Mr. Marx's Secret by E. Phillips Oppenheim

  CHAPTER VI. A DOUBTFUL VISITOR.

  Late in the afternoon of the following day a visitor rode through thestack-yard and reined in his horse before our door. I was reading in theroom which my mother chiefly occupied and, when I glanced out of theside-window, overhung and darkened by jessamine and honeysuckle, I had agreat surprise. The book dropped from my fingers and I stood still for amoment, uncertain what to do. For outside, sitting composedly upon hisfine black horse and apparently considering as to the best means ofmaking 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 standingupon the step.

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

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

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

  "Quick, boy!" he said. "I am not accustomed to be kept waiting. I know aswell as you do that I am not a welcome visitor, but your mother will seeme, 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 myheels. Mr. Ravenor tossed him the reins and, stooping low, followed meinto our little sitting-room.

  He laid his whip upon the table and, selecting the most comfortablechair, 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 herdoor.

  "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 fewminutes."

  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 inthought. At the sound of my footsteps, however, his expression changed atonce into its former impassiveness. He glanced round the room with an airof lazy curiosity and his half-closed eyes rested upon my little case ofbooks.

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

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

  "There, that'll do!" he exclaimed, laughing softly. "This is reallyidyllic. 'Abercrombie' and 'Robinson Crusoe,' 'Jeremy Taylor' and 'Thomasa Kempis.' My poor boy, if you have a headpiece at all, how it must wantoiling!"

  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 booksvery 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 ofbooks mine are, without having seen them?"

  "Well, perhaps I don't mean that exactly," I answered, sitting on theedge of the table, and thrusting my hands deep down into my trouserspockets, with the uncomfortable sensation that I was making a fool ofmyself. "I was judging from what you said you were last night. If studyhas only brought you to pessimism, I would rather be ignorant."

  "You really are a wonderfully wise boy for your years," he said, stillsmiling. "But you must remember that there are two distinct branches ofstudy. One, the more popular and the more commonly recognised, leads toacquired knowledge--the knowledge of facts and sciences and languages;the other is the pure sharpening and training of the mind, by readingother men's thoughts and ideas and theories--in short, by becoming masterof all the philosophical writers of all nations. Now, it is the latterwhich you would have to avoid in order to retain your present Arcadiansimplicity; but without the former, man is scarcely above the level of ananimal."

  "I think I see what you mean," I admitted. "I should like to be a goodclassical scholar and mathematician, and know a lot of things. It seemsto me," I added hesitatingly, "that this sort of knowledge is quitesufficient to strengthen and train the mind. The other would be verylikely to overtrain it and prove unhealthy, especially if it leadseveryone 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 mygod! Matter of disposition, of course. I had too little imagination tocare 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 introductionwhich had been trembling upon my lips were unuttered. I stood as helplessand dumbfounded as a ploughboy, with my eyes fixed upon my mother.