CHAPTER V. RAVENOR OF RAVENOR.
It was generally expected that my mother would be anxious to depart assoon as possible from a neighbourhood which had such terribleassociations for her. As a matter of fact, she showed no intention ofdoing anything of the sort. At the time I rather wondered at this, but Iam able now to divine her reason.
It chanced that the farm, of which my father had been tenant for nearly aquarter of a century, was taken by a neighbour who had no use for thehouse, and so it was arranged that we should stay on at a merely nominalrent. Then began a chapter of my life without event, which I can passrapidly over.
Every morning I walked over to Rothland and received two hours'instruction from the curate, and in the afternoon my mother taught memodern languages. The rest of the day I spent alone, wanderingwhithersoever I pleased, staying away as long as I chose, and returningwhen I felt inclined. The results of such a life at my age soon developedthemselves. I became something of a misanthrope, a great reader, and apassionate lover of Nature. At any rate, it was healthy, and my taste forall sorts of outdoor sport prevented my becoming a bookworm.
It had its influence, too, upon my disposition. It strengthened and gavecolour to my imagination, expanded my mind, and filled me with a stronglove for everything that was vigorous and fresh and pure in the books Iread.
Shakespeare and Goethe were my first favourites in literature; but as Igrew older the fascination of lyric poetry obtained a hold upon me, andShelley and Keats, for a time, reigned supreme in my fancy. But my tasteswere catholic. I read everything that came in my way, and was blessedwith a wonderful memory, which enabled me to retain much that was worthretaining.
Meanwhile, the more purely technical part of my education was beingsteadily persevered in; and so I was not surprised, although it wasrather a blow to me, when the clergyman who had been my tutor walked homewith me through the wood one summer evening, and told my mother that itwas useless my going to him any longer, for I already knew all that hecould teach me.
I watched her covertly, hoping that she would show some sign ofgratification at what I felt to be a high compliment. But she simplyremarked that, if such was the case, she supposed the present arrangementhad better terminate, thanked him for the trouble he had taken with me,and dismissed the matter. I scanned her cold, beautiful face in vain forany signs of interest. The cloud which had fallen between us on the nightof my father's murder had never been lifted.
The curate stayed to tea with us, and afterwards I walked back throughthe woods with him, for he was a sociable fellow, fond of company--evenmine.
When I reached home again I found my mother looking out for me, and Iknew 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 saidslowly.
I started and a little exclamation of pleasure escaped me. There was noman whom I longed so much to see. What a reputation was his! A scholar ofEuropean fame, a poet, and a great sinner; a Croesus; at times a recklessSybarite, at others an ascetic and a hermit; a student of Voltaire; thefounder of a new school of philosophy. All these things I had heard ofhim at different times, but as yet I had never seen him. Something morethan my curiosity had been excited and I looked forward now to itsgratification.
My mother took no note of my exclamation, but her brow darkened. We werestanding together on the lawn in front of the house and she was in theshadow of a tall cypress tree.
"I do not suppose that he will remain here long," she continued, in ahard, strained tone; "but while he is at the Castle it is my wish thatyou do not enter the park at all."
"Not enter the park!" I repeated the words and stared at my mother inblank astonishment. What difference could Mr. Ravenor's presence make tous?
"Surely you do not mean this?" I cried, bitterly disappointed. "Why, Ihave been looking forward for years to see Mr. Ravenor! He is a famousman!"
"I know it," she interrupted, "and a very dangerous one. I do not wishyou to meet him. The chances are that he would not notice you if he sawyou, but it is better to run no risks. You will remember what I havesaid? A man of his strange views and principles is to beavoided--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 couldnot help thinking she had other reasons than those she had given forwishing to keep Mr. Ravenor and me apart. It seemed on the face of it tobe a very absurd notion, but it had laid hold of me and her subsequentconduct did not tend to dispel it.
On the afternoon of his expected arrival I lingered about for hours inthe 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 wasdisappointed. He came, it is true, but in a closed brougham, drawn by apair of swift, high-stepping bays, which swept like a flash by the hedgeover which I was looking, leaving a confused recollection of glisteningharness, handsome liveries, and a dark, noble face, partly turned towardsme, but imperfectly seen. It was a glimpse which only increased myinterest; yet how to gratify my curiosity in view of my mother's wishes Icould not tell.
