Читать книгу False Evidence - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 6

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That was quite an eventful night in our quiet life. Whilst we three stood looking at one another half fearfully—I full of this strange, new idea which had just occurred to me—we heard the latch of our garden gate lifted, and Mr. Cox, the vicar of Porlock and my instructor in the classics, followed by no fewer than four large-limbed, broad-shouldered, Porlock men, entered.

They made their way up the steep garden path, and my father, in no little surprise, rose to greet them. With Mr. Cox he shook hands and then glanced inquiringly at his followers, who, after touching their hats respectfully, stood in a row looking supremely uncomfortable, and each betraying a strong disposition to retire a little behind the others. Mr. Cox proceeded to explain matters.

"You are pleased to look upon us as a deputation," he said, pleasantly, waving his hand towards the others, "of which I am the spokesman. We come from the Porlock Working Men's Conservative Club."

My father bowed, and bidding me bring forward a garden seat, requested the deputation to be seated. Then he called into the house for Jane to bring out some jugs of cider and glasses, and a decided smile appeared on the somewhat wooden faces of the deputation. I was vastly interested, and not a little curious.

When the cider had been brought and distributed, and a raid made upon the tobacco jar, Mr. Cox proceeded with his explanation.

"We have come to ask you a favour, Mr. Arbuthnot," he said. "We are going to hold a political meeting in the school-room at Porlock next week. A gentleman from Minehead is going to give us an address on the land question which promises to be very interesting, and Mr. Bowles here has kindly promised to say a few words."

The end man on the seat here twirled his hat, and, being nudged by his neighbour, betrayed his personality by a broad grin. Finally, to relieve his modesty, he buried his face in the mug of cider which stood by his side.

"The difficulty we are in is this," continued Mr. Cox; "we want a chairman. I have most unfortunately promised to be in Exeter on that day and shall not be able to return in time for the meeting, or else we would not have troubled you. But as I shall not be available, we thought that perhaps you might be induced to accept the office. That is what we have come to ask you."

My father shook his head.

"It is very kind of you to think of me," he said, hesitatingly, "but I fear that I must decline your offer. Politics have lost most of their interest for me—and—and, in short, I think I would rather not."

"I hope you will reconsider that," Mr. Cox said, pleasantly. "It will be a very slight tax upon you after all. You need only say a very few words. Come, think it over again. We really are at our wit's end or we would not have troubled you.

"There is Mr. Sothern," my father protested.

"He is in bed ill. An attack of pleurisy, I think."

"Mr. Brown, then?"

"A rank Radical."

"Mr. Jephcote?"

"Away."

"Mr. Hetton?"

"Gone to London for a week."

"Mr. Smith, then?"

"Will be at Exeter cattle fair."

My father was silent for a moment or two. Then he suggested some more names, to each of which there was some objection.

"You do seem to have been unfortunate," he declared, at last. "To tell you the truth, Mr. Cox," he added, thoughtfully, "I scarcely know what to say. I had made up my mind, for certain private reasons, never to have anything to do with public life in any shape or form."

"This isn't a very formidable undertaking, is it?" Mr. Cox urged, smiling.

"It isn't. But the principle is the same," my father answered. "However, leave it in this way if you like. Give me until to-morrow evening to think the matter over, and in the meantime see if you can't find some one else. I'm afraid I can't say more than that."

The deputation thought that nothing could be fairer than this, and nothing more satisfactory except an unqualified assent. I think my father imagined that having promised so much they would take their departure. But nothing of the sort happened. Perhaps they found the cider too good, or perhaps they were tired after their day's work and the walk from Porlock. At any rate, there they sat for more than an hour, taking occasional gulps at their cider, and puffing incessantly at their blackened pipes with a stolid vacuous look on their honest faces, whilst my father and Mr. Cox talked a little aside in a low tone. I fancied that I was the subject of their conversation, but though I strained my ears in the attempt to catch some part of it, I was unsuccessful. Once or twice the sound of my name reached me, but directly I leaned forward they dropped their voices, so that I could hear no more. I have always believed, however, that my father was asking advice from Mr. Cox concerning me, and that Mr. Cox was urging him to send me to the University. But I never knew for certain, for events were soon to occur which swept out of my mind all minor curiosity.

At last Mr. Cox rose to go, and the deputation, with manifest reluctance, did the same. My father courteously accompanied them to the garden gate, and shook hands with them all, thanking them for their visit. When he returned there was a slight sparkle in his eyes, and an amused smile on his lips. So monotonous was our life, that even such an event as this was welcome, and I could tell from his manner that he was pleased at the request which had been made to him, and disposed to accept it. I determined to encourage him in it.

"Governor," I remarked, leaning over the wall and watching the retreating forms of our visitors, "I hope we're not going to have many political deputations here, especially if they're all going to be as thirsty as this one was. Did you ever see such fellows for cider! We shan't have a drop left for the hot weather if you encourage this sort of thing. But you'll do what they want you to, won't you? I should! It'll be capital fun, and I'm sure you'd make a rattling speech. You're up on the land question, too. I heard you giving it to old Simpson the other morning."

My father smiled, and stood by my side watching them make their way down the coombe.

"I shall have to consult your mother about it," he said. "I almost think that I may venture it," he added, in a lower tone and thoughtfully, as though to himself.

"Venture it! What could there be adventurous in it," I wondered, "to a well-read, scholarly man such as I knew him to be!" But I did not dare to ask.

Presently he turned to me with a much graver look in his face.

"Hugh!" he said, "these people interrupted our conversation. There is something which I must say to you at once. I do not wish you to become a soldier. When you feel that you can stay here no longer, and that this country life is too quiet for you, you must choose some other profession. But a soldier you can never be."

I was bitterly disappointed, and not a little curious, and an idea which had often occurred to me swept suddenly into my mind with renewed strength.

"Father, may I ask you a question?"

He hesitated, but did not forbid me.

"I have heard it said down in the village—every one says that you must once have been a soldier. You walk and hold your head like one, and—father, what is the matter?" I broke off all at once, for his face had become like a dead man's, and he had sunk heavily on to the seat.

I would have sprung to his side, but my mother was there before him. She had passed one arm around his neck, and with the other she motioned me to go into the house.

"It isn't your fault, Hugh," she said, "but you mustn't ask your father questions; they distress him. Leave us now."

I turned heavily away, and went up-stairs to my room. About an hour afterwards, when I pushed open my window before getting into bed, there stole into my room together with the sweet scent of jessamine and climbing roses the sound of subdued voices.

"He must be told," I heard my father say solemnly. "God give me strength."

Then the voices ceased for a while, but I still lingered, and presently they began again, but in a more cheerful key.

I moved away and got into bed, but I left the window open as I always did, and some fragments of their conversation still reached me.

"I am sure that you need have no fear, Herbert. No one in these parts can have the slightest idea of … I hope you will … It will be a change … Now promise."

I could hear nothing of my father's reply, but from its tone he seemed reluctant, though wishful. Then the voices dropped again, and I think that I must have dozed for some time. But suddenly I awoke and sat up in bed startled, for my father's voice was ringing in through the window.

"You are right, Marian; you are right. I will do my duty. The boy must be told. The time has come when I must dig up my trouble again. The boy must be told."

Then I heard them enter the house (leaving the door wide open, as was our common practice), and come up to their rooms. Afterwards there was silence, but there was no more sleep for me that night.