Читать книгу The White Prior - Fergus Hume - Страница 6

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June 1st.—I have now been over a fortnight here, and I am more perplexed than ever at the singularity of this household. The air is charged with mystery, which affects the mansion and its inmates; but what such mystery may be I have not the slightest chance of discovering. The domestic arrangements are well ordered and admirably carried out, the servants are attentive and deferential, and there is no lack of money to render life easy. Yet withal I do not like the idea of continuing under this roof, as the influence of the place is anything but healthy. I seem to be waiting for the happening of some event—what I know not—and the suspense is at once trying and tantalizing.

It is a beautiful old place: on three sides the grey walls of the house; on the fourth, the broad-breasted Thames; and within this quadrangle green lawns, ancient trees in the full glory of their summer foliage, and flower-beds brilliant with colour. My rooms are in the east wing, which stretches riverwards, and I look out of my windows at the west wing, which directly faces them. This latter is shut up, as the house is too large for its company; and with its curtainless windows and closed doors it presents a somewhat desolate air. Here local opinion holds that a ghost resides—the spectre of a mediaeval monk who makes things unpleasant by revisiting the scenes of his earthly life. Curious in such mystical matters, I have frequently watched the west wing at midnight; but I have been punished for such folly by seeing no sign of the phantom, and by catching a bad cold. Since my experience in that way I have left the haunted house severely alone. The White Prior—as the ghost is called—affects the disused chapel at the end of the west wing, verging on the river.

Admission is gained to the quadrangle through a covered archway slanting diagonally through the house on the west side. This leads to the park, and a winding drive down to the gates, which are usually kept closed, as though Mr. Harley expected a siege. In front of the west wing a fine line of oaks stretches to the river, and as they are now in full leaf, they mask, to some extent, the dreary desolation of the house behind. From the lawn steps lead down to the river; and across the stream stretch fertile fields, and still further rise wooded heights which close the view very pleasantly. On the left of the quadrangle there is a boat-house where the madcap, Miss Fay, keeps her dingy, and in this she is constantly on the river. A terrace runs along the main building facing the river, and is diversified with marble statues copied from Greek masterpieces. On the whole this country-house fulfils Tennyson’s words, as a house of ancient peace, for at all times, and under all lights, dawn and morn and twilight, it is one of the most beautiful places I have seen. A man could do worse than dream away his life in so tranquil a nook, but here the tranquillity is pictorial, for the restless feeling which pervades the whole house is inimical to poetic dreams and lazy days.

After which sufficiently vague picture of my surroundings, I must break off for the present, and retire to rest, for it is long past midnight. I have just looked out at the west wing, but see no sign of its saintly spectre....

June 12th.—Five people here puzzle me greatly, and as I wish to note them closely, it may be as well to set down their particular characteristics in detail.

Mr. Harley: He is a strange creature, as changeable as a weathercock, as whimsical as a woman. For days he will sit in that horrible room of the mirrors, and look at his thin figure indefinitely repeated on all sides; then changing from taciturnity to loquacity, he will emerge from his retirement to make himself agreeable. He is a well-read and largely-travelled man; so to an inexperienced youth like myself his company is decidedly pleasant. When in his good-humoured fits he invites me to join him at the dinner-table, and pours forth a mind stored with memories of foreign climes, of foreign courts, and numerous famous people. He has been everywhere, as appears from his intimate knowledge with the four quarters of the world; he has seen everything and every one: so he can amuse for hours without tiring his listener. Why so brilliant a man should shut himself up in seclusion puzzles me: he is fitted to shine in society, yet prefers the fantasy of his library, untenanted save by himself and his reflection in the mirrors. During his silent fits—as I call them—he is only attended by Jasper, though how he can endure the company of that sinister mute is more than I can understand.

