The Rover's Secret

THE ROVER'S SECRET
A TALE OF THE PIRATE CAYS AND LAGOONS OF CUBA

BY HARRY COLLINGWOOD



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."