Mr. Marx's Secret

  CHAPTER XXV. MR. MARX'S WARNING.

  My first impulse, on glancing through Mr. Marx's brief note, was to showit to Mr. Ravenor; but, after a second's consideration, I changed mymind. Mr. Marx was a complete mystery to me. At times it seemed possiblethat the interest which he undoubtedly showed in me was genuine andkindly, and I struggled against my dislike of the man. Then I rememberedhis brutal conduct to the lunatic and the other inexplicable parts of hisbehaviour, and the darkest suspicions and doubts began to take shape inmy imagination.

  There was something altogether mysterious about him--his connection withMr. Ravenor and his manner towards myself. I was puzzled and more thanhalf inclined to decide against the man whom personally I had grown todetest. But, on the other hand, I was young and still an optimist withregard to my fellow-men.

  What harm had I done Mr. Marx, and why should he seek to injure me? Itseemed improbable, almost ridiculous. So in the end a certain sense offairness induced me to respect his postscript, and I said nothing to Mr.Ravenor about his secretary's warning.

  My interview with him was a very short one indeed. He led the way intothe study in which I had first seen him and, closing the door, turnedround and faced me upon the hearthrug. The room was dimly lit, but wherehe stood the fast-dying fire cast a faint glow around his tall, straightfigure, and showed me a face cold and resolute as marble, but not unkind.

  "Philip Morton," he said slowly, "it has occurred to me that in wishingyou to go to Lincolnshire, I may have been influenced to a certain extentby selfish considerations. If you have the slightest preference for apublic school----"

  I knew instinctively whence that idea had come and I interrupted him.

  "Nothing should induce me to go anywhere else but to Dr. Randall's!" Iexclaimed firmly.

  "In that case," he continued, "I wish you to leave tomorrow. You will beready?"

  I assented at once.

  "I, too, am leaving here--it may be for a very long while," he went on."In two months' time I hope to start for Persia, and between now and thenmy movements will be uncertain. I cannot settle down here. It isuseless."

  A great weariness shone out of his dark blue eyes and he stifled a sigh.Some thought or memory coloured with regret had flashed across his mind;but what it was I could not tell.

  "You remember your mother's letter to you and her dying request?" hecontinued, in a changed tone. "I cannot explain it now, although I mustremind you of it. This packet"--and he passed me a large, sealedenvelope--"contains a chequebook, the address of the lawyer who willmanage your affairs, and a letter which you will not open unless you havecertain news and proof of my death. You will find that you are,comparatively speaking, rich. How this comes about I cannot tell you now,and you must remember your mother's dying injunction not to seek to findout until the time comes, when you will know everything. At present, Ican only assure you that the money is yours by right, that it is not agift, and that no one else has any claim to it. That is all I can sayupon the subject. Are you satisfied?"

  Curiosity seemed a mean thing to me as I listened to my guardian's wordsand looked into his sad, stern face. All the old fascination which I hadfelt from the first in his presence was strong upon me that night.Whatever he had bidden me to do I should have done it. And so I answered:

  "I am satisfied. What you tell me is mine I will take and ask noquestions."

  "That is well," he said quietly. "And now, one word about your future,Philip, for to-morrow you will take up some of the responsibilities ofearly manhood. A great man once said that the best adviser of youth wasthe man whose own life had been a failure. If this be anything more thana paradox, then there can be no one better fitted for that post than I.Already the flavour of life has become like dead ashes between my teeth;and the fault is my own. Mr. Marris was talking a great deal of nonsensein the drawing-room before dinner this evening. I want to say just one ortwo words to you on the same subject, and remember that I speak as anoutsider, impersonally.

  "Before I was twenty-one years old, I had studied in most of the schoolsof modern philosophy, and had thrown off my religion like an old rag. Iwas inflated with a sense of my own intellectual superiority over othermen. It was philosophy which taught men to live, I declared, andphilosophy which taught them to die. With that motto before me, Icarefully set myself to annihilate every vestige of faith with which Ihad ever been endowed. I succeeded--too well. It is dead; and sometimes Ifear that it will never reawaken. And what am I? As miserable a man asever drew breath upon this earth. It seems to me as though I had crusheda part of my very life and the sore will rankle for ever.

  "There is a part of man's nature, Philip--that is to say, of such men asI have been and you will be--the sympathetic, emotional, reverentialpart, which cries out for some belief in a higher, an infinite Power, forsome sort of religion which it can cling to and entwine with every actionof daily life. You must satisfy that craving if you desire to knowhappiness. For me there is no such knowledge. I have deliberatelycommitted spiritual suicide; I have torn up faith by the roots and havemade a void in my heart, which nothing else can ever fill. Frankly, Itell you, Philip, that there are times when religion of any sort seems tome no better than a fairy-tale. It need not seem so to you. Shape out foryourself any form of belief--that of the Christian is as good as anyother--and resolutely cling to it. It is my advice to you--mine whobelieve in no God and no future state. Follow it and farewell!"

  He held out his hand and clasped mine for a moment. I would have spoken,but before I could find words he had disappeared through a curtained doorinto his inner apartment. So I turned away and went.