Daily Kennebec journal. [microfilm reel] (Augusta, Me.) 1870-1975, 1886-10-18


You are mad" exclaimed Sir Allan, look
ing from his daughter to his wife in sheer
bewilderment.
Glare had not said word. She stood
before him silent, imperturbable, waiting
to hear his accusation in all its fullness.
She wanted to hear him to the end-to
learn the lowest depth to which she had
sunk in his estimation before she uttered
one word in her own defense. And now
Grace had come to the rescue; Grace, the
generous and impulsive; and the whole
story must needs be told.
NO, father, dearest, am not mad but
/ have been foolish, blamable, wicked
even; for it was wicked to keep the secret
of my folly from the best and kindest of
fathers. am deeply ashamed of myself
If that dreadful wound had been fatal
should have been the most miserable
creature in the world l could not have
gone on living, knowing that my folly had
been the cause of my fathers death"
And then brihy, bravely, without dis
guises or sophistications OF any kind, Grace
Darnel told the history of her engagement,
told how she had seen her scampish lover
upon the Chicksand common when they
were out cub-hunting in the morning, and
how she had seen no more OF him.
You did not see him again at night,
them" questioned her father. How do
you know that it was he whom | saw in
the next room-the man who fired the
shot;"
II do know it-as well as any one can
know anything from circumstantial evil
dence. but it is a long story. Hark! there
Is q carriage" cried Grace, rushing 10 the
window. 1T must be the colonel. had
a letter from him this morning saying he
would try to be back to-day. He knows
everything He can convince you that /
am telling the truth
"He knows" said Sir Allan. you
trusted him, then, when you dared not
trust your father?"
Because l was not one little bit afraid
of him, dear. induigent, old thing" cried
Grace. May he come up at once? l am
dying to see him"
Not yet, Grace; we must have the story
out first lift have wronged your step
mother as deeply as your words imply"
You have wronged her, deeply, cruelty,
outrageously There never was a more
devoted wife. / know how she has suffered
all through your illness, poor thing and she
stands there Ike statue, accused OF
crimes of which | alone am guilty"
"Clare," cried Sir Allan, holding out his
arms to his wife, trying to rise, but almost
too weak to lift himself from the capa-
cious depths of the low armchair.
"Clare, can you forgive me?"
"Allan, my beloved husband"
She flew to his arms. On her knees,
with her head upon his breast, she sobbed
out the fullness of her heart.
"No, Allan, no." she gasped, when her
passionate tears had exhausted them
selves, mo, am not without guilt. l, too
have been weak and coSardly. Like this
poor girl here, have had my secret. l
have kept one Bluebeard chamber in my
life locked from you the best and most
generous of men. Grace is mistaken.
Her unprincipled sutton, the unhappy
young man who in Paris called himself
Victor de Camillac, came to this house on
that dreadful night to see me, to obtain
money from me, from me whose purse had
been emptied for him, time after time,
since my marriage. You must have often
wondered what l did with my money,
Allan, how l contrived to get rid of that
handsome income which your love had
settled on me. You know now 1t was
not spent on private charities as you fam
cied. 1t was not from motives of benevo-
lence that | stinted myself of those luxu-
ries women love- 1t was my worthless
son who drained my purse and squandered
your money in gambling clubs and ON
race courses"
"Your SOM"
ayes, my son, Stuart Mackenzie's son,
who, God help him, has inherited all Stu
art Mackenzie's vices, including the ca
pacity for murder. My son, who may before
long be standing in the criminal dock to
be tried for the crime of that fatal night,
and to bring disgrace upon you through
your wretched wife He was not
drowned, as we thought in the Fri
King" He wrote to me from San Fran
cisco within two months of my marriage.
He had seen the announcement in an En-
glish paper, and he congratulated me on
my good fortune and my power to help
him. From that time to this his letters
have been one long series of demands. l
have complied, weakly, hopelessly, ready
to grant anything rather than to let you
know my trouble, rather than that you
should feel ashamed of your wifes son.
He is mine, you know, my very own, my
flesh and blood. No dishonor can touch
him that does not cast its shadow upon
me. | could not bring myself to confess
how low he has fallen. If had told YOU
anything must have told you all. | pre-
ferred to keep my secret, and in this one
matter to be hypocrite."
Poor Clare, poor misguided Clare AS
If | should fail you, love. Why, | would
have stood by you and helped you if you
had been the mother of half dozen
scampish sons"
"Ah, you are so goodl But wanted to
spare you all trouble and worry
And so worried yourself out of health
and spirits, All wrong Clare" said Sir
Allan, gently.
81 tried, under these conditions. to do nv
duty to my wretched boy, tried to be his
adviser and guide, to put him in an honor
bly, way of life. l gave him the means of
living like gentleman; the leisure to Gull
tivate the profession of his choice. Ire
fused no request he made me- I lent a
willing ear to his promises of amendmen.
All in vain. He was a drunkard and a
gambler-his vices were ingrained in him
hideous hereditary taint-the leprosy of
Sin. When he stood before me that night,
threadbare, down at the heel, haggard.
degraded, knew that he had fallen to the
lowest depth of moral and physical ruin.
His shaking hands and restless manner
eoiu ius ooo pldluiy tHdt ne was SUFFERER
from his fathers old disease, the brandy
drinker' s fatal fever. He had so suffered
before, as | knew. He hardly emerged
from boyhood when he was first attacked
by that horrible complaint. | knew all
this; but did not know that he could be
mad enough or wicked enough to attempt
murder He told me of his courtship of
Grace-admitted that he had passed him
self off as n Frenchman was dari11