Читать книгу The Man with a Secret - Fergus Hume - Страница 12

A snake you were in other days

Ere you attained the human state;

Still in your veins the snake blood plays

Which leads you now to gloze and hate,

The magic of the serpent gaze

Lurks in your eyes to fascinate.

As it was a holiday the pupils were left to their own devices, and on going outside, Blake found Dick Pemberton amusing himself with Muffins and a fishing rod. Ferdinand having been worsted by the volatile Dick, had long since departed to work at a tragedy he was composing, and Mr. Pemberton was evidently getting ready for a fishing excursion in company with Muffins.

"Now what do you think you are doing?" asked Reggy pausing at the door.

"None so blind as those who won't see," retorted Dick coolly. "I'm goin' fishin'."

"Fishing?" repeated Reggy with emphasis.

"With the accent on the 'G'," replied Richard gaily. "Don't be a pedant, old chap--fishin' means the same thing as fishing, and not so much trouble to say. I suppose I ought to call Muffins 'Muffings.'"

"Oh, bosh!" retorted Reggy politely, walking down to the gate.

"Quite right--it is bosh, oh King. Where are you off to?"

"Grange?"

Dick arched his eyebrows, shook his head, and whistled, at which Reginald flushed a little.

"What do you mean?" he asked, turning round.

"Nothin', nothin'," said Dick demurely; "you're 'goin' a-courtin', sir, she said,' I suppose."

"What nonsense, Dick," said Blake angrily, "as if Una----"

"Oh! ho!" replied Pemberton; "sits the wind in that quarter? I never mentioned the lady's name. You ought to get our one and only poet to write you some verses--

'Oh, I could spoon a

Girl like dear Una

Aileen Aroona,'

--bad poetry, but beautiful sentiment."

"I wish you'd be serious, Dick," said Reginald in a vexed tone; "I am only going over to the Grange to ask after the Squire's health."

"All right," replied Dick good-naturedly; "give old Cassy my love, and tell her I'm going to propose to her--odd, isn't it?--so very odd." And with a capital imitation of Miss Cassandra's fidgety manner, he walked away followed by Muffins, while Reginald went out of the gate on to the village street.

The interview with Dr. Larcher had touched him more nearly than he liked to confess even to himself, and his frivolous conversation with Dick had been somewhat of a relief to him, but now, being alone, he relapsed into sombre thoughts. He was dissatisfied with his position, and longed to know more about himself--who were his parents?--were they dead or alive?--why was he thrust into the world as an outcast? The only person who could explain the mystery of his life was Patience Allerby; he determined therefore to apply to her for the explanation.

Filled with these dismal thoughts, he sauntered slowly up the street as far as the bridge. Here he paused, and leaning over the parapet, began to think again. It was a curious thing that this young man, brought up in a quiet, Christian household, should let his thoughts run on such a morbid idea as the possibility of his being a natural son. He had no experience of vice, and should therefore have accepted the marriage of his unknown parents as a fact, especially when his nurse asserted that they had been married. But the strangeness of his position led him to believe that there must be some motive for concealment, and this motive, he determined in his own mind, was the want of a marriage certificate.

The real cause, however, which led to this morbid analysis of the possible relations between his parents, lay in a discovery which he had lately made--a discovery which changed the simple manly life he was leading into a raging hell of doubts and self-torturings.

He was in love--and Una Challoner was the woman he loved. It was not that sickly evanescent affection common to adolescence, known by the name of calf love--no; but that strong overwhelming passion of the soul which has no limits and which dominates and sways the whole nature. Drawn in the first place towards Una by simple admiration of her beauty, he learned later on to discard this passion without soul, and found in the kindred sympathy of her spirit with his own that ideal union which so rarely exists. She, on her part, had been attracted to him by the same qualities which he found in her, and this perfect agreement developed in each a pure and spiritual adoration.

His love thus being pure, he would not dare to offer her anything but purity, and anxiously began to examine his life in order to discover all flaws which marred its whiteness. He was not an ideal young man, still he discovered nothing in his life which could embarrass him to explain, so felt quite easy in himself, but now this shadow of possible illegitimacy seemed to threaten disaster. He would not dare to offer to the woman he loved and respected a name which was not legally his own.

