Читать книгу Lycanthrope: The Mystery of Sir William Wolf - Eden Phillpotts - Страница 4

Table of Contents

The blood in a man's veins may determine his destiny and, by the nature of things, come between him and his native bent, predisposition, or those deep-rooted impulses proper to character. They alone are free who suffer from no proscription, or yoke forged for them by the accidents of heredity. A prince must follow his appointed path, even though it should lead to a throne; and in lesser degree the well-born are often called to face existence hemmed about with conditions for which they were not responsible, but to which the usages of caste demand that they submit.

A young, slim, rufous lad wandered amid the ruins of the Parthenon and, sitting presently within the shade of a great pillar, mopped his red head and looked up into the sapphire, Grecian sky. But though he adored this solemn temple in its ruined magnificence and turned his steps here daily, William Wolf's mind had centred upon himself for the moment and he pursued a futile train of thought, contrasting the existence good to him with that predetermined and inevitable. His own complexity of character left him no choice. He had been trained from childhood to anticipate the demands of wealth and long descent; but while every native instinct shrank from succession to these conditions, yet they shared the young man's quality with a sense of duty, and a conscience morbidly awake to all that his duty must demand.

By nature he had been fitted to the life of literature. He loved history and mysticism. He aspired to creative work and the telling of stories from the past. He relished the challenge from vanished times and often dreamed of adventures with his pen amid the visions of the Golden Age. Greece drew him and he had willingly spent his existence upon that precious soil. But his own future barred the way: he would not learn to write, because he knew that any promise of success must master him and confound his loyalties. None the less, until called to drink the cup of destiny, William Wolf loitered in the world of old romance and beheld, as Moses from Pisgah, the Land of Promise, that he might never enter.

No power denied his dreaming, however, and he had ever been a great dreamer. Sitting now upon a fallen stone of that marble miracle, he reconstructed the Parthenon of Ictinus, a fane lifted upon the venerable foundations of one older still. He rebuilt the ruins, set up the walls, lifted the gorgeous frieze with its Panathenaic processions in all their marvellous beauty. He had studied them deeply and often in the British Museum: those youths and maidens, the cattle for sacrifice, the priests and lawgivers, the flute-players and dancers. He added the colours that of old belonged to them and the glittering pageant lived again in his vision. Next he set up the metopes and their mythical battles; and then he saw the mighty pediments to East and West. He returned their heads to 'Theseus' and 'The Fates'; he dreamed of those masterpieces that art of man has never again created; and lastly he lifted up the chryselephantine image of Athena Parthenos herself, saw her reigning in gold and ivory glory, and thought of Phideas, the mighty man who made her.

Young Wolf knew his history and understood that the Parthenon was a focus of festival rather than worship. He pictured its stores of treasure and he saw the victors from the games assembling to receive their golden chaplets and prizes, as it were from the hand of the goddess herself. He beheld the surging people, heard the trumpets, smelled the odour of the incense rising in blue clouds to the upper air. And then his dreams were broken and a man's voice at his elbow banished them.

"Beg pardon, sir, but you said you were coming up here. A telegram, so I fetched along, thinking you'd best to get it and not knowing when you'd be back at the hotel."

Bob Meadows was William Wolf's valet. He had waited on his master at Oxford and, when William went down, entered his service. A close understanding and regard obtained between them, and Bob, who was two years the elder, rejoiced in his job and thought himself a fortunate man; while William appreciated the other's gifts and held him dearer than a servant. They suited each other and while Meadows exhausted his ingenuity in adding to young Wolf's comfort and convenience, William never lacked appreciation or stinted praise. The valet was practical and trustworthy, not wanting in his own ideals, and he held his master's friendship as more than his share of the good things that life had to offer him.

"Sit down, Bob," said the dreamer. "You've spoiled a very fine feat of imagination, as telegrams are apt to do in my experience."

Meadows took a seat on the grass and mopped his head. He had come quickly.

The telegram was decisive, as Wolf announced after he had read it.

"Must get home at once," he said. "Trouble."

He handed the message to his man.

"Sir Porteus very dangerously ill. Telephoning to-morrow morning. Telford."

Meadows made a rational comment.

"If you catch the night express, sir, you'll be well on your way. You'll lose twelve hours if you wait till to-morrow."

"It's a point," admitted the other. "If the governor's going, twelve hours might make all the difference; but Telford wouldn't arrange for a long-distance call like this unless there were reasons. I may miss something important by starting to-night."

"Very good, sir."

