Middletown transcript., 1915-05-29
CHAPTER xvIII-contlnued.

CHAP TEX NVIlI--Continued.
1t had an overwhelming effect upon
me. had been very near death. Sui
eide must have ended the struggle in
which l was engaged. had not this
knowledge Of actual and unpublished
crime come to ease my conscience.
John Scoville was worthy of death,
and, being so, should receive the full
reward of his deed. l need hesitate
no longer.
That night slept. But there came
a night when did not. After the PEN
atty had been paid and to most mems
eyes that episode was over, turned
the first page Of that volume of slow
retribution which Is the doom OF the
man who sins from impulse, and has
the recoil Of his own nature to face
relentlessly to the end Of his days.
sScoville was in his grave. was alive.
Scoville had shot man for his money.
had struck a man down in my wrath.
Scoville's widow and little child must
face cold and unsympathetic world.
with small means and disgrace rising,
like a wall, between them and social
sympathy, II not between them and
the actual means of living.
divers future faced him untouched
No shadow lay across his path to him
der his happiness or to mar his
chances.
The results we're unequal. began
to see them 3d. and feel the gnawing
of that deathless worm whose raw
ages lay waste the breast, while hand
and brain fulfill their routine of work,
as though all were we'll and the foun-
dations of life unshaken.
! suffered as only towards suffer.
held on to honor; l held on to home;
l held on to Oliver. but with misery
for my companion and self-contempt
which nothing could abate. Each time
l mounted the bench felt a tug at
my arm as OF a visible, restraining
presence. Each time returned to my
home and met the clear eye of Oliver
beaming upon me with its evergrow-
ing promise of future comradeship,
experienced a rebellion against my
own happiness which opened my eyes
to my own nature and its inevitable
demand. must give up Oliver. or
yield my hOnors, make a full confes-
sion and accept whatever conse-
quences it might bring. | am a proud
man. and the latter alternative was be-
yond me. could forego pleasure,
travel, social intercourse, and even
the companionship of the one being In
whom all my hopes centered, but l
could not, Of my own volition, pass
from the judges bench to the felon's
cell. There struck the immovable-
the impossible.
decided in one awful night of re-
nunciation that | would send Oliver
out of my life.
The next day told him abruptly
=. hurting him to spare myself
that had decided after long and ma
ture thought to yield to his desire for
journalism, and that would start him
in his career and maintain him in 1t
for three years il he would subscribe
to the following conditions:
They were the hardest a loving ia
ther ever imposed upon a dutiful and
loving son.
First, he was to leave home immedi-
ately within few hours, in
fact.
Second, he was to regard all rela-
to be strangers henceforth in every
particular save that Of the money Qb-
legation already mentioned.
Third, he was never to acknowledge
this compact, or to cast any slur upon
the father whose reasons for this ap-
parently unnatural conduct we're quite
disconnected with any fault Of his OF
any desire to punish OF reprove.
Fourth he was to pray for his ia
ther every night of his life before he
slept
Was this las a confession? Had
meant it to be such? IL So 1t missed
its point 1t aVed bj'. diG'no. frighten
him.
had to conte4d with his compunc
tions, as well d with grief and dis
may. 1t was an Eonr Of struggle on
his part and of implacable resolution
on mine. Nothing but such hardness
on my part would have served me.
Had faltered once he would have
won me over, and the tale of my sleep
less nights been repeated. did moi
falter, and when the midnight stroke
rang through the house that night
It separated by its peal sin-beclouded
but human past from a future arid
with solitude and bereft of the one
possession to retain which my sin had
been hidden.
became a father without son-aS
1nnoI,- and "a haanlafa as though thE