The Topeka state journal. [volume] (Topeka, Kansas) 1892-1980, 1910-02-16
THE EVENING STORY

by Richard Barker Shelton.

Icy Ricnard Barker Shelton.1
The winter twilight was falling. Out
side it was dull and gray and somber
but within the big, luxurious room
| where Robert Waid paced restlesslv TO
ana fro, the soft lights and the flicker
ing nre On the hearth and the familiar
| packs or the many volumes on the we'll
MED shelves made a warmth and cozi-
ness all the more pronounced because
of the dreary day without
But for all the evidences of creature
comfort about him. Waid was strange
~ dlstraught. On the open desk in
one corner of the room lay pens and
paper and ink and in the waste basket
beside it were several crumpled little
hals-notes he had begun and then ir-
again.
He paused in front of the Pickering
nre Tor moment, and with his hands
Behind his back stood staring fixedly at
the leaping flames, his brows furrowed
IN deep and evidently unpleasant
thought. Then. with shrug of his
shoulders. indicative, seemingly, of his
determination to begin the most I'M
peasant task, he caught up a half
burned cigar from an ash-tray on the
table, hicked the ashes from it, lighted
It and turned slowly to that open desk
IN the corner and it's waiting contents.
But even as he took up the pen, a
whir of wheels sounded on the pave
lrents without He stepped to the win
cow, just as carriage drew up to the
curb and smart footman, Springing
from the box, held open the door, while
a trim, fur-clad figure stepped from
within, crossed the curb and ran light
~ up the steps.
Waid followed that figure with hung
ry eyes. Then door opened and clos
ed; light footsteps battered up the
stairs in the hall: the carriage ratified
off through the gray dusk of the win
ter twilight, and Waid. with set teeth
I lv1d 7a6 in 70
the desk.
He drew up chair, picked up the
pen again and dipped it into the bronze
ink well: but after that he sat for a
long time irresolute. staring fixedly at
the desk.
Then, upstairs. he heard a voice.
low, pleasantly modulated voice, talk
ing to one of the maids. He shut his
teeth and resolutely pulled one of the
| blank sheets of paper toward him.
My dear Ruth he wrote.
| THE crash has come. They have
wiped me out. Norcross and the
crowd he has with him have been too
much for me. Everything is gone.
| Il don't care so much for myself. I
am not yet an old man, and 1 have
my two hands, as clear head and as
much energy and enthusiasm as ever.
Indeed, believe in some ways 1 shall
welcome the struggle. They can en-
barrass me temporarily. but they
can't down me.
But 1 am frightfully sorry for you.
I know what position and power
have meant to you-that they were
as the very breath of life to you. 1
realized how much happier you have
| been since wealth and a certain
amount of prestige have come to US.
| l dread to think what the curtailing
OF these must mean to you.
Il have managed to save out of the
ruin and leave to you in your name
] h0nGn hn ra1n %
hurst and what will be, 1 fear, a pit
| fully inadequate income for you 1t
was the best I could do. You are to
Keep up what semblance of your
time you read this I shall be on my
way west to start afresh. 1 can't live
here on this money 1 have managed
to hold back from the wreck, for that
Is not my way. 1t would cause endless
comment. l should feel I was shelter
ing behind your skirts. With you it
will be different. I owe you this much
at least. Yours always,
bob"
He read the brief note through,
was rather inclined to add to it a
few things of a bit more personal ma
| ture, but upon second thought decid-
| ed to let it stand as it was.
He folded the note, placed it in an
envelope, addressed it to his wife, and
Edward. he said. when the butler
| answered his summons, give this note
to Mrs Waid at 5h.alf-past seven Not be-
| Then, as the man slipped noiselessly out
OF the room, Waid donned his coat and
steps to the wintery street
Ruth Waid, standing at the head of the
to Edward. No sooner was the front door
| closed behind her husband than she sum-
| moned Edward to her.
| Mr.. Waid left a note for me?" she
asked. Somehow she felt some vague pre-
m on that trouble impended.
| seven. ma am, said the imperturbable
| Bring it to me now" she commanded.
Alone in her room above the stairs she
read it, gasped and read it again Then
| she called for the carriage and her wraps.
the fine, powdery snow which was sitting
down. toward the station,
! Arrived there, she sent back the car
! rage. looked up on a. time table the
her vigil at the gates half hour before
| the departure of each and waited there
until the gates were closed as the train
started
| 1t was not until nine o'clock that she
saw her husband coming through the
hurried away from the gate and from a
distance watched him show his ticket,
form Then she, too passed down the
platform and boarded one of the ordinary
coaches.
The train had pulled out into the cold
| night. The city was behind, and in the
white open country. where lights were
growing more and more infreQuent the
train was gathering speed.
| Robert Waid sat stolidly in his section
| of one of the sleepers, his face close to
| the frosty window pane, watching the
white landscape slip past.
Ruth had read his note by this time,
| he reflected. She had probably wept
| over it perfunctorily and then called UP
| Hastings the attorney, to see what pro-
vision had been made for her. He smiled
| to himself as he fancied her relief when
| she found it was ample.
Some one had sat down beside him with
| ed stared in unbelief, and then sat up
very straight.
Ruth" he cried.