Mr. Marx's Secret

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

  CHAPTER IX. MR. MARX.

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

  A glass of water, a few dry biscuits, and a little pile of books--someturned 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 aheavily-shaded lamp, which threw a ghastly light upon his white, wornface, and his dry, brilliant eyes, under which were faintly engraven thedark rims of the student.

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

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

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

  "So you have come, Philip Morton," he said.

  To so self-evident a statement I could return no answer, save a briefaffirmative. 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 satwith knitted brows and eyes fixed intently but absently upon me, deep inthought, and thought of which it seemed to me somehow that I must be thesubject.

  "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 periodof my earliest childhood spoken of either by my father or mother. But itwas only a passing thought, dismissed almost as soon as conceived. Had wenot always lived at the farm? Where else could I have been born?

  "Do you know any of your mother's relations?" Mr. Ravenor asked, takingno 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 acircumstance upon which I had more than once pondered. But my mother'sreserved demeanour towards me of late years had checked many questionswhich I might otherwise have felt inclined to ask her. There was a briefsilence, during which Mr. Ravenor sat with his face half turned away fromme, resting it lightly upon the long, delicate fingers of his left hand.

  "You are a little young for college," he said presently, in a morematter-of-fact tone; "besides which, I doubt whether you are quiteadvanced enough. I have decided, therefore, to send you for two years toa clergyman in Lincolnshire who receives a few pupils, my own nephewamong them. He is a friend of mine, and will give some shape to yourstudies. There are one or two things which I shall ask you to rememberwhen you get there," he went on.

  "First, that this little arrangement between your mother, yourself, andme remains absolutely a secret among us. Also that you seek, or, at anyrate, 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 unsatisfactorymanner, and, as I know him to be weak-minded and easily led, hisbehaviour at present and his character in the future are to a greatextent dependent upon the influence which his immediate companions mayhave over him. You understand me?"

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

  "I do not, of course, wish you to play the spy in any way upon mynephew," Mr. Ravenor continued, "but I shall expect you to tell me theunbiassed truth should I at any time ask you any questions concerninghim; and if you think, after you have been there some time and have hadan opportunity of judging, that he would be likely to do betterelsewhere, under stricter discipline than at Dr. Randall's, I shallexpect you to tell me so. In plain words, Philip Morton, I ask you totake 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 fromneither Mr. Ravenor nor myself. Either a third person must have been inthe room before my arrival and during the whole of our conversation, orhe must have entered it since by some means unknown to me, for almost atmy elbow, on the side remote from the door, stood the man who had brokenin, without apology or explanation, upon our interview.

  Both from the strange manner of his attire and on account of hispersonality, I could not repress a strong curiosity in the new-comer. Hewas above the average height, but of awkward and ungainly figure, itsmassiveness enhanced by the long black dressing-gown which was wrappedloosely around him. His hair and beard were of a deep reddish hue, theformer partly concealed by a black silk skull-cap, and he wore thick bluespectacles, which by no means added to the attractiveness of his face;his features--those which were visible--were good, but their effect wascompletely spoilt by the disfiguring glasses and his curious complexion.There was an air of power about him difficult to analyse, butsufficiently apparent, which altogether redeemed him from coarseness, oreven mediocrity; and his voice, too, was good. But my impressionsconcerning him were very mixed ones.

  He was evidently someone of account in the household, for he stood on thehearthrug with his hands thrust into his loose pockets, completely at hisease, 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'tyou introduce me?"

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

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

  "Indeed! You're becoming quite a philanthropist," was the reply. "But whynot 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, Idare 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 littlehaughtily. "Are you ready for me, Marx?"

  "I shall be presently. I had very nearly finished when the sound ofvoices tempted me out to see whom you had admitted into your augustpresen
ce. 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 andcollaborator."

  We exchanged greetings, and I looked at him with revived interest. Theman 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 hissupercilious 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 mentionedto him, so I shall be glad to see you again in half an hour," Mr. Ravenorremarked, 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 towardsme.

  "I do not know whether it is necessary for me to mention it, as you maypossibly not come into contact again," he said slowly; "but in case youshould 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, halffrightened. The continuous sound of an electric-bell, which seemed tocome from within a few feet of me, was echoing through the room.