[Frontispiece: "They sprang after me, but started back with a quick
exclamation, for they looked into the black muzzle of my father's
revolver." (Chapter XXXVII.)]
FALSE
EVIDENCE
BY
E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM
_Author of
"Anne, the Adventuress," "The Traitors," "Conspirators," etc._
WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED,
LONDON, MELBOURNE AND TORONTO.
1911.
_This Book, written by the Author some years ago,
is now issued in Library form for the first time._
CONTENTS
CHAP.
PROLOGUE
I. MY APOLOGY
II. THE FIRST CLOUD
III. "THE BOY MUST BE TOLD"
IV. "A MYSTERIOUS MEETING"
V. "ON BOSSINGTON HEADLAND"
VI. AN INTERRUPTED ADDRESS
VII. "I AM TOLD"
VIII. "MY VOW"
IX. AN UNEXPECTED VISIT
X. THE FIRST MOVE
XI. COLONEL DEVEREUX'S LAND AGENT
XII. AT DEVEREUX COURT
XIII. COLONEL SIR FRANCIS DEVEREUX, BART.
XIV. THE BEGINNING OF DANGER
XV. A FIGHT FOR LIFE
XVI. MY CONVALESCENCE
XVII. A MOONLIGHT RIDE
XVIII. A STRANGE INTERVIEW
XIX. MARIAN SURPRISES ME
XX. AMONGST THE BULRUSHES
XXI. RUPERT DEVEREUX
XXII. FACE TO FACE
XXIII. IN THE PICTURE GALLERY
XXIV. A MIDNIGHT VISITOR
XXV. "COUSINS!"
XXVI. I "GIVE WARNING"
XXVII. SIR FRANCIS DEVEREUX'S APPEAL
XXVIII. GOOD-BYE TO DEVEREUX COURT
XXIX. I AM TEMPTED
XXX. LIAR AND COWARD
XXXI. MY FATHER AND I
XXXII. THE BRIGANDS' HOME
XXXIII. AT PALERMO
XXXIV. VISITORS FROM ROME
XXXV. WE ENTERTAIN AT THE VILLA
XXXVI. MR. BURTON LEIGH
XXXVII. CUT DOWN
XXXVIII. AN OMINOUS NOTE
XXXIX. "MY FATHER'S RESOLUTION"
XL. A HORRIBLE MISTAKE
XLI. "TWO YEARS AFTER"
XLII. A TRAITOROUS LOVE
XLIII. EXPIATION
XLIV. "HERO"
FALSE EVIDENCE
PROLOGUE
The last sally had been made and repulsed, the last shot fired; the
fight was over, and victory remained with the white men. And yet,
after all, was it a victory or a massacre? If you were a stay-at-home,
and read the report from the telegrams in your club, or in the
triumphant columns of the daily papers, especially those on the side of
the Ministry, you would certainly have pronounced it the former. But
if you had been there on the spot, and had seen the half-naked,
ill-armed natives, with the fire of patriotism blazing in their eyes
and leaping in their hearts--had seen them being shot down in rows by
the merciless guns of the English batteries--another view of the matter
might have presented itself to you. It might have occurred to you that
these men were fighting on their own soil for their freedom and their
country, and that the spirit which was blinding their eyes to the
hopelessness of resistance, and urging them on to resist the stranger's
progress with such passionate ineffectiveness, was after all, a natural
and a poetic one. But, after all, this has nothing to do with my story.
The battle was over, and it was morning. Far away in the east a dull
red light had arisen from over the tops of the towering black
mountains, and an angry sun was sullenly shining on the scene of
carnage. It was a low hillside, once pleasant enough to look upon, but
at that moment probably the most hideous sight which the whole universe
could have shown. The silvery streams, which had trickled lazily down
to the valley below, now ran thick and red with blood. The luxuriant
shrubs and high waving ferns were trampled down and disfigured, and,
most horrible sight of all, everywhere were strewn the copper-coloured
forms of the beaten natives. There they lay apart and in heaps in all
imaginable postures, and with all imaginable expressions on their hard,
battered faces. Some lay on their sides with their fingers locked
around their spears, and the rigid frown and convulsed passion of an
undying hatred branded on their numbed features. Others less brave had
been shot in the back whilst flying from the death-dealing fire of the
European guns, and lay stretched about in attitudes which in life would
have been comical, but in death were grotesquely hideous; and over the
sloping fields the misty clouds of smoke still lingered and curled
upwards from the battered extinct shells which lay thick on the ground.
