“It is true.”
He had drawn back a little; he had hesitated. I caught hold of his hands and drew him towards me.
“My father,” I cried passionately, “speak to me! Why do you draw away? Is it because—because—oh, only speak to me, call me your son, and if there be anything to forgive I will forgive it.”
He seemed suddenly to abandon an unnatural struggle and caught me by the hands 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 Marx abroad. He had done him some service and they had become friendly. He latterly engaged him as secretary.
Then he went on to tell me how Marx had met him on his return after his long 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 and implored 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 the slate-pit. After a time my father managed to fling Morton from him and fled.
That night Marx came to him and told him he had thrown Morton into the quarry, and that a man named Hart, alias Francis, had witnessed the deed. My father wanted to confess, but Marx persuaded him to keep silent and paid Francis to bear the crime.