The Black Forge Mills

by William P. Chipman

"Yes," replied the man. "You know he has long been troubled with the heart disease, and had been quite unwell all the evening. When he was told of the fire, he got up and went with his wife and daughter to the west windows of the house and watched the flames for some time. All at once he said to his wife: 'There are only two policies in force on the mills, Ida, and the company is ruined.' And then he sank unconscious upon the floor. His wife and daughter got him back to his room, and sent for Dr. Gasque, but before the doctor arrived he was dead. 'Heart disease and over excitement,' the doctor says it was, and the family have sent me to find you. I just came from your house, and, as your family know I'm looking for you, you may as well go right on to Mr. Lawton's."

"Certainly," replied Mr. Bacon. And he went off with the man to the bereaved household, while Ray got his horse and drove off to Long Point Farm.

He arrived there just at dawn, worn out with his strenuous exertions, worried at the terrible loss of the mills and the consequences it involved, and sorrowful for the sad calamity that had befallen the Lawton family. But this was not all the burden he carried. Greater than they all, and involving a greater responsibility so far as he was concerned, was the crushing secret buried deep in his own bosom. He also knew who it was that had set fire to the Black Forge Mills, and a single word from him would bring upon the perpetrators of the outrage the justice which they so richly deserved.

CHAPTER XVI.

WHAT IS DUTY?

Ray now entered into a struggle with himself—a struggle so long and so bitter that it well-nigh overwhelmed him. His reason and his conscience were arrayed against his pride and his heart, and for a long time it was extremely doubtful which would be victorious. Not that Ray realized this to be the actual condition of things just then. No; he was honest when he thought that his struggle was over the question: What is duty?

But he could have easily known what duty was had he only allowed himself to use his sanctified common sense; but he so wanted duty to lie in just the opposite direction from what it really did lie, that he very readily made himself think there might be some question about it; and thus he entered into a struggle that tried his faith, destroyed his peace of soul, and surrounded him with a darkness blacker than night. He never could recall that spiritual experience without a shudder. He came so near grieving the Spirit and dishonoring the Master's name.

He knew that the men who had set fire to the Black Forge Mills, no matter who they were, should be punished for their crime. He knew that to know who the guilty parties were, and then to refuse to disclose that knowledge, made him in the eyes of the law an accessory after the fact. He knew that to allow the criminals to go unpunished was really to countenance their deed. At least, had he allowed himself to prayerfully reason the matter out, he would have known all this.

But one of those criminals was his own father, and to him it seemed to make a vast difference in the case, or, at least, he wanted it to. He would not have hesitated a moment to disclose who the guilty men were, had not his father been one of the number. Duty would have been very plain then, and he would have at once admitted that it would be absolutely wrong to shield the incendiaries from the punishment they so richly deserved. But his own father! His heart rebelled against disclosing a single thing that would show his own parent to be a criminal in the eyes of the law. No matter if that father had willfully made himself a criminal, how could he, the son, disclose the fact? What little love and respect he still had in his heart for that father made him unwilling to do what seemed so terrible a thing.

Then, too, a little pride had, unconsciously perhaps, come into his heart, and influenced him greatly in his trying to believe that his duty might be to keep silent. He did so want the Branford name redeemed from the evil reputation that had gathered about it. George and his sisters, as well as he himself, were now all trying to live honest, upright lives. This was a great deal. But there were two other brothers who were fugitives from justice; how could he add a third name, and that his father's, to the criminal list? He could not reveal the names of the other incendiaries without his father's becoming known. Was it not, then, duty for him to hide his shameful secret so deep in his own breast that it should never be discovered by other eyes?