High above the scene of devastation, on a rocky tableau at the summit
of the range of hills, were pitched the tents of the victors. A little
apart from these, conspicuous by the flag which floated above it, were
the general's quarters; and underneath that sloping roof of canvas a
strange scene was being enacted.
Seated amongst a little group of the superior officers, with a heavy
frown on his stern face, sat the general. Before him, at a little
distance, with a soldier on either side, stood a tall, slight young
man, in the uniform of an officer, but swordless. His smooth face, as
yet beardless, was dyed with a deep flush, which might well be there,
whether it proceeded from shame or indignation. For he was under
arrest, and charged with a crime which, in a soldier, is heinous
indeed--it was cowardice.
It was a court-martial before which he stood arraigned, although a
hastily improvised one. But soldiers have prompt ideas of justice, and
General Luxton was a martinet in all matters of discipline.
Disciplinarian though he was, however, he liked little the task which
was now before him.
He looked up from the papers, which were stretched out on the rickety
little round table, with a sudden movement, and bent his frowning gaze
upon the accused. The young man returned his gaze steadily, but the
colour in his cheeks grew deeper.
"Herbert Devereux, you stand accused of a crime which, in your
profession, nothing can palliate or excuse. Have you anything to say
for yourself?"
"There will be no need for me to say anything, sir," was the prompt
reply. "It is true that I turned my back upon the enemy, but it was to
face a greater danger. The man whose life I saved can disprove this
cruel charge against me in a moment. I admit that, from your point of
view, appearances are suspicious, but you have only to learn from my
half-brother, Rupert Devereux, why I quitted my post, and what I
effected by so doing, to absolve me at least from all suspicion of
cowardice, however much I may be to blame as a matter of discipline."
General Luxton appeared surprised, a little relieved.
"I hope so," he said, not unkindly. "Roberts, send an orderly to
Lieutenant Devereux's tent, and command his presence at once."
The man withdrew, and there was a few minutes' delay. Then the
entrance to the tent was lifted up, and a tall, dark young man, with
thin but decided features, and flashing black eyes, stepped forward.
He was handsome, after a certain type, but his expression was too
lifeless and supercilious to be prepossessing.
General Luxton looked up and nodded.
"Lieutenant Devereux, your half-brother, who stands accused of
cowardice in the face of the enemy, appeals to you to give evidence on
his behalf. Let us hear what you saw of him during the recent
fighting."
Eagerly, and with a confident light in his fair young face, the
prisoner turned towards the man to whom these words were addressed.
But slowly and deliberately the latter turned his back upon his
half-brother without noticing his glance of appeal, and with a scornful
light in his eyes. There was a slight murmur, and an interchange of
looks amongst the few who were present at this significant action.
"I do not know, General Luxton," he said, slowly, "what the prisoner
can expect me to say likely to benefit him. He can scarcely be so mad
as to expect me to shield him in this matter on account of our
relationship, or to preserve the honour of our name, and yet I do not
see why else he should have appealed to me. I saw very little of the
affair, and would rather not have seen that. I was riding to you, sir,
with a message from Colonel Elliott; and, as I passed trench 4, I saw
the prisoner suddenly leave his company and run towards me. He passed
several yards to the left, and as he seemed to be hurrying along
aimlessly, I called to him. He made no answer, but----"
"LIAR!"
The word seemed hurled out with such a passionate intensity that every
one started. General Luxton looked up angrily.
"Silence, sir! You will have an opportunity of saying what you have to
say presently. Proceed, Devereux."
"As I was saying," Rupert Devereux continued calmly, without appearing
to have noticed the interruption, "he made no answer, but seemed to
wish to avoid me. As the message with which I was entrusted was an
important one, I rode on and left him hurrying towards the rear."
With a sterner air even than he had at first assumed, General Luxton
turned towards the unfortunate young man who stood before him. He was
standing as though turned to stone, with wide-open eyes, staring at the
man who had just spoken, attitude and expression alike bespeaking an
overpowering bewilderment.
"You are at liberty to ask the witness any questions," the General
said, shortly.
For a moment there was a dead silence. Then the words came pouring out
from his quivering lips like a mountain torrent.