That night she renewed her prohibition. She came to me in the littleroom, where I kept my books and Penates, and laid her hand upon myshoulder. Mr. Ravenor had returned, she said--how did she know, save thatshe, too, had been watching, for the flag was not yet hoisted?--and shehoped that I would remember what her wishes were.
I promised that I would observe them, as far as I could, although theyseemed to me ridiculous, and I did not hesitate to hint as much. What wasmore unlikely than that Mr. Ravenor, distinguished man of the world,should take the slightest notice of a country boy, much more attempt togain any sort of influence over him? The more I thought of it and of mymother's nervous fears, the more I grew convinced, against my will, ofsome other motive which was to be kept secret from me.
A week passed and very little was seen of Mr. Ravenor by anyone. Asusual, many rumours were circulated and discussed. He was reported tohave shut himself up in his library and to have refused admission to allvisitors. He was living like an anchorite, fasting and working hard,surrounded by books and manuscripts all day and night, and far into thesmall hours of the morning. He was doing penance for recent excesses; hewas preparing for some wild orgies; he was writing a novel, aphilosophical pamphlet, an article for the reviews, or another volume ofpoems.
Among all classes of our neighbours nothing else was talked about but thedoings, or supposed doings, of Mr. Ravenor.
One afternoon chance led me into the little room which my mother calledher own, a room I seldom entered. There was a small volume lying on thetable and carelessly I took it up and glanced at the title. Then, with aquick 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 wasout of print. The first edition had been exhausted long since and theauthor 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 saidreproachfully. "I have just found it in your room."
She started, and for a moment I feared that she was going to insist uponmy giving up the book. She did not do so, however; but I noticed that thehand which was resting upon the banister was grasping the handrailnervously, as though for support, and that she was white to the verylips.
"No; I had forgotten," she said slowly--"I mean that I had forgotten youhad ever asked for it. Take care of it, Philip, and give it me backto-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 respectsa limited one, but it did not prevent me from being an epicure withregard to their
enjoyment. I did not glance inside the book, although Iwas longing to do so, until I had walked five or six miles and hadreached one of my favourite halting-places. Then I threw myself down inthe shadow of a great rock on the top of Beacon Hill and took the volumefrom my pocket.
It was a small, olive-green book, delicately bound, and printed uponrough paper. It had been given to my mother, evidently, for her Christianname was inside, written in a fine, dashing hand, and underneath weresome initials which had become indistinct. Then, having satisfied myselfof this, and handled it for a few moments, I turned over the pagesrapidly 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 brilliantcolouring, of passion, of fire. Crude some of them seemed to me, who hadread no modern poetry and knew many of Shakespeare's and Milton's sonnetsby heart; but full of genius, nevertheless, and with the breath of lifewarm 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, fascinatingmysticism of Shelley, the passionate outcry of a strong, noble mind,seeking to wrest from Nature her vast secrets and to fathom the mysteriesof existence; the wail of bewildered nobility of soul turning in despairfrom the cold creeds of modern religion to seek some other and higherform of spiritual life.
I read on until the sun had gone down and the shades of twilight hadchased the afterglow from the western sky. Then I closed the book androse suddenly with a great start.
Scarcely a dozen yards away, on the extreme summit of the hill, a man onhorseback sat watching me. His unusually tall figure and the fine shapeof the coal-black horse which he was riding, stood out against thebackground of the distant sky with a vividness which seemed almost morethan natural. Such a face as his I had never seen, never imagined. Icould neither describe it, nor think of anything with which to compareit.
Dark, with jet-black hair, and complexion perfectly clear, but tanned bySouthern suns; a small, firm mouth; a high forehead, furrowed withthought; aquiline nose; grey-blue eyes, powerful and expressive--any manmight thus be described, and yet lack altogether the wonderful charm ofthe face into which I looked. It was the rare combination of perfectclassical modelling with intensity of character and nobility ofintellect. It was the face of a king among men; and yet there were timeswhen a certain smile played around those iron lips, and a certain lightflashed 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 hebeckoned to me with his whip--a slight but imperious gesture. I rose andwalked to his side.
