Читать книгу The Winding Stair - A. E. W. Mason - Страница 5

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“I have finished work for the week. I’ll see no one else were he as terse as Tacitus,” cried Mr. Ferguson, the lawyer.

It was six o’clock on a Friday afternoon and a pleasant rustle of the plane trees in the square came through the open window of the office. Mr. Ferguson thought of his cool garden at Goring, with the river running past, and of the fine long day he would have upon the links to-morrow. Gregory, the head clerk, however, held his ground.

“Perhaps if you would look at this card, Mr. Ferguson.”

Mr. Ferguson looked at the size of it.

“By the Lord, no! It’s a woman. She’ll be as prolix as the devil.”

“It’s not a woman,” the stubborn Gregory insisted.

“Then it’s a foreigner, and that’s worse.”

“It’s not even a real foreigner,” said Gregory. He had been a servant of the firm for thirty years, and knew the ins and outs of its affairs as thoroughly as the principals.

“You are very annoying, Gregory,” said Mr. Ferguson, with a sigh. He took the card regretfully, but when he had read the name printed upon it, he dropped it upon his table as if it had stung his hand.

“Paul Ravenel!” he said in a low voice, with a glance towards the door. “The son.”

“Yes.”

“Is he like the father?”

“Not in the least.”

Mr. Ferguson was distressed. It was nine years since he had finished with that affair, settled it up, locked it away and turned his back on it for good—as he thought. And here was the son knocking on his door.

“I must see him, I suppose. I can do no less,” he said, but as Gregory turned towards the door he stopped him. “Why should Paul Ravenel come to see me?” he asked himself. “And how much does he know? Wait a moment, Gregory. I have got to go warily here.”

He sat down at his desk. Mr. Ferguson was a man, of middle age, with a round, genial face and a thick covering of silver-white hair. He looked like a prosperous country gentleman, which he was, and he had the reputation of the astutest criminal lawyer of his day. He was that, too. His kindly manner concealed him, yet he was not false. For he was at once the best of friends, with his vast experience of the law as a sort of zareeba for their refuge, and the most patient and relentless of antagonists; and he had a special kindliness which showed itself conspicuously in his accounts, for all connected with the arts. It was an old friendship which was troubling him now as he sat at his desk. Paul Ravenel, according to his knowledge, would take this or that line in the interview, Mr. Ferguson must be clear as to how in each case he should answer. Problems were his daily food—at least until six o’clock on Friday evening. Yet this problem he met with discomfort.

“You can show him in now,” he said to Gregory, and a few seconds later the visitor stood within the room, a tall slim youth, brown of face and with hair so golden that the sun seemed to have taken from it the colour which it had tanned upon his cheeks.

“You wish to see me, Mr. Ravenel?” he asked, and a smile suddenly broke upon the boy’s face and made him winning. Mr. Ferguson made a note in his mind of the smile, for he had not as yet its explanation.

“Yes,” answered Paul. “I should have been more correct in approaching so prominent a firm, had I written asking for an appointment. But I only landed in England this morning, and I couldn’t really wait.”

His formal little prepared apology broke down in a laugh and an eager rush of words.

“That’s all right,” said Mr. Ferguson pleasantly. “Take a chair and tell me what I can do for you.”

“You knew my father,” said Paul, when he had laid down his hat and stick and taken his seat. Mr. Ferguson allowed himself a sharp glance at the lad. For his tone was without any embarrassment at all, any shame or embarrassment. He was at his ease.

“I knew Mr. Ravenel—yes,” Mr. Ferguson answered cautiously.

“He died a fortnight ago.”

“I was sorry to notice that you were wearing black.”

“He died in a house which he had built upon an island off the coast of Spain at Aguilas. I lived with him there, during the last eight months, after I left my school at Tours,” Paul continued.

“Yes?” said Mr. Ferguson.

“My father and I were always—how shall I put it?—in a relationship which precluded any confidences and even any cordiality. It wasn’t that we ever quarrelled. We hardly were well enough acquainted for that. But we were uncomfortable in each other’s company and the end of a meal at which we had sat together was to both of us an invariable relief. He had what I think is a special quality of soldiers—he was in the Army, of course, wasn’t he?”

Paul broke off to ask his question in the most casual manner. But Mr. Ferguson did not answer it. It was a neat little trap prepared with more skill than the lawyer had expected. For up till the question was unconcernedly dropped in, Paul had been framing his sentences with a sort of pedantry natural to a man who from the nature of his life must get his English words from books rather than from conversation.

“You say Monsieur Ravenel had some special quality of soldiers,” Mr. Ferguson observed.