"Rupert, what have you said? What does this mean? Good God, are you
trying to ruin me? Did I not run to your assistance because you were
beset by those three blackguards? Didn't I kill two of them and save
your life? You can't have forgotten it! Why are you lying? Hilton
saw it all, and so did Fenwick. Where are they? My God, this is
horrible!"
The deep flush had gone from his cheeks, and left him pale as death.
Great beads of perspiration stood out upon his forehead, and there was
a wild look in his deep blue eyes. But the man to whom he made his
passionate appeal kept his back turned and heeded not a word of it.
Instead of answering he addressed the General.
"General Luxton," Rupert said, calmly, "the accused, in denying the
truth of my statement, mentions the names of two men whom he admits
were witnesses of this lamentable occurrence. Might I suggest that
they be called to give their version?"
The General nodded assent, and the thing was done. But Hilton was the
only one who answered the summons, and on reference to a list of the
killed and wounded it was found that Fenwick was reported missing.
"John Hilton, the accused has appealed to you to give evidence on his
behalf. Let us hear what you saw of him during the recent fighting."
The man, an ordinary-looking private, stepped forward and saluted.
"I only saw him for a moment, sir," he said, slowly, and with a marked
reluctance. "I was riding behind Lieutenant Devereux when I saw him
leave his company and pass us a few yards to the left. It struck me
that he looked very pale, and I thought that perhaps he was wounded."
"He did not leave his company to come to your master's assistance,
then?"
"Certainly not, sir. We were not in any need of it. None of the enemy
were near us."
"Thank you. You can go, Hilton."
The man saluted and went.
There was a dead silence for a full minute. Then there came a
passionate, hysterical cry from the prisoner--
"_Liar! Liar!_ General Luxton, upon my honour, either my brother and
this man are under some hallucination or they have entered into a
conspiracy against me. Before God Almighty I swear that I only left my
post because several of the enemy had crept down from the hill behind
and had attacked my brother and his servant. I killed one of them, and
the blood of the other is still on my sword. Why, Rupert, you know
that you called out, 'Thanks, Herbert, you have saved my life.' Those
were your very words!"
The man appealed to shook his head slowly and as though with great
reluctance. The sigh seemed to madden the prisoner, and he made a
sudden movement forward as though to spring at him.
"Oh, this is horrible!" he cried. "Where is Fenwick? He saw it all.
Let him be called."
General Luxton glanced again at the list before him and looked up.
"You are unfortunate in your selections," he said, dryly. "The
evidence of Hilton and your brother, to whom you appealed, only
strengthens the case against you. Fenwick is missing. Herbert
Devereux," he went on sternly, "the charge against you has been proved.
I, myself, at a most critical moment, saw you desert your post when it
was the centre of attack, and it fell to another's lot to lead your men
on to the pursuit. The reasons which you have brought forward to
account for your unwarrantable action have been clearly disposed of.
You are most certainly guilty of a crime for which, amongst soldiers,
there is no pardon. But you are young, and I cannot forget that you
are the son of one of the most distinguished officers with whom it has
been my good fortune to be associated. For his sake I am willing to
make some allowance for you--on one condition you may retain your
commission, and, I trust, retrieve this well-nigh fatal mistake in the
future. To the crime of cowardice you have added the crime of lying;
for that your account of the attack upon your half-brother and your
rescue is a pure fabrication I cannot doubt. The peculiar curve in the
defile behind trench 4 unfortunately hid you from the field of battle
and prevents further evidence as to the occurrence which, you say, took
place. But that your story is false no one can possibly doubt. The
place has been carefully examined, and there are no dead bodies within
a hundred yards. It seems, from your appeal to your half-brother, that
you expected him to shield you at the expense of his honour. This lie
and false statement of yours you must retract if you hope for any mercy
from me."
There was a convulsive agony in the boy's white, strained face as he
drew himself up, and looked half piteously, half indignantly at his
judge. But when he tried to speak he could not, and there was a minute
or two's dead silence whilst he was struggling to obtain the mastery
over himself. All expected a confession, and General Luxton removed
his eyes from the prisoner, and bent close over his papers, that none
might read the compassion which was in his heart, and which was
reflected in his face.
The words came at last; and shrill and incoherent though they were,
there was a ring of genuine dignity in them.
"General Luxton, I have been guilty neither of cowardice nor falsehood.
