“My real name is John Douglas; though for years I have borne the alias—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 mother was 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 countenance remained 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.