Wolf rose and sighed.

"Something tells me the blow has fallen, Bob."

"Hope for the best, sir. Sir Porteus is grand stuff. He'll fight for his life."

They descended together and Meadows made a suggestion.

"How would it be if you was to charter a 'plane and fly, sir?"

"No, Bob. Unless I hear to the contrary to-morrow and learn that speed is vital, I shall not do that. And speed is not vital; otherwise my cousin would have worded the telegram differently. I think my father is dead. In any case we will go home to-morrow. If he has gone—"

He broke off and neither spoke again until the hotel was reached.

All preparations for departure were made that night, and while Meadows packed, his master went into the moonlight with his thoughts.

Though not in truth a knight, since baronets are not knights unless they have been knighted, the young man entertained lofty ideals of chivalry, a high sense of honour and keen consciousness of the obligations consequent on his estate. He had followed in his father's steps on all questions pertaining to his ancient status, save in the particular of the military spirit; but while General Sir Porteus Wolf held Army, or Navy, the only seemly callings for inheritors of rank and title, his son possessed a different bent of mind. William had been to Eton and Oxford, taken a respectable degree in History and consorted with the serious type of students and thinkers. A disappointment to his father in one particular, he satisfied him well enough in most others, for he promised to respect the traditions of his race, and if no distinctions could be predicted for an only son naturally reserved, scholarly and shy, Sir Porteus felt that Stormbury would be in safe hands along with all it stood for; and he hoped that he might live to welcome and inspire a grandson gifted to restore the line and reanimate its ancient lustre on the rolls of the fighting services. His ambition proved not destined of fulfilment. William Wolf was still a bachelor when came this bad news, and the inner conviction along with it that duty must soon call him to the helm of his inheritance. He shrank from power, or the exercise of power, but he was long schooled to the demand and, while loving Stormbury little enough, admitted its stern claims upon him.

Lastly it may be noted that, amid the complex of qualities he had developed in early manhood, there was something that belonged to himself alone, for William revealed strong tendencies to the mysterious side of life and though, as an educated man he kept superstitions in bounds, he had yet unconsciously made this tendency manifest and displayed to the few remaining members of his race a curious preoccupation with the world of the occult. Such as were interested in him guessed that the phase would pass, unknowing of the imminent and unaccountable events soon destined to feed it.

At eleven o'clock on the following morning young Wolf listened to the voice of his cousin, Telford Wolf, speaking from England and learned that his parent was dead. Sir Porteus had risen very early on the previous day and ridden to a meet of hounds. He hunted still, though seventy-five years of age, and declined to take friendly hints that his grip was gone. Cub-hunting he had ever esteemed a joyous branch of sport and now, under the great oaken hangers of Stormbury but a mile from home, the old baronet took a toss in the mire of a water-course and his horse had come down upon him. He lived for some hours, then died without regaining consciousness.

"You can say he didn't suffer a pang, Bill," whispered the far-away voice. "He went as I've often heard him say he wanted to go. You'll be back in three days, or four at most. They've fixed to-morrow for the inquest and Saturday for the funeral if that will suit you; or would you rather it was later?"

"Saturday will be all right," answered the listener. "I shall start to-day."

"I'll keep the obituary notices for you. They've published a photograph of Uncle Porteus in The Times this morning."

"Thank you, old man. Carry on and do all the right things. Good-bye."

Then he rang off and went to seek Meadows.

"Father's gone, Bob," he said. "Cub-hunting in the hanger. He came down, with his horse on him, and passed a few hours later."

"I'm sorry indeed, Sir William," answered the other. "You can catch the midday express if you mind to."

"No. I'll go at midnight. I can't hurry and there's no need. Funeral isn't till Saturday. I'm going to the Parthenon for an hour or two—just to collect my scattered senses, Bob."

"A very big thing, Sir William—a very tremendous thing for you. Shall I fetch up and call you come presently? If you once get thinking, you'll forget all about the time."

"Look for me at half-past one. I must say 'good-bye' to a few people I suppose."

"There's Mr. Boyd—this will be a cruel stroke to him, Sir William."

"By Jove, I forgot him. And don't call me 'Sir William' any more. I suppose you'll have to now, but not yet. I'll go right away and see Boyd. Glad you reminded me. Hotel Olympia. Call a taxi."

