CHAPTER XIX.
Douglas presented his pass to the guard at the corner blockhouse. The soldier glanced at it and silently stepped aside. Ross entered the large unfloored room and looked about him. The place was damp and gloomy; the pent air was musty and offensive. A number of whites and Indians were sprawling upon the bare ground. In one of the farther corners was a solitary individual. Ross made his way toward him. By the murky light that struggled in at the loopholes and crevices, the young man recognized Hiram Bradford. At the same instant, the older man recognized the newcomer and, arising to his feet, held out his hand, saying:
“Ross Douglas, I’m glad to see you. I’m overjoyed to know you escaped death in yesterday’s battle.”
“I’m glad to meet you, Bradford,” Ross replied; “but I’m sorry to meet you here.”
“I understand,” Bradford returned coolly. “Sit down. I’ve something of importance to tell you.”
They seated themselves upon a puncheon bench that stood against the log wall. Douglas noted the marked change in his companion’s appearance. The older man’s hair was white as snow; his face, lean and cadaverous; his figure, emaciated and bent.Noticing Ross’s commiserating look, Bradford remarked:
“Yes, I’m changed, Douglas—greatly changed. An incurable malady is rapidly sapping my vitality. I’ve but a short time to live—even if I escape death at the hands of your commander, which I don’t expect. You saw General Harrison before you came here?”
“I did.”
“Did he say what disposition would be made of me?”
“He—he said you wouldn’t be exchanged,” Ross stammered.
“It’s unnecessary to say more,” Bradford returned calmly. “He intends to court-martial me—to have me shot as a spy and deserter. Well, according to the usages of war, I deserve the fate. It’s best that I should die so. It’s a fitting climax to a misspent life. I have but a short time to live at best—a few days can make no difference. And a sudden, painless death is to be preferred to one of lingering torture from a slow disease.”
Then, seeing the pained look upon Douglas’s face:
“Tut-tut, my boy! Don’t grieve over my fate. I tell you it is best that I should die so. But I don’t care to talk of it; it’s just a littleunwelcometo contemplate.”
Here he paused and smiled feebly. A lump rose in Ross’s throat; he could say nothing in reply. Bradford asked quickly:
“Where have you been since you escaped from the village upon the Mississinewa?”
Douglas found his voice, and told his companion of his wanderings and adventures. When the younger man had finally finished, the older remarked:
“It was well that La Violette helped you to escape; otherwise, the treacherous Indians would have killed you. When I returned to the village and found you gone, I was furious; but La Violette explained the situation to me—and I was satisfied. Immediately, I took the dear girl with me and went to Canada. Then I instituted search for you. I sent a messenger to your old home at Franklinton——”
“Why were you so anxious to find me, Bradford?” Ross could not refrain from asking.
“Don’t interrupt me,” the other cried irritably. “I have much to tell you. I mean to explain all, but I must do it in my own way. As I said, I hunted for you far and near; but I couldn’t locate you. My health was failing. I realized that I was affected with a fatal malady, and I worried night and day—I feared I was to die without again seeing you. Finally my business led me to this vicinity. I came not as a spy”—the color mantled his pale cheeks, and the puckered scar flamed scarlet—“but as a British commissary to look after the needs of Tecumseh’s warriors. Yesterday I was captured; and here I am—doomed to an ignominious death. But it doesn’t matter; I’ve found you—I can carry out my plans ere I die.”
The husky voice was hardly audible.
For a few moments neither spoke. Mastering his emotion, Bradford asked abruptly:
“Douglas, would you like to see La Violette?”
“Very much,” Ross replied promptly.
“Do you know where she is?”
“At the British encampment across the river.”
“Ah! Youdoknow. Did you see her there—did you meet her?”
“No; but I heard of her presence there, through another.”
“Ross Douglas, do you love La Violette?”
Anger blazed in the young man’s handsome countenance, and he replied hotly:
“What is it to you, Hiram Bradford, whom I love?”
“Much more than you suspect, my boy,” was the cool rejoinder. “Answer my question, please. Do you love La Violette?”
Douglas shut his fists and set his teeth. For a full minute, he sat and glared at his audacious questioner. But Bradford did not quail. On the contrary, he smiled and said with provoking coolness:
“I must have a positive answer from you. Do you, or do you not, love La Violette?”
“Yes, I—love—her,” replied Ross through his shut teeth.
“You don’t know how happy I am to hear you say that!” the older man exclaimed joyfully. “She loves you, my lad—you know that, as well as I. Will you marry her?”
“You are carrying this thing too far, Bradford,” Douglas cried. “Why do you meddle in my affairs—why have you done so in the past?”
“You want to know?” Bradford replied, his scarred countenance suddenly losing its expression of mocking carelessness, and becoming grave.
