A CONVICT'S HONOUR.

Te Aroha News, Volume II, Issue 67, 13 September 1884, Page 5

A CONVICT'S HONOUR.

Twenty years ago Tom Kite, a wealthy sheep-farmer, died at the age of eighty, in the town of Kelso, Australia. He had been transported to the colony many years before for high treason to one of England's Georges ; and being a man of ability, steadiness, and good character, he rapidly made his way, and when he died left thirty millions of dollars behind him. He had an only child, a son, wild, reckless, dissolute, and a spendthrift, who kept horses, raced, gambled, and scattered his father's money right, left, and centre. Among Tom Kite's neighbours was one Ashworth, the blacksmith of Kelso, whose beautiful daughter, Mary, was the the acknowledged belle of the colony. Poor Mary's beauty kindled young Kite's passions, and be resolved that she should be his. Unhappily, he succeeded ; a boy was born ; but Mary's father guarded her secret so that no one in Kelso suspected its existence : and when the child was seen about the smithy and the house, his presence was explained by some deserted-orphan story concocred by old Ashworth. He was a handsome boy, and, though strikingly like his father, it never occurred to any of the neighbours to draw any inferences from that fact. And young Kite, having soon tired of Mary, never troubled himself about her or her child. Tim Flanagan, also an ex-convict, and an old servant of Tom Kite's, was the only person to whose mind the likeness between young Kite and Mary Ash worth's boy had suggested speculation : and he quietly made inquiries and investigations that resulted in his being satisfied of the truth of his surmises. Old Tom Kite's health had been perceptibly declining for some months — the boy was about eight years old at this time— when Tim, who, like most Irishmen, had lofty notions about justice, and women's honour, and reparation to the wronged, resolved to do what he could to "get the crathurs their rights." Accordingly, he entered the room where old Tom Kite now spent most of his time lying on a sofa, and began : " Mishter Tom, I have a word for ye." "What is it you want, Tim? Let me alone. I'm tired. Go fix things your own way. " "Aisy now. Ye won't be here much longer, Misther Tom, it's aisy seem' that ! —an' what are ye goin' to do wid all yer money !" Tom Kite turned and looked sharply and curiously at Tim's earnest face. " I haven't forgotten you, Tim,'' he said, coldly. " Whisht ! I tell ye. To the devil wid yev forgettin' ! Look a here, now Misther Tom, I have a saycret to tell ye. Ye know the life that vagabone iv a son i' yours be leadin'—God forgive him !— Whisky an' girls an' horse-racin' an' cock-fightin' an' gamblin' an' girls an' whiskey ! Your name is like to die out, Misther Tom — that's what it is. Take one P you?' own blood to succeed you ."' "What do you mean?" exclaimed the old man, again turning to look at Tim. "Are you mad, or drunk, or what's the matter v ith you ?" "Sorra taste passed my lips this day. Listen to me now, an I'll insince ye." And Tim told the old man all he had suspected and learned, and finally convinced hi^ hearer of the truth of his story. ftow, Ashworth, the blacksmith, had been a fellow-voyager with Tom Kite in the con-vict-ship from England, and for some years a close friendship existed between them. But Tom got rich, while Ashworfch remained comparatively poor. Tom gradually became more and more identitied with "the better," which is to say, the richer section of society in the colony ; he married a daughter of a man who was but the son of a convict, and who, therefore, and because of his wealth, stood high in social estimation ; and so, Ashworth being a proud and sensitive man, the two friends drifted apart, and at the time of which we write had hardly ever exchanged salutations for many years past. The Kites had become of the aristocracy of the place, while the Ashworths, though of excellent character and much respected, were simply decent people, and nothing more. Old Tom Kite's sense of justice, however, was strong, and combined %\ ith indignation at his son's desertion of the w oraan he had l'uined, soon resolved him. k " Go and tell them to put the horses to the carriage, Tim," he said, after a brief silence. The carriage drew up at the open doors of the forge, and the old man, weak and shaky, alighted and addressed Ashworth, who was preparing to close the smithy and go home. " John," said Tom Kite, "one of my blood has injured you." Ashworth looked up in surprise. ( "We have seen enough of you and your s, Tom Kite," he said. "You're an honest man, and I don't blame you, but let things be. I'm able to keep those that belong to me, and that's enough. Come, Tom." He had the key in the forge door, and he spoke the last words to some one within. Mary's boy came running out of the dark forge. So vivid was the resemblance of the brighteyed brown-haired child to his own son at the same age, that old Tom Kite stood in silent amazement. "John Ashworth," he said at length, " that boy is mine, not yours. Look at his ace, man." Ashworth growled something unintelligible. 11 Where's your daughter, John ? I want to see her," went on Kite. "Go and tell your aunt Mary she's wanted, Tom," said Ashworth. Mary soon came, holding the boy by the hand. Her splendid beauty had never seemed more radiant and queenlike. But when she saw the father of her betrayer, she flushed and then grew very pale. Old Tom Kite spoke to her gently. " I know all about it, my dear," he said. " Did— did he promise to marry you ?" "He did!" said Mary, lifting her head quickly, and looking the old man fearlessly in the face with her dark grey eyes. " I believe you," said he, simply, and offered her his hand. "Come over to my house this night week at 8 o'clock, and bring the boy with you. I will have some news for you. You will come ?" Mary promised, and the old man got into his carriage and drove away. Young Kite was at this time living a rather dissipated life in the city of Sydney, on a very liberal allowance made to him by his father. He was not at all pleased to receive a letter from the old man summoning him to Kelso, " because I feel, and am assured, that I will not live many more weeks—perhaps not many days." He could not neglect the summons, however, and about 10 o'clock on the night appointed for the visit of Mary and the boy he arrived at his father's house. The old man was in bed, very weak and ill, but suffering little pain. He had just concluded an interview with Mary, in which she had told him her story, briery and clearly ; and when she concluded He had said: " You have been wronged. A Kite always makes reparation to those he has injured. Go into that dressing-room with the boy, and stay there until the door is opened." He then rang his bell, and his lawyer, a Mr Foster, followed by Tim Flanagan and two other geryaiiijs, entered

