Yorkville enquirer. [volume] (Yorkville, S.C.) 1855-2006, 1908-10-20


stow. Hartley turned his face to the
wall and set his teeth. How much
longer must this sort Of thing last?
Jessica Thornton would marry Ever
ard he was glad Of that, both for her
and for Everard. Her father had more
than once hinted that no brilliant alli-
ance for his daughter would cause him
half the joy of being able to call Hart
ley his son. Poor old chap, he would
drop that idea quickly now, as though
1t were a loathsome thing.
It's just as we'll, 1 suppose. He
] doesn't know, dear old man, that the
one l loved 1 had to put behind me,
and that even If my position would
permit me to court another woman, no
one else would ever be quite the same.
/ wonder what they'll do to me, now
that they know? Poor Everard, he
took it hard, as much as he despises
me. He's a good fellow. He hasn't
been near me, either. 1 thought possi-
bly, he would; wish he would"
Where was Everard, that nothing had
been seen or heard Of him? Hartley
was not the only one that wondered,
but Everard had that day received a
letter from his mother which had call
ed him away in the utmost haste. 1t
was brief and incoherent. His step
father was dead, had been dead three
weeks, and they had not sent him
word for reasons which would be ex-
planned later. She had left her affairs
coming to him, with Bettine. If it
would not be convenient for him to
have them, they would go to the near
est town and stay there.
The letter had been delayed, and they
were due at the county seat that after
noon. Everard swung himself on his
horse and rode mile after mile as rap
idly as the willing animal could go.
The minutes crawled for him; the
bustling county seat had never SEEM
ed such an endless distance away.
But when the train drew into the
station he was waiting there, and the
two black-robed women had scarcely
reached the steps before he was there
also.
'Oh, my boy my boy!"
Margaret Wendell clung to her first
born as to her last hope in life; Bet
tine, his step-sister fragile, delicate as
an Aioine flower, laid her cheek against
his az m and looked up at him with the
| 80 hurt nj
Of apprehension struck through him.
How frightfully Bettine had changed!
Bettine, whose cheeks had once been
June roses, and her every movement
the lightness Of pure joy. Not until he
had settled them at the most presenta-
BILE hotel the county seat afforded, and
Bettine had left the room, was any
reference made to his mothers strange
letter. Then Margaret Wendell stood
before her son with every nerve quiv-
ering, and told him Of the shame that
had come upon him.
My husband Is dead. He shot him |
self because he dared not live and face
what was before him, and he left a |
liconfess.on, which the terrible newspa-
pers Haunted far and wide. 1 think
they were all eastern papers, though,
and prayed that they might not come
here where you could see 1t. He stole, |
| Dick-my husband and Bettine's faith
er-because the passion Of speculation
was on him, and he lost until other
mems money, coming too easily into his
hands, followed where his own had
gone-so much Of 1t that there was no
| hope of restoration. When the crash
came too near, there was no escape
but death.
Everard dropped his eyes and stared
at the floor, the dull red Of shame
| creeping over his face. And he had
dared to stand up in righteous wrath
and judge another man for such a
crime as this! His mothers broken
voice was in his ears.
This is not one-half of 1t, Dick. |
Once before the same thing occurred
five years ago. To think that such |
thing could happen twice. At that
time suspicion. fell upon a young clerk
| in the bank and my husband let 1t |
rest there. He knew he was a coward
and despicable, but he dared not speak.
The memory tortured him for five
years, and he went back to speculation
again to drown it. They convicted
Ralph Carter Of another mans crime,
and gave him twenty years in prison.
| The confession said he thought Mr..
Carter knew who had done 1t; but he
took the guilt when he saw how it was
thrust upon him, because-he was en-
gagged to Bettine, and he would not
show her father up to the world as a
| thief and coward. We did not tell you
of the engagement, Dick; you were
away from home, and 1t had come to
so terrible an end anyway. Bettine
never spoke Of Ralph Carter again; but
since that day she has been dying be-
| fore our eyes. Oh Dick, where is that
| wronged boy? He escaped from pris-
on. but to what end may not undeserv-
ed disgrace have driven him? Bettine
will die If Ralph Carter is not found!
| Everard arose like a man walking in
Il
his sleep. His hands opened and closed
nervously: black shame was upon him,
and, when he spoke his voice sounded
hoarse in his own ears.
Mother you must be ready to con-
tinue your journey at the first ray OF
dawn tomorrow. l must get you to
camp-immediately.
On the second morning after he had
been shot, as Hartley lay quiet and dis
pirited in the blue room, wondering
what blow Fate meant to launch at him
next, his quick ear caught the sound of
soft commotion down stairs 1t was
quite natural that people should be
down there. but it made him restless
and excited.
After that there was five, ten min
utes of comparative silence, then
hasty step at his door, and Everard