“Yes,” Paul explained. “I approached a subject, or I used a phrase, and suddenly it seemed as if an iron door was banged in my face, and he was now behind the door, and not the loudest knocking in the world would ever get it open. So I have come to you.”

“For information your father did not see fit to give you?” said Mr. Ferguson.

“Yes.”

“But Monsieur Ravenel had no doubt a lawyer in Paris and an agent in Casablanca, where he lived for many years, both of whom will be familiar with his affairs. Why come to me?”

“Because it is not about his affairs that I am seeking information,” said Paul, and he took a letter from his pocket-case and handed it to Mr. Ferguson. “This was written by your firm, Mr. Ferguson. It is one of the two clues to my father’s history which he left behind him. It slipped out of a book upon his shelf.”

“Certainly the letter was written by our firm to your father, Mr. Ravenel. But it was the last letter we wrote to him. It closed our connection with him. We never heard from him again; and the letter is as you have seen, nine years old.”

“Exactly,” said Paul. “Just about that time my father and I were in London together for a couple of months, and when I found that letter it seemed to me to explain why. My father was in London to arrange for the transfer of his property to France, for the final annihilation of all his interests and associations with this country.”

It was an assertion rather than a question, but Mr. Ferguson answered it.

“Yes. I suppose that you may put it that way.”

“Before that time, then, you were his advisers.”

“Yes.”

“That’s why I came to you, Mr. Ferguson,” cried the youth eagerly. “I want to know what happened to my father in the days when you were his advisers. I want to know why he renounced his own country, why he buried himself first in a little distant town on the sea coast of Morocco like Casablanca, why he took refuge afterwards in a still closer seclusion at Aguilas in Spain. You know! You must know!”

Mr. Ferguson rose from his desk and walked to the fireplace which was between his desk and the chair on which Paul was seated. He was puzzled by the manner of the appeal. There was more eagerness than anxiety in it. There was certainly no fear. There was even confidence. Mr. Ferguson wondered whether young Ravenel had some explanation of his own, an explanation which quite satisfied him and which he only needed to have confirmed. Paul’s voice broke in upon his wondering.

“Of course I can always find out. It’s only a question of knowing the ropes. I have no doubt a good enquiry agent could get me the truth in a very few days if I went to one.”

Mr. Ferguson lifted himself on his toes and looked up to the ceiling.

“I don’t think I should do that,” he answered.

“Whether I do or not depends upon you, Mr. Ferguson,” said Paul, very quietly. “It’s not curiosity that’s driving me, but I have my life in front of me, and a plan for it.”

He rose and stood at the open window for a moment or two, and then turned abruptly back and stood before Mr. Ferguson.

“You see, I was nine years old when I was with my father in London, old enough to notice, and old enough to remember. And one or two very curious things happened. We were in lodgings in a little quiet street, and except on occasions when, I suppose, he had appointments with you, my father never went out by daylight.”

“Here it comes,” thought Mr. Ferguson, but his face was quite without expression, and the youth resumed:

“But as soon as darkness fell we took long tramps through the city, where the streets were empty of everything but the lamp-posts, and the only sounds were the hollow sounds of our own footsteps upon the pavement.”

“Yes,” Mr. Ferguson interrupted. “One couldn’t choose a better place for exercise than the city of London after dark.”

Paul laughed pleasantly and Mr. Ferguson reflected, “I have never been called a liar in a prettier fashion.”

“On one of these nightly rambles,” Paul resumed, “we turned into a street closed at one end by a stately building of pinnacles and a sloping roof, and windows of richly stained glass. This building was a blaze of light, and in the courtyard in front of it motor-cars and carriages were taking up ladies in bright evening frocks and coats and men with orders upon their breasts.”

Mr. Ferguson nodded his head.

“A dinner at the Guildhall, yes.”

“It was curious to come suddenly out of darkness and silence and emptiness,” Paul Ravenel resumed, “into this gay scene of colour and enjoyment and light. You can imagine how it impressed a child. This was what I wanted. I hated long, empty, echoing streets with chains of lamps stretching ahead. Here I heard to me a sound unknown and divine—I heard women laughing. ‘Oh, father, do let us stay for a moment and look!’ I cried, but my father gripped me by the arm, and strode across the road so swiftly that I had to run to keep up with him. There was the mouth of another street nearly opposite, and it was that street which my father wanted to reach.”

“Yes?” said Mr. Ferguson.

“But a man was walking with a limp from the building along the pavement on the far side of our road. It was a hot night, and he carried his overcoat upon his arm, and I saw that a conspicuous row of miniature medals with their coloured ribbons stretched across his left breast. We reached the kerb when he was only a few yards from us. I felt my father’s hand tremble suddenly upon my arm. I thought that he was on the point of turning away in flight. But since that would have been more noticeable, he just dropped his head so that the brim of his hat shadowed his face and strode swiftly past the man with the medals. That man only gave us a careless glance, and I heard my father draw a sigh of relief. But a few paces on the man with the medals stopped and looked back. Then he called out: ‘Ned! Ned!’ in a startled voice, and began to retrace, as fast as his limp would allow him, his steps towards us.

