New London High School - Whaler Yearbook (New London, CT)

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2 BULKELEY NEWS I did as I was bade. He took a key, which hung upon a small gold chain, from his neck, unlocked the box, and took a picture from it. This photograph he gave to me, and said, “There is a picture of your mother in her youth.” I gazed upon a fair, serene countenance, from which a smile beamed forth. The beautiful, curly, brown locks hung over her high, broad forehead. Her clear, blue eyes attracted my attention by the steadfastness of their gaze. It was the picture of a woman who would command respect, even though she be surrounded by royalty. “So that is my mother,” I said in a tender, musing tone. “Yes, that is the girl who married Donald Ralston, your father. Her name was Helen Vantce. Her father was reputed to be rich, but when he died, he left only a few hundred shares of worthless stock, which he had foolishly invested in. “Your father, who was ten years younger than I, was my cousin. I do not possess a photograph of him, but I will try to describe him to you. He was a man of medium height, his hair was as black as coal, his skin, a delicate hue of olive, and he had black eyes, which flashed like fire when he was angry. “But descriptions do not relate the story, which I must tell. I was mate of ‘The Lioness,’ and had just returned to port when I was introduced to your mother. It was my first visit home in fifteen years. I fell in love with her at sight. Two months from that day, as I had engaged as captain for ‘The Colonel,’ I proposed to her. When she refused me, and told me she was engaged to your father, I was dazed and astounded, No living man could have struck me with such force that the blow would have made me reel like a drunken man, but her announcement did. “That night I packed my valise and took the last train to Boston, where The Colonel’ was moored. I went aboard and did not leave my cabin until two weeks later, when the ship had cleared from the port. There in that little cabin, I fought my fight —the fight between conscience and love. “We had a successful voyage, and my mates and I bought a small schooner, paying for it with the savings from our wages. The ship had been piloted to San Francisco, where officials of the company took charge of the vessel. From San Francisco my mates and I embarked upon a trading voyage to the South Sea Islands. We cruised around among the islands for nine months, bartering beads, cloth, and other trinkets for the pearls which the natives brought us. We had remarkably good luck, but as our store of provisions was almost exhausted, we decided to return. Twelve months from the day we set out on our journey, we were back in San Francisco. When our pearls were sold, it was found that we each possessed twenty thousand dollars, as well as a share in the old craft. I was tired of a sailor’s life, and decided to return to Maine to buy a farm on which I would remain for life. “When I returned, I refused to visit your father’s home because I feared that my irresistible longing would return. I continued to be a friend of your father. Occasionally I went hunting with him. One day we went off to hunt deer. An old

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BULKELEY NEWS VOL. XIII. No. 1 A Sinner’s Repentance rPHE white world, outside, was enjoying itself with the merriment which accompanies the festival season. But I, inside, was suffering from the first bereavement, the—I was conscious of—the death of my foster-father, who had treated me as my own father would. Only a few hours before, he had died. When the physician gravely announced that there was no hope for his recovery, I was astounded. That a man, strong, healthy, and robust as he, should die from such a child’s disease as measles was incomprehensible to me, who had suffered from the malady when I was young, and had recovered from it. After the announcement that my father would not live was made, the attending physician solemnly informed me that it was the wish of my father that he might see me before he died—for the physician had told him he had only a few hours to live. As I entered the death-chamber, I saw the man, who I revered and loved as a father, stretched out upon the bed. He was pale and motionless; his face was pinched and drawn, and wore the look of a man who was constantly haunted by the fear that some crime, which he had committed, would be discovered. I sat down beside the bed. He took my smooth hand in his wrinkled one. “My boy,” he said in a voice which startled me by its hollowness, “I am going to make a confession; I am going to tell you something which I should have told you years ago, but I was a coward. Spurn me you may; it will be my just reward. You are not my son.” “Why have I always been taught to regard you as my father, then?” I interrupted in a surprised tone. “If you are not my father, who is? What are you to me? Who was my mother? What kind of people were my mother and father?” “Do not ask so many questions at once; give me a chance to explain,” he said quickly. “I will tell you all, the whole sad tragedy from the beginning. “When your mother was a young woman, she was the belle of the little Maine village, in which your mother, father, and I lived. She was the most popular, most charming, and prettiest girl of a group of five who were known as The Charmers’. They captivated everyone they met. In the top drawer of that bureau you will find a small wooden box. Bring it to me.”

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BULKELEY NEWS 3 man, Timothy Harding, accompanied us. “When we were deep in the woods we spied a deer. We separated and followed it. After ten minutes, Timothy Harding and I came together in a little clearing. We heard a crashing of bushes a short distance off. Soon a shape like that of a deer approached through the trees. It was your father in his deer-skin, with which he was accustomed to stalk deer. I knew that he owned this outfit, but Harding did not. I was seized by a desire to kill your father, who was the only barrier between me and your mother. I aimed at the part of the deer’s body in which I knew that your father’s head was. The shot was perfect; down he went like a falling tree. We rushed to his side, and then Harding discovered that it was your father. ‘Daniel Fremont,’ said he, ‘You did this intentionally. You took his life because you love his wife. Unless I am satisfied, you will suffer from your foolish act.’ You will have what you demand, if you will remain quiet,’ I replied. “We picked the body up, and carried it home. Your mother was startled when she saw us coming, bearing our burden between us. Her face wore a look of anxiety, which has been burning in my heart since that time. I pitied her. Her love for your father, thought I, must have been as great as my own love for her. She bore up bravely until the funeral was over. Then she became ill. The doctor said that the strain was too much for her weak heart, and that she would not be long among us. At an inquest, which had been held, I had been dismissed by the coroner, who, after examining Harding and me, had announced that the killing was accidental. About six months after your father died, your mother passed away. I was the nearest relative, and I brought you to my house to live. You were then about a year and a half old. My sister, who then had charge of the house on the farm which I owned, taught you to call me father.’ Harding, who lived near me, continually followed and blackmailed me. In order to escape his persecution I moved from Maine, after my sister died. I left no clue as to my intended destination, but I had been living here less than a year when he appeared in this vicinity, and continued to torment and persecute me. Four months ago he died. Between the time of your father’s death and Harding’s decease, he existed upon my money. During that time he used fifteen thousand dollars of my savings. I have lived as frugally and economically as possible, but all there is left is five hundred dollars, out of which the funeral expenses will have to be paid. The remainder is for you.” My foster-father ceased speaking, and lay back in bed. No sound could be heard except the ticking of the clock, and the howling of the wind as it whirled the snow through the leafless trees. The clock struck eight, then half-past. A feeble movement of the lips showed itself on the wan countenance of the dying man. I bent low to catch the sound of his feeble voice. “Forgive me, my boy, for my sin against you. Forgive me for killing your father.”