Mr. Marx's Secret

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Title: Mr. Marx's Secret

Author: E. Phillips Oppenheim

Release Date: February 29, 2012 [eBook #39018]

Language: English

Character set encoding: UTF-8

***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MR. MARX'S SECRET***

E-text prepared by

Stephen Hutcheson, Rod Crawford, Dave Morgan,

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MR. MARX’S

SECRET

BY

E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM

Author of Mr. Grex of Monte Carlo, The Double Traitor, The Illustrious Prince, etc.

WITH FRONTISPIECE BY

F. VAUX WILSON

BOSTON

LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY

1916

Published, January, 1916

Reprinted, January, 1916 (twice)

February, 1916

Printers

S. J. Parkhill & Co., Boston, U.S.A.

I am going to put that beast out of his misery, he answered.

Frontispiece. See page 132.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER PAGE I.—News from the Pacific 11 II.—Mr. Francis 15 III.—The Murder at the Slate-Pits 18 IV.—My Mother’s Warning 23 V.—Ravenor of Ravenor 27 VI.—A Doubtful Visitor 39 VII.—A Meeting and a Metamorphosis 43 VIII.—An Abode of Mystery 49 IX.—Mr. Marx 58 X.—Lady Silchester 65 XI.—The Cry in the Avenue 70 XII.—A Dark Corner in the Avenue 76 XIII.—The Cloud Between Us 81 XIV.—A Meeting in the Coffee-Room 85 XV.—A Tête-à-tête Dinner 89 XVI.—Miss Mabel Fay 93 XVII.—Behind the Scenes at the Torchester Theatre 98 XVIII.—At Midnight on the Moor 103 XIX.—A Strange Attack 111 XX.—The Monastery Among the Hills 115 XXI.—A Message from the Dead 124 XXII.—For Life 127 XXIII.—My Guardian 135 XXIV.—My First Dinner Party 138 XXV.—Mr. Marx’s Warning 144 XXVI.—A Lost Photograph 148 XXVII.—Leonard de Cartienne 157 XXVIII.—As Rome Does 164 XXIX.—A Dinner Party Sub-rosa 169 XXX.—Écarté with Mr. Fothergill 174 XXXI.—A Startling Discovery 182 XXXII.—Forestalled 190 XXXIII.—A Gleam of Light 195 XXXIV.—Dr. Schofield’s Opinion 199 XXXV.—An Invitation 204 XXXVI.—A Metamorphosis 209 XXXVII.—Mr. Marx is Wanted 218 XXXVIII.—I Accept a Mission 223 XXXIX.—My Ride 225 XL.—My Mission 229 XLI.—The Count de Cartienne 232 XLII.—News of Mr. Marx 240 XLIII.—About Town 246 XLIV.—A Midnight Excursion to the Suburbs 252 XLV.—A Mysterious Commission 258 XLVI.—A Brush with the Police 261 XLVII.—Light at Last 264 XLVIII.—A Page of History 269 XLIX.—I will Go Alone 278 L.—I Meet my Father 280 LI.—Dawn 284 LII.—Where is Mr. Marx? 287 LIII.—Messrs. Higgenson and Co. 293 LIV.—A Raid 299 LV.—The Mystery of Mr. Marx 304 LVI.—The End of It 308

MR. MARX’S SECRET

CHAPTER I.

NEWS FROM THE PACIFIC.

My home was a quaint, three-storeyed, ivy-clad farmhouse in a Midland county. It lay in a hollow, nestled close up against Rothland Wood, the dark, close-growing trees of which formed a picturesque background to the worn greystone whereof it was fashioned.

In front, just across the road, was the boundary-wall of Ravenor Park, with its black fir spinneys, huge masses of lichen-covered rock, clear fish-ponds, and breezy hills, from the summits of which were visible the sombre grey towers of Ravenor Castle, standing out with grim, rugged boldness against the sky.

Forbidden ground though it was, there was not a yard of the park up to the inner boundary fence which I did not know; not a spinney where I had not searched for birds’ nests or raided in quest of the first primrose; not a hill on which I had not spent some part of a summer afternoon.

I was a trespasser, of course; but I was the son of Farmer Morton, an old tenant on the estate, and much in favour with the keepers, by reason of a famous brew which he was ever ready to offer a thirsty man, or to drink himself. So Morton’s young ’un was unmolested; and, save for an occasional good-humoured warning from Crooks, the head-gamekeeper, during breeding-time, I had the run of the place.

