Mr. Marx's Secret Part 2

The change was in her appearance as well as in her manner. Her rich brown hair had turned completely grey, and there was a frigid, set look in her face, denuded of all expression or affection, which chilled me every time I looked into it. It was the face--not of my mother, but of a stranger.

As I began to regain strength and the doctors p.r.o.nounced me fit to leave the sick-room, she began to display signs of uneasiness, and often looked at me in a singular kind of way, as though there were something which she would say to me.

And one night I woke up suddenly, to find her standing by my bedside, wrapped in a long dressing-gown, her grey hair streaming down her back and a wild gleam in her burning eyes. I started up in bed with a cry of fear, but she held out her hand with a gesture which she intended to be rea.s.suring.

"Nothing is the matter, Philip," she said. "Lie down, but listen."

I obeyed, and had she noticed me closely she would have seen that I was shivering; for her strange appearance and the total lack of affection in her manner, had filled me with something approaching to horror.

"Philip, you will soon be well enough to go out," she continued. "People will ask you questions about that night."

It was the first time the subject had been broached between us. I raised myself a little in the bed and gazed at her, with blanched cheeks and fascinated eyes.

"Listen, Philip! You must remember nothing. Do you understand me?"

"Yes," I answered faintly.

"You must forget that you saw me in the garden; you must forget everything your father said to you. Do you hear?"

"Yes," I repeated. "But--but, mother----"

"Well?"

"Will he be caught--the man who killed father?" I asked timidly. "Oh, I hope he will!"

Her lips parted slowly, and she laughed--a bitter, hysterical laugh, which seemed to me the most awful sound I had ever heard.

"Hope! Yes; you may hope--hope if you will!" she cried; "but remember this, boy: If your hope comes true, it will be an evil day for you and for me! Remember!"

Then she turned and walked to the door without another word. I sat in bed and watched her piteously, with a great lump in my throat and a sore heart. The moonlight was pouring in through my latticed window, falling full upon the long, graceful lines of her stately figure and her hard, cold face. I was forlorn and unhappy, but to look at her froze the words upon my lips.

Merciless and cruel her features seemed to me. There was no pity, no love, not a shadow of response to my half-formed, appealing gesture. I let her go and sank back upon my pillows, weeping bitterly, with a deep sense of utter loneliness and desolation.

On the following day I was allowed to leave my room and very soon I was able to get about. As my mother had antic.i.p.ated, many people asked me questions concerning the events of that hideous night. To one and all my answer was the same. I remembered nothing. My illness had left my memory a blank.

Long afterwards I saw more clearly how well it was that I had obeyed my mother's bidding.

A brief extract from a county newspaper will be sufficient to show what the universal opinion was concerning my father's murder. I copy it here:

"In another column will be found an account of the inquest on the body of George Morton, farmer, late of Rothland Wood Farm. The verdict returned by the jury--namely, 'Wilful murder against John Francis'--was, in the face of the evidence, the only possible one; and everyone must unite in hoping that the efforts of the police will be successful, and that the criminal will not be allowed to escape. The facts are simple and conclusive.

"It appears from the evidence of Mr. Bullson, landlord of the George Hotel, Mellborough, and of several other _habitues_ of the place, that only a few days before the deed was committed, there was a violent dispute between deceased and Francis and that threats were freely used on both sides. On the night in question Francis started from Rothland village shortly after nine o'clock, with the intention of making his way through the wood to Ravenor Castle. Owing, no doubt, to the extraordinary darkness of the night, he appears to have lost his way, and to have been directed by Mrs. Morton, who noticed him wandering about near her garden gate.

"Mrs. Morton declines to swear to his ident.i.ty, owing in the darkness; but this, in the face of other circ.u.mstances, must count for little in his favour. He was also seen by the deceased, who, enraged at finding him on his land and addressing his wife, started in pursuit, followed by Mrs.

Morton and her little boy, who arrived at the slate-pits in time to witness, but too late to prevent, the awful tragedy which we fully reported a few days since.

"In face of the flight of the man Francis, and the known fact that he was in the wood that night, there is little room for doubt as to his being the actual perpetrator of the deed, although the details of the struggle must remain, for the present, shrouded in mystery. Mr. Ravenor, who has just arrived in England, has offered a reward of 500 for information leading to the arrest of Francis, who was a servant at the Castle."

CHAPTER V.

RAVENOR OF RAVENOR.

It was generally expected that my mother would be anxious to depart as soon as possible from a neighbourhood which had such terrible a.s.sociations for her. As a matter of fact, she showed no intention of doing anything of the sort. At the time I rather wondered at this, but I am able now to divine her reason.

It chanced that the farm, of which my father had been tenant for nearly a quarter of a century, was taken by a neighbour who had no use for the house, and so it was arranged that we should stay on at a merely nominal rent. Then began a chapter of my life without event, which I can pa.s.s rapidly over.

Every morning I walked over to Rothland and received two hours'

instruction from the curate, and in the afternoon my mother taught me modern languages. The rest of the day I spent alone, wandering whithersoever I pleased, staying away as long as I chose, and returning when I felt inclined. The results of such a life at my age soon developed themselves. I became something of a misanthrope, a great reader, and a pa.s.sionate lover of Nature. At any rate, it was healthy, and my taste for all sorts of outdoor sport prevented my becoming a bookworm.