"Who are you?" he asked curtly.
"My name is Philip Morton," I answered. "I live at Rothland Woodfarmhouse."
"Son of the man who was murdered?"
I assented. He gazed at me fixedly, with the faintest possible expressionof 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 wereindications 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 hiscountenance relaxed for a moment. Directly his lips were parted his wholeexpression was transformed and I understood what women had meant whenthey talked about the fascination of his face.
"Fond of reading, are you? A village bookworm. Well, they say that tobook-lovers every volume has a language and a mission of its own. What domy 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. "Idaresay I experienced the luxury of the sensation once, but it must havebeen 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 amocking one.
"Atheism was most unfashionable when those verses were written," heremarked. "Any other 'ism' was popular enough, but Atheism sounded ugly.Besides, I was only a boy then. Perhaps I had some imagination left. Itis 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 orless a matter of disposition. That is one of its chief absurdities. Womenand sensitive boys are easiest affected by it. Men of sturdycommon-sense, men with brains and the knowledge how to use them, areevery day bursting the trammels of an effete orthodoxy."
"And what can their common-sense and their brains give them in itsplace?" I asked. "I cannot conceive any practical religion withoutorthodoxy."
"A little measure of philosophy. It is all they want. Only thefaint-hearted, who have not the courage to contemplate physicalannihilation, console themselves by building up a hysterical faith in animpossible hereafter. There is no hereafter."
"A horrible creed!" I exclaimed.
"By no means. Let men devote half the time and the efforts that theydevote to this phantasy of religion to schooling themselves inphilosophic thought, and they will learn to contemplate it unmoved. Torecognise that the end of life is inevitable is to rob it of most of itsterrors, save to cowards. The man who wastes a tissue of his body inregretting what he cannot prevent is a fool. Annihilation is a morecomfortable doctrine and a more reasonable one, too. Don't you agree withme, 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 bemade 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 anycomfort to you. Where have you been to school?"
"Nowhere," I answered. "I have read with Mr. Sands, the curate ofRothland."
He laughed softly to himself, as though the idea amused him, looking atme 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 thoughamused.
"No wonder you're behind the times," he remarked. "Now, shall I lend yousome 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 wantto be converted to your way of thinking. It seems to me that there issuch a thing as overtraining of the mind."
"So you look upon me as a sort of Mephistopheles, eh? Well, I've noambition 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 countryand 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'rea fool, Philip Morton; but you will be happier in your folly than othermen 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 horseround with a turn of the wrist, galloped down the hillside and across thesoft, spongy turf at a pace which soon carried him out of sight. But Istood for a while on a piece of broken rock on the summit of the hillgazing after his retreating figure, and watching the twinkling lightsfrom the many villages stretched away in the valley below. The sound ofhis low, strong voice yet vibrated in my ears, and the sad, beautifulface, with its languid grey eyes and weary expression, seemed still by myside. Already I began to feel something of the influence which this manappeared to exercise over everyone whom he came near; and I felt vaguely,even then, that if suffered to grow, it would become an influenceall-powerful with me.
When I reached home it was late--so late that my mother, who seldombetrayed any interest or curiosity in my doings, asked me questions. Ifelt a curious reluctance at first to tell her with whom I had beentalking, and it was justified when I saw the effect which my words hadupon her. A look almost of horror filled her eyes and her face was whitewith anger. It was as though a long-expected blow had fallen.
"At last! at last!" she murmured to herself, as though forgetful of mypresence. Then her eyes closed and her lips moved softly. It seemed to methat she was praying.
I was bewildered and inclined to be angry that she should carry herdislike of Mr. Ravenor so far. Did she think me so weak andimpressionable that a few minutes' conversation with any man could bringme harm?
"You carry your dislike of Mr. Ravenor a little too far, mother," Iventured to say. "What can you know of him so bad that you see danger inmy 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 isdone. If I could have foreseen this we would have gone away."
"To have avoided Mr. Ravenor?" I cried, wondering.
"Yes."