However, it was no use indulging in self-torture when it could be ended by getting a proper explanation of the circumstances of his birth from Patience Allerby. Hitherto he had shrunk from doing this with the vague hesitation of a man who dreads to hear the truth, but now it was imperative he should learn all, be it good or evil, and shape his course accordingly. At this moment of his life he stood at the junction of two roads, and the explanation of Patience Allerby would decide which one he was to take. Having come to this logical conclusion, he resolutely banished all dismal thoughts from his heart, and walked rapidly across the common in the direction of Garsworth Grange. It was the quest, not for El Dorado or the Holy Grail, but for the secret which would make or mar his whole life.

Dull and heavy was the day, with a cold grey sky overhead, a humid wind blowing chill with the moisture of the fens, and a sense of decay in the atmosphere. The gaunt, bare trees with their slender branches and twigs outlined with delicate distinctness against the sad grey sky--the withered leaves with their vivid reds and yellows which carpeted the ground--the absence of song of bird or cheerful lowing of kine--all weighed down and depressed his spirits. The uniform tints of the landscape with their absence of colour and life seemed like a type of his own existence at present; but lo, when he raised his eyes a golden shaft of sunlight was above the distant towers of the Grange, where he hoped to find the talisman which would change the grey monotony of an uneventful past to the glory and joy of a happy future. It was an omen of success, and his eyes brightened, his step grew springy and he clutched his stick with determination as he strode towards the glory of the sun, leaving the grey mists and desolate landscape behind him.

As he walked on he saw a short distance ahead the tall figure of a man, and on coming abreast of him, he recognised Basil Beaumont, who was listlessly strolling along, thinking deeply. Remembering the vicar's dislike to the character of Beaumont, he was about to pass on with a conventional nod, when the artist spoke, and he could not with courtesy refuse to answer.

"Good morning, Blake," he said in a friendly tone. "Taking a constitutional?"

"Not exactly," replied Reginald, falling into the leisurely walk of the artist; "the vicar wants to know how Squire Garsworth is?"

"Had I met you earlier I could have saved you the walk," said Beaumont indolently; "he is much better--they sent to Nestley this morning to tell him about it."

"Where is Dr. Nestley now?" asked Blake.

Beaumont pointed to the Grange with his stick.

"Over there," he answered, "seeing his patient. I expect he'll have to remain down here for some time--the Squire has taken a great fancy to him--rich men's likings are poor men's fortunes."

"Good. I wish someone would take a liking to me," said Blake with a sigh. "I need a fortune."

"You've got one."

"Indeed! Where?"

"In your throat!"

Reginald laughed and shook his head.

"I hardly think that," he answered gaily.

"Don't be so mock modest, my dear boy," said Beaumont with a shrug. "I assure you I'm not one to praise unnecessarily. You need training, severe training, to bring your voice to perfection; but you've got a wonderful organ to work on--not that voice is everything, mind you; I've known people with good voices to whom such a gift is absolutely worthless."

"Why?"

"Because they've got no talent. To make a singer needs more than voice--it needs great perseverance, powerful dramatic instinct, an educated mind, and a strong individuality."

"I don't think I've got all that," said Reggy rather disconsolately.

"Let me see," observed Beaumont deliberately, "you've a good voice and dramatic instinct, as I know from the way you sang that song last night--you are educated, of course, and I can see for myself you have an individuality of your own--there only remains perseverance. Have you perseverance?"

"I think so."

"Ah! doubtful. I'll put the question in another way. Are you ambitious? If you are, you must have perseverance--one is the natural outcome of the other."

"How so?"

"Logically in this way--an ambitious man wants to succeed--he can't succeed without perseverance--ergo, he perseveres to succeed in his ambition. Now then, are you persevering or ambitious?"

"I'm not sure."

"No!" Beaumont did not seem disappointed at this reply, but went on talking. "Then you have no incentive; you are in the chrysalis stage; get an incentive, and you will change to a butterfly."