Moreover, the great estates of which Ravenor Park was the centre knew at that time no other master than a lawyer of non-sporting proclivities, so the preserves were only looked after as a matter of form.

I was eight years old, and an unusually hot summer was at its height. It was past midday, and I had just come out from the house, with the intention of settling down for an afternoon’s reading in a shady corner of the orchard. I had reached the stack-yard gate when I stopped short, my hand upon the fastening.

A most unusual sound was floating across the meadows, through the breathless air. The church-bells of Rothland, the village on the other side of the wood, had suddenly burst out into a wild, clashing peal of joy.

In a country district everybody knows everyone else’s business; and, child though I was, I knew that no marriage was taking place anywhere near.

I stood listening in wonderment, for I had never heard such a thing before; and, while I was lingering, the bells from Annerley, a village a little farther away, and the grand, mellow-sounding chimes from the chapel at Ravenor Castle, breaking the silence of many years, took up the peal, and the lazy summer day seemed all of a sudden to wake up into a state of unaccountable delight.

I ran back towards the house and met my mother standing in the cool stone porch. The men about the farm were all grouped together, wondering. No one had the least idea of what had happened.

And then Jim Harrison, the waggoner, who had just come in from the home meadow, called out quickly, pointing with his finger; and far away, along the white, dusty road, we could see the figure of a man on horseback riding towards us at a furious gallop.

It be the master! he cried, excitedly. It be the master, for sure! There bean’t no mistaking Brown Bess’s gallop. Lord-a-mercy! how ’e be a-riding her!

We all trooped out on to the road to meet my father, eager to hear the news. In a few moments he reached us, and brought Brown Bess to a standstill, bathed in sweat and dust, and quivering in every limb.

Hurrah, lads! he shouted, waving his whip above his head. Hurrah! There never was such a bit o’ news as I’ve got for you! All Mellborough be gone crazy about it!

What is it, George? Why don’t you tell us? my mother asked quickly. And, to my surprise, her hand, in which mine was resting, was as cold as ice, notwithstanding the August heat.

He raised himself in his stirrups and shouted so that all might hear:

Squire Ravenor be come to life again! They ’a’ found him on an island in the Pacific, close against the coral reef where his yacht went down six years ago! He’s on his way home again, lads. Think of that! Sal, lass, bring us up a gallon of ale and another after it. We’ll drink to his homecoming, lads!

There was a burst of applause and many exclamations of wonder. My mother’s hand had moved, as though unconsciously, to my shoulder, and she was leaning heavily upon me.

Where did you hear this, George? she asked, in a subdued tone.

Why, it be in all the London papers this morning, he answered, taking off his hat and wiping his forehead. The steamer that’s bringing him home ’a’ sent a message from some foreign port, and Lawyer Cox he’s got one, and it’s all written up large on the walls of the Corn Exchange. I reckon it’ll make those deuced lawyers sit up! chuckled my father, as he slowly dismounted.

Lord-a-mercy! Only to think on it! Six year on a little bit o’ an island, and not a living soul to speak a word to! And now he’s on his way home again. It beats all story-telling I ever heerd on. Why, Alice, lass, it ’a’ quite upset you, he added, looking anxiously at my mother. You’re all white and scared-like. Dost feel badly?

She was standing with her back to us and when she turned round it seemed to me that a change had crept into her face.

It is the heat and excitement, she said quietly. This is strange news. I think that I will go in and rest.

All right, lass! Get thee indoors and lie down for a bit. Now, then, lads. Hurrah for the squire and long life to him! Pour it out, Jim—pour it out! Don’t be afraid on it. Such news as this don’t coom every day.

And, with the vision of my stalwart yeoman father, the centre of a little group of farm-labourers, holding his foaming glass high above his head, and his honest face ruddy with heat and excitement, my memories of this scene grow dim and fade away.

CHAPTER II.

MR. FRANCIS.

I was alone with my father in the kitchen, and he was looking as I had never seen him look before. It was late in the afternoon—as near as I can remember, about six weeks after the news had reached us of Mr. Ravenor’s wonderful adventures. He had just come in for tea, flushed with toil and labouring in the hot sun. But as he stood on the flags before me, reading a letter which had been sent up from the village, the glow seemed to die out from his face and his strong, rough hands trembled.

