The Indianapolis times. [volume] (Indianapolis [Ind.]) 1922-1965, 1922-11-21

Edna"
Just what happened to Edna, An
drew?" she persisted.
Kelton rose and paced the floor
81 don't know. Sally; I don't knowI
She was high-spirited as a girl. a
little willfuI and tmpulsive, but with
the best heart in the world. She lost
her mother too soon; and in her girl
hood we had no home-not even the
half-homes possible to naval officers.
She had a good natural voice and
wanted to study music. so after we
had been settled at Madison College
a year l left her In New York with
a woman I knew pretty well--tne
widow of a brother officer II was
a horrible, terrible, hideous mistake
The life Of the city went to her head.
She wanted to fit herself for the stage
and they told me she could do It
had the gift and all that. ought
never to have left her down there, but
what could I do? There was nothing
In a town like Montgomery for ner:
she wouldn't listen to It."
you did your best. Andrew; you
don't have to prove that to me.
Well"
Edna ran ofr-wtthout giving me
any hint of what was coming. It
was a queer business. The woman l
had countetd on to look out for her
and protect her seemed utterly aston
ished at her disappearance and was
helpless about the whole matter when
/ went down there. It was my tauIt
all my faultr'
He rose and flung up his arms with
a gesture Of passionate despair.
"Sit down, Andrew. and let's go
through with it." she said calmly.
Il reckon these things are hard. but
it's better for you to tell me. You
can't tell everybody and somebody
ought to know. For the sake of the
little girl upstairs you'd better tell
me-"
What I've said to you I've never
taid to a soul" he went on. I've
carried this thing all these years and
have never mentioned it. My friends
ut the college are the Fpoblest people
on earth; they have never asked ques-
tons. but they must have wondered"
the first time you came here and told
me you had brought your daughters
child home. It's perfectly natural.
Andrew. for folks to wonder. Go on
and tell me the rest"
The restr' ne cried. ooh that's
the hardest part of it! I have told
you all know! She wrote me after
q time that she was married and was
happy. but she didn't explain her con-
duct in any way. She signed herself
Garrison. but begged me not to try
10 find her. She said her husband
wasn't quite prepared to disclose his
marriage to his family. but that It
would be all right soon. The woman
with whom had left her couldn't
help me 70 identify him in any way;
at least she didn't help me. There
had been a number Of young men
boarding In the Northumberland
cal and law students; but there was
no Garrison among them. II was In
June that this happened, and when
/ went down TO try 10 trace her they
had gone. 1 was never quite sure
whether the woman dealt squarely
with me or not But il was my fault,
sally: want you to know that have
To excuse to offer. don't want you
tn try to say anything that would
make my lot easier"
1t was not Sally Owens way to ex-
tenuate errors Of commission or omis-
sion. Her mental processes were al
ways singularly direct.
Are you sure she was married:
i'd you find any proof Of it?" she
asked bluntly.
He was silent a moment before he
met her eyes.
Il have no proof Of 1t. All I have
is Edna's assurance in a letter"
Their gaze held while they read
Zach others thoughts. She made no
comment; there was nothing to say
% this. nor did she show surprise or
repugnance at the dark shadow his
answer had flung across the meagre
picture.
And Garrison-who was her"
Il don't know even that! Prob
ably Garrison was not his real name;
but that is wholly an assumption"
It's clear enough that whoever the
man was. and whether it was straight
or not, Edna felt bound to shield him.
That's just like Us fool Wr-nen. How
did Sylvia come to your h,tnds?'
There was nothing in that to help.
About four years had passed since 1
lost track of her and I had Travelled
all over the East and followed every
clew in vain. l spent two summers
in New York walking the streets In
the blind hope that might mee- her.
Then, one day,-this was twelve years
ago,-I had a telegram from the SUI
perintendent Of a public hospital at
Utica that Edna was there very ILL.,
She died before l got there. Just how
she came to be in that particular place
have no idea. The hospital authori-
ties knew nothing except that she had
gone to them, apparently from the
train, seriously Ill. The little girl
was with her. She asked them TO
send for me, but told them nothing Of
herself. She had only hand baggage
and 1t told us nothing as to her home,
II she had one, or where she vas go
ing. Her clothing. the nurse pointed
out, was OF a style several years old,
but It was clean and neat. Most sur
pristng of all she had with her several
hundred dollars; but there was moth
ing whatever by which to reconstruct
her life in those blank years"
But she wrote to you-the letters
would have given a clew Of some
kind?"
THE few letters she wrote me were
the most fragmentary and all In tile
first year: they were like her, poor
child: her letters We're ALWAYS The