  It was generally expected that my mother would be anxious to depart as soon as possible from a neighbourhood which had such terrible associations for her. As a matter of fact, she showed no intention of doing anything of the sort. At the time I rather wondered at this, but I am able now to divine her reason. It chanced that the farm, of which my father had been tenant for nearly a quarter of a century, was taken by a neighbour who had no use for the house, and so it was arranged that we should stay on at a merely nominal rent. Then began a chapter of my life without event, which I can pass rapidly over. Every morning I walked over to Rothland and received two hours’ instruction from the curate, and in the afternoon my mother taught me modern languages. The rest of the day I spent alone, wandering whithersoever I pleased, staying away as long as I chose, and returning when I felt inclined. The results of such a life at my age soon developed themselves. I became something of a misanthrope, a great reader, and a passionate lover of Nature. At any rate, it was healthy, and my taste for all sorts of outdoor sport prevented my becoming a bookworm. It had its influence, too, upon my disposition. It strengthened and gave colour to my imagination, expanded my mind, and filled me with a strong love for everything that was vigorous and fresh and pure in the books I read. Shakespeare and Goethe were my first favourites in literature; but as I grew older the fascination of lyric poetry obtained a hold upon me, and Shelley and Keats, for a time, reigned supreme in my fancy. But my tastes were catholic. I read everything that came in my way, and was blessed with a wonderful memory, which enabled me to retain much that was worth retaining. Meanwhile, the more purely technical part of my education was being steadily persevered in; and so I was not surprised, although it was rather a blow to me, when the clergyman who had been my tutor walked home with me through the wood one summer evening, and told my mother that it was useless my going to him any longer, for I already knew all that he could teach me. I watched her covertly, hoping that she would show some sign of gratification at what I felt to be a high compliment. But she simply remarked that, if such was the case, she supposed the present arrangement had better terminate, thanked him for the trouble he had taken with me, and dismissed the matter. I scanned her cold, beautiful face in vain for any signs of interest. The cloud which had fallen between us on the night of my father’s murder had never been lifted. The curate stayed to tea with us, and afterwards I walked back through the woods with him, for he was a sociable fellow, fond of company—even mine. When I reached home again I found my mother looking out for me, and I knew from her manner that she had something important to say to me. “Philip, I have heard to-day that Mr. Ravenor is expected home,” she said slowly. I started and a little exclamation of pleasure escaped me. There was no man whom I longed so much to see. What a reputation was his! A scholar of European fame, a poet, and a great sinner; a Croesus; at times a reckless Sybarite, at others an ascetic and a hermit; a student of Voltaire; the founder of a new school of philosophy. All these things I had heard of him at different times, but as yet I had never seen him. Something more than my curiosity had been excited and I looked forward now to its gratification. My mother took no note of my exclamation, but her brow darkened. We were standing together on the lawn in front of the house and she was in the shadow of a tall cypress tree. “I do not suppose that he will remain here long,” she continued, in a hard, strained tone; “but while he is at the Castle it is my wish that you do not enter the park at all.” “Not enter the park!” I repeated the words and stared at my mother in blank astonishment. What difference could Mr. Ravenor’s presence make to us? “Surely you do not mean this?” I cried, bitterly disappointed. “Why, I have been looking forward for years to see Mr. Ravenor! He is a famous man!” “I know it,” she interrupted, “and a very dangerous one. I do not wish you to meet him. The chances are that he would not notice you if he saw you, but it is better to run no risks. You will remember what I have said? A man of his strange views and principles is to be avoided—especially by an impressionable boy like you.” She left me dumbfounded, crossed the lawn with smooth, even footsteps, and entered the house. I watched her disappear, disturbed and uneasy; Something in her manner had conveyed a strange impression to me. I could not help thinking she had other reasons than those she had given for wishing to keep Mr. Ravenor and me apart. It seemed on the face of it to be a very absurd notion, but it had laid hold of me and her subsequent conduct did not tend to dispel it. On the afternoon of his expected arrival I lingered about for hours in the orchard, hoping to catch a glimpse of him, for the gates of the park, opposite our house, were the nearest to Mellborough Station. But I was disappointed. He came, it is true, but in a closed brougham, drawn by a pair of swift, high-stepping bays, which swept like a flash by the hedge over which I was looking, leaving a confused recollection of glistening harness, handsome liveries, and a dark, noble face, partly turned towards me, but imperfectly seen. It was a glimpse which only increased my interest; yet how to gratify my curiosity in view of my mother’s wishes I could not tell. That night she renewed her prohibition. She came to me in the little room, where I kept my books and Penates, and laid her hand upon my shoulder. Mr. Ravenor had returned, she said—how did she know, save that she, too, had been watching, for the flag was not yet hoisted?—and she hoped that I would remember what her wishes were. I promised that I would observe them, as far as I could, although they seemed to me ridiculous, and I did not hesitate to hint as much. What was more unlikely than that Mr. Ravenor, distinguished man of the world, should take the slightest notice of a country boy, much more attempt to gain any sort of influence over him? The more I thought of it and of my mother’s nervous fears, the more I grew convinced, against my will, of some other motive which was to be kept secret from me. A week passed and very little was seen of Mr. Ravenor by anyone. As usual, many rumours were circulated and discussed. He was reported to have shut himself up in his library and to have refused admission to all visitors. He was living like an anchorite, fasting and working hard, surrounded by books and manuscripts all day and night, and far into the small hours of the morning. He was doing penance for recent excesses; he was preparing for some wild orgies; he was writing a novel, a philosophical pamphlet, an article for the reviews, or another volume of poems. Among all classes of our neighbours nothing else was talked about but the doings, or supposed doings, of Mr. Ravenor. One afternoon chance led me into the little room which my mother called her own, a room I seldom entered. There was a small volume lying on the table and carelessly I took it up and glanced at the title. Then, with a quick exclamation of pleasure, I carried it away with me. It was Mr. Ravenor’s first little volume of poems, which I had tried in vain to get. The Mellborough bookseller of whom I had ordered it told me that it was out of print. The first edition had been exhausted long since and the author had refused to allow a second edition to be issued. I met my mother in the hall and held out the volume to her. “You never told me that you had a copy of Mr. Ravenor’s poems,” I said reproachfully. “I have just found it in your room.” 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.” |
|
