“Amy, tell me,” he cried almost fiercely, catching her wrist in his firm grasp.
“He says you—you don’t—know who your father was,” she faltered.
He sprang to his feet, his face aflame.
“It’s a base lie!” he began. Then he set his teeth and paused a moment to regain control of himself. Presently he resumed in quiet, even tones:
“Amy, it’s a mistake. I know who my father was—or is, if he be alive. I’m no illegitimate child. My mother’s husband was John Douglas, an intelligent but dissipated and unprincipled man, who abused her—and finally deserted her, shortly after I was born. Her health rapidly failed; and she died when I was but a child, leaving me to the care of her brother, a roving and adventurous fur-trader. This uncle wandered from tribe to tribe, bartering arms, blankets, and trinkets, for peltries. On one of these trading trips he took me with him—when I was eight years old—and left me with the Wyandots, while he proceeded on his journey. For four years I remained with the savages. They were kind to me. I learned their ways; I played with the youth of the tribe. I absorbed their ideas, manners, and customs—I fell in love with the wild, free life of the redmen. Then my uncle again put in an appearance, and, taking me with him, returned to the East.
“There he placed me in school; and again disappeared. Eight years passed; and in all that time I saw nothing of my relative—my guardian. At last came word that he was dead—and that I was penniless. I left school. My soul hungered for love and sympathy. I was fatherless—motherless. Of acquaintances, I had many; of warm, helpful friends, I had none. I thought of my old friends, the Wyandots. I made my way westward, rejoined them—and was received with open arms. But a change had come over me. I had the instinct and tastes of a hunter—but I was no longer a young savage. For a time I lived with the Wyandots; but I spent my time in hunting and in trading among the red hunters of Ohio and the lakes. I made money. I learned three or four Indian tongues—I acquainted myself with all the arts and wiles of the different tribes. But at last the white blood in my veins asserted itself. I began to long for the companionship of my own people. So I established myself here at Franklinton and took up land. But I have continued to trade among the Indians—I have retained the friendship of the Wyandots. I have made more money in one month than your father and George Hilliard have made in twelve. A year ago I met and loved you. It’s needless to say more—you know the rest.”
She had been watching his face intently and drinking in every word he said. Now she clasped her hands and murmured pleadingly:
“Oh, Ross! If only you will tell father what you have told me, all will be well. He’ll give his consent to our marriage—I know he will.”
“As soon as I return, I’ll do so, Amy.”