare occasions when he threw open his doors.
Mr. Ravenor was in his private rooms, I was told, and his own groom of the chambers, who had been summoned to take my name, ushered me, after a moment’s hesitation, into the library. I walked to the fire, for I was cold, probably through being unused to wearing such thin clothes; and, standing there with my hands behind my back, looked around with a feeling almost of awe at the vast collection of books with which I was surrounded.
“And who are you, please?”
I started and looked in the direction from which the voice—a sweet, childish treble—came. Seated demurely in the centre of a large armchair, with tumbled hair, and a book upon her lap, was a very young lady. Her clear blue eyes were fixed calmly but inquiringly upon me, as though expecting an immediate answer, and there was a slight frown upon her forehead. Altogether, for such a diminutive maiden, she appeared rather formidable.
“I didn’t know that you were there,” I said, in explanation of my start. “My name is Morton—Philip Morton.”
She looked me over gravely and critically, and succeeded in making me feel uncomfortable. Apparently, however, the examination ended in my favour, for the frown disappeared and she closed her book.
“Philip is pretty,” she said condescendingly. “I don’t think much of Morton. I rather like Philip, though.”
“I—I’m glad of that,” I answered lamely. It was very ridiculous, but I could think of nothing else to say. I wanted to say something brilliant, but it wouldn’t come; so I stood still and looked at her and got rather red in the face.
“Do you know who I am?” she asked.
“Haven’t the least idea,” I admitted.
She leaned her small, delicate head upon her hand and began swaying her feet slowly backwards and forwards.
“I am Lady Beatrice Cecilia—my mother is Lady Silchester,” she said. “Do you think it is a pretty name?”
“Very,” I answered, biting my lip; “much prettier than mine.”
“Do you know, I think you are a nice boy!” she proceeded. “I rather like you.”
“I’m so glad!” I answered, feeling unreasonably delighted. “I’m sure that I like you,” I added fervently.
“It’s very good of you to say so, when you’ve only just seen me,” she remarked; “but you can’t be quite sure. You don’t know anything about me, you see. I might be dreadfully disagreeable.”
“But I’m sure you’re not,” I answered, feeling that I was getting on.
She was good enough to seem pleased at my confidence; but she made no further remark for a minute or two, during which I racked my brains in vain for some effective remark, with my eyes fixed upon her. She certainly made a very charming picture, curled up in the great black oak chair, with the firelight playing upon her ruddy golden hair and glistening in her bright eyes.
“You’ve been reading, haven’t you?” I asked, pointing to the book which lay in her lap.
“It’s not a nice book at all!” she said decidedly. “I don’t like any of the books here. Oh!”
I turned round quickly, for I saw that she was looking behind me. Standing on the threshold of his inner room was the tall, dark figure of Mr. Ravenor, handsomer than ever, it seemed to me, in his plain evening dress.
Slowly he advanced out of the shadows, with a faint smile upon his pale face, and laid his hand upon her shoulder, looking first at my little hostess and then at me.
“So you’ve been entertaining one of my guests for me, Trixie, have you?” he said. “Rather late for you to be up, isn’t it? Your nurse has been looking for you everywhere.”
“Then I suppose I must go,” Lady Beatrice Cecilia remarked deliberately. She rose, shook her hair out, and, replacing the book which she had been reading upon the shelf, prepared to depart. But first she came up to where I was standing on the hearthrug and held out her little white hand.
“Good-night, Philip Morton,” she said, looking up at me with a grave smile. “I am very glad that you came in here to talk to me. I was so dull.”
I made some reciprocative speech, which, if it was somewhat awkwardly expressed, had at least the merit of earnestness, and my eyes followed her admiringly as she walked to the door and disappeared with a backward glance and a smile. Then I started and coloured, to find that Mr. Ravenor was watching me.
“I don’t know why they should have brought you here,” he said. “Come this way.”