“I want to know,” was the decided answer.
“Then prepare yourself for a disagreeable surprise,” Bradford said in a husky whisper.
“I’m ready for anything,” Ross replied. “Go on.”
“Ross Douglas,I—am—your—father!”
With a hoarse cry—half-groan—the young man arose and staggered against the rough wall. His face was colorless; his limbs were shaking; and he threatened to sink to the ground.
Bradford quickly got upon his feet and, grasping his companion by the shoulders, forced him to resume his seat, saying in bitter accents:
“Don’t let the disagreeable truth unman you. Sit down. I shall not disgrace you long with my presence on earth.”
Ross sank upon the rude bench, murmuring brokenly:
“You, my father!Hiram Bradford, thespy—thedeserter—the Britishtool, myfather!Oh, God!”
Then both were silent. Douglas bowed his head upon his hands. Bradford leaned back against the wall and panted. His face was deathlike. The red scar upon his cheek was purplish. But he kepthis keen eyes immovably fixed upon the bowed form at his side.
At last Ross slowly lifted his head; and, extending his hand toward his companion, whispered hoarsely:
“Forgive my hasty words. The—the surprise—the shock was almost more than I could bear! For the moment I was dumbfounded—crazed.”
The older man eagerly grasped the proffered hand and replied in agitated tones:
“I have nothing to forgive, my son. Would to God you could say as much!”
“You—are—my—father!” Ross muttered mechanically.
“I am John Douglas, your father,” was the convincing reply.
Each had partially regained control of his feelings. Now the son said softly:
“Tell me all—all!”
There was intense bitterness in the father’s voice, as he answered:
“Yes, my boy, now I’ll tell you everything. The whole truth can’t make you despise me more than you do already—than I despise myself. Are you ready to listen patiently?”
Ross nodded; and his father proceeded:
“My real name is John Douglas; though for years I have borne thealias—Hiram Bradford. I cruelly deserted your mother when you were an infant. We loved each other, but we couldn’t agree. The fault was all my own. Your motherwas a sweet-tempered angel; I was a hot-headed brute. In those days I drank heavily. I was unreasonable—abusive; but she meekly bore with me. Her meekness only angered me. It maddened me to meet her reproachful looks. At last I could stand it no longer. Like the base knave that I was, I deserted her and you. I must have been possessed of a devil—I can’t explain my actions otherwise. And the same devil has dogged my footsteps through all the years.”
He paused and drew a sighing respiration, ere he continued:
“But let me hasten. What use to dwell upon my past mistakes and misdeeds? I went to Canada and entered the service of the English government, as an Indian agent. I partially reformed—I made money in abundance. But I was unhappy; I wanted to return to your mother—to see you. At last I could endure the torture no longer. I set out upon my return journey. All the weary way, I pictured to myself how I should take your mother and yourself in my arms and beg your forgiveness; but fate cheated me. I was doomed to such black and bitter disappointment—to such poignant sorrow as”—his voice faltered—“a remorseful conscience alone can know. I reached the old home. Your mother was dead; you were gone. The neighbors informed me that your uncle had taken you away—they knew not whither.”
Again he paused, as though expecting his listener to make some remark. But Ross’s countenanceremained stern and impassive. The father cleared his throat and went on:
“I returned to Canada and resumed work for the British government. The demon of perversity still followed me. I deserted the flag of my native land, as I had deserted my wife and child. I became the Englishman’s spy—his tool—his dog. But I didn’t forget you, my son. My business led me among the Indians. From one end of the Northwest Territory to the other, I searched for you; but I could gain no tidings of you. I thought you dead, and gave up the fruitless quest. You know how I met you at last and learned your name. It’s unnecessary to say more.”
“And La Violette?” Ross suggested.
“You wish to know her history?”
The son inclined his head.
“About seventeen years ago,” John Douglas resumed, “I was stationed at Quebec. While there I made the acquaintance of a wealthy Englishman, Charles Brownlee, in this manner: He had a beautiful wife, and a little daughter one year old. One day the family was out driving, and their horses became frightened and got beyond their driver’s control. I caught the maddened animals, and, at the risk of my own life, brought them to a stop, receiving this wound for my temerity”—pointing to the puckered scar upon his cheek.—“Charles Brownlee became my fast friend. I visited at his house. I learned to love and respect the parents and to worship the angelic child. Also,I learned much of their family history. Charles Brownlee had inherited his wealth from his grandfather. A cousin, who felt that he had been wronged out of his rightful share of the estate, came to Quebec to demand restitution. My friend refused to listen to the claimant’s demands; and the disappointed and angry man left the house, vowing vengeance. A week later, Charles Brownlee and his beautiful wife died very suddenly. The murderous cousin had hired an unscrupulous domestic to poison them. This was never proven, but I know whereof I speak—for I have some knowledge of drugs, and I was in the house at the time.”
