  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. |
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