He would not merely disappear, leaving them dubious and distressed. No. They must know he was dead, not by suicide, but by accident. They would mourn his wretched memory. Better that than live with the abiding grief of the knowledge that he was Philip Anson's murderer.
He was quite sure now that the dead would arise and call for vengeance if he dared to continue to exist. Yes, that was it—a life for a life—a prayer that his deeds might not bear fruit in his children—and then death, speedy, certain death.
Some reference to the future made by Willie, the younger, who favored his mother more than the outspoken John, gave Mason an opportunity to pave the way for the coming separation.
"I don't want you two lads to make any great changes on my account," he said, slowly. "It is far from my intention to settle down here, and let all your friends become aware that you are supporting a ticket-of-leave father. Yes, I know. You are good boys, and it won't be any more pleasant for me to—to live away from you, than it would be for you—under—other conditions—to be separated from me. But—I am in earnest in this matter. I will stop here to-night just to feel that I am under the same roof as you. It is your roof, not mine. Long ago I lost the right to provide you with a shelter. To-morrow I go away. I have some work to do—a lot of work. It must be attended to at once. Of course, you will see me, often. We can meet in the evening—go out together—but live here—with you—I can't."
His sons never knew the effort that this speech cost him. He spoke with such manifest hesitation that Willie, who quickly interpreted the less-pronounced signs of a man's thoughts, winked a warning at his brother.
He said, with an optic signal:
"Not a word now, John. Just leave things as they are."
Under any ordinary conditions he would be right. He could never guess the nature of the chains that encircled his father, delivering him fettered to the torture, bound hand and foot, body and soul.
At last they all retired to their rooms, the boys to whisper kindly plans for keeping their father a prisoner again in their hands; Mason to lie, open-eyed, dry-eyed, through the night, mourning for that which might not be.
The rising sun dispelled the dark phantoms that flitted before his vision.