Читать книгу Mr. Marx's Secret - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 13

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The letter which Mr. Ravenor had been writing to my mother was finished and sealed at last. Then he leaned back in his chair and looked steadily at me.

“I shall not see you again before you go, Philip Morton,” he said, “so I wish to impress upon you once more what I said to you about my nephew, who is Lady Silchester’s son, by-the-bye. I know that he is going on badly, but I wish to know how badly. Unfortunately, he has no father, and, from what I can remember of him, I should imagine that he is quite easily led, and would be very amenable to the influence of a stronger mind. If yours should be that mind—and I do not see why it should not—it will be well for him. That delightfully Utopian optimism of yours is, at any rate, healthy,” he added dryly.

I felt my cheeks burn and would have spoken, but Mr. Ravenor checked me.

“Let there be no misunderstanding between us,” he said. “I desire no gratitude from you and I deserve none. What I am doing I am doing for my own gratification—perhaps for my own ultimate advantage. That you are a gainer by it is purely a matter of chance. The whim might just as well have been the other way. I might have taken a fancy to have you turned out of the place and, if so, I would have done it. On the whole, it is I who should be grateful to you for not baulking me in my scheme and for letting me have my own way. So understand, please, after this explanation, that I shall look upon any expression of gratitude from you as a glaring mark of imbecility, apart from which it will annoy me exceedingly.”

I listened in silence. What could one reply to such a strange way of putting a case? Mr. Ravenor’s manner forbade any doubt as to his seriousness and I could only respect his wishes.

“As you won’t let me thank you, sir, I think I’d better go,” I said bluntly. “I’m sure to forget if I stay here much longer.”

“A good discipline for you to stay, then,” he answered.

Again the tinkle of the telephone bell rang out from the corner and interrupted his speech. Mr. Ravenor motioned me towards it.

“Go and hear what it is and repeat it to me,” he said.

I put my ear to the tube and repeated the words as they came:

“A man desires to see you, sir, but refuses to give his name. I have told him that it is quite useless my communicating with you without it; but he is persistent and refuses to go away. He is respectably dressed, but rather rough-looking.”

Mr. Ravenor shrugged his shoulders and took up his pen, as though about to resume his writing.

“Tell him to go to the deuce!” he said briefly.

I repeated the message faithfully, but its recipient was evidently not satisfied. In less than a minute the bell sounded again.

“His name is Richards, sir—or, rather, he says he is known to you by that name—and he is very emphatic about seeing you—and, begging your pardon, sir, a little insolent. He says that his business is of the utmost importance.”

I repeated the message and stood as though turned to stone. Was my fancy playing tricks with me in the dimly-lit room, or had Mr. Ravenor’s face really become ghastly and livid, like the face of a man who sees the phantom shadows of a hideous nightmare passing before his fixed gaze? I closed my eyes for a moment’s relief and looked again. Surely it had been fancy! Mr. Ravenor was writing with only a slight frown upon his calm, serene face.

“Let Mr. Richards—or whatever the fellow’s name is—be given to understand that I distinctly refuse to see him,” he said quietly. “If he has any business with me he can write.”

I repeated this and then took up my cap to go. Mr. Ravenor put down his pen and walked with me to the door. I had expected that he would have offered me his hand, but he did not. He nodded, kindly enough and held the door open while I passed out. So I went.

As I walked across the great hall on my way out I came face to face with Lady Silchester, who was thoughtfully contemplating one of a long line of oil-paintings dark with age, yet vivid still with the marvellous colouring of an old master. To my surprise she stopped me.

“Are you a judge of pictures, Mr. Morton?” she asked. “I was wondering whether that was a genuine Reynolds.” And she pointed to the picture which she had been examining.

I shook my head, briefly acknowledging that I knew nothing whatever about them. I was quite conscious at the time that the question was only a feint. What was a farmer’s son likely to know of the old masters?

“Ah, never mind!” she remarked, shutting up her eyeglasses with a snap. “I can ask Mr. Ravenor this evening. I thought, perhaps, that as you were here so often he might have talked to you about them. I know that he is very proud of his pictures.”

“Had I been here often he might have done so,” I answered. “As it happens, however, this is my first visit to Ravenor Castle.”

“Indeed? And yet Mr. Ravenor seems to take a great interest in you. Why?”

I hesitated and wished that I could get away; but Lady Silchester was standing immediately in front of me.

“Your ladyship will pardon me,” I said, “but might not your question be better addressed to Mr. Ravenor?”

She bit her lip and moved haughtily to one side. I made a movement as though to pass her, but she turned suddenly and prevented me.

“Mr. Morton,” she said, a little nervously, “my brother said that you were going to Dr. Randall’s, I believe?”

I admitted that such was the fact.

“I daresay you know that my son is there,” she continued, “and I am afraid he’s not behaving exactly as he should. Of course, we don’t hear anything definite; but Cecil is very good-natured, easily led into anything, and I am a little doubtful about his companions there. Now, Mr. Morton, you’re not much more than a boy yourself, of course; but you don’t look as though you would care for the sort of thing that I’m afraid Cecil gets led into. I do wish that you and he could be friends, and that—that—”

She broke off, as though expecting me to say something, and I felt a little awkward.

“It’s very kind of you to think so well of me, when you don’t know anything about me,” I said, twirling my cap in my hands; “but you forget that I am only a farmer’s son, and perhaps your son would not care to be friends with me.”

“My son, whatever his faults may be, has all the instincts of a gentleman,” Lady Silchester answered proudly; “and if he liked you for yourself, it would make no difference, even if you were a tradesman’s son. Promise me that, if you have the opportunity, you will do what you can?”

“Oh, yes; I’ll promise that, with pleasure!” I assured her.

Lady Silchester smiled, and while the smile lasted I thought that I had never seen a more beautiful woman. Then she held out a delicate little hand, sparkling with rings, and placed it in mine, which in those days was as brown as a berry and not very soft.

“Thank you so much, Mr. Morton.”

She looked up at me quite kindly for a moment. Then suddenly her manner completely—changed. She withdrew her eyes from my face, with a slight flush in her cheeks, and turned abruptly away.

“Good evening, Mr. Morton. I am much obliged to you for your promise,” she said, in a colder tone.

I drew myself up, unconscious of having said or done anything which could possibly offend her, and feeling boyishly hurt at her change of manner.

“Good evening, Lady Silchester,” I answered, with all the dignity I could command. Then I turned away and left the Castle.

I walked down the broad avenue slowly, casting many glances behind me at the vast, gloomy pile, around which the late evening mists were rising from the damp ground. Many lights were twinkling from the upper windows and from the east wing, where the servants’ quarters were situated, but the lower part of the building lay in a deep obscurity, unilluminated, save by one faint light from Mr. Ravenor’s study. There seemed something unnatural, almost ghostly, about the place, which chilled while it fascinated me.

What was that? I stood suddenly still in the middle of the drive and listened. A faint, muffled cry, which seemed to me at first to be a human cry, had broken the deep evening stillness. I held my breath and remained quite motionless, with strained hearing. There was no repetition of it, no other sound. I was puzzled; more than half inclined to be alarmed. It might have been the crying of a hare, or the squealing of a rabbit caught by a stoat. But my first impression had been a strong one, improbable though it seemed. Poachers, however daring, would scarcely be likely to invade the closely-guarded inner grounds, where the preserves were fewer and the risk of capture far greater than outside the park. Besides, there had been no discharge of firearms, no commotion, no loud cries; only that one muffled, despairing moan. What could it mean?

A steep ascent lay before me. After a moment’s hesitation I hurried forward and did not pause until I reached the summit and had clear view around through the hazy twilight.