The Abbeville press and banner. [volume] (Abbeville, S.C.) 1869-1924, 1904-02-17

shining, but John Branscombe had no
eyes for anything but the trouble and
despair which stared him in the face.
A glance at him was sufficient to con-
vince one that he was a refined man,
an intellectual man, utterly out Of keep
ing with his surroundings; for Nc
Cabe's Flats were not conspicuous for
wealthy inhabitants or luxurious ap-
pointments. If anything, there was
among them a chronic habit Of just
scraping the rent together in time to
avoid ejectment. They were not low
class of tenants; on the contrary, they
were, as rule, clean, and industrious,
hard working, commonplace and hon
est, who just managed to pay their way
and exist, and that was all.
And John Branscombe, who, some
seven or eight years before, had a mod
est competency, comfortable home,
wife and friends and acquaintance in
abundance, had fallen so low that he
now sat there with his eyes fixed on
the empty stove, staring into vacancy;
with his cupboard as bare of food as
his heart was full of despair-black,
numbing despair.
His mind mechanically reviews the
last five or six years Of his life, years
Of boundless energy, untiring efforts,
all ending in bitter disappointment. He
sees the wife with whom he quarreled
and parted after two years of content
ment and happiness; he sees the friends
with whom he has long since severed
all intercourse. He sees his work-his
beloved inventions-for which he has
sacrificed wife, friends, money, every
thing, both on the threshold Of success,
and ending in nothing; the one owing
to a lawsuit which has dragged it's slow
length along for three weary years, and
which is now at a standstill for lack OF
funds to carry it on; the second, on
which he had built all his remaining
hopes, stolen from him by rascally
agent he had trusted.
Absorbed in his work fred by ambi-
ton, he neglected. unintentionally, his
wife, a good woman, but a proud one.
When she asked him to choose between
his work and herself, his infatuation
allowed him to let her go. When he
grew harder and colder to his friends,
as successive disappointments began to
tell on him, he saw their visits grow
more and more infrequent, and in his
pride said, Let them stay away" And
now, ruined and penniless, robbed Of
all he has worked for, be sits with only
a pistol to console him and to put a
tragic end to tragic life.
He gets up and takes his revolver
from an old satchel standing in the cor
ner. He bought it when he was made
two years ago, and fully in
tended to use it. A fresh idea took pos
session of his mind and saved him,
hope sprang up again in his heart, and
the thought Of suicide passed away.
Now, with another disaster crushing
him down the old notion Of ending it
all has come back to him, and his mind
for the last week has dwelt upon little
else. He has not delayed because he
has hesitated, or because he is afraid:
he has just simply gone living on in a
dull, meaningless way until his last
dime was gone, and then His last
dime was gone, and he recognizes that
the crucial moment has come.
AS John Combes he has lived here for
twelve or fourteen months, as John
Combes he can die here. He has but to
destroy the letter he sat up writing the
night before, and he will be buried in
pauper's grave under the name he has
assumed, the name which will tell the
world nothing.
1t is the one single point he is unde-
cided upon. Even in his misery, even
in his despair, one desire has risen up
in his heart-the desire to fling one last
letter of defiance at the world, and at
those who have treated bim badly.
The desire has been strong upon him
to let his enemies know TO what they
have brought him.
He laid the revolver down, opened
drawer in the rickety old table and,
drew out a letter. 1t was sealed and
addressed to the Coroner. HesitatinG
a moment he broke the seal and read
the letter slowly.
I'LL leave it," he said, when be had
finished. IF l destroyed it, and died
without a word they'd bring in soiEe
ridiculous verdict - that ! was mad,
perhaps - and III have no lies told
about me when I'm dead"
He lays the letter Gown and picks up
the revolver e:sV loading it carefully
with some caS idges he takes from the
drawer. With grim smile he closes it
with a snap; he rises to his feet.
He looks out of the window across
tie housetops, his back is to the door.
LAS well now as any time he muir
murs. and his hand steadily gripping
the revolver, approaches his head.
A second more and John Branscombe
would have fallen with bullet in his
brain. But at that instant voice III
childish treble says:
please will you let me come in and
talk to you?'
John Branscombes hand fell and he
turned to the door. concealing the re-
yolyer by his side. There on the