"He didn't owe me any apology; he had as much right to his opinion as I had to mine. Some of the noblest minds and kindest hearts in the country went wrong. Don't tell me anything he said that bordered on an apology. He should not have apologized. In my heart I forgave him a thousand times; and, night after night, I sat in his room, reading his books. When I was taken down I had them bring his bed in here that I might die on it. Yes, we were all wrong," he said, pressing my hands. "Dan, lean over." My face was almost touching his, and I trembled violently. "You know the hoof-marks on the stairs—you know that I killed Solomon Putnam. But you never knew why."
"No, sir; no one ever told me."
"No one knew. Dan, your mother was a beautiful woman. Titine reminds me of her. Did anyone ever tell you that your mother was handsome?"
"Yes, sir, an old negro man, a long time ago."
"Dan, that scoundrel offered to buy your mother. I scorned his money and he poisoned her. And I sent him word that I would kill him on sight; and he rode up the stairs, drunk, to kill me in my bed. I raised myself up and shot him—Dan, lean over further. My life has been miserable and I am—I am the author of all your misery. There, don't pull away from me. Put your head on this old breast for a moment. My poor boy—I have been a disgrace unto myself and the cause of your humiliation. But I have loved you and have shown it whenever I could without bringing a cruelty down upon your head. My poor wife—God forgive me—always strongly suspected, but she did not know. She hated you and who could blame her? That scoundrel Bates kept her mind on fire with insinuations—He was afraid to tell her outright. A thousand times I have been tempted to tell her and beg her forgiveness, but the quality of forgiveness was always a stranger to her heart. She has had enough to harden her against the world and I am going to beg her for mercy as I would beg at the Judgment seat. Dan, I have no money to leave you. The farm is mortgaged. All I can leave is the love and the blessing of a wretched old man, a sinner. Is that someone at the door?"
I opened the door. Old Miss and Miss May came in. They drew near to the bedside and stood there, seeing that the hour of parting was not far off.
"I was afraid of some sudden shock," said the old woman, and she looked hard at me. "Shall we go out again?" she asked, smoothing back Old Master's white hair.
"No," he said, his voice feebler than when he had spoken last. He motioned to her and she sat down beside him. Miss May was at the foot of the bed with her face buried in the covers. A few moments passed and he strove to talk, but the power of speech was gone. Several of the neighbors had come to see him, and they were admitted to the death-room, though the old man had passed beyond the border line of consciousness. His breathing grew heavier and, toward dawn, he fell asleep. I stood and gazed upon him with a new reverence, a strange and half frightened affection. The revelation did not come to me as a great surprise; it was as plain to me as to the reader who has followed me through these memoirs; but I had not permitted myself to muse upon it; there was always something so startling in the thought.
I turned to go and Old Miss followed me down the stairs, and in the hall she bade me wait a moment. I stood near the door, in the gray light, she halting near me; and her eyes were dry.
"What did he tell you?" she asked.