It had its influence, too, upon my disposition. It strengthened and gave colour to my imagination, expanded my mind, and filled me with a strong love for everything that was vigorous and fresh and pure in the books I read.

Shakespeare and Goethe were my first favourites in literature; but as I grew older the fascination of lyric poetry obtained a hold upon me, and Sh.e.l.ley and Keats, for a time, reigned supreme in my fancy. But my tastes were catholic. I read everything that came in my way, and was blessed with a wonderful memory, which enabled me to retain much that was worth retaining.

Meanwhile, the more purely technical part of my education was being steadily persevered in; and so I was not surprised, although it was rather a blow to me, when the clergyman who had been my tutor walked home with me through the wood one summer evening, and told my mother that it was useless my going to him any longer, for I already knew all that he could teach me.

I watched her covertly, hoping that she would show some sign of gratification at what I felt to be a high compliment. But she simply remarked that, if such was the case, she supposed the present arrangement had better terminate, thanked him for the trouble he had taken with me, and dismissed the matter. I scanned her cold, beautiful face in vain for any signs of interest. The cloud which had fallen between us on the night of my father's murder had never been lifted.

The curate stayed to tea with us, and afterwards I walked back through the woods with him, for he was a sociable fellow, fond of company--even mine.

When I reached home again I found my mother looking out for me, and I knew from her manner that she had something important to say to me.

"Philip, I have heard to-day that Mr. Ravenor is expected home," she said slowly.

I started and a little exclamation of pleasure escaped me. There was no man whom I longed so much to see. What a reputation was his! A scholar of European fame, a poet, and a great sinner; a Croesus; at times a reckless Sybarite, at others an ascetic and a hermit; a student of Voltaire; the founder of a new school of philosophy. All these things I had heard of him at different times, but as yet I had never seen him. Something more than my curiosity had been excited and I looked forward now to its gratification.

My mother took no note of my exclamation, but her brow darkened. We were standing together on the lawn in front of the house and she was in the shadow of a tall cypress tree.

"I do not suppose that he will remain here long," she continued, in a hard, strained tone; "but while he is at the Castle it is my wish that you do not enter the park at all."

"Not enter the park!" I repeated the words and stared at my mother in blank astonishment. What difference could Mr. Ravenor's presence make to us?

"Surely you do not mean this?" I cried, bitterly disappointed. "Why, I have been looking forward for years to see Mr. Ravenor! He is a famous man!"

"I know it," she interrupted, "and a very dangerous one. I do not wish you to meet him. The chances are that he would not notice you if he saw you, but it is better to run no risks. You will remember what I have said? A man of his strange views and principles is to be avoided--especially by an impressionable boy like you."

She left me dumbfounded, crossed the lawn with smooth, even footsteps, and entered the house. I watched her disappear, disturbed and uneasy; Something in her manner had conveyed a strange impression to me. I could not help thinking she had other reasons than those she had given for wishing to keep Mr. Ravenor and me apart. It seemed on the face of it to be a very absurd notion, but it had laid hold of me and her subsequent conduct did not tend to dispel it.

On the afternoon of his expected arrival I lingered about for hours in the orchard, hoping to catch a glimpse of him, for the gates of the park, opposite our house, were the nearest to Mellborough Station. But I was disappointed. He came, it is true, but in a closed brougham, drawn by a pair of swift, high-stepping bays, which swept like a flash by the hedge over which I was looking, leaving a confused recollection of glistening harness, handsome liveries, and a dark, n.o.ble face, partly turned towards me, but imperfectly seen. It was a glimpse which only increased my interest; yet how to gratify my curiosity in view of my mother's wishes I could not tell.

That night she renewed her prohibition. She came to me in the little room, where I kept my books and Penates, and laid her hand upon my shoulder. Mr. Ravenor had returned, she said--how did she know, save that she, too, had been watching, for the flag was not yet hoisted?--and she hoped that I would remember what her wishes were.

I promised that I would observe them, as far as I could, although they seemed to me ridiculous, and I did not hesitate to hint as much. What was more unlikely than that Mr. Ravenor, distinguished man of the world, should take the slightest notice of a country boy, much more attempt to gain any sort of influence over him? The more I thought of it and of my mother's nervous fears, the more I grew convinced, against my will, of some other motive which was to be kept secret from me.

A week pa.s.sed and very little was seen of Mr. Ravenor by anyone. As usual, many rumours were circulated and discussed. He was reported to have shut himself up in his library and to have refused admission to all visitors. He was living like an anchorite, fasting and working hard, surrounded by books and ma.n.u.scripts all day and night, and far into the small hours of the morning. He was doing penance for recent excesses; he was preparing for some wild orgies; he was writing a novel, a philosophical pamphlet, an article for the reviews, or another volume of poems.

Among all cla.s.ses of our neighbours nothing else was talked about but the doings, or supposed doings, of Mr. Ravenor.