A METAMORPHOSIS.
It seemed almost as though some magical metamorphosis had taken place
within the walls of Ravenor Castle. Directly we came in sight of it we
had the first intimation of its altered aspect. Instead of the one or two
solitary lights shining above the dark woods, it seemed a very blaze of
illumination, and when we drew up at the great front door the change was
still mere apparent. Liveried servants with powdered hair were moving
about the hall. From open doors there came the sound of laughing voices,
and even Mr. Ravenor's manner, as he came out to meet us, seemed altered.
"Come in and have some tea here," he said, leading the way to one of the
smaller rooms. "Your mother is here, Cecil."
We followed him into Lady Silchester's favourite apartment. Several
ladies and one or two men were lounging on divans and in easy chairs
around a brightly-blazing fire. Lady Silchester, who was presiding at a
green-and-gold Sevres tea-service, welcomed us both with a languid smile.
"My dear Cis, how you have grown!" she said, leaning back in her chair
and leisurely sipping her tea. "I declare I had no idea that I had a son
your height, sir! Had you, Lord Penraven?"
Lord Penraven, who was lounging by her side with his elbow upon the
mantelpiece, stroked a long, fair moustache vigorously and answered with
emphasis:
"'Pon my word, I hadn't the slightest idea. Seems almost impossible!"
"Let me give you boys some tea!" Lady Silchester said, in her sweetest
tone.
"None for me, thanks, mother," replied Cecil. "Why, Ag--Miss Hamilton, is
that really you over in the corner?" he exclaimed, rising and crossing
the room. "How awfully jolly!"
Lady Silchester shrugged her shoulders and turned to me.
"Mr. Morton?"
I took the cup which she had filled and the conversation which our
entrance had interrupted flowed on again. Presently Mr. Ravenor, who had
been standing on the hearthrug talking to a stately, grey-haired lady who
occupied the seat of honour--a black oak arm-chair drawn up to the
fire,--moved over to my side and dropped into a vacant seat between Lady
Silchester and myself.
"Well, Philip," he said softly, "you seem lost in thought. Are you
wondering whether a magician's wand has touched Ravenor Castle?"
"It all seems very different," I answered.
"Of course. Nothing like change, you know. It is only by comparison that
we can appreciate. Stagnation sharpens one's appetite for gaiety, and one
must go through a course of overwork before one can taste the full
sweetness of an idle country life."
Then Mr. Ravenor was silent for a minute, leaning back in his chair and
looking steadily into the fire, and by the dancing, fitful light of the
flames I could see that the old weariness and deep indefinable sadness
had stolen into his pale face and dark eyes. It was only a passing
change. The sound of the laughing voices around seemed suddenly to
galvanise him into consciousness of the _role_ which he was playing and
the expression faded away. Someone asked him a question and he answered
it with a light jest. Once more he was the courteous, smiling host, whose
sole thought appeared to be the entertainment of his guests. But I knew
that there was a background.
The dressing-bell rang and the gossiping assembly broke up. Mr. Ravenor,
standing with the opened door in his hand, exchanged little happy
speeches with most of the ladies as they swept out. When they were all
gone he turned to Cecil and me and looked at us critically, with a faint
smile upon his lips.
"Well, are you ready for your matric., Cecil?" he asked.
Cecil made a wry face.
"Shall be soon, uncle!" he declared hopefully, "I'm getting on now first
rate. Morton here makes me work like a Trojan."
"That's right! And you, Philip? I hope my lazy nephew doesn't keep you
back."
"Oh, Morton's all right for his matric. whenever he likes to go in for
it!" broke in Cecil.
Mr. Ravenor nodded.
"Good! You'd better go and dress now, both of you; Richards is waiting to
show you your rooms."
We passed up the great oak staircase, and on the first corridor we came
face to face with a slim little figure in a white frock, walking demurely
by the side of her maid, with her ruddy, golden hair tumbled about her
oval face and an expectant light in her dancing blue eyes.
Directly she saw us she flew into Cecil's arms.
