Besides, he wanted to finish him!
But how? Openly? Impossible! Then, secretly—under cover. He must find some means of disgracing Hector, some subtle way of hurting him which would be worse than death.
Hector, while MacFarlane was scheming, had no idea of impending treachery. MacFarlane hid his resentment well. Hector thought he knew nothing.
Then, one day, came enlightenment, through a paragraph published by his old enemy, the Prophet:
'An interesting story anent a prominent gentleman frequently dealt with in these columns has just reached us through an unimpeachable medium. It will come as no surprise to many of our readers, but will enlighten others who do not know the real character of the individual placed in a high position of authority in this district by an unmerciful Providence and an inefficient Department. This individual poses as one whose feet have always walked in the straight way. It appears that the pose is far from genuine. The plain truth is that when he first came to the country, in the early days, he carried on a liaison with a pretty little squaw, the daughter of a chief. This understanding (we use the mildest word) continued for several years until the gentleman—his status entitles him to be thus spoken of—apparently tired of it and dropped the matter. But Nemesis arose. During the suppression of certain disturbances of a decade ago, in which he played a leading part, the lady reappeared, only to die in his arms. One story states that, fearing embarrassment, he shot her himself; another, that he owes his success in the operations to the information she gave him. Be that as it may, the romance (again we omit an uglier word) ended there. So runs the tale—which we know to be true. A man of this type, who looks no higher than an Indian girl and carries on an intrigue of this character, is not fit to hold the position he does. His chief has long protected him; but we look to his colleagues to insist that one who so blots the fair name of their organization is sent to the obscurity whence he came.'
Hector at once saw that this outburst referred to himself. The woman in the case was, of course, Moon. Someone had told Welland, lately back from the East, of her infatuation and death. Welland had recognized the opportunity of wounding him with the most deadly weapon he could employ, putting the worst construction on the story, and giving just enough information to enable the curious to identify the villain of the piece if they took the trouble.
The refined ingenuity of the assault was extraordinary. Hector could not silence the story, because that would be an admission of his concern in it. He could not deny it for the same reason. All he could do was to suffer in silence, while it went the round and his name was connected with it and he was made the victim of every slander men could lay tongue to. That was the terrible part. He could have faced anything physical, something he could fight, without a qualm.
And then would come Moon's degradation. For Moon, though she was 'only an Indian,' he would have battled against any odds, because she had served and loved him. To save her from intolerable libel he would have given his life. He could do nothing.
He wondered if his intimacy with Moon had been preordained so that, in time, it might be in the instrument to strike him down. It seemed so, for Welland could have found no more effective weapon.
One hope remained. The story might not gain ground. If it gained ground, he would be forced to resign.