Читать книгу Mr. Marx's Secret - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 11

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At first I had eyes only for the dark figure seated a few yards away from me at a small writing-table drawn into the centre of the room. He was bending low over his desk and never even raised his eyes or ceased writing at my entrance. Before him on the table, and scattered around his chair on the floor, were many sheets of white foolscap covered with his broad, firm handwriting, some with the ink scarcely dry upon them; and while I stood before him he impatiently swept another one from his desk and, without waiting to see it flutter to the ground, began a fresh sheet.

A glass of water, a few dry biscuits, and a little pile of books—some turned face-downwards—were by his side. Nothing else was on the table, save a great pile of unused paper, a watch detached from its chain, and a heavily-shaded lamp, which threw a ghastly light upon his white, worn face, and his dry, brilliant eyes, under which were faintly engraven the dark rims of the student.

I watched him for a while, fascinated. Then, as he took not the slightest notice of me, my eyes began to wander round the room. It was hexagonal and, on every side save one, lined from the floor to the high ceiling with books. The furniture was all of black oak, as also were the bookshelves, and the carpet and hangings were of a deep olive-green. The mantelpiece and inlaid grate were of black marble, faintly relieved with gold, and within the polished bars of the grate a small fire was burning.

There was nothing cheerful about the apartment; on the contrary, it struck me as being, though magnificent, sombre and heavy, wrapped as it was in the gloom of a dismal twilight, which the flickering fire and the shaded lamp failed to pierce. From the high French windows, I could catch a glimpse of a long stretch of soddened lawn, beyond which everything was shrouded in the semi-obscurity of the fast-falling dusk, deepened by the grey, cloudy sky. But I chose, after my first glance around the room, to keep my eyes fixed upon the man who sat writing before me, the man in whom already I felt an interest so strong as to deaden all the curiosity which I might otherwise have felt as to my surroundings.

At last he seemed conscious of my presence. Lifting his eyes, to give them a momentary rest, he encountered my fixed gaze. For a moment he looked at me in a puzzled manner, as though wondering how I came there. Then his expression changed and, putting down his pen, he pushed his papers away from him.

“So you have come, Philip Morton,” he said.

To so self-evident a statement I could return no answer, save a brief affirmative. He seemed to expect nothing more, however.

“How old did you say you were?” he asked abruptly.

“Seventeen, sir.”

It was quite five minutes before he spoke again, during which time he sat with knitted brows and eyes fixed intently but absently upon me, deep in thought, and thought of which it seemed to me somehow that I must be the subject.

“Where were you born?”

“At the farm, sir—at least, I suppose so.”

It flashed into my mind at that moment that I had never heard the period of my earliest childhood spoken of either by my father or mother. But it was only a passing thought, dismissed almost as soon as conceived. Had we not always lived at the farm? Where else could I have been born?

“Do you know any of your mother’s relations?” Mr. Ravenor asked, taking no notice of the qualifying addition to my previous answer.

I shook my head. I had never seen or heard of any of them, and it was a circumstance upon which I had more than once pondered. But my mother’s reserved demeanour towards me of late years had checked many questions which I might otherwise have felt inclined to ask her. There was a brief silence, during which Mr. Ravenor sat with his face half turned away from me, resting it lightly upon the long, delicate fingers of his left hand.

“You are a little young for college,” he said presently, in a more matter-of-fact tone; “besides which, I doubt whether you are quite advanced enough. I have decided, therefore, to send you for two years to a clergyman in Lincolnshire who receives a few pupils, my own nephew among them. He is a friend of mine, and will give some shape to your studies. There are one or two things which I shall ask you to remember when you get there,” he went on.

“First, that this little arrangement between your mother, yourself, and me remains absolutely a secret among us. Also that you seek, or, at any rate, do not refuse, the friendship of my nephew, Cecil, Lord Silchester. From what I can learn I fear that he is behaving in a most unsatisfactory manner, and, as I know him to be weak-minded and easily led, his behaviour at present and his character in the future are to a great extent dependent upon the influence which his immediate companions may have over him. You understand me?”

