Mr. Marx's Secret

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

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, noble 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 passed 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 manuscripts 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 classes of our neighbours nothing else was talked about but the doings, or supposed doings, of Mr. Ravenor.

One afternoon chance led me into the little room which my mother called her own, a room I seldom entered. There was a small volume lying on the table and carelessly I took it up and glanced at the title. Then, with a quick exclamation of pleasure, I carried it away with me. It was Mr. Ravenor’s first little volume of poems, which I had tried in vain to get. The Mellborough bookseller of whom I had ordered it told me that it was out of print. The first edition had been exhausted long since and the author had refused to allow a second edition to be issued.

I met my mother in the hall and held out the volume to her.

“You never told me that you had a copy of Mr. Ravenor’s poems,” I said reproachfully. “I have just found it in your room.”

She started, and for a moment I feared that she was going to insist upon my giving up the book. She did not do so, however; but I noticed that the hand which was resting upon the banister was grasping the handrail nervously, as though for support, and that she was white to the very lips.