It happened that the Rev. Fortescue Boyd, rector of Stormbury, was taking a holiday in Greece, and since the relations between him and the departed lord of the manor had ever been of the closest, it was certain the news must prove no small shock. William, however, knew Mr. Boyd very intimately and stood on the closest terms of friendship with him. As a child, before he went to his first preparatory school, the reverend gentleman had devoted many hours of his own leisure to William's education. He was a scholar, something of an antiquary and devoted to his flock, his little parish church and his modest circle of activities and interests. Sir Porteus and he had been lifelong friends and, of all his neighbours, the dead man was wont to esteem Fortescue Boyd the highest. They had fought in the Great War together, after which Boyd took Orders and when opportunity offered, accepted the living of Stormbury. Both were widowers at this time and each had one child only.

William thought upon the clergyman's daughter now and remembered with relief that she was with him.

'This is going to knock the old boy about,' he reflected. 'It's so sudden; but he knew, as I always did, that it was likely to happen this way. Lucky Alma's with him. She'll steer him home all right. She may even dissuade him from coming.'

But when they met, he found that the daughter of Stormbury's vicar harboured no thought but to return.

Alma Boyd was as tall as Sir William himself and of a sturdier build. She was a flaxen girl with a determined, frank face and regular features—grey-eyed, steadfast and comely but not beautiful. William had known her all her life and was six years older than she. But at twenty the girl always felt herself the elder. They were very close friends and admired each other heartily, yet no element of romance tinctured their brotherly and sisterly regard. Alma would often tell William that he was a helpless idiot and ought to find a wife and do as his father wished; while he would retort with the promise that when she found a husband, then he might also seek a partner.

He told them of his loss and both were greatly distressed. The clergyman sat down and turned very pale under his tan; the girl, seeing his emotion, showed anxiety for him. There were quickly tears in her eyes which she wiped away, then rang for a waiter and told him to bring her father some brandy. They condoled with the young man and Alma spoke for them both, because it was some little time before the elder could find his voice. Always apt to take colour from the influences about him, young Wolf began to feel a sorrow he had not yet felt. For a while he forgot himself in memory of his father, and when he left them, his mind played on the career of a veteran parent—a great soldier and a man of distinguished quality.

Mr. Boyd declared his intention of returning at once to England, that he might take the funeral, and Alma agreed with him. It was understood that all would travel by the same train; then William went on his way and found himself the better for their sorrow. It had wakened his own spirit and brought some consolation.

"Dear, dear Bill, I'm so sorry for you"—thus Alma had spoken when he left her. And William's moral sense rebuked him. 'She wouldn't be sorry for me if she knew I was so sorry for myself,' he reflected. And then his thoughts turned upon the dead man and he experienced normal, human grief. For he had failed his father in vital directions, fallen far short of the old soldier's ideals, yet received from him nothing but patience, sympathy and affection.

He sat under the Parthenon presently and looked out upon the city beneath him. Having confessed to himself the disappointment that he must have been to the dead, William strove to dwell on a happier side of their relation and remembered that in some things he had satisfied Sir Porteus. He felt that a debt was owing to his father and burned with resolution to pay it. 'At least I'll follow in his footsteps as far as Stormbury is concerned,' thought the young man, 'and if he can watch from the other side of his grave, he shall see the old traditions held sacred and his rule maintained as long as the law of the land and the British Constitution last. And if we crash and the last shadows of feudal times are swept away by the next government, he'll be taken from the evil to come and the change won't hurt me as it would have hurt him.'

He grew tired presently and his mind turned to trifles. One trivial idea consoled him. Though a red man and, as such, unique in his family, William worthily maintained the family features which were marked and distinguished by ugliness. His father had often told him that there had never been a handsome Wolf in the history of the clan, and the family portraits at Stormbury supported this assurance. The women it seemed were presentable, but the men were of an unprepossessing exterior. The Wolf nose and the Wolf ear persisted from generation to generation, even as the Courtenay nose was said to do. An authentic Wolf displayed a long and pointed nose together with exceedingly prominent ears, and William, in addition to his carrot-red locks and ginger eyebrows, did not lack for the family excrescences. They had called him 'the Bat' at Eton, and when his father heard his nickname, he laughed and said that history repeated itself, for he also was called 'the Bat,' in his time.

William's mother had ever condoned her son's ugliness, however, for his eyes in the maternal opinion were quite beautiful. 'You forget the rest of his precious face when you look into his eyes'—so Lady Wolf maintained. They were of an agate colour, gentle and lustrous; and they revealed no little of the young man's quality in their misty depths. Nor was his mouth forbidding. He shaved clean and his lips were well formed, his teeth perfect. William's brow was high yet not very broad; his chin was his own, well modelled but lacking the assertion and strength of his race.

