The record-union., 1895-05-18

''The days passed quickly. 1 had many
duties, OF course, connected with my
parish, and when ones time is filled from
the moment your eyes are open in the
morning till they are again closed in
sleep, week is gone before you are sure
it is only Monday. 1t came to within
fortnight of the time set for Beebe's exc
cution, and | felt hopeless in regard to
what l had been able to accomplish either
for his SOULS good or otherwise. Every
effort to inspire religious train OF
thought was listened to with respect and
attention, but no more, and when finally
became persistent in my inquiries about
his family and connections. he said III
very decided but dignifed manner:
Doctor, whatever my connections
are, the knowledge of them is not neces-
sary to my salvation. nor can l give the
slightest comfort or gain anything by
telling you. You must pardon my re-
quest that the subject be never referred to
again
''One day while deep in discussion he
asked for my penknite to cut the pages of
a tract L had given him, remarking that
they would not allow him to have such
toys as paper-knives, and Immediately
branched OFT into an argument on faith.
1 was delighted at the opening thus given
me, especially when on leaving he handed
back my knife, saying it had opened a
world to him. [ felt very much satisfied
with my success, though l did not UNDER
stand his ill-concealed smile. 1 did
later on.
THAT night I was sitting in my study
writing, when gentleman was an
nounced, who waited for me below. He
was the senior warden of my parish, q
man of wealth and prominence in the
city. He and his devoted wife were
known for their good works; no case Of
destitution was brought to their ken that
they did not relieve. At that time he
was old and bent; care and sorrow had
left their marks upon him. His face was
beautiful in its kindliness. and the old
fashioned knee breeches and buckles
which he wore, and his courtly manners,
made him the perfect type of the fine
Southern gentleman OF the old school. l
remember custom he had, by the way,
of never coming to the communion table
except IN full dress.
81 Immediately hurried down stairs,
wondering what could have brought him
to me at such an hour. AS | entered the
room where he was l saw him standing
by chair which he seemed to grasp for
support. L saw. too, that he was very
white, and anxiously inquired first of all
II he felt i'll, or was in trouble, and could
l not fetch him a glass of Madeira (of
which he always sent me case at Christ
mas. He stood looking at me without
giving any answer for what seemed min
utes, but were seconds. [ had started to
grasp his hands in welcome; he drew
himself up without seeming to see this
motion, and with great effort almost
gasped out:
Why have you not told me? Why
have you kept the truth from me?'
~ was too astounded at such greet
ing to answer at once. Tell him what?
Fearing that the old gentlernan's mind
had become unbalanced, | was searching
my brain to think what was best to do in
such a case, but said the most natural
thing in the circumstances:
"'W hat have L kept from you, my dear
sir, that / should have told? l know
of nothing
81 wondered if there was any parish
trouble of which l had not let him
know.
"'Beebe,' he whispered.
"'Why, what about him?' inquired I,
more puzzled than ever.
"'You know he is my son. and have
not told me-
II was now certain his mind was
affected, and that his weakening intellect,
at first Interested in the romantic life of
the pirate, as had been every one, by
brooding over it in his kind heart had
been led to imagine that Beebe, the un-
fortunate, was his son.
Why, my dear sir, Beebe is not your
son; he is an unknown and vile criminal.
an Eng glishman, / believe
81 then recalled having heard that the
warden once had an only son who long
ago had died very suddenly, while on a
visit, and that the old couple had never
recovered from the shock OF many years
before; l saw at once the direction his en-
feebled mind had taken.
Take me to my son; I will forgive
him and make his last days happy And
the old gentleman, sinking into a chair.
dropped his head into his hands, giving
way to uncomfortable grief. L soothed
him best could; protesting did no good
at all. L know 1t is sc,' be cried: take
me to my son.
thinking that on the whole it might
be the best thing to do, l said 1 would
call coach.
"'Miue is at the door,
after drinking glass of wine, upon
which L insisted. he in some measure
gained his composure; l helped him into
the coach and ordered it driven to the
prison. Nothing was said en- route be-
yond my requests that ne calm himself
as much as possible. AS we drew near
the somber building he had become him
self again, but, for my part, l was tremb-
ling violently. What if it should turn
out as he believed? Suppose the sons
death had been only a ruse to cover up
crime of some sort? l had heard of such
things. We gained admittance to the
jail without trouble, and permission for
the turnkey to retire after letting us into
Beebe's cell. He was lying on his
couch as we entered, but at once arose:
said:
"Beebe, here'sa gentleman who wants
to see you
"'You have no right to-
II raised up the lantern and saw him
visibly start as he caught sight of the old
gentleman's face The latter, giving one
heart-rending cry, threw himself on
Beebe's neck.
"'Oh, Hubert, my son, my sonp
"Beebe invoiuntarily clasped the aged
form to his heart. He grew ghastly pale,
and his frame shook as in convuIsions.
The old gentleman continued to call him
his son and lavish endearing terms and
caresses upon him. Beebe, finally gain
ing control of himself and turning his
head toward me, said in calm and nat
ural voice:
"'Doctor, what is it the gentleman i'm
agines? Does he take me for a long-lost
son or is he crazy? This is poor pleas
antry to force upon me, indeed
"'Why, Hubert, Pm your father. Do
not you know your father? Oh! Hubert,
/ have looked for you all these years.
with struggle Beebe mastered him.
self and forced a laugh as he said, still
supporting the old gentleman:
"'You are very much mistaken, sir.
Pm not your son. Had 1 the honor I
surely would not be in my present posi-
ton. I'd gladly be your son.
Hubert, Hubert! You have your