the room. The lawyer spread out a parchment on the table beside the bed, servants were called round as witnesses, and Tom Kite executed his will, of which Lawyer Foster took possession. Just then young Kite made his appearance, and Tim and the servants withdrew. " Sit down, Tom," said his father. "Do you know a girl named Mary Ash worth ?" Young Tom started, and glanced at the lawyer. Could it be possible, he thought, that this old folly was to come against him ? His father, he knew, had made his will years before— what did he_ want with the lawyer now that he was dying ? "I do," he replied, in a low tone. " Was there ever anything between you and that girl more than mere acquaintance ' or friendship ?" " There was not, sir," said young Tom, in the same tone. The old man raised himself on one elbow, and leaned forward. " Did you ever promise Mary Ash worth that you would marry her ?" "Marry ? Marry her ? Marry the daughter of a " "Of an honest man ! No, you are right -she would be far too good for you. Tom Kite, you are a blackguard and a liar, and you are the first of the name to be so. Go and open that door." Confused and bewildered, young Kito opened the door of the dressing room, and Mary and the boy entered the bed-chamber. "Mary," said old Tom Kite, "I have to ask your forgiveness for the wrong /ou have suffered 'at the hands of my son— of him who was my son. Come here, little Tom," and the old man drew the child to him, and kissed him. " This is my son now, and to you, Mary, in trust for him, I have left everything X possess. Lawyer Foster, there, has the will. As for you, Mr Kite, turning to his son, " you can keep the horses and carriages and other goods you havo bought with my money. You can sell them, and the money may keep you out of the workhouse for a time, but in the workhouse you will_ end as sure rs I am dying now — unless, indeed, you can persuade Mary Ashworth to marry you after all. / wouldn't if I were she. Mary, kiss me. Where's the child ! Lift him "up to me. Mary raised little Tom up to the old man's arms, who clasped them round the child, while two big tears ran down his rugged face. His clasp relaxed, and with a sigh he fell back dead. Tom Kite died of delirium trcmens four years later. Mary was at his bedside, but she had steadily refused all his offers of mariiage, and if alive, she is Mary Ashworth still.— " Texas Sif tings."