It’s a lie! I heard him mutter to himself, in a hoarse whisper—a wicked lie!

Then he sank back in one of the high-backed chairs and I watched him, frightened.

Philip, lad, he said to me, speaking slowly, and yet with a certain eagerness in his tone, has your mother had any visitors lately whilst I ’a’ been out on the farm?

I shook my head.

No one, except Mr. Francis, I added doubtfully.

He groaned and hid his face for a moment.

How often has he been here? he asked, after a while. When did he come first? Dost remember?

Yes, I answered promptly, "It was on the day Tom Foulds fell from the oat-stack and broke his leg. There was another gentleman with him then. I saw them looking in at the orchard gate, so I asked them if they wanted anything, and the strange gentleman said that he was thirsty and would like some milk, so I took him into the dairy; and I think that mother must have known him before, for she seemed so surprised to see him.

He gave me half a crown, too, I went on, to run away and watch for a friend of his. But the friend never came, although I waited ever so long. He’s been often since; but I don’t like him and——

I broke off in sudden dismay. Had not my mother forbidden my mentioning these visits to anyone? What had I done? I began to cry silently.

My father rose from his chair and leaned against the oaken chimney-piece, with his back turned towards me.

It’s he, sure enough! he gasped. Heaven forgive her! But him—him——

His voice seemed choked with passion and he did not finish his sentence. I knew that I had done wrong, and a vague apprehension of threatening evil stole swiftly upon me. But I sat still and waited.

It was long before my father turned round and spoke again. When he did so I scarcely knew him, for there were deep lines across his forehead, and all the healthy, sunburnt tan seemed to have gone from his face. He looked ten years older and I trembled when he spoke.

Listen, Philip, lad! he said gravely. Your mother thinks I be gone straight away to Farmer Woods to see about the colt, don’t she?

I nodded silently. We had not expected him home again until late in the evening.

Now, look you here, Philip, he continued. She’s gone to bed wi’ a headache, you say? Very well. Just you promise me that you won’t go near her.

I promised readily enough. Then he bade me get my tea and he sank back again into his chair. Once I asked him timidly if he were not going to have some, but he took no notice. When I had finished he led me softly upstairs and locked me in my room. Never to this day have I forgotten that dull look of hopeless agony in his face as he turned away and left me.

CHAPTER III.

THE MURDER AT THE SLATE-PITS.

It was late on this same evening. All day long the thunder had been rumbling and growling, and now the storm seemed close at hand.

I had partly undressed, but it was too hot to get into bed, so I leaned out of my wide-open window, watching the black clouds hanging down from the sky, and listening to the rustling of leaves in the wood—sure sign of the coming storm.

The air was stifling; and, longing feverishly for the rain, I sat in the deep window-sill and looked out into the scented darkness, for honeysuckle and clematis drooped around my window and the garden below was overgrown with homely, sweet-smelling flowers.

Suddenly I started. I was quick at hearing, and I had distinctly caught the sound of a light, firm step passing down the garden path beneath. My first impulse was to call out, but I checked it when I recognised the tall, graceful figure moving swiftly along the gravel walk in the shade of the yew-hedge. It was my mother!

I watched her, scarcely believing my eyes. What could she be wanting in the garden at this hour? And while I sat on the window casement, wondering, a cold shiver of alarm chilled me, for I saw a man creep stealthily out from the wood and hurry across the little stretch of meadow towards the garden gate, where she was standing.

The moon was shining with a sickly light through a thick halo of mist and I could only just distinguish the figures of my mother and this man, side by side, talking earnestly. I watched them with riveted eyes until I heard a quick step on the floor behind me and a hand was laid upon my mouth, stifling my cry of surprise.

It’s only me, Philip, lad, whispered a hoarse, tremulous voice. I didn’t want you to call out—that’s all. Hast seen anything of this before? And he pointed, with shaking finger, towards the window, from which he had drawn me back a little.

I looked at him, a great horror stealing over me. His ruddy face was blanched and drawn, as though with pain; and there was a terrible light in his eyes. I was frightened and half inclined to cry.

No, I faltered. It’s only Mr. Francis, isn’t it?

Only Mr. Francis! I heard my father repeat, with a groan. Oh, Alice, lass—Alice! How could you?

He staggered blindly towards the door. I rushed after him, piteously calling him back, but he pushed me off roughly and hurried out.

