MY MOTHER'S WARNING.
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 _habitues_ 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 L500 for information
leading to the arrest of Francis, who was a servant at the Castle."