Argosy, Vol. 1 (1882) — page 265: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

256 The paper had burned without losing: its shape. The ink showed plainly through the blackness, like purple tracings, and he bent over it eagerly, but John Ashton thrust out one hand and crushed the embers into a mass of cinders. ‘It 1s nothing,” he said calmly. “I burned a letter, that 1s all.” “A letter from whom?” he demand- ed. Then his glance lighted upon the envelope on the floor, and he stooped down and seized it. | For a moment he studied it. raising his eyes, he said calmly: “ This is addressed to you here, and was delivered by a messenger. Did it come since you have been here to- night?” 6é Yes.” “Had you an accomplice in this business? ” “Yes.” “Who?” “T cannot tell you that, sir.” “By Heaven, you shall tell me! Who is your accomplice? ”’ “{ cannot tell you, sir. “Oh, you miserable cur! You das- tardly dog! You villam! You ingrate! Was it not enough that you should rob me, without permitting others to do it? John Ashton, I would have forgiven you but for this. I would have bidden you take your place in the bank tomor- row, as if nothing had happened—but for this. I made up my mind to that, while I was out there on the walk watching the carriage while it drove away with Hope. “Do you remember the story that I told you when you first came into the bank? Do you remember the story about my son who went away while you were a little boy and while yet he was not grown to manhood? My God! Could you recall that story, and the agony that you saw me suffer while I told it to you, and still commit this act? Still consent to break my heart for a second time? Is there no mercy in your heart? No Then, THER ARGOSY. mercy for an old man who has reared you as his own son? Who has loved you, I fear, better than he did his own son?” “ Stop, sir, in mercy, stop! You are killing me! ”’ “ Killing you? I would like to kill you. If you have any manhood left at all, you will kill yourself. I thank God, John Ashton, that you are not related to me—that not one drop of my blood, or the blood of any of my famuly, flows in your veins.” “ What, sir ” “It is true. You have always be- lieved that you were my nephew, but you are not, thank God! I do not even know who you are. I found you ina basket at my door, one morning when you were an infant, and I gave you the name of Ashton because that name had belonged to a friend of my boyhood— a friend whom I sincerely loved—one who was with me in school and 1n col- lege, in England. The rest you know. You were reared as a dear son. I have loved you as one. I looked upan your marriage with Hope with delight. You took the place of the boy that I had lost —whose death I thanked God for. You were to have inherited my property. But I nurtured a viper that turned and stung me. You are nobody.” A great calmness suddenly came into the heart of John Ashton. It was sweet to him then to know that he was no- body. Somehow—he did not under- stand how—it made everything seem simpler and easier. “I am glad that you have told me this, Mr. Hollister,” he said.. “Your suffering will be less acute since 1 am not related to you; my own will be less in proportion.” The banker turned suddenly away. There was a small safe in one corner of the room, and in a moment he had opened it. Presently he returned to the table, and calmly placed upon it, be- tween them, a shining, silver mounted revolver. ‘ John,” he said, and for the first time COLT ElOOOlK CO