I heard him leave the house, but he did not go down the garden. Then, in a few minutes, every one of which seemed to me like an hour, the low voices at the gate ceased and my mother came slowly up the path towards the house.

I rushed downstairs and met her in the hall. She seemed half surprised, half angry, to see me.

Philip, she exclaimed, I thought you were in bed long ago! What are you doing here?

I am frightened! I sobbed out. Father has been in my room watching you at the gate and he talked so strangely. He is very angry and he looks as though he were going to hurt someone.

My mother leaned against the wall, every vestige of colour gone from her face, and her hand pressed to her side. She understood better than I did then.

Where is he now? she asked hysterically. Quick, Philip—quick! Tell me!

He is gone, I answered. He went out by the front door and up the road.

A sudden calmness seemed to come to her and she stood for a moment thinking aloud.

He has gone up to the wood gate! They will meet in the wood. Oh, Heaven, prevent it! she cried passionately.

She turned and rushed into the garden, down the path and through the wicket gate towards the wood. I followed her, afraid to stay alone. A vast mass of inky-black clouds had sailed in front of the moon and the darkness, especially in the wood, was intense.

More than once I fell headlong down, scratching my face and hands with the brambles; but each time I was on my feet immediately, scarcely conscious of the pain in my wild desire to keep near my mother.

How she found her way I cannot tell. Great pieces of her dress were torn off and remained hanging to the bushes into which she stepped; and many times I saw her run against a tree and recoil half stunned by the shock.

But still we made progress, and at last we came to a part of the wood where the trees and undergrowth were less dense and there was a steep ascent. Up it we ran and when we reached the top my mother paused to listen, while I stood, breathless, by her side.

Save that the leaves above us were stirring with a curious motion, there was not a sound in the whole wood. Birds and animals, even insects, seemed to have crept away to their holes before the coming storm. We could see nothing, for a thick mantle of darkness—a darkness which could almost be felt—had fallen upon the earth. We stood crouched together, trembling and fearful.

Thank Heaven for the darkness! my mother murmured to herself. Philip, she went on, stooping down and feeling for my hand, do you know where we are? We should be close to the slate-pits.

I was on the point of answering her, but the words died away on my parted lips. Such a sight as was revealed to us at that moment might have driven a strong man mad.

Although half a lifetime has passed away, I can see it now as at that moment. But describe it I cannot, for no words of mine could paint the thrilling beauty and, at the same time, the breathless horror of the scene which opened like a flash before us.

Trees, sky, and space were suddenly bathed in a brilliant, lurid light, the like of which I have never since seen, nor ever shall again. It came and went in a space of time which only thought could measure; and this is what it showed us:—

Yawning at our feet the deep pit and sullen waters of the quarry, for we were scarcely a single step from the precipitous edge; the huge piles of slate and the sheds with the workmen’s tools scattered around; and my father, his arms thrown upwards in agony, and a wild cry bursting from his lips, at the very moment that he was hurled over the opposite side of the chasm!

We saw the frantic convulsions of despair upon his ashen face, his eyes starting from their sockets, as he felt himself falling into space; and we saw the dim outline of another man staggering back from the brink, with his hands outstretched before his face, in horror at what he had done.

Then, as suddenly as it had come, the fierce glare vanished. The heavens—only a moment before open and flooding the land with sheets of living fire—were black and impenetrable, and the crashing thunder shook the air around and made the earth tremble, as though it were splitting up and the very elements were being dissolved.

With a cry, the heartrending anguish of which will ring for ever in my ears, my mother sank down, a white, scared heap; and I, my limbs unstrung and my senses numbed, crouched helpless beside her. Then the rain fell and there was silence.

CHAPTER IV.

MY MOTHER’S WARNING.

For many weeks after that terrible night in Rothland Wood, I lay wrestling with a fierce fever, my recovery from which was deemed little short of miraculous. A sound constitution, however, and careful nursing brought me round, and I opened my eyes one sunny morning upon what seemed to me almost a new world.

The first thing that I can clearly remember after my return to consciousness was the extraordinary change which had taken place in my mother. From a beautiful, active woman, she seemed to have become transformed into a stern, cold statue.

Even now I can recall how frightened I was of her during those first days of convalescence, and how I shrank from her constant presence by my bedside with a nameless dread.

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 pronounced 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 reassuring.

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