"Oh, Cis, Cis, Cis, how delightful! How glad I am that you have come!
They only just told me! And how do you do, Mr. Morton?"
She held out a very diminutive palm and looked up at me with a beaming
smile.
"I'm quite well, thank you, Lady Beatrice," I answered, looking down with
keen pleasure into her sweet, childish face, and repressing a strong
desire to take her up in my arms, as Cecil had done, and give her a kiss.
"You remember me, then?"
"Oh, yes!" she answered; "I remember you quite well! Your name is Philip,
isn't it? You told me that I might call you by it."
"Well, we must go now, dear," Cecil said, stroking her hair. "We've got
to dress for dinner, you know."
"Oh!" The exclamation was drawn out and the little face fell. Suddenly it
brightened.
"Cecil, what do you think? I've got a pony, a real pony of my own. Will
you come for a ride with me to-morrow? Please, please, do!"
"All right!" he promised carelessly.
She clapped her hands and looked up at me.
"Will you come too, Philip?" she asked.
"I should like to very much indeed," I answered unhesitatingly.
"Oh, that's delightful!" she exclaimed gleefully. "We will have such a
nice ride! You shall see Queenie canter; she does go so fast! Good-bye
now!"
She tripped away by the side of her maid, turning round more than once to
wave her hand to us. Then we hurried along to our rooms, which were at
the end of the wide, marble-pillared corridor and opened one into the
other. Our portmanteaux had been placed in readiness, so dressing was not
a tedious business. I had finished first and lounged in an easy chair,
watching Cecil struggle with a refractory white tie.
"How pretty your sister is, Cis!" I remarked.
"Think so? She's rather an odd little thing," declared her brother,
absently surveying himself at last with satisfaction in the long
pier-glass. "Didn't know you'd ever seen her before. I say"--with sudden
emphasis--"isn't Aggie Hamilton a jolly good-looking girl?"
"I've scarcely seen her yet," I reminded him. "Rather a chatterbox, isn't
she?"
"Chatterbox? Not she!" Cecil protested indignantly. "Why----"
The rumble of a gong reached us from below. Cecil stopped short in his
speech and hurried me out of the room.
"Come along, sharp!" he exclaimed. "That means dinner in ten minutes, and
I promised to get down into the drawing-room first and introduce you to
Aggie. Come on!"
We descended into the hall and a tall footman threw open the door of the
long suite of drawing and ante-rooms in which the guests at the Castle
were rapidly assembling. To me, who had seen nothing of the sort before,
it was a brilliant sight. Four rooms, all of stately dimensions and all
draped with amber satin of the same shade, were thrown into one by the
upraising of heavy, clinging curtains, and each one seemed filled with
groups of charmingly-dressed women and little knots of men. A low,
incessant buzz of conversation floated about in the air, which was laden
with the scent of exotics and dainty perfumes. The light was brilliant,
but soft, for the marble figures around the walls held out silver lamps
covered with gauzy rose-coloured shades.
We passed through two of the rooms before we found the young lady of whom
Cecil was in search. Then we came upon her suddenly, sitting quite alone
and idly turning over the pages of a book of engravings. Cecil jogged me
excitedly with his elbow in a manner which elsewhere would have brought
down anathemas and possibly retribution upon his head. As it was,
however, I had to bear the pain like a Spartan.
"I say, isn't she stunning?" he whispered.
I answered in the affirmative, carefully removing myself from the range
of his elbow. Then we approached her, and she closed the book of
engravings with a comical air of relief and made room for us beside her.
She was even prettier than I had expected, with dark hair and eyes,
dazzling complexion, a perfect figure of the _petite_ order, and
faultless teeth, which she was by no means averse from showing. She wore
a black lace gown, with a good deal of scarlet about it and a deep red
rose in her bosom. Altogether, I was scarcely surprised at Cecil's
captivation.
