The Superior times. [volume] (Superior, Wis.) 1870-1912, 1888-06-16
TOM
DRYSON'S CRIME.
BY THE MAJOR"
CHAPTER XIV.

WHAT THE WHITING REVEALED.
These words are addressed to Mr..
Belmont. They are written in the ST.
lence of the night, when l am alone
with Him who judges us all. He
knows that 1 have no choice; that
must fly, like thief in the night, from
zhe dear woman who has been SO kind
TO me, from the noble man whose love
would honor a queen, and which L
must now reject once and forever.
The happiness that he points me to,
/ cannot take. There is a barrier in
the way that may not be crossed.
| cannot bear the misery of saying a
last farewell to these two; nor can |
bear that they should think me I'M
grateful, or even cold. Nor do | dare
TO pour out my heart upon this insen-
safe paper. | will in few words tell
1hem why | must leave them forever.
would implore them that they leave
me to go my sorrowful way In peace !;
that they will not strive to find me-
Eut.the regret is needless. They will
not wish-Randall Belmont will not
wish-to see me, to hear aught more of
me, after this writing shall be fully
read and comprehended.
Ny true name is not Jessie Bryson !;
at is Edith Wendell. Ten years ago l
lived with my parents in wealth and
luxury in city. My recollection is
very distinct about it.
The snarling, morose laborer whom
yol knew as Tom Bryson, and who has
gone to so fearful an account was the
miserable wreck of my noble father of
those old days, Newland Wendell by
name.
Misfortune overlook him in the city.
He fell from his high position in bust
ness and society, he lost his wealth,
he was once tried for crime. / never
knew correctly the true story of that
sorrowful time, but / have often heard
any father bitterly say that he was far
more sinned against than shining, and
that Mason Belmont-your own father,
Iandall-was responsible for his ruin
And / have heard him say that the
elder Belmont was the merciless cred
itor who stripped him of all his prop
erty, when little forbearance would
have brought him his due. and made a
man again of the poor, distressed
uebtor
You, Randall, may perhaps know
where the truth is in all this. l do
not pretend to. | only know that our
misfortunes killed my dear mother, and
that my father and I became much as
Dutcasts.
l have told you that I promised that
mother in her dying hour that would
always be faithful to my father, and
ever love and obey him. That is true.
And you have wondered how that
promise could constrain me to give my
hand to Edgar Van Wyck, whom | did
not love ard to reject yourself, whom
] did love yes, may as well confess
it,. at the bidding of my father.
You might well wonder. The rea-
son / gave you was not the real one.
Not but that | have been true to the
memory of that saint in Heaven, my
own dear motherl Not but that |
wished to keep the pledge 1 had will
ingly given her in her dying hour!
But she never foresaw how brutifed
her once noble husband would become
with the years. She never anticipated
that he could become so cruel as to re-
,Iuire me to wed, and not to wed, &C
Uording to his selfish will.
Mo- There was another reason for
what l so strangely promised to do
TOR what | have, with equal strange
9es, declined to do.
'fse' you remember, Randall, when
YOU met me in the old house last Octo-
Der? How you thought you had met
me somewhere before how [ coldlv
told you that you were mistaken?
In fact, L recognized you at once.
When l last saw you in the city you
were fifteen years old, and [ had not
forgotten You.
But | dared not tell you so. 1t was
not only that l knew that my father
wanted to conceal our identity; there
was another reasoni
And now, as the shadow of that
dreadful explanation obscures the char
acters ! am trying to write, / appeal to
You. Randall, to do me justice. | have
,lone no wrong. Sometimes it has
seemed to me as if woman never suf-
fered as | have; but my burdens have
been laid upon me by others; l am
lnnocenti
On that day, last October, you came
to the old house with the officers of the
Jaw, to search for clews to help you
lind your father, who had mysteriously
disappeared.
Your feet trod on the very brink of
discovery, and you never suspected it.
The robber and the murderer con-
Quoted you about the house, and Won
sIld not know it.
You walked through the sitting
room; the money for which your father
was slain was there, secreted in the
closet
You went down into the cellar Your
deet stood above his buried remains
but you knew it not.
ON the night of that dreadful storm.
Iast August, Mason Belmont came to
that house for shelter. l admitted
him, and knew him.
[ was ordered to go to my room.
There was that in my fathers demeanor
that | saw, that the visitor did not see.
1t troubled me. Never had | seen him
look so woltish.
l came back to the stairs, and listen
ed. | heard him hercely reproaching
your father for his misfortunes.
| went to bed, but could not sleep.
The atmosphere of the whole house
seemed charged with violence and
crime.
rose IN the night, and partially
dressed myself
Q, God forgive my wretched, mis-
guided father! / learned Of his awful
crime
Spare me the painful recital of all
that [ saw aud heard in those hideoas
hours
At the peril of my own life for |
knew that the murderer would have
struck me dead had he detected mel. |
saw him burying the corpse of his vic
TIM; saw him secreting the money.
And he never, to the moment of his