Читать книгу Mr. Marx's Secret - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 4

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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.