The record-union., 1891-06-20
Good by, Ned" he said at length,

heard him walk down the corridor to his
room, which was only four or five from
me. i heard his door shut and all was
quiet. l looked out into the courtyard
through my window. 1t was q dull,
murky evening. The signs of the life
and movement of the barracks some dis
tance beyond reached me family, making
the surrounding stiffness more marked.
The old penSioner was moving his ladder
to begin lighting the second side of the
court. | felt | must prepare. Never in
my life was | calmer. l went to my pis-
tol case and loaded my pistols with scru-
pulous care. That finished l took pen
and paper and sat down to write to my
father.
How often in after years, when the tor
turing remembrance of that horrible
evening comes before me, have | shud-
dered to think of the black wickedneSS
of my heart at the time! No thought of
my kind mother seemed to come over
me. only seemed to teel sort of selfish
satisfaction in Furnishing my father for
his refusal to assist me, and kind of re-
lief at the near prospect of release from
my disgrace.
'My dear father" 1 wrote, ''by the
| time you get this you will have heard
| that | am dead. l gave checks on the
agents thinking you would be sure to
help me, as / was in trouble and, as /
had told you, | wanted the money ur-
| gently. AS / find from your letter that
| you have not placed any money to nv
credit, these checks will be dishonored.
"Of course you know this means the
loss of my commission, my honor, and
all that makes life worth having
81 do not blame you, as / suppose you
! are saying what is true when you tell me
| you cannot afford to help me. I see no
way out of my trouble but this. 1 can
not face the shame before me. Give my
| love to my dear mother and Eeffi.
Ever your affectionate son,
EDWARD ENGLETHoRPE."
laid down the pen and looked out of
| the window. Old Williams had just fin
ished lighting the last lamp in the court
and was advancing with his ladder to the
lamp post in the center. My heart gave
one throb. I took up my pistol and
waited. He began with the right hand
! lamp!
There was a sort of buzzing in my ears
as I idly watched. My hour was then
| postponed brief space. / saw him ar
| range the wick, and then, with his taper,
| light the lamp. Hardly had the flame
| shone forth when | heard sound like the
| slamming of a distant door. The singing
| in my ears grew louder. Old Williams
| descended his ladder, placed it againstthe
opposite rest and assembled to light the
second lamp, that on the left. placed
! the muzzle of my pistol between my
teeth. What was the old man fumbling
about? Would it never light? I was
| quite calm and motionleSs. | recoilect
that I could think quite distinctly de-
! termined | would not touch the trigger
| till the lamp was alight, and | sat grimly
watching.
But it never did light. After handling
| it for some time the old man lifted the
| lamp cut of its socket 1t was evidently
out of repair. He took it down with
| him, shouldered his ladder and went
away, leaving one lamp burning only
! Then came upon me a sudden and vio-
! lent reaction. l laid down the pistol and
sat trembling in every limb. / do not
| know how long sat in the dark helpless,
half stunned with shuddering thoughts
which [ felt powerless to give shape to-
At length was reused by knock at the
| door.
Mail letters, SIR" said the voice of the
| Postsergeant through the gloom.
! [ rose mechanically and opened the
took them and dismissed him. I lit
candle and tore open the first. 1t was
| from my agents:
| ''SIR: We beg to acquaint you that
draft for G4G0 has been placed this day at
your credit,
1--WE have honored the drafts payable
! to Captain Holmes, Quartermaster Bra
! ham, Messrs. Saccone 81 Co., and Messrs.
! De LarloS, leaving your account with the
| balance of G127 As Sd in your favor. We
your obedient servants,
HAMMOND & Co."
opened the other letter. 1t was from
! my mother:
| ''Why, dearest Ned. did you not write
and tell me of your troubles? You know,
my darling, how dearly l love you, and
| that / would gladly starve myself rather
| than you should want.
II wish, dear, you had written to me
as well as TO your father. Of course
! young men will be young men and do
| foolish things, though 1 know you are too
| good to do anything really wrong. Your
| father is little stern, but he loves you
| dearly. When your letter came it made
! him dreadfully unhappy.
| II soon saw something was wrong
about you, though he did not want to tell
me anything about it,
| But it is no use trying to conceal any
| thing from mothers, and soon got at it,
| though not till his answer had been sent
! to you.
IT can guess how his refusal must have
| disappointed you, but he really had not
got the money. He let me go to Aunt
| Raby, and after tremendous interview
with the old lady, | got her to lend US
e400 on your fathers security. There
was such a scenei She declared at first she
would not do it. She abused you tor your
extravaganza, my dear, so much that
very nearly lost my temper; but 1 knew
| it would spoil my chance, so I was as
patient as could be, and did not leave her
| till / got out of her nice check, with
which l at once rushed off to HammondS
| and got it put to your credit. My poor
| darling, 1 can well imagine how unhappy
you have beeni / have been picturing
you tossing about, getting no sleep and
| looking thin and I'LL
81 am not going to scold you, dear.
know that the trouble you have had is
severe punishment enough. feel, some
how, quite sure that you are going to be
| wiser in future, and not be quite so eX-
| travagant. / could not scold you, my
darling, for l am too happy when / think
| how happy you will be when you hear
your worries are over.
81 wish so much, OH so much, that you
would ask your Colonel to let you come
| home on leave for little You have been
| away so long, and do so long to see you
again. am sure change would be so
| good for you in every way. Do, do try
| and get leave.
| with much love from your father, and
! heaps Of kisses from Effie (who is grow
ing so pretty and young ladyish], and
from me. (Oh, my darling, you can
| never know how dear you are to me.)
Believe me, ever your loving mother,
| MARY ENGLETHoRPE."
"P. s. Old Stimson, the carpenter, was
| here to-day. He asked after you, and
says he wants SO much to see you again.
| He seems to think you will be General,
at least when you get back!'
AS / read the letter, in the dear famn-
| lar hand, the thought of the old home
| life came to me like the breath of the
| sweet country air of England amidst the
| glow of barren tropical rocks. AS read
| the gentle words, telling of love, patience,
1 firms of ft11r nd n