“The coming of Kester St. George to Park Newton may help us to another link in the chain of evidence which Bristow and I together are trying to forge out of the very poor materials at our command. It may prove in the end to be nothing better than a chain of sand—or it may prove strong enough to drag a murderer to his doom.”
The General shuddered slightly. “Your words are very strong, my boy,” he said. “I have seen so many tragedies in the course of the sixty years I have lived in this world that I have no desire ever to see another—least of all among those of my own kith and kin.”
Richard did not answer at once. He rose from his chair, went to the window, and stood gazing out across the frosty landscape. At length he spoke gravely, almost sadly.
“My hand is put to the plough, uncle, and I cannot—I dare not draw back.”
“No doubt you are right and I am wrong,” said the General, meekly. “But I sometimes tremble when I look into the future, and ask myself what all these disguises and plottings have for their aim and object.”
“They have but one aim and one object,” said Richard, sternly, “both of which are comprised in one word—and that word is Retribution.”
“‘Vengeance is mine: I will repay, saith the Lord,’” answered the old soldier, in a reverent whisper.
A deep sigh came from the bosom of the younger man. Again he paused before answering. “Oh, uncle! is there no pity, no thought for me?” he said. “Think of what I have suffered, of all that I have undergone! Name, wealth, position, lost to me for ever unless I can prove I am not the murderer that the world believes me to be. My very identity gone. Obliged to die and be buried, and assume the name and identity of another man; or live the life of a hunted animal, with a price set on my head, and with the ever-present shadow of a shameful death eating the life out of me inch by inch. Oh, think of all, and pity me!”
“I have thought of it all, day and night, night and day, for months. You know that I pity you from the bottom of my soul.”
“Had it not been for you, and Edith, and Bristow—God bless him!—I should have shot myself long ago.”