rston had killed the
Creole woman whom he had brought up from New Orleans. No attempts had
been made to bring him to justice for the crime. Partly because
everything was so unhinged on account of the war and its effects, partly
because no officer was brave enough to try to arrest him. From that time
on he lived alone in the old home down yonder, leaving the rearing of
his son to an old negro woman who was reputed to be coarse and profane.
Harrowing stories came to us of the fiendish cruelties Brule Marston
practiced upon his servants, and he thought nothing of knocking one down
and stamping him with his feet.

"How swiftly the years have chased each other since I came back home
with you and your mother! And how I have wished them back again--those
short, sweet years which followed your coming, when Margaret, you and I
lived in perfect unity, and peace, and love. But change is the order of
the universe, and we must take it when it comes, bravely, if so be God
gives us grace, and fit ourselves to meet the new needs.

"Brule Marston died upon a night of awful storm. It seemed as if the
cohorts of Satan had assembled to escort his foul soul to the realms of
the lost. I will tell you now what I learned later, and I pray you to be
brave, my child, and do not fear. The only training which Brule Marston
instilled into his son was hatred of us. He never sought to teach him
any good thing, or any worthy precept. His eternal and ceaseless
injunction was hate, hate, hate. He never forgot the fact that I had
robbed him of the pure being he had set his black heart on possessing,
and revenge was the only feeling he harbored. Had he lived long enough I
believe that in the end he would have wrought us some great harm, for I
am assured that was his sole aim and desire. But death found him in the
midst of his machinations, and stilled his hand. Devil Marston was an
apt pupil, and he readily imbibed his father's teachings. By birth he
was well fitted for any scurrilous task or duty, and he has always found
joy in causing pain. On that night of storm when old Brule died he
called his son to his bedside, and laid upon him his dying wish. It was
that Devil Marston should make it his life's work to harass and oppress
us, and at last to ruin us utterly, using his entire fortune for that
purpose should it become necessary. It is needless for me to tell you
the son was not slow to make the promise. It was a task entirely
congenial to his nature.