I followed Mr. Ravenor across the hall into a suite of rooms hung with satin, opening out one from another, and seeming to my inexperience like a succession of brilliantly-lit fairy chambers. In the smallest and most remote room three men were standing talking together, and in a low chair by their side reclined Lady Silchester, holding a dainty screen of peacock feathers between her face and the fire, and listening to the conversation with a slightly bored air. She was in full evening toilette, and several rows of diamonds flashed and sparkled with every rise and fall of her snow-white throat. Afterwards I grew to look upon Lady Silchester as a good type of the well-bred society woman; but then she was a revelation to me—the revelation of a new species.
My appearance seemed at first to surprise and then slightly to discompose her, but both emotions passed away at once and she welcomed me with a charming little smile as she languidly raised her hand and placed it within mine for a moment.
At our entrance the conversation ceased for a moment. Mr. Ravenor laid his hand upon my shoulder and turned towards the little group.
“Sir Richard, let me introduce to you a young ward of mine and a disciple of yours. Sir Richard Hibbet—Mr. Morton; Professor Marris—Mr. Morton; Mr. Later—Mr. Morton.”
They all shook hands with me, and, widening their circle a little, continued the conversation.
This was interrupted presently by the announcement of dinner, the Professor taking in our hostess, the others following, Mr. Ravenor and I bringing up the rear.
There was no lack of conversation during dinner, though gradually it turned towards purely literary matters and remained there. To me it was altogether fascinating, although it was often beyond my comprehension.
Long after Lady Silchester had departed we sat round the small table glittering with plate and finely-cut glass, and loaded with choice flowers and wonderful fruits; and my senses were almost dazed by the brilliancy of my material surroundings, and the ever-flowing conversation, which seemed always to be teaching me something new and opening up fresh fields of thought. At times I scarcely knew which most to admire—the dry, pungent wit and caustic remarks of the Professor; the perfectly expressed, classical English of Mr. Later; the sound, good sense of Sir Richard, seasoned with an apparently inexhaustible stock of anecdotes and quotations culled from all imaginable sources; or the brilliant epigrams, the trenchant criticisms, and the occasional flashes of genuine eloquence by means of which Mr. Ravenor, with rare art, continually stimulated the talk.
Almost unnoticed, Mr. Marx, still in his morning coat, with pale face and dark rims under his eyes, had entered and sank wearily into a seat; but, although he listened with apparent interest, he took no part in the war of words which was flashing around him. Suddenly it all came to an end. Mr. Ravenor glanced at his watch and rose.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “I must ask you to excuse me for an hour. If you care to see the library, Mr. Marx will show it you, or the smoking-room and billiard-room are at your service. Or if you care to remain here there is plenty more of the yellow-seal claret and the cigars are upon the table. Philip, I want you.”
I rose and followed him towards the door. As I did so I had to pass Mr. Marx, who had left his seat on some pretext. He leaned over towards me, haggard and pale, and pushed a slip of paper into my fingers.
“Read it at once,” he muttered, in a quick, low tone. Then he moved up and took Mr. Ravenor’s place at the head of the table.
I felt inclined to throw it back to him; but I did not. Passing across the hall, I unfolded it and read these few words, scrawled in a large, shaking hand:
“You must not go to Dr. Randall’s. Mr. Ravenor will give you a choice. Go anywhere but there. If you neglect this warning you will repent it all your life. I swear it. Tear this up,”
My first impulse, on glancing through Mr. Marx’s brief note, was to show it to Mr. Ravenor; but, after a second’s consideration, I changed my mind. Mr. Marx was a complete mystery to me. At times it seemed possible that the interest which he undoubtedly showed in me was genuine and kindly, and I struggled against my dislike of the man. Then I remembered his brutal conduct to the lunatic and the other inexplicable parts of his behaviour, and the darkest suspicions and doubts began to take shape in my imagination.
There was something altogether mysterious about him—his connection with Mr. Ravenor and his manner towards myself. I was puzzled and more than half inclined to decide against the man whom personally I had grown to detest. But, on the other hand, I was young and still an optimist with regard to my fellow-men.
What harm had I done Mr. Marx, and why should he seek to injure me? It seemed improbable, almost ridiculous. So in the end a certain sense of fairness induced me to respect his postscript, and I said nothing to Mr. Ravenor about his secretary’s warning.