“My father whispered to me: ‘Take no notice, boy! Walk straight on,’ and in a moment dived into the silence of the street opposite. I turned my head after we had travelled a few yards in our new direction and I saw the man with the medals at the angle of the street peering after us as if he were undecided whether to follow us or not. There the incident ended, but it was—well—significant, wasn’t it?”

Mr. Ferguson was distinctly uncomfortable. A pair of very steady and watchful grey eyes were fixed upon his. He was being cross-examined and not clumsily, and by a boy; and all of this he fretfully resented. To do the cross-examining was his function in life, not the other fellow’s. Besides, how was he to answer that word significant? Such a good word! For it opened no glimpses of the questioner’s point of view and was a trap for the questioned.

“Was it significant?” he asked.

Paul suddenly smiled, and Mr. Ferguson was more perplexed than ever. The boy was not obtuse—that was clear. It was no less clear, then, that he attached some quite special significance of his own invention to the incident he had related. Monsieur Ravenel was in hiding—that’s what the incident signified. How had Paul missed it? What strange amulet was he wearing that saved him from the desolating truth?

“Did you ever read ‘Balaustion’s Adventure’?” Paul inquired, and Mr. Ferguson jumped.

“I wish you wouldn’t spring from one subject to another like that,” he answered, testily.

“I am on the same subject,” said Paul.

“Well, then, I did. I used it as a crib for the Alcestis when I was at school.”

“A pretty good crib, too.”

“Very.”

“But the translation of the Alcestis isn’t the whole of the poem, is it? The Alcestis makes things pretty black for Admetus, doesn’t it? You’d call him a bit of a rotter, wouldn’t you? That is, if you take the first surface meaning of the play. But Balaustion found another meaning underneath which transfigures Admetus, turns the black to white. Well, humbly, but just as confidently, I look underneath the first obvious meaning of what I told you. That’s disgrace, isn’t it? Let’s be frank about it! A man in disgrace shunning his friends! There’s the surface reading. And there’s no other—except mine.”

“Let me hear it,” said Mr. Ferguson quickly. He returned to the chair at his table. Here might be, after all, a pleasant way out of this disconcerting interview. “Will you smoke?” he asked, and he held out a tin of cigarettes to his visitor.

“Now fire away!” he said. Mr. Ferguson was in a much more cheerful mood.

Discomfort, however, had not vanished from the room. It had passed from Mr. Ferguson. But it had entered into Paul. He stammered and was shy. Finally he blurted out:

“I find the explanation of everything in my father’s passionate love for my mother.”

Mr. Ferguson’s eyes turned slowly from the plane trees to Paul’s face.

“Will you go on, please?”

“My mother was French.”

“Yes. Virginia Ravenel. She sang for one season at Covent Garden. She was the most beautiful girl I ever saw in my life.” He laughed, tenderly caressing his recollections. “There was a time when I fancied myself your father’s rival. You have a look of her, Mr. Ravenel. She was fair like you,” and he was still musing with pleasure and just a touch of regret upon the pangs and ardours of that long-vanished season of summer and magic, when Paul Ravenel thoroughly startled him.

“I think that my mother died in giving me birth,” he said. “That’s how I explain to myself my father’s distance and uneasiness with me. I was the enemy, and worse than that, the enemy who had won. No wonder he couldn’t endure me, if with her death his whole world went dark. And everything else follows, doesn’t it? His friends came to mean—not nothing at all, but an actual annoyance, an encroachment on his grief. He shut himself up far away in a little town where no one knew him, and brooded over his loss. And men who do that become extravagant, don’t they, and lose their perspective, and do far-fetched, unreasonable things. Thus, my mother was French. So in a sort of distorted tribute to her memory, he changed his own nationality and took hers, and with it her name, and cut himself completely off from all his old world—a sort of monk of Love!”

Mr. Ferguson listened to the boy’s speech, which was delivered with a good deal of hesitation, without changing a muscle of his face. So this was why Paul could elate with a laugh the flight from the man with the medals and the lighted courtyard of the Guildhall. This was what he believed! Well, it was the explanation which a boy ignorant of life, nursed by dreams and poetry and loneliness and eager to believe the world a place of sunlight and high thoughts, might easily have conceived.

“Isn’t that the explanation, Mr. Ferguson?” Paul asked; and Mr. Ferguson replied without the twitch of a muscle:

“Absolutely! I did not think that you could have understood your father’s reticence so thoroughly.”