If not actually a chatterbox, she was certainly possessed of the art of
talking nonsense very volubly, and making others talk it. Before dinner
was announced by a dignified-looking functionary we had got through quite
an amazing amount of conversation. It fell to Cecil's lot to take in his
inamorata, whilst I was far away behind with the middle-aged wife of a
country clergyman. She was very pleasant, though, and I was quite content
to do but little talking throughout the long banquet, for it was all new
to me and interesting.
The vast dining-hall--it was really the picture-gallery--the many
servants in rich liveries, the emblazoned plate, the glittering glasses,
and the brilliant snatches of conversation which floated around me, all
were a revelation. Very soon the effect of it passed away and I was able
to choose my wines and select my dishes, and was free to take part if I
chose in the talk. But for that first evening I was content to remain
silent and, as far as possible, unnoticed.
Dinner, which had seemed to me to be growing interminable, came to an end
at last. Lady Silchester, at the head of a long file of stately women,
swept down the polished floor, and the procession departed with much
rustling of robes. Some of the vacant chairs were taken possession of by
men, and already delicate blue clouds of smoke were curling upwards to
the vaulted ceiling. It was the short period dearer to the heart of man
than any during the day. Every one stretched out his stiff limbs, filled
his glass and assumed his favourite attitude. Voices were raised and a
sudden change of tone crept in upon the conversation. Only Mr. Ravenor
and a few of the older guests appeared to be still engrossed in the
discussion of some abstruse scientific controversy then raging in the
reviews. Everyone else seemed to be talking lightly of the day's sport,
the arrangements for the morrow, and his own and other men's horses.
It was getting a little slow for me. Cecil had found some friends, and
the sound of his hearty boyish laugh came to me often from the other end
of the table. My immediate neighbours were a bishop, who was deep in
discussion with a minor canon concerning the doings of some recent
diocesan conference, at which things seemed to have been more lively than
harmonious; and on my other side Lord Penraven was quarrelling with the
lord lieutenant of the county about the pedigree of a racehorse. Both
disputes were utterly without interest to me, and it was no small relief
when, as I caught Mr. Ravenor's eye, he beckoned me to a vacant chair by
his side.
The conversation, which had been for a moment interrupted, was soon
renewed. I sat silent, listening with ever-increasing admiration to the
play of words, the subtle arguments, and the epigrammatic brilliancy of
expression which flashed from one to another of the four disputants. Had
I known anything of the social or literary life of London I might have
been less astonished, for Mr. Ravenor and two of his antagonists, Mr.
Justice Haselton and Professor Clumbers, were reckoned among the finest
talkers of their day.
At last Mr. Ravenor, very much to my regret, brought the conversation to
an abrupt close by proposing an exodus to the drawing-rooms. A few of the
younger men looked eager to depart, but the majority rose and stretched
themselves with the sad faces of martyrs before forming themselves into
little groups and quitting the room. Mr. Ravenor remained until the last
and motioned me to stay with him.
"Well, Philip," he said, when everyone had gone, "how are you getting on
at Dr. Randall's? Do you like being there?"
"Very much for some things," I answered.
He looked at me closely.
"There is something you have to tell me," he said. "What is it?"
I glanced around at the little army of servants moving noiselessly about
on all sides.
"There is something," I acknowledged, "but I would rather tell it you
when we are quite alone. Besides, it is rather a long story. It has
mostly to do with Mr. Marx."
The calm, stately serenity of Mr. Ravenor's face underwent a sudden
change. His dark brows almost met into his eyes, which I could not read.
The change strengthened the impression which had lately been growing upon
me. There was some deep mystery connected with the personality of Mr.
Marx in which Mr. Ravenor was somehow concerned.
"What about Mr. Marx? What can you have to say to me about him?" he asked
coldly.
"More than I should care to say here," I answered, glancing around. "It
is rather a long----"
"Come into the library to me the last thing tonight," he said quickly. "I
must know what this story is that you have got hold of. We will go into
the drawing-room now."
In a few moments the cloud had vanished from his face and he was again
the polished host. And I, under protest, was inveigled into a corner by
Miss Agnes Hamilton, and given my first lesson in the fashionable art of
flirting.