Читать книгу Mr. Marx's Secret - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 6

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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 very soon I was able to get about. As my mother had anticipated, many people asked me questions concerning the events of that hideous night. To one and all my answer was the same. I remembered nothing. My illness had left my memory a blank.

Long afterwards I saw more clearly how well it was that I had obeyed my mother’s bidding.

A brief extract from a county newspaper will be sufficient to show what the universal opinion was concerning my father’s murder. I copy it here:

“In another column will be found an account of the inquest on the body of George Morton, farmer, late of Rothland Wood Farm. The verdict returned by the jury—namely, ‘Wilful murder against John Francis’—was, in the face of the evidence, the only possible one; and everyone must unite in hoping that the efforts of the police will be successful, and that the criminal will not be allowed to escape. The facts are simple and conclusive.

“It appears from the evidence of Mr. Bullson, landlord of the George Hotel, Mellborough, and of several other habitués of the place, that only a few days before the deed was committed, there was a violent dispute between deceased and Francis and that threats were freely used on both sides. On the night in question Francis started from Rothland village shortly after nine o’clock, with the intention of making his way through the wood to Ravenor Castle. Owing, no doubt, to the extraordinary darkness of the night, he appears to have lost his way, and to have been directed by Mrs. Morton, who noticed him wandering about near her garden gate.

“Mrs. Morton declines to swear to his identity, owing in the darkness; but this, in the face of other circumstances, must count for little in his favour. He was also seen by the deceased, who, enraged at finding him on his land and addressing his wife, started in pursuit, followed by Mrs. Morton and her little boy, who arrived at the slate-pits in time to witness, but too late to prevent, the awful tragedy which we fully reported a few days since.

“In face of the flight of the man Francis, and the known fact that he was in the wood that night, there is little room for doubt as to his being the actual perpetrator of the deed, although the details of the struggle must remain, for the present, shrouded in mystery. Mr. Ravenor, who has just arrived in England, has offered a reward of £500 for information leading to the arrest of Francis, who was a servant at the Castle.”