Читать книгу Mr. Marx's Secret - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 8

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Late in the afternoon of the following day a visitor rode through the stack-yard and reined in his horse before our door. I was reading in the room which my mother chiefly occupied and, when I glanced out of the side-window, overhung and darkened by jessamine and honeysuckle, I had a great surprise. The book dropped from my fingers and I stood still for a moment, uncertain what to do. For outside, sitting composedly upon his fine black horse and apparently considering as to the best means of making his presence known, was Mr. Ravenor.

He saw me and, with a curt but not ungracious motion of the head, beckoned me out. I went at once and found him dismounted and standing upon the step.

“I want to see your mother, boy,” he said sharply. “Is there no one about who can hold my horse? Where are all the farm men?”

I hesitated and stood there for a moment, awkward and confused. My mother’s strange words concerning him were still ringing in my ears. Supposing she refused to come down and receive, as a visitor, the man of whom she had spoken such mysterious words? Nothing appeared to me more likely. And yet what was I to do?

He watched me, as though reading my thoughts. That he was indeed doing so I very quickly discovered.

“Quick, boy!” he said. “I am not accustomed to be kept waiting. I know as well as you do that I am not a welcome visitor, but your mother will see me, nevertheless. Call one of the men!”

I passed across the garden and entered the farmyard. Jim, the waggoner, was there, turning over a manure-heap, and I returned with him at my heels. Mr. Ravenor tossed him the reins and, stooping low, followed me into our little sitting-room.

He laid his whip upon the table and, selecting the most comfortable chair, sat down leisurely and crossed his legs. He was, of course, entirely at his ease, and was watching my discomposure with a quiet, mocking smile.

“Now go and tell your mother that I desire to see her!” he commanded.

With slow steps I turned away, and, mounting the stairs, knocked at her door.

“Mother, there is a visitor downstairs!” I called out softly. “It is——”

“I know,” she answered calmly. “Go away. I shall be down in a few minutes.”

I went downstairs again and into the sitting-room, breathing more freely. Mr. Ravenor had not stirred, and when I entered appeared to be deep in thought. At the sound of my footsteps, however, his expression changed at once into its former impassiveness. He glanced round the room with an air of lazy curiosity and his half-closed eyes rested upon my little case of books.

“What have you there?” he inquired. “Read me out the titles.”

I did so, with just an inkling of reluctance, for my collection was altogether a haphazard one, precious though it was to me. Half-way through he checked me.

“There, that’ll do!” he exclaimed, laughing softly. “This is really idyllic. ‘Abercrombie’ and ‘Robinson Crusoe,’ ‘Jeremy Taylor’ and ‘Thomas à Kempis.’ My poor boy, if you have a headpiece at all, how it must want oiling!”

I was a little indignant at his tone and answered him quickly.

“I don’t know. I’m not sure that I should care for your kind of books very much.”

He arched his fine eyebrows and the smile still lingered around his lips.

“Indeed! And why not? And how have you been able to divine what sort of books mine are, without having seen them?”

“Well, perhaps I don’t mean that exactly,” I answered, sitting on the edge of the table, and thrusting my hands deep down into my trousers pockets, with the uncomfortable sensation that I was making a fool of myself. “I was judging from what you said you were last night. If study has only brought you to pessimism, I would rather be ignorant.”

“You really are a wonderfully wise boy for your years,” he said, still smiling. “But you must remember that there are two distinct branches of study. One, the more popular and the more commonly recognised, leads to acquired knowledge—the knowledge of facts and sciences and languages; the other is the pure sharpening and training of the mind, by reading other men’s thoughts and ideas and theories—in short, by becoming master of all the philosophical writers of all nations. Now, it is the latter which you would have to avoid in order to retain your present Arcadian simplicity; but without the former, man is scarcely above the level of an animal.”

“I think I see what you mean,” I admitted. “I should like to be a good classical scholar and mathematician, and know a lot of things. It seems to me,” I added hesitatingly, “that this sort of knowledge is quite sufficient to strengthen and train the mind. The other would be very likely to overtrain it and prove unhealthy, especially if it leads everyone where it has led you.”

“Oh, I wanted no leading!” he said lightly. “I was born a pessimist. Schopenhauer was my earliest friend, Voltaire my teacher, and Shelley my god! Matter of disposition, of course. I had too little imagination to care a rap about cultivating a religion, and too much to be a moralist. Your mother is coming at last, then?”

The door opened and I looked up anxiously. The words of introduction which had been trembling upon my lips were unuttered. I stood as helpless and dumbfounded as a ploughboy, with my eyes fixed upon my mother.