CHAPTER L. I MEET MY FATHER. After a wearying journey I stood at last before the great gates of the castle, the bell at my feet giving shrill notice of my presence. The lodge-keeper hurried out and welcomed me. I walked swiftly up the winding ascent, straight across the flagged courtyard and entered the castle by a side-door. Then, heedless of the surprised looks of the servants, I made my way to the library, and knocking softly at the door of the inner room, entered. At first it seemed to me that he was not there, for the chamber was in semi-darkness. The heavily-shaded lamp which stood upon the writing-table was turned down so low as to afford no light at all, and the fitful glow of the firelight left the greater part of the room in shadow. But as I stood upon the threshold a burning coal dropped upon the hearth, and by its flame I saw him leaning back in a high oak chair a few feet away. Softly I moved across the room towards him and then I saw that he was asleep. I made no movement, but somehow he seemed to become conscious of my presence and opened his eyes. They fell upon me standing on the hearth-rug before him, and he sat up with a start. "Philip!" he cried, "you here? You back? You have found him, then?" At the sound of his voice I trembled, yet I answered him at once: "Not yet. To-morrow night I shall see him. Till then I could do nothing--and I came here." He looked at my mud-bespattered boots and wind-tossed hair. "You have walked from Mellborough?" he asked. Then something in my face seemed to strike him, and, leaning forward, he placed his hands upon my shoulders and turned towards the glow of the fire. "You have come with a purpose!" he said slowly. "Tell me--you have heard something in London?" I bowed my head silently. "Some story of the past--my past?" "Yes." "My God!" Then there was silence between us. I bore it till I could bear it no longer. "Can you wonder that I have come?" I cried, my voice shaking with a passion which I knew no longer how to restrain. "Oh, speak to me! Tell me whether this thing is true?" "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.