I swear before God, on the sword which my father himself put into my
hands before I left England; by everything that is most holy to me I
swear that my account of this awful occurrence is true. Ask the men of
whom I was in command when I caught sight of--of him"--and he pointed
with a trembling finger and a gesture than which nothing could have
been more dramatic to his half-brother--"ask them whether I bore myself
like a coward when those spears were whistling around us, or when we
were fighting hand-to-hand after the first repulse. God knows that I
did not. I left my post to encounter a greater danger still. Bitterly
do I regret that I ever did so; but it is the only indiscretion of
which I am guilty. I swear it."
General Luxton raised his head, and what there had been of compassion
in his face was either gone or effectually concealed.
"You have sworn enough already," he said, sternly. "Herbert Devereux,
I am bitterly disappointed in you. I was willing to spare your father
the disgrace which I fear will kill him; but you cut away the ground
from under my feet. You are most certainly proved guilty of gross
cowardice in the face of the enemy found guilty, not upon the evidence
of one man, but of two, and one of those your own relative.
Circumstances, too, are strong against you, so are the probabilities.
Most undeniably and conclusively you are found guilty; guilty of
cowardice, guilty of falsehood. You will remain under arrest until I
can find an opportunity of sending an escort with you to the Hekla.
Your commission is forfeited to the Queen, whose uniform you have
disgraced."
Never a sign of guilt in the prisoner's countenance. Proudly and
indignantly he looked his General straight in the face, his cheeks red
with a flush, which was not of shame, and the wild fury in his heart
blazing out of his eyes.
"It is not I who have disgraced the Queen's colours; but he--he who has
fabricated and sworn to a false string of lies. Rupert, in your heart
alone is the knowledge of why you have done this thing. But some day
you shall tell me--or die."
There was something intensely dramatic in the passionate bitterness
which vibrated in the shrill boyish tone, and, as though moved by a
common impulse, every one in the tent followed that threatening
gesture. But the face of Rupert Devereux was little like the face of a
guilty man. He looked somewhat agitated, and a good deal pained; but
although he was the cynosure of all eyes, he turned never a shade the
paler, nor flinched once from the passionate fire which was leaping
from the eyes of the young prisoner. He seemed as though about to make
some reply; but the General raised his hand.
"Remove the prisoner."
There was a sudden commotion, for, with a deep, despairing groan, and
arms for a moment lifted high above his head, he had staggered
backwards and sunk heavily to the ground in a dead swoon. What wonder!
He was but a boy after all.
* * * * *
"Herbert! Why, Herbert! Good God! where did you spring from? Are you
invalided?"
The moonlight was streaming in through the high oriel windows of the
long picture-gallery, glittering upon the armour and crossed weapons
which hung upon the walls, and casting fantastic rays down the polished
oak floor. Colonel Sir Francis Devereux dropped the cigar which he had
been peacefully smoking, and brought to a sudden halt his leisurely
perambulation of this his favourite resort. Before him, with drooping
head, with sunken cheeks, and with deep black rims under his eyes,
stood his son Herbert, who, only a few months ago, had departed on his
first campaign, a happy, careless young sub. Was it, indeed, his son,
or was it a ghost that had stolen upon him out of the gloomy shadows of
the vast gallery?
"Invalided! Would to God that I was dead!" broke from the boy's
quivering lips. "Father, I have brought disgrace upon you--disgrace
upon our name." And he stretched out his hands towards the long line
of pictured warriors, who seemed to be frowning down upon him from the
wall. "Disgrace that you will never forgive, never pardon."
Like a statue of stone the proud old soldier stood while he listened to
his son's story. Then, with a half-smothered groan, he deliberately
turned his back upon him.
"Father," he pleaded, "listen to me. Before heaven I swear that I am
innocent. Rupert lied. Why, I don't know, but he lied. I never felt
fear."
His father turned half round.
"You have been put on your defence. General Luxton would never have
found your father's son guilty of cowardice had there been room for
doubt. The charge was proved against you in court-martial."
"But, father, it was because they believed Rupert and his man. The
only two other men who saw the struggle are dead."
Colonel Devereux turned away and buried his face in his hands.
"A Devereux guilty of cowardice!" he groaned. "My God! that it should
have been my son!"
