The Rovers 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." And
occasionally--but very rarely--I was agreeably surprised to find myself