I assented silently, for words at that moment were not at my command; my cheeks were flushed, and my heart was beating with pleasure at the confidence in me which Mr. Ravenor’s words implied. That moment was one of the sweetest of my life.

“I do not, of course, wish you to play the spy in any way upon my nephew,” Mr. Ravenor continued, “but I shall expect you to tell me the unbiassed truth should I at any time ask you any questions concerning him; and if you think, after you have been there some time and have had an opportunity of judging, that he would be likely to do better elsewhere, under stricter discipline than at Dr. Randall’s, I shall expect you to tell me so. In plain words, Philip Morton, I ask you to take an interest in and look after my nephew.”

“I will do my best, sir,” I answered fervently.

“A youthful Mentor, very!”

The words, accompanied by something closely resembling a sneer, came from neither Mr. Ravenor nor myself. Either a third person must have been in the room before my arrival and during the whole of our conversation, or he must have entered it since by some means unknown to me, for almost at my elbow, on the side remote from the door, stood the man who had broken in, without apology or explanation, upon our interview.

Both from the strange manner of his attire and on account of his personality, I could not repress a strong curiosity in the new-comer. He was above the average height, but of awkward and ungainly figure, its massiveness enhanced by the long black dressing-gown which was wrapped loosely around him. His hair and beard were of a deep reddish hue, the former partly concealed by a black silk skull-cap, and he wore thick blue spectacles, which by no means added to the attractiveness of his face; his features—those which were visible—were good, but their effect was completely spoilt by the disfiguring glasses and his curious complexion. There was an air of power about him difficult to analyse, but sufficiently apparent, which altogether redeemed him from coarseness, or even mediocrity; and his voice, too, was good. But my impressions concerning him were very mixed ones.

He was evidently someone of account in the household, for he stood on the hearthrug with his hands thrust into his loose pockets, completely at his ease, and without making any apology for his unceremonious appearance. When I first turned to look at him he was examining me with a cold, critical stare, which made me feel uncomfortable without knowing why.

“Who is the young gentleman?” he asked, turning to Mr. Ravenor. “Won’t you introduce me?”

Mr. Ravenor took up some papers lying on the table before him and began to sort them.

“It is Philip Morton, the son of the man who was murdered in Rothland Wood,” he answered quietly. “I am going to undertake his education.”

“Indeed! You’re becoming quite a philanthropist,” was the reply. “But why not send him to a public school at once?”

“Because a public school would be just the worst place for him,” Mr. Ravenor answered coldly. “His education has been good enough up to now, I dare say, but it has not been systematic. It wants shape and proportion, and Dr. Randall is just the man to see to that.”

The new-comer shrugged his shoulders.

“I don’t believe in private tutors,” he remarked.

“That scarcely affects the question,” Mr. Ravenor answered, a little haughtily. “Are you ready for me, Marx?”

“I shall be presently. I had very nearly finished when the sound of voices tempted me out to see whom you had admitted into your august presence. You have not completed the introduction.”

Mr. Ravenor turned to me with a slight frown upon his fine forehead.

“Morton,” he said, “this is Mr. Marx, my private secretary and collaborator.”

We exchanged greetings, and I looked at him with revived interest. The man who was worthy to work with Mr. Ravenor must be a scholar indeed, and, on the whole, Mr. Marx looked it. I almost forgave him his supercilious speech and patronising manner.

“You have quite settled, then, to send this young man to Dr. Randall’s?” Mr. Marx said calmly.

“I have. There are one or two more matters which I have not yet mentioned to him, so I shall be glad to see you again in half an hour,” Mr. Ravenor remarked, glancing at his watch.

Mr. Marx nodded to me in a not unfriendly manner, and, lifting a curtain, which I had not noticed before, disappeared into a smaller apartment.

Mr. Ravenor waited until he was out of hearing and then turned towards me.

“I do not know whether it is necessary for me to mention it, as you may possibly not come into contact again,” he said slowly; “but in case you should do so, remember this: I wish you to have as little to do with Mr. Marx as possible. You—”

He broke off suddenly and I started and looked round, half amazed, half frightened. The continuous sound of an electric-bell, which seemed to come from within a few feet of me, was echoing through the room.