The speaker stopped and wearily shifted his position.
“Go on—father,” Ross whispered, his face alight with interest.
The son hesitated at the paternal term, but resolutely used it. The father’s drawn features relaxed into a happy smile, as he took up the thread of his narrative.
“After the death of her parents,” he continued, “I stole away Charles Brownlee’s little daughter, and hid her among the Shawnees. Her life alone stood between the unprincipled relative and the estate he coveted; and I felt that it was necessary to hide her from him. Tenskwatawa adopted her. The tribe believed—and yet believes—her a gift from the Great Spirit. The Prophet has loved her—has been kind to her. But when I sought to take her from him, to send her to school, he wasexceedingly angry and threatened to have me killed. However, my will was the stronger. I had my way, and sent her to a mission school in Quebec. There she remained—securely hidden from the prying eyes of her relative’s agents—for five or six years. At the end of the time, I restored her to the care of the Shawnees. There you met her. She learned to love you; you fell in love with her——”
“Have you told La Violette her life’s history?” Ross interrupted.
“Call her Violet Brownlee—that’s her English name,” the father answered. “Yes, I have told her all.”
“Why—why do you wish me to marry her?” the son inquired hesitatingly.
“For this reason: You are my son; and I love you. I love her as a daughter. Ever since I met you at the Prophet’s Town, I have felt you should marry her. She loves you—she needs your protection. The murderer of her parents still lives. He is in undisputed ownership of the property. But he knows that she isn’t dead; and is anxiously awaiting for her to put in an appearance and lay claim to the estate—that he may dispose of her forever. I have in my possession documents that establish her identity and her title to her father’s wealth——”
“Isn’t it for the sake of this same wealth that you wish me to marry Violet Brownlee, Hiram Brad—father?” Ross asked haltingly, his face flushing.
“Not at all,” John Douglas replied in a tone of deep sincerity. “I have property and money—I’m wealthy. All I have is yours. I’ve never enjoyed my riches—now it’s too late. In giving all to you, let me fondly imagine that I’m making some slight atonement for what I’ve made you and your mother suffer. You’ll find my deeds, mortgages, and other private papers—including those pertaining to Violet and her inheritance—in this leathern packet. I’ve carried it with me for months, hoping to meet you and give it to you.”
With these words, the father drew from a pocket within his hunting-shirt a large leather wallet, and extended it toward his son.
Silently Ross took the pocketbook and thrust it into his bosom.
“You’ll carry out my wishes,” the older man remarked quietly.
“If you don’t live to carry them out yourself, father,” Ross replied with feeling, “I will see that Miss Brownlee gains possession of her own——”
“Please say that you’ll marry Violet, my son,” the father said pleadingly.
For a few minutes the younger man was silent—wrapped in deep thought. Then he answered slowly and solemnly:
“If I find everything as you have stated—and she’ll consent to become my wife—I’ll marry her.”
“Thank you—thank you!” John Douglas murmured huskily.
Then after a momentary pause:
“Now, let me tell you what you must do first. Under the protection of a flag of truce, you must go to the British camp and bring Violet here. Tell her I’m a prisoner and wish to see her—but don’t let her know that I’m to die an ignominious death——”
His voice failed him. And covering his face, he wept silently.
“Don’t despair—don’t give way to grief,” Ross said kindly, at the same time arising and laying his hand upon his father’s shoulder. “I’ll intercede for you—I’ll do all in my power to save you.”
John Douglas, lifting his tear-wet face, whispered tremulously:
“You—you say you’ll try to save me?”
“I will,” Ross answered firmly.
“Then—then you don’t hate me—despise me?”
The son’s voice was thick with emotion, as he replied:
“No, father, I don’t hate you; neither do I love you. But I pity you—and will use what little influence I have, in your behalf. I freely forgive you all the wrong you have done me; but I can’t forget that you were cruel to my mother—that you have been a traitor to your country. Still you’ve been kind to me in many ways—you’ve had mywelfare at heart. And I’ve learned to like you. In time, perhaps——”
“Say no more!” the father cried, dashing the tears from his eyes. “I’m more than satisfied. You don’t know how you have sweetened the bitter draught that I must drink. Oh, Ross—my son! If only I could live my life over——”
Again he broke down. Ross felt the hot tears upon his own cheeks. Presently the father regained control of his emotions, and, rising, said calmly:
“You spoke of interceding in my behalf. To whom will you go?”
“To General Harrison.”
“Don’t go. It will avail nothing.”
“I’ll make the trial,” was the decided reply. “This evening I’ll see you again. Keep in good heart until I return. Good-by—father.”
Silently they shook hands and parted.