Then with a sudden movement he turned round. His son had sunk upon his
knees before him, and the moon was throwing a ghastly light upon his
haggard, supplicating face.
"Out of my sight, and out of my heart for ever, Herbert Devereux!"
cried his father, his tones vibrating with a passionate contempt. "You
have brought disgrace upon a stainless name. Curse you for it, though
you be a thousand times my son. You shall not sleep under this roof
again. Begone! Change your name, I command you! Forget that you are
a Devereux, as I most surely shall. Turn linen-draper, or
man-milliner, or lawyer, what you will so that I never see or hear from
you again. Begone, and curse you."
Scathing and vibrating with scorn though the words were, they seemed to
touch a chord in the boy's heart, not of humiliation, but of righteous
anger. He sprang to his feet, and held himself for a moment as proudly
as any of his armoured ancestors who looked down from the walls upon
father and son.
"I will go, then," he cried, firmly. "It is right that I should go.
But, after all, it is false to say that I have disgraced your name. It
is Rupert who has done this."
He turned and walked steadily away, without a backward glance. Out of
the swing doors on to the broad staircase, he passed along noble
corridors, between rows of marble statues, down into the mighty
dome-like hall, and out of the house which he had loved so well. And
the servants, who would have pressed forward to welcome him, hung back
in fear, for there was that in his face which they shrunk from looking
upon. Out into the soft summer night he stepped, heedless of their
wondering glances, and down the broad avenue he hurried, never pausing
once to breathe in the balmy night wind, heavy with the odour of
sweet-smelling flowers, or to listen to the nightingale singing in the
low copse which bordered the gardens. Through a low iron gate he
stepped into the park, and walked swiftly along, never glancing to the
right or to the left at the strange shadows cast by the mighty
oak-trees on the velvety turf, or at the startled deer, who sprung up
on every side of him and bounded gracefully away, or at the rabbits who
were scampering about all around in desperate alarm; once he had loved
to watch and to listen to all these things; but now he felt only a
burning desire to escape from them, and to find himself outside the
confines of the home which he was leaving for ever. And not until he
had reached the last paling, and had vaulted into the broad, white
road, did his strength desert him. Then, faint and weary, and
heartsick, he sank down in a heap on the roadside, and prayed that he
might die.
* * * * *
A cloudless summer morning, with the freshness of dawn still lingering
in the air. A morning which seemed about to herald in one of Nature's
perfect days, on which to be sad were a crime, and to have troubles
absurd. Already the dreamy humming of bees was floating in the
atmosphere, and the lark had given place to noisier, if less musical,
songsters. It was a glorious morning.
Over the low, iron gate of an old-fashioned garden a girl was leaning,
her head resting lightly upon her hand, gazing across the pleasant
meadows to the dark woods beyond, with a soft, far-away look in her
grey eyes--for she was thinking of her lover. She was dressed in a
blue print gown, which hung in simple folds around her straight, slim
figure, and she had carelessly passed the long stalk of a full-blown
red rose within her waistband. It was a very pleasant view that she
was admiring; but any casual spectator would have declared that she was
the most charming object in it.
And there was a spectator, although not a casual one. Suddenly, like a
ghost, the figure of her dreams stood before her. Pale, haggard, and
dishevelled-looking, he seemed to have risen out of the very ground;
and it was very little to be wondered at that, at first, she shrunk
back alarmed.
"Herbert! Herbert! can it really be you?"
He never answered her; but, as the first surprise began to fade away,
she moved forward, and would have thrown herself into his arms. But he
stopped her.
"Keep back, Marian," he cried, hoarsely; "keep away from me! I have
come to bid you good-bye."
A swift, sudden fear drove the colour from her cheeks, and chilled her
through and through; but she faltered out an answer.
"Good-bye, Herbert! What do you mean? Oh, tell me what has happened,
quick!"
"The one thing worse than death, Marian--disgrace!"
And then, with his face turned away, and his eyes resting wearily on
the picturesque landscape, he told her his story.
* * * * *
The last word had left his quivering lips, and he stood as though in a
dream. The worst was over. He had told his father, and he had told
her. It seemed like the end of all things to him.
Suddenly a pair of white arms were thrown around his neck, and a great
red rose was crushed to pieces against his waistcoat.
"Herbert! oh, Herbert! how dreadful! Don't look like that, you
frighten me!"
He was striving to free himself, but she would not let him go.
