And, with the vision of my stalwart yeoman father, the centre of a little group of farm-labourers, holding his foaming glass high above his head, and his honest face ruddy with heat and excitement, my memories of this scene grow dim and fade away.
CHAPTER II.
MR. FRANCIS.
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?”