CHAPTER L. I MEET MY FATHER.
After a wearying journey I stood at last before the great gates of thecastle, the bell at my feet giving shrill notice of my presence. Thelodge-keeper hurried out and welcomed me.
I walked swiftly up the winding ascent, straight across the flaggedcourtyard and entered the castle by a side-door. Then, heedless of thesurprised looks of the servants, I made my way to the library, andknocking softly at the door of the inner room, entered.
At first it seemed to me that he was not there, for the chamber was insemi-darkness. The heavily-shaded lamp which stood upon the writing-tablewas turned down so low as to afford no light at all, and the fitful glowof the firelight left the greater part of the room in shadow. But as Istood upon the threshold a burning coal dropped upon the hearth, and byits flame I saw him leaning back in a high oak chair a few feet away.
Softly I moved across the room towards him and then I saw that he wasasleep.
I made no movement, but somehow he seemed to become conscious of mypresence and opened his eyes. They fell upon me standing on thehearth-rug before him, and he sat up with a start.
"Philip!" he cried, "you here? You back? You have found him, then?"
At the sound of his voice I trembled, yet I answered him at once:
"Not yet. To-morrow night I shall see him. Till then I could donothing--and I came here." He looked at my mud-bespattered boots andwind-tossed hair.
"You have walked from Mellborough?" he asked. Then something in my faceseemed to strike him, and, leaning forward, he placed his hands upon myshoulders and turned towards the glow of the fire.
"You have come with a purpose!" he said slowly. "Tell me--you have heardsomething in London?"
I bowed my head silently.
"Some story of the past--my past?"
"Yes."
"My God!"
Then there was silence between us. I bore it till I could bear it nolonger.
"Can you wonder that I have come?" I cried, my voice shaking with apassion which I knew no longer how to restrain. "Oh, speak to me! Tell mewhether this thing is true?"
"It is true."
He had drawn back a little; he had hesitated. I caught hold of his handsand drew him towards me.
"My father," I cried passionately, "speak to me! Why do you draw away? Isit because--because--oh, only speak to me, call me your son, and if therebe anything to forgive I will forgive it."
He seemed suddenly to abandon an unnatural struggle and caught me by thehands and clasped them. For a moment his face was radiant.
"Philip, my son, my dear son!" he cried. "Thank God, it is not that!Thank God, that my name is yours! You are indeed my son."
After a considerable silence my father told me how he had met Marxabroad. He had done him some service and they had become friendly. Helatterly engaged him as secretary.
Then he went on to tell me how Marx had met him on his return after hislong absence and had taken him to see his wife, who believed him dead.
He then told me how he had found her married again to Farmer Morton andimplored her to come back to him. She refused, and he, in a blind fury,rushed back to where he had left Marx.
He was attacked by Morton; a struggle ensued on the brink of theslate-pit. After a time my father managed to fling Morton from him andfled.
That night Marx came to him and told him he had thrown Morton into thequarry, and that a man named Hart, _alias_ Francis, had witnessed thedeed. My father wanted to confess, but Marx persuaded him to keep silentand paid Francis to bear the crime.
"Now you know why I shrank from calling you my son, knowing that when thetime came for you to be told of your parentage, I must also tell you thatyour father was a murderer!"
"It is false!" I cried, springing up and seizing both his hands. "It wasan accident. No one could call it a murder. Oh, my father, my father,that you should have suffered like this for so slight a cause!"
A light leaped into his face and for a moment his wasted features andsunken eyes glowed and shone with a great, unexpected happiness. He drewme gently to him and laid his hands upon my shoulders.
"Thank God for this, Philip!" he said, with trembling voice. "It isgreater consolation than I ever dared hope for in this world."
Mr. Marx's Secret Page 51