The Rover's Secret - A Tale of the Pirate Cays and Lagoons of Cuba

Harry Collingwood

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• Publié par: urnio
• Publié le: 08 décembre 2010
• Nombre de lectures: 41
• Langue: English

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The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Rover's Secret, by Harry Collingwood
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Title: The Rover's Secret
A Tale of the Pirate Cays and Lagoons of Cuba
Author: Harry Collingwood
Illustrator: W. Christian Symons
Release Date: April 13, 2007 [EBook #21071]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ROVER'S SECRET ***
Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
Harry Collingwood
"The Rover's Secret"
Chapter One.
My Childhood.
My father—Cuthbert Lascelles—was the great painter who, under a pseudonym
which I need not mention here, was a few years ago well known in the world of
art, and whose works are now to be found enshrined in some of the noblest
public and private collections both at home and abroad.
He was a tall and singularly handsome man; with clear grey eyes, and a stern
resolute-looking mouth shadowed by a heavy moustache which, like his short
curly hair and carefully trimmed beard, was of a pale golden tint.
My mother died in giving me birth; and this, together with the fact that she was a
native of Italy, was all I, for some years, knew concerning her.
One of the earliest impressions made upon my infant mind—for I cannot recall
the time when I was free from it—was that my parents suffered great
unhappiness during the latter part of their short married life; unhappiness
resulting from some terrible mistake on the part of one or the other of them;
which mistake was never explained and rectified—if explanation and rectification
were indeed possible—during my mother’s lifetime.Having received this impression at so very early an age, I cannot, of course, say
with certainty whence I derived it; but I am inclined to attribute it chiefly to the
singularity of my father’s conduct toward myself.
I was his only child.
He was a man to whom solitude and retirement appeared to be the chief
essentials of existence. Though living in London, he very rarely mingled in
society, yet I have since heard that he always met with a most cordial welcome
when he did so—and it was seldom indeed that his studio doors unfolded to
admit anyone but their master. If he went into the country, as of course was
often the case, in search of subjects, he never by any chance happened to be
going in the same direction as any of his brethren of the brush; his destination
was invariably some wild spot, unfrequented—possibly even unknown—alike by
painter and tourist. And there—if undisturbed—he would remain, diligently
working all day in the open air during favourable weather; and, when the
elements were unpropitious for work, taking long walks over solitary heaths and
desolate mountain sides, or along the lonely shore. And when the first snows of
winter came, reminding him that it was time to turn his face homeward once
more, he would pack up his paraphernalia and return to town, laden with studies
of skies and seas, of barren moorland, rocky crag, and foaming mountain torrent
which provoked alike the envy and the admiration of his brother artists.
It will naturally be supposed that, to a man of such solitary habits as these, the
society of his only child would be an unspeakable comfort. But, with my father,
this did not appear to be by any means the case. He never took me out of town
with him on his annual pilgrimage to the country; and, when he was at home, it
often happened that I did not see him, face to face, for weeks together. As a
consequence of this peculiar arrangement, almost the whole of the time which I
spent indoors was passed in the nursery, where also my meals were served, and
wherein my only companion was Mary, the nursemaid.
The only exceptions to this isolated state of existence were those rare occasions
when my father, without the slightest warning, and apparently with as little
reason, used to send for me to visit him in his studio. It was during these
interviews that his peculiar treatment of me became most noticeable. As a
general rule, when—after a vigorous cleansing of my face and hands and a
change of my raiment had been effected by the nursemaid—I was introduced
into the studio, my father would ensconce me in a roomy old easy-chair by the
fire; provide me with a picture-book of some kind wherewith to amuse myself;
and then take no further notice of me. This, however, seemed to depend to
some extent upon the greeting which I received from him, and that proved to be
a tolerably accurate index of the humour which happened to possess him at the
moment. Sometimes the greeting would consist of a cold shake of the hand and
an equally cold “I hope you are well, boy,” accompanied by a single keen glance
which seemed at once to take in every detail of my person and clothing.
Sometimes the shake of the hand would be somewhat warmer, the
accompanying remark being, perhaps, “I am glad to see you looking so well, my
boy.” And occasionally—but very rarely—I was agreeably surprised to find myself
received with an affectionate embrace and kiss—which I always somewhat
timidly returned—and the words, “Lionel, my son, how are you?”
When the greeting reached this stage of positive warmth, it usually happened
that, instead of being consigned at once to the arm-chair and the picture-book, I
was lifted to my father’s knee, when, laying aside palette and brushes, he would
proceed to ask me all sorts of questions, such as, What had I been doing lately;
where had I been, and what had I seen worthy of notice; did I want any new
toys? and so on; enticing me out of my reserve until he had coaxed me into
talking freely with him. On these especial occasions he had a curious habit of
wheeling round in front of us a large mirror which constituted one of his studio
“properties,” and into this, whilst talking to me, he would intently gaze at his ownreflected image, and mine, laying his cheek beside mine so as to bring both our
faces to the same level, and directing me also to look into the mirror. Sometimes
this curious inspection terminated satisfactorily; in which case, after perhaps an
hour’s chat on his knee, I was tenderly placed in the easy-chair, in such a position
that my father could see me without his work being materially interfered with;
our conversation was maintained with unflagging spirit on both sides; and the
day was brought to a happy close by our dining together, and perhaps going to
the theatre or a concert afterwards. There were occasions, however, when this
pleasant state of affairs did not obtain—when the ordeal of the mirror did not
terminate so satisfactorily. It occasionally happened that, whilst gazing at my
father’s reflected features, I observed a stern and sombre expression settling
like a heavy thunder-cloud upon them; and this always sufficed to speedily
reduce me to silence, however garrulous I might before have been. The paternal
gaze would gradually grow more intense and searching; the thunder-cloud would
lower more threateningly; and unintelligible mutterings would escape from
between the fiercely clenched firm white teeth. And, finally, I would either be
placed—as in the last-mentioned instance—where my father could look at me
whilst at work—and where he did frequently look at me with appalling sternness
—or I was at once dismissed with a short and sharp “Run away, boy; I am busy.”
Looking back upon the first eight years of my existence, and contemplating them
by the light of my now matured knowledge, I am inclined to regard them as quite
an unique experience of child-life; at all events I would fain hope that but few
children have suffered so keenly as I have from the lack of paternal love. And yet
I cannot say that I was absolutely unhappy, except upon and for a day or two
after those chilling dismissals from my father’s presence to which I have briefly
referred; the suffering, although it existed, had by long usage become a thing to
which I had grown accustomed, and it consisted chiefly in a yearning after those
endearments and evidences of affection which I instinctively felt were my due.
The conviction that my father—the one to whom my childish heart naturally
turned for sympathy in all my little joys and sorrows—regarded me coldly—for his
demonstrations of affection were indeed few and far between—exercised a
subduing and repressive influence upon me from which, even now, I have not
wholly recovered, and which will probably continue to affect me to the latest
hour of my life. What made my position decidedly worse was that my father had,
so far, not deemed it necessary to send me to school; and I had, therefore, no
companions of my own age, none of any age, in fact, except Mary, the
nursemaid aforementioned, and Mrs Wilson, the housekeeper; the latter—good
motherly body—so far compassiona