If one must do a thing, to do it with an air is the best way to carry conviction, thought Mr. Ferguson, and he rose from his chair with a deep relief. The interview was over, his visitor obviously satisfied, he could shake him by the hand and after all catch his train to Goring.

Mr. Ferguson’s relief, however, was premature. For the younger man cried:

“Good! For now the way is clear for me, and I can ask you for your professional help.”

“Oh!” said the lawyer doubtfully. “I didn’t understand that you came as a client. I am not very sure that we can undertake much more than we have upon our hands.”

“It’s not so much more, Mr. Ferguson.”

“I must be the judge of that. Let me hear what it is that you wish.”

“I wish to resume my own real nationality,” said Paul. “I am of my race. I want the name of it, too.”

Paul was of his race. It was not merely the long-legged build of him, nor the cut of his clothes, nor the make of his shoes, but a whole combination of small, indefinable qualities and movements and repressions which proved it.

“I should never have mistaken him for anything else,” thought Mr. Ferguson. There was that little speech, for instance, about his father’s love for his mother, halting, shy, stammered, as if he were more than half ashamed of admitting the emotions to another man, and tongue-tied in consequence. The words would have run glibly enough had a French lad spoken them.

“And with my race, I mean of course also to resume my father’s name,” Paul continued.

There had suddenly grown up an antagonism between these two people; and both were aware of it. Paul’s questions became a little implacable; Mr. Ferguson’s silence a little obstinate. “You know it, of course, Mr. Ferguson,” Paul insisted.

“Of course,” replied Mr. Ferguson.

“Will you tell it to me, please?”

“I will not.”

“Why not?”

“Your father never told you it. Your father was my client for years, my friend for many more. I respect his wishes.”

Paul Ravenel bowed and accepted the refusal.

“I have only one more question to ask of you, Mr. Ferguson.”

“I will answer it if I can.”

“Thank you! Who is John Edward Revel?”

“I really don’t know.”

Paul bowed again. He took up his hat and his stick. He was not smiling any more, and in his eyes there was a look of apprehension. He did not hold out his hand to Mr. Ferguson.

“It will have to be the enquiry agent after all, then,” he said. “Good evening.”

The lawyer allowed him to reach the door, and then spoke in an altered voice. There was a warm kindliness in it now, and to the youth’s anxious and attentive ears a very audible note of commiseration.

“Mr. Ravenel, I want you to give me four days before you set on foot any inquiry. There are others concerned in the matter. I assure you that you will be wise.”

Paul shook his head. “Four days. What shall I do with myself during those four days?”

“You have been very lonely for years,” said the lawyer gently. “Four days more, what do they mean?”

“During those years,” answered Paul, “I have had the future for my companion. Have I got that companion now?” and Mr. Ferguson was silent.

“I came to your office full of expectation. I have not even now revealed to you the plan I had formed,” Paul resumed. “I leave it a prey to a very deep anxiety. That name I mentioned to you, I found written on the flyleaf of an old manual on infantry drill in my father’s bedroom. It was the only old book on his shelf from which the flyleaf had not been torn out. I am only now beginning to grasp what that may mean.” But since Mr. Ferguson had ceased to dispute or pretend, and showed openly a face where distress was joined with good will, the young man cried:

“Still, I’ll give you the four days, Mr. Ferguson.”

He wrote down the name of his hotel upon a slip of paper and left it on the desk, and shook the lawyer by the hand.

Left alone, Mr. Ferguson sat for a little while in a muse, living again the sweet and bitter scenes of vanished years. To what unhappy ends of death and disgrace had those anxieties and endeavours led? To what futilities the buoyant aspiration? He rang the bell upon his desk, and when his head clerk appeared he said:

“I want a message telephoned to Goring that I shall not get home until eight. Then every one can go. I have a letter to write which will take a little time.”

“Very well, sir,” said Gregory, and Mr. Ferguson suddenly slapped his hand down on the table in exasperation.

“Isn’t it a curious thing, Gregory?” he exclaimed. “Here’s a man takes a world of pains to destroy all traces and records and then keeps by him one book with a name written upon the flyleaf which brings in a second all his trouble to nothing! But it’s always the way. Something’s forgotten which you’d think no man in his senses would overlook! Half the miseries in the world I do believe come from such omissions.”

“And more than half our business,” Gregory replied drily.

Mr. Ferguson broke into a laugh.

“Why, that’s true, Gregory,” he cried. “And now leave me to my letter!”

He worded his letter with infinite care, for it was as delicate a piece of work as he had ever been called upon to do, and it took him a full hour. He posted it himself in a pillar-box on his way to Paddington.