The Democratic advocate. [volume] (Westminster, Md.) 1865-1972, 1891-02-28


"Well, sir, it's about a servant -glrl at
The Mitre,' said Jack Whyte, still speak
ing in an embarrassed way. Ale has
written to me to break the news to you.
And Jack paused.
"What is the news?" asked the Ser
geant. with fearful calmness.
"WelI, sir" Jack stumbled on, SIT
seems. sir. that he and she we're he
again paused
eco on, said the Sergeant, now CHASTITY
pale.
"Werc to be married this morning
The old lawyer gazed at Jack Whyte Tor
A moment in silence. Then he sank into
his easy-chair and covered his face with his
hands. Thus he sat in silence for What
seemed to Jack Whyte hours. At length
he spoke.
"My God r he muttered "ard this is
the reward and seif-denial =
CHAPTER II.
A year had elapsed, and the anniversary
of that eventful night was arrived. TWAS
as bitter and boisterous as its predecessor.
The wind screamed fiercely through the
deserted courts and d5solate gardens of the
Temple; the snow few wildly about in
scattered fakes, the moons face was dis
torted by the angry clouds which swept
continually across it. All nature seemed
to be venting long pent-up wrath upon
sinful world. Heaven help those who had
no shelter for their heads that night
Again Mr.. Sergeant Stronge sat alone in
his old chambers in Kings Bench Walk,
again everything about him bespoke ease
and luxury, The fire danced and sparkled
on the hearth; the lamp shed its soft light
over the carpeted floor; the heavy curtains
hid every token of the cold and misery
without. But Mr.. Sergeant Stronge was
no longer the self-satisfied, prosperous gen
tleman he was year ago. Even as he sat
there in the subdued light of the shaded
lamp one could have seen care, disappoint-
ment, and discomfort in every line of his
stern, worn face.
In his hand was letter, which he had
read and read again. 1t was from Charlie,
his son, on which he had looked with such
pride, and from whom he had expected
such great things only year ago.
s'Dear father" it ran, ''this is the ami
versary of that morning when committed
the sin against you for which it seems there
is no forgiveness. Since you then dis
owned me the sorrow and suffering | have
gone through no tongue can tell. My
miseries have now reached climax.
Foodless myself for days, my hapless wife
and innocent child are now languishing for
want of bread. cannot and will not bear
it any longer.
'I do not ask for your forgiveness for
myself-I know it would be useless to do
so, but what [ do ask and demand is that
you shall save my poor wife and child from
starvation. IF cannot get that from your
love will wiring it from your shame.
''If do not receive any reply to this
to-day, tonight | will call at Kings Bench
Walk Then if you still refuse me, by the
Heaven that will Judge us both, neither you
nor any other man shall ever again have a
chance of granting or refusing me anything
For Heavens sake, father, do not drive
your own child TO a desperate death. You
unfortunate son, CHARLIE
As the old lawyer read this letter for the
twentieth time he crushed itup in his han(
and flung it into the waste-basket.
"The fool p he said, bitterly; "he Think
to intimidate me by his threats Me
= He should have known me better befor,
this. Fear of anything man can do neve
yet turned me from my path. Even if
thought him capable of doing as he says
:. what do l care? But, if he does not knoT
! me- I know him. He give up his preciou
life! Pshaw The braggart, the weak
ing-he was always fond of acting"
Striving to work up his rage and con
tempt, Sergeat Stronge rose to his feet an,
walked up and down the room.
: "And he'll come here tonight, will he :?
a he said, as he walked ~ think he shoul
"a be tired of that trick by this time HOY
7 many times has he knocked at my doc
,, here and in Pump Court, and what has h
/ ever gained but insults and rebuffs Wins
10 a pitiful creature he is Always whinin
ar that he is starving, and that this sculler
n maid and her brat are starving, too WIZ
. if he were more Of man | might pit
him, but-pah-his spiritlessness disgust
be me as much as his marriage. II I ha
been in his shoes, would have begge
ri and snivelled? No, neverl l should hay
worked worked ike the man | am-an
%. made my way in the world without huma
beings aid That's what | did do, an
,r see what am now, and what-oh, Heave
~ what l should have made him if he won
,is only have let me- y
tie. And the old lawyer flung himself vii
ed, sob into his chair and groaned over Il
nat ruin of his hopes, the baking of his life
u" ambitionl
81 He sat there silently for long til
gazing into the fire and thinking oy
led again and again the things That might ha
tn been and the things that were. WI
hopes, what high hopes and soaring am
un- tions, had once been his, and how Il
7ou foolish lad, in a single moment, had wreck