"Patience—I will tell you, but it must be in my own way. You told me your mother forgave him upon her death-bed; she had nothing to forgive him, for he never did her wrong in thought or deed! Two men loved your mother—one was Reuben Dare, the other was James Hazelwood. The last took her marriage so greatly to heart that he lost his mind. His friends placed him in an asylum. One night it burned to the ground. James Hazelwood was among the missing. All thought him dead—buried in the ruins; but he was not. His hand kindled the fire; then he escaped.
"A short time afterward, your mother began to receive anonymous notes, leading her to suspect the fidelity of her husband. At first she treated them with silent scorn, but the cunning of a madman—for the hand of Hazelwood was in this—made black seem white—the innocent seem guilty. Then she sorrowed, still in silence. Reuben Dare, at any other time, would have noticed this, and soon learned its cause, but he was battling hard with adversity—trying to save himself from ruin. A series of misfortunes had swallowed his fortune; he was a bankrupt.
"Hazelwood saw all this, and timed his actions well. The night before the truth must be known, he watched your father at his office—it was nearly midnight when he started to go home. As he passed an alley, a heavy blow felled him to the ground. The next he knew he was in a close carriage, securely bound, rolling swiftly along. The carriage paused, Hazelwood dragged forth his victim, and then told him all—of the diabolical plot he had formed to ruin him even after death. Then there was a cruel blow. When daylight came the corpse of your father was floating far out upon the Delaware bay. Wait, I am nearly done. More whisky—I am growing weak," muttered the hermit, faintly.
"That day your father's name was coupled with dishonor. They said he had robbed his creditors, and had fled with another man's wife. That was Hazelwood's revenge. But it was with him that the woman fled. But he was crazy—crazy."
"And who are you, that you know of all this?" hoarsely demanded Abel Dare, his eyes glowing, his breast heaving.
"I am—I was—James—Hazelwood, the mad—"
A grating cry broke from the young man's lips, and he darted forward, but, with uplifted hand, the Wood King said:
"Stay—he is beyond your power now—he is dead!"
The words were true. The hermit was no more—had died with the horrible confession upon his lips. There was much left unexplained, that would now be forever buried in oblivion. Of his life since the crime—how he came to be a wanderer in these wilds, a hermit, no one would ever know.
Yet Abel felt a feeling of relief far down in his heart, for now he knew that he had not been the son of a double criminal; though his father had been unfortunate, he had not been guilty of the crime that had rested upon his name.