RAVENOR OF RAVENOR.
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."