  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,” |
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