Jasper is not a human being, but a creation of fiction who has in some unexplained way escaped from a novel into real life. He appears to have taken a dislike to me, and when I venture within the precincts of the library, he invariably produces a card inscribed “Go away”; as it would be folly to quarrel with the poor creature, I laugh and obey. His mode of making himself understood by means of the cards is decidedly original. Written by himself in a neat round-hand, every emergency is provided against by the remarks thereon. Sometimes he combines two or three cards, so as to form a sentence, but for the most part one suffices to explain his purpose. When Mr. Harley wants me at the table Jasper’s card of invitation is worded “Dinner,” whereat I nod, and he disappears. The other day he showed me a card on which was written, “Don’t watch the west wing,” from which I guessed that he knew of my midnight vigils. In answer to this I made some remark about the ghost; and was confronted with the word “Fool.” Since then he has left me alone, and I have no doubt that my superstition has lowered me in his good opinion. Felix: A more difficult task I never undertook than to instruct this lad. He is by no means dull, and on his favourite subject of poetry can talk volubly enough; but for the most part he is taciturn, and listless, and indifferent. The poor child is so anaemic that he appears to have no spirit, and I might as well try to vivify a lump of dough, as to induce him to take an interest in the doings suitable to his age. In pursuance of my idea regarding his health I take him out daily on the river and teach him rowing; also I instruct him to swim, and I have already asked Mr. Harley to get him a pony, so that he may become a good horseman. But the result is dispiriting, for he is indifferent to all things. He rows when I place the oars in his hands, he swims when I plunge him into the water, yet he does both with a pensive weariness which makes my heart ache. He is so thin, so bloodless, so weak that I cannot believe he will live long; but with this régime of open air and exercise I hope to rouse him to take a moderate pleasure in existence.

With his studies he gets on better, and is particularly fond of Greek. Arithmetic he abhors, but takes great pleasure in composition, and also in reading poetry. By means of his love for these things I hope to gradually win him over to the drier studies, but owing to his passive resistance, I fear that the attempt will take a long time. It is difficult to do anything with so flabby a creature.

Mrs. Archer: This is the housekeeper, who well bears out Barstone’s description. She is stern and pale, stately and reticent, the very type of a mediaeval abbess. We have exchanged a few words, but she usually goes about her duties in silence, and rarely comes near the room wherein I study with Felix. Twice or thrice I have noticed her looking at me in a curious manner, but when conscious of my notice she has always glided away. She does not like Mr. Harley, for when he was one day giving her directions in his usual finical style, her face assumed an expression of absolute repugnance, and she made her exit from the room as speedily as possible. Jasper does not like her, and greatly resents her approaching the library. Indeed, this strange mute seems to hate all save his master, for whom he manifests a dog-like devotion, which is complacently accepted by the egotistic being on whom he attends.

Fay: I have left this young lady to the last, because I wish to dwell long on her personality. Barstone is right; she is an angel, and merits all the eulogies with which he so plentifully besprinkled his letter. How she came to be the daughter of Harley I do not know, as neither in looks nor temperament does she resemble him in the least. He is a bookish, peevish invalid, who is afraid to let the breath of heaven blow on his frail body; while she is a lusty, buxom girl, who is stifled within doors, and escapes on all occasions into the open air. Just past the age of eighteen, she is singularly free from artificiality, and behaves towards me more like a comrade than anything else. We are excellent friends, and I am more attracted by her personality than I dare acknowledge even to myself. With no position, or money, or friends, how can I hope that she will look favourably at me? Yet her unworldliness inspires me with hope that she will choose as her heart dictates. But, alas! her heart is quite untouched, and she is as frank and friendly to me as though I were her brother. As for myself, even in the few weeks I have known her, I feel drawn to love her—pshaw, what folly! I should not set it down even here. The prize is not for me, but for Barstone, who, judging from his enthusiastic letter, is fathoms deep in love with this Diana of the Thames.

These five people are my constant associates, and one and all they keep me at arm’s length. With Fay I get on admirably, as she is the most human of the five. But the elfish Felix is as reserved as his father; and the dumb Jasper, the stern Mrs. Archer, view me with suspicion. What they think about me I do not know, but so anxious have I become, I am determined to find out. What they are to one another I wish to learn. Why does Harley shut himself up in his library? Why does Jasper watch him so incessantly? and why does Mrs. Archer hate her master? Only time can answer these three questions....

June 24th.—I have seen, if not the ghost, at least the light which is said to be carried by the spectre. Looking out on the moonlight sward at four o’clock in the morning, for Mr. Harley had kept me till late talking, I saw a light flitting from window to window of the dark range opposite. As the door of admission to that portion of the house is always locked, I knew it could not be the servants, and for the moment I actually believed that the radiance was supernatural. Suddenly it disappeared, and though I watched for some time, it did not appear again. I note this in my diary, and to-morrow I intend to make inquiries as to who was in the west wing so late.