The Indiana State sentinel. [volume] (Indianapolis) 1868-1895, 1889-03-27


doubt you will answer for him. as he has
not got a word to say for himself? He,
too, came with an honorable purpose, l
suppose! Oh yes, of course; we are all
honorable menp
For an instant the archdeacon quailed.
He saw the pitfall dug before him. He
knew all that his answer would imply of
disappointed hopes and a vain ambition
He recognized all that could be made of it
by his listeners, friend or foe. and he
blanched. But the cynical eve and sneer-
ing lip of the wretch confronting him re-
called him to himself Nay, he seemed to
rise above himself, as he replied more
loudly and with naughty, inflated nostrils,
"Yes, yes, sir; / will answer for my son,
too, as for myself! ] will answer for him
that he came here in all honor"
The man sneered still, but he knew bet
ter things il he did not ensue them, and
he stood aside with secret respect and let
the two 60 unmolested.
"Sir," said Jack, when they had walked
half way down the street in silence, which
his father showed no sign of breaking,
''you are thinking more i'll Of me than l
deserve"
'You gave a false name" the archdea-
con snarled
Not in a sense-not willfully, mean.
wrote little play some time ago, and, as
is usual for professional men, / submitted
it under a nom de plume. | was known
as Charles Williams at the theater, and /
had no more idea of doing wrong when |
was introduced in that name to Grissel
than / have now."
~ hope not," said the archdeacon, grim
ly. He was not man to go back from an
engagement. 81 trust not" he added
with lofty bitterness. "You may break
your word to the girl if you please, but |
will not break mine to the mother. So
help me heavenw
Sir" said Jack, his utterance a little
husky, ''she is good girl, and some day
she will honor you as l do"
They parted without more words; the
archdeacon, hardly master of his thoughts
as yet, walked on quickly until he reached
the corner OF 0xiord-st. but there he
paused, and seeing girls pass, young, grace
tul, soft-eyed leaning back in carriages
with parcels around them, and thinking
that Jack might have chosen out of all
these, while he had chosen in Sidmouth-
st.-Sidmouth-st., Gray's Inn road-he,
the archdeacon, could not stife q groan.
He plunged recklessly across and found
himself presently in st. James square, and
round and round this he sauntered, nght-
| ing the battle with himself His poor
wife, that was the burden of his cry. His
| poor wife, and the shock il would be to
her, and the downfall of hopesi He
knew that she as a woman must recoil
| from such daughter-in-law far more than
he did, who had known GrissePs mother,
and knew too that actresses may be good
and true women. 1t would be dreadful
for her, the archdeacon knew it: but he
valued one thing above even the peace of
his home, and that was his honor. 1t was
not in sarcasm we called him a good man.
To break his word to the dead woman who
had trusted him; to leave this girl, whom
it behooved him to protect, in the hands
OF the wretched father, and so to leave her
with her faith in goodness shattered-this
Archdeacon Yale could not do.
But he was tempted that night to think
hard things of Jack, to think that Jack,
who had never given him the heartache
before, had yet better not have been born
than bring this trouble on them. 1t went
no further than temptation, and he was
marvelously thankful next morning that
he had not framed the thought in words;
for, as ne entered the breakfast room,
looking year older than he had seemed
chipping hisegg yesterday, the hall porter
put telegram into his hands. "Come at
once-Jack," were the words that first
made themselves ineligible to him; and
then, but few seconds later, the address,
''St. Thomas Hospital"
How swiftly does a great misfortune, a
great loss, great pain, expel less! L
have known a man lose his wife and 60
heavily for a month, and then losing
a thousand pounds become as OBJ
livious of her as if she had never
been born. But the archdeacon was
not such a man, and rattling toward
Westminster in a cab felt not only that q
thousand pounds would be a small price
to pay for his sons safety, but that, if
Providence should take him at his thought,
he might have worse news for his wife
than those tidings which had almost aged
him in night.
His son, however, met him at the great
gates, whole and sound, but with a grave
face. "You are too late, sir" he said
quietly, yet flushing little at the grasp OF
his fathers hand, and more when the
archdeacon told him to pay the cabman a
double fare. ~ have brought you here
for nothing. He died quarter of an hour
ago, sinking very rapidly after sent to
you"
"Who Who died?" asked the arch
deacon, pressing one hand very heavily
on the others shoulder. as they walked
slowly back toward the bridge.
"Mr. Kent"
The elder man said nothing for awhile
aloud at, least But presently he asked
Jack to tell him about it.
There is little to tell. After we left
him he went out Going home again late
at night, and not, fear, very steady, he
was run down by road-car. When they
brought him to the hospital he was hope
lessly injured, but quite sensible. They
fetched his daughter, and then he asked
for meas your son. He did not know
my address, but the assistant surgeon
happened to be friend of mine, and did,
and he sent a cab for me-"
And really that seemed all. at is very,
very sudden; but-heaven forgive me II
cannot regret his death" said the clergy
man. cit is impossible"
They had reached the corner OF the
bridge. "There is something else l should
tell you," Jack said nervously. "When he
had sent for me he had lawyer brought
and made his will"
.'His will" repeated the archdeacon,
somewhat startled. Had he anything to
leave?" He asked the question rather in
pity for so wretched creature as the man
had seemed to him than out of curiosity.
"If we may believe him." said Jack
slowly, "and 1 think he was telling the
truth, he was worth thirty thousand
pounds"
'Tmpossiblel" !" cried the archdeacon.
"I do not know replied Jack But