whisper it among themselves.

For this, told in the somewhat quaint narrative of a former generation,
was his story.

BOOK VI

A PUPPET OF THE PASSIONS

CHAPTER I

THE VANISHED DREAM

There is only one person now in this world who could have told you my
name. I have been sure that she has long believed me to be dead. That
person is Margaret Murchie, and it is only too plain that she has told
you all that she knows of me. Parts of my life she does not know. My
testimony as to these is now given against my prayers, for I have prayed
that I never would have to uncover my heart to any living man.

My first two recollections are of my birthplace and of my mother. A
lifetime has passed, yet I remember both as plainly as if they were
before me now. I was heir to a fine old colonial estate which, because
of diminishing fortunes and increasing troubles extending over two
generations, had been allowed to run down. My great-great-grandfather,
whose portrait hung in the old parlor between two mirrors that extended
solemnly from floor to ceiling, had been a sea-captain and shipowner,
and, it is said, a privateer as well. Whatever strange doings he had
seen, one thing is certain; he returned after one mysterious voyage with
great wealth, a sword-wound through his middle, ruined health, and a
desire for respectability, social position, and a reputation for piety.
It had been he who had built the immense house which, in my childhood,
was shaded by huge gnarled trees, under which crops of beautiful but
poisonous toadstools were almost eternally sprouting.

If the great house was like a tomb, my mother was like a flower in it. I
recall the sweetness of her timid personality, the half-frightened eyes
which looked at me sometimes from the peculiar solitude of her mind, and
the faint perfume of her dress when, as a child, I would rest my head in
her lap and beg her to tell me of my father's brave and good life.

If I grew up somewhat headstrong and self-confident, it was in part due
to a faith in my inheritance. The delicate and refined lips of my
mother, upon which prayers were followed by lies and lies by prayers,
taught me an almost indescribable belief in my own strength. The fruit
forbidden by moral law to the ordinary man seemed to belong of right to
me. No sensation, no indulgence, no excess seem