"Dearest, you don't understand! This is ruin to me. My father has
turned me from the house, commanded me to bear another name, disowned
me. Be brave, Marian, for we must part. I am here only to tell you
this, and to bid you farewell."
Still she would not let him go.
"You will do nothing of the sort, sir. I'll not be thrown over in that
fashion," she said, struggling to smile through her tears. "And,
Herbert, oh, Herbert! how ill you look! You've been out all night."
He did not deny it, but again he strove to disengage himself. But she
would have none of it.
"Bertie, dearest," she spoke cheerfully, though her eyes were still
swimming with tears, "you mustn't think that you're going to get rid of
us in this way. You've just got to come in to breakfast with me, and
afterwards we'll tell Grannie all about it. Come along, sir, I insist."
He braced himself up for resistance, but he had still to learn that
against a woman's love a man's will can prevail nothing. At first he
was firm, then wavering, and finally he was led in triumph across the
smooth lawn and along the winding path to the French windows of the
morning-room. But when he found himself face to face with the kind old
lady who had loved him as her own son, and saw the tears trickle down
her withered, apple-red cheeks as she listened to the tale which Marian
poured out, he felt that he had passed the limits of self-endurance.
For more than twenty-four hours he had neither eaten nor drunk, and he
was sick at heart. Gradually Marian felt the arm, which she had drawn
tightly through hers, grow heavier and heavier until at last as she
finished her tale with a little tremulous burst of indignation, he sank
back in the arm-chair, and slowly fainted. But through the mist which
closed in upon him he saw nothing but kindly pitying faces bending over
his, and heard Grannie's gentle whisper--
"I believe you, Herbert," and more emphatic but none the less earnest
were her words, whose sweet, tear-stained face, so close to his, was
the last he saw when unconsciousness was closing in upon him.
"So do I, Bertie, I hate Rupert," and sweeter than the most
heart-stirring music were the faltering words she added--
"And I love you better than ever. Oh, Grannie, Grannie, he has
fainted!"
CHAPTER I
MY APOLOGY
Fortune is the strangest mistress a man ever wooed. Who courts her she
shuns, who deserves her she passes over, and on him who defies her and
takes no pains to secure her she lavishes her favours. I am one of
those to whom she has shown herself most kind. Many years ago I vowed
my life away to one purpose, and that partly an immoral one. It was a
purpose which held my life. I swore to seek no end apart from it, and
I put away from my thoughts all joys that were not included in its
accomplishment. And yet, having kept my oath, I still possess in the
prime of life everything which a man could wish for. I am rich, and
well thought of amongst my fellows. I am married to the woman whom I
love, and life is flowing on with me as calmly and peacefully as the
murmuring waters of a woodland stream in the middle of summer. And,
above all, my heart is at ease, for I have kept my vow.
She is a strange mistress, indeed! Nothing have I sought or deserved
of her, yet everything I have. Whilst he who was far above me in his
deservings, and whose sufferings none save myself thoroughly
understood, passed through a gloomy life, buffeted by every wind,
stranded by every tide of fortune; misunderstood, wronged, falsely
accused, and narrowly escaped remaining in men's minds only as a
prototype of a passionate, unforgiving, Quixotic man.
That the world may know him as he was, and form a better judgment as to
his character, I have gathered together the threads of my life
indissolubly connected with his, and have turned them inside out. I
have never indulged myself with the feminine luxury of a diary, but
with a surer progress than of pen over paper has the record of my
strange life been written into my mind; and so I tell it just as it all
comes back to me, not as a professed story-teller, with harmonious
dates and regular evolution of plot, and neatly paged chapters, but in
a bolder way, leaving much to be guessed at, and some things untold.
If there be any of whom I have occasion to speak still amongst the
living (my life has so contracted of late that many have passed out of
its horizon), let them remember for what purpose I write, and for his
sake forbear to complain. If the sword were the pen, then would mine
be the pen of a ready writer, and I might be able to touch lightly on
their shortcomings, and gild over the black spots on my own life. But
enough of excuses. I take up my pen a blunt Englishman, an athlete
rather than a scholar, to write a plain story which shall serve not as
a eulogy, but as a justification of the man to whom many years of my
life have been ungrudgingly given. Let all those who may feel disposed
to cavil at the disconnectedness of my loosely jointed story, remember
this, and be silent.