That night he started for home with Meadows. The Boyds were in the same train and they met from time to time on the course of the journey and took the final stage together. On a bright October evening they arrived at Honiton in East Devon, where waited motor-cars to bring them through autumnal woods, pastures, orchards and cultivated lands to Stormbury. An old car and an old driver conveyed the vicar and his daughter quickly away; while there waited for William Wolf a more elaborate equipage. Telford Wolf had driven to meet him, and presently Meadows took the wheel while the cousins sat together behind him.

Telford was able to tell of the Coroner's inquest. Several people had witnessed the accident and Dr. Peters, the local physician and an old friend of Sir Porteus, declared that after the first shock, the dead man could have felt and known nothing.

William and Telford Wolf were near of an age and had always enjoyed a community of tastes and interests that kept them close friends. The situation of the family on the death of its head can be very briefly recorded since few remained to mention. A clan once numerous was now reduced by accident of chance to small numbers. Outlying branches and connections there were, but the main line ran thin. Sir Porteus and a brother, one year younger than himself, had been the sole representatives of the past generation. Both married, and while William was sole issue of his father, Telford Wolf had also happened to be an only son. His mother he could not remember, for she died while he was yet a little child; but Captain George Wolf, his father, married again and a stepmother had brought up the lad.

Between George Wolf and Sir Porteus was ever maintained the closest affection, and after his brother had fallen in the Great War, Sir Porteus looked to it that all should be well with his sister-in-law and her stepson. He had known Daphne Wolf long before she entered the family, for she was a close friend of his own wife, and at Stormbury George Wolf first met her. After her husband's death, Daphne and young Telford came at Lady Wolf's desire to live at Stormbury dower-house—a considerable dwelling that stood but a mile from the manor. At first a temporary arrangement, it had become permanent, for after the long illness and death of Lady Wolf, Sir Porteus was insistent that Daphne should not go. She had belonged to the district all her life and felt well pleased to remain, minister to her stepson and be a second mother to William also. A country woman, she loved the life of the hamlet, its duties and interests. She was fond of both young men, but rated William higher than her husband's son, for there was that in his helplessness that drew her more than the efficiency of Telford. Sir Porteus had always admitted his nephew's capability but found himself doomed to disappointment in that quarter also, for the young man was an artist to his finger-tips—a craftsman and creator, whose bent lay in making things. He had gone abroad sometimes with William, to study masterpieces and pursue his passion; but for the most part Telford was content to live and work at home. His stepmother had built him a studio near the dower-house, and here he laboured at his achievements and clamoured for the tools or machines they demanded. Mrs. Wolf had been called to wear his earliest efforts of self-expression and fill her drawing-room with others; while, at twenty-five, the ambitious youth held his first 'one-man' show in London, receiving some measure of praise for his enamels and jewels, his book-bindings and trinkets. He was always after something new and, at the time of his uncle's death, had been trying hard to squeeze a cheque out of the old man and start a little pottery.

Thus then they had stood, the four of them; and now Sir Porteus was sped and Sir William about to reign over Stormbury; while Daphne Wolf prepared to help him, as far as a woman might, and cordially trusted that he would presently find a helpmate in his lonely splendour.

Through his own acres and under his own great forest came William to his home, where Mrs. Wolf was waiting to receive him. The hum and stir and business of a rich man's passing engulfed him. A thousand minor questions awaited his decision; many presented themselves for a moment to him. Stormbury had ever regarded him as something of a shadow; but now the case was altered and interest in the new dispensation grew. A foretaste of his burdens weighed heavy upon William that night and he retired weary enough in mind and body. Physically he had always been of tough and healthy constitution; but he was light built and incapable of any tremendous efforts—athletic, though not an athlete.

Now a family mausoleum opened for the last time and Sir Porteus joined his ancestors.

"After I am buried," he had said to William, "the place will be full, and you and your descendants, if you ever find energy and love to create them, must lie henceforth under the grass outside with our good neighbours."

To this suggestion the young man readily agreed.

"Nothing will suit me better, Father," he answered; and when the coffin of Sir Porteus, fashioned of Stormbury oak, lay beside his wife, the great vault was closed for ever upon half a hundred receptacles of human dust.

Many old soldiers, of whom William had heard but never seen, attended the funeral and it proceeded with such pomps and dignities as met the case. Then peace returned and the hamlet went on its immemorial way.