"What incentive can I obtain."

"That depends upon your temperament--the desire to leave the dull village--the desire to have money, and above all, the desire to be loved by some woman."

"Ah," said Blake, whom this last remark stung sharply, "at least I have that incentive."

Beaumont laughed.

"Then the result must follow, you will persevere and succeed."

Blake was much impressed with Beaumont's remarks, for a vision rose before him of a bright future and a famous name with Una for his wife. Then the recollection of the dark secret of his birth came back to him; if what he surmised were true, he would have nothing to work for as there would be an insuperable bar between him and the girl he loved. The roseate scenes he had conjured up vanished, and in their place he only saw the sorrow of a lonely life. He sighed involuntarily, and shook his head.

"It all depends on one thing," he said sadly.

"And that one thing?" asked Beaumont keenly.

"It is at present a secret," replied Blake curtly, whereupon Beaumont laughed lightly in no wise offended, and they walked on for a short distance in silence.

They were now nearing the Grange, and Beaumont was going to turn back when he saw Nestley coming down the road.

"Here is Nestley," he said carelessly, "so you can learn all about the Squire from him, and need not go to the Grange."

"I must go to the Grange," replied Blake.

Beaumont smiled and whistled the air of "Love's Young Dream," for he had heard rumours in the village which led him to believe that Blake was in love with the Squire's beautiful cousin.

Reginald understood him, and was about to make some angry remark, when Nestley came up to them and put an end to the conversation.

"Well, doctor," said Beaumont lightly, "and how is your patient?"

Nestley's face wore a frown as he recognised Beaumont, but he evidently determined not to give his enemy the pleasure of seeing his annoyance, so, smoothing his features to a bland smile, he replied in the same conversational manner:

"Better--much better--he'll be all right soon--less excitable--but the body is worn out."

"And the brain?" asked the artist.

"Oh, that's all right--he's got a wonderful brain."

"Slightly cracked," interposed Blake, nodding to Nestley.

"Just slightly," replied Nestley, coolly. "But his madness has a good deal of method in it. He's got queer ideas about the re-incarnation of the soul--but we've all queer ideas more or less."

"Particularly more," observed Beaumont, indolently. "Are you coming back, Nestley? I'll be glad of a companion."

Nestley hesitated. He did not like Beaumont, and mistrusted him. Still, there was a wonderful fascination about the man which few could resist, and in spite of his dislike Nestley rapidly found himself falling once more under the old spell of that suave, cynical manner.

"I don't mind," he said, carelessly, "particularly as I want to give you a message from the Squire."

"To me?" said Beaumont in surprise. "What about?"

"A picture. The squire wants his portrait taken, and----"

"You thought of me," said Beaumont, with a cold smile; "how charming you are, my dear Nestley. I'll be delighted to paint the Squire, he's a Rembrandtian study, full of light and shade and wrinkles."

"Where are you going to, Mr. Blake?" asked Nestley, abruptly turning to the young man and eyeing him keenly.

"To the Grange," replied Blake carelessly, "to see the Squire. Good morning, gentlemen," and with a cool nod, the young man strolled away in the direction of Garsworth Grange.

Nestley stood looking after him oddly.

"To see the Squire," he repeated. "Yes and Una Challoner."

"Ah," said Beaumont cynically. "You've seen that, my dear fellow."

"Yes. Do you know Una Challoner loves him?"

"Not exactly. I know he loves Una Challoner."

"She returns it," said Nestley gloomily. "I found that out from her manner this morning."

Beaumont smiled and looked strangely at the downcast face of the doctor.

"I understand," he said, lighting a fresh cigarette.

"Understand what?" asked Nestley angrily.

"That you also love Una Challoner."

"Absurd, I've only seen her twice."

"Nevertheless----"

"What?"

"Oh nothing, nothing," replied Beaumont airily. "I'll tell you all about it in a week."

Nestley did not reply, but stood silently looking at the ground, on seeing which, Beaumont drew his arm within his own, with a gay laugh.

"Come along," he said cheerfully, "we'll walk back to Garsworth, and you can tell me all about the Squire and his picture."