"Not now," said Captain Danton, calmly; "he was when he first came here. You know what ailed Macbeth—a sickness that physicians could not cure. That is Mr. Richards' complaint—a mind diseased. Remorse and terror are that unhappy young man's ailments and jailers."
There was a dead pause. Reginald Stanford, still "far wide," gazed at his father-in-law-elect, and waited for something more satisfactory.
"It is not a pleasant story to tell," Captain Danton went on, in a subdued voice; "the story of a young man's folly, and madness, and guilt; but it must be told. The man you saw last night is barely twenty-three years of age, but all the promise of his life is gone; from henceforth he can be nothing more than a hunted outcast, with the stain of murder on his soul."
"Good heavens!" exclaimed his hearer; "and Kate walks with such a man, alone, and at midnight?"
"Yes," said Kate's father, proudly "and will again, please Heaven. Poor boy! poor, unfortunate boy! If Kate and I were to desert him, he would be lost indeed."
"This is all Greek to me," said Stanford, coldly. "If the man be what you say, a murderer, nothing can excuse Miss Danton's conduct."
"Listen, Reginald, my dear boy—almost my son; listen, and you will have nothing but pity for the poor man upstairs, and deeper love for my noble daughter. But, first, have I your word of honour that what I tell you shall remain a secret?"
Reginald bowed.
"Three years ago, this young man, whose name is not Richards," began Captain Danton, "ran away from home, and began life on his own account. He had been a wilful, headstrong, passionate boy always, but yet loving and generous. He fled from his friends, in a miserable hour of passion, and never returned to them any more; for the sick, sinful, broken-down, wretched man who returned was as different from the hot-headed, impetuous, happy boy, as day differs from night.
"He fled from home, and went to New York. He was, as I am, a sailor; he had command of a vessel at the age of nineteen; but he gave up the sea, and earned a livelihood in that city for some months by painting and selling water-colour sketches, at which he was remarkably clever. Gradually his downward course began. The wine-bottle, the gaming-table, were the first milestones on the road to ruin. The gambling-halls became, at length, his continual haunt. One day he was worth thousands; the next, he did not possess a stiver. The excitement grew on him. He became, before the end of the year, a confirmed and notorious gambler.