Santa Fe new Mexican. [volume] (Santa Fe, N.M.) 1898-1951, 1898-08-22
THE GUILTY MAN.

She had nerved herself to meet her ia
Their. She glanced in the mirror and saw
how pale she was. Her father would be
pale, too, but how different his pallor from
her own-his a pallor like none other in
the world!
A shiver passed over her. Did she love
her father? Her anger went out to him,
not her love. Her love was for Jack, and
he could never be anything to her. Last
night she had written to Jack and told
him the truth, and the truth would sepa-
rate them forever. She was tbs daughter
of a thief!
What uselessness it had been for her
mother to move hundreds Of miles from
the old homo. 1t had been done for the
husband, not for the daughter. For the
daughter there had been u half years resi-
dence in this new place and a learning to
love a man whom she had last night de-
clined to marry. Her father had wrought
this ~unhappiness as he had wrought SO
much more.
What grief had not her father wrought!
The day he went to prison for the defalca-
ton in the bank where he had been cashier
and her mothers father manager, had not
her mothers father fallen dead? The world
had said tho old banker could not stand
the disgrace. And what more? Had not
her mothers mother, always III invalid,
been stricken by her husbands death and
never been told of her son-in-law's crime?
There had been a mass of deception, the
poor, feeble woman being led to believe
that her daughters husband, whom she
loved as a son, had gone away on bust
ness, and letters written in his prison cell
had been read to her, and they told her Of
great prosperity in the west, with a cheer
fulness that was appalling. Yes, the girl
almost hated her father as she thought
over the vents OF the past four years. And
yet would she have hated him save for
JackP
She pressed her hands lercely to her
eyes.
Suddenly she started. There was a step
on the stairs. Her mother was bringing
her father up to her. How should she
meet him9 Had it not been for Jack she
knew how she should nave met him. But
her father had forced Jack from her.
The steps ascending the stairs stopped.
There was a cough outside the library
door. She knew the sharp little cough.
She used to fly to meet her father four
years back when she heard that little
cough in the hall in the dear old home.
Now she did not move from the chair she
sat in.
She heard a voice outside the door-her
mother urging her father to enter the
room. Then the handle of the door turned,
and her mother led in a strangely aged
man.
The girl rose. Her father stood before
her, expectancy in his face. She went
slowly to him and held her forehead up to
his lips. Her mother looked angrily at
her, but she went back to her seat and
caught up some sewing.
"Annie,'' said the mother sharply, sis
this the way to meet your father? DO you
know that all that has occurred has been
more to me than to any one else in the
world? And yet l forgive because l love.
And you who have a lover
~ have no lover, coldly interrupted
the girl. II couldn't deceive him any
longer. l wrote him last night. l told him
the truth and that l would not marry
him."
"Ah," said the mother, "now I under.
bUhuu1 ouo UuIllCo W HCl hu6OuAius
"Mark, do not mind it, dear. You have
me, and I shall never fail you. Have ever
failed you? What is done is done. 1t is all
wiped away. 1t is only remembered by
your daughter, not by me, and you are as
much to me after all the mistakes and
sufferings as the day when l stood by your
side and vowed to. be a loving and true
wife till God should part us in death. We
always spoke Of you, mother and L."
"Your mother" his dry lips said,
"where is she?"
His wife caught his hand.
"Dear, " she said, ''can you bear a little
moreP'
He looked at her.
"Annie,' = she said sternly, "get me those
letters"
The girl went and took from the book
case a packet, which she brought to her
mother.
"My@letters to your mother, " the mans
lips seemed to say, 'and unopened"
His wife fondled his hand.
cit was only a few months ago." she
said. II could not tell you the truth any
more than l could tell her. The truth
would have made you unhappier, and l
wished to tell you myself. She loved you
as she loved me. One morning one of your
letters came, and until I could read it to
her she asked me to let her hold 1t. An
hour later we found her with the letter
held up to her heart, and she was very
white and quiet. There had been no
struggle whatever, no pain. We laid her
beside father, whom she had never ceased
grieving for and who had given her every
comfort in life, even when, I am sure, he
could hardly afford the extravagances or
dered by her physicians. 1t ia all over, and
happily over, for both Of them, dear, and
you were always kind and good to them"
A low, long sigh broke from the man.
Then silence fell, the sound Of the tram
bells in the street came distinctly to them,
and the ticking of the clock on the mantel
was strangely loud.
There was a movement on the part of
Annie. She rose and came and kneeled
beside her fathers chair.
"Father," she said, "you must forgive
me. l am not very happy. do not mean
to be hard, but I can't go back from my
reasoning. You have not only mother, but
you have me also. l will do what l can. I
an sure you know that, and after awhile
you will not miss anything in me-"
"Go back to your seat" commanded
her mother. "Do you know that you are
in the presence Of a broken hearth Doesn't
your father accuse himself of more than
you accuse him Of? Who are you, with
your paltry-fove troubles, to come to him
In a time like this?"
"Hush, Mary!" said her husband.
"HushP'
The silence fell again. =
Anuie sat alone. She was apart from