A MAN’S HONOR.

Wairoa Bell, Volume V, Issue 219, 13 October 1893, Page 13 (Supplement)

A MAN’S HONOR.

Wyndam leaned back in his chair, regarding the saltant flames of the grate fire with hostile eyes. He believed himself to be particularly calm—his heart was beating at its normal, placid pace, his mind was clear. He was unaware that his fingers were nervously tapping the arms of his chair, and that his view of the fire was gradually growing blurred and indistinct. The library table was thickly strewn with papers, and Wyndam’s brother leaned heavily against it, gnawing his discolored lips. At length Wyndam broke the strained silence. He arose from his seat and placed his arm upon his brother’s shoulder, saying: “Do you see the biting jest fortune played us in removing our father before he could destroy these pleasing documents? For I have no doubt he fully intended to destroy them.” The younger man impatiently chafed under his brother’s words. He threw back his head as if to shake himself free from the thoughts which pursued him. “I am not sorry he had not time to destroy them,” he returned laboredly. “He tried to teach us to the full the meaning of honor—perhaps with the idea that we would be able to do what he was not strong enough to accomplish. It only remains with us to make restitution.” Wyndam looked at him in astonishment and cold admiration of his manner of receiving the blow. “That is all that is left for us,” he agreed slowly, “and we can accomplish it only by our death; otherwise the world would know of our dishonor. Fortunately Howard is the next in succession and will come into his own without need of disclosing to him our shame.” The younger man was unable to restrain the faint look of protest which momentarily flashed into his heavy eyes. Then the blank hopelessness again enveloped his features as he echoed, “Only our death can right the wrong.” He recognized that the case required that drastic measure.' He wished no repeal from it, for every breath he now drew was poisoned. But the thought of death, which only an hour ago had seemed so far distant, came upon him with something of a shock.

“It will be well for us to make our exit as speedily as possible,” Wyndam pursued. “There will be the usual wonderment at our hasty deed, but at least there will be no suspicion of the truth.” He commenced to separate the papers with his customary methodical precision, quickly bringing order out of the confusion which had reigned. He was hindered rather than helped by his brother’s assistance. He deposited in the fire the confession which had laid bare before them unguessed infamy, and the two stood watching until the flames had mercifully devoured the last bit of paper which could have avowed their dishonor.

Then Wyndam said: “I am now going to my own apartments. It will probably take me an hour to arrange my own affairs. At the expiration of that time I shall end my life.” “I shall do likewise,” declared the younger man, who had now regained the mastery of himself. His voice rang steady, but his face was like a death mask in its stiffened, unnatural repose. There had never been any strong liking between them, but as Wvndam shook his brother’s hand upon separating from him at the turn of the corridor he was stirred by a momentary thrill of pity. He knew his brother well enough to realize that life could now hold no possible charm for him, but it seemed sad that he should be forced to leave it while he was still possessed of the exaltations peculiar to youth. Wyndam closed the door of his own den and set about the completion of his task. There was not one letter over which he lingered before committing it to the flames, yet many of them were from the one woman lie had ever loved and to whom his marriage was imminent. He' had always been able to keep his mind from the disagreeable, and he was determined that in this last act he would still maintain his admirable composure and not try himself needlessly. He refused absolutely to allow’ his thoughts to dwell upon what was to happen within the hour, and he noticed with a subdued throb of self satisfaction his unfaltering nerve. He debated with himself foi some moments over the advisability of leaving a few last words to the woman wdio was to have been his wife, but ultimately dismissed the thought as savoring of the dramatic, in fact, he felt he could derive no consolation from writing to her, as he could frame no possible excuse for his impending action. He walked composedly to the drawer which contained liis revolver, but paused before the mirror to push back from his brow the hair which had become displaced. He also noticed that his cravat was somewhat awry and rearranged it. He was unconsciously taking mental note of his condition. He had more than once before proved himself to be possessed of inore than ordinary courage and had felt assured he would meet death when it came unflinchingly. Yet ■is he unhesitatinadv leveled the weanon

at his heart he congratulated himself upon his coolness. As he was about to pull the trigger he heard indistinctly the muffled report of the pistol which had been fired in a room further down the corridor. The sound hastened him, and he at once pulled the trigger. He fell into the chair beside him, his hand pressed to his heart, hoping that death would not be long delayed, for the pain he was suffering was intense. He could feel the warm blood trickling over ‘lis hand, dyeing the bosom of his shirt a vivid red. His eyes fell upon his trembling hand, which still clutched the pistol. It was not smoking, and suddenly there echoed in Wyndam’s ear the dull fall of the hammer. He realized that he was not shot; that the pistol had been unloaded. The mirror, which he faced, unmercifully reflected him. The color had fled from his face; his eyes were fixed and distended; his lips were twitching. He gave some contemptuous commiseration to the abject figure, failing to realize immediately that it was himself. The weapon dropped from his nerveless fingers, and he buried his face in his hands. He continued to sit in his huddled position for some time, then, after several fruitless attempts, got to his feet. He groped his way blindly’ to the cartridges, and when he at last had the box in his hand slowly retraced his steps to the pistol, which lay upon the floor. He lowered his hand for it, but he could not pick it up. He had lost control of liis fingers. He drew himself erect and wiped away the cold perspiration which had broken out on his brow. “Great God,” be whispered, “what a coward I am!” He carefully smoothed the anguish from his face, and once again bent for the revolver. This time he was able to convey it to the table. He endeavored to reload it, but could not. “I shall rest for a time,” he meditated, dragging himself to a chair. “It is true I told him I should end it all within the hour, but there is no pressing hurry, and my worst enemy would not wish to shorten these extra moments.” His eyes wandered aimlessly about the room, but finally rested upon a long envelope which lay upon his desk. It was directed to him in an unfamiliar hand. In one corner was the name and address of a prominent firm of lawyers. He had noticed it previously, but had not opened it. Now, wishing to divert his mind, he incuriously broke the seal. It was a length}’ communication, but from liis brief glance he gleaned that through the death of his mother’s only brother he and his brother were joint heirs to an enormous fortune. He restored the letter to its envelope. The intelligence seemed an unnecessarily cruel taunt of fate. His riches or his poverty could not now concern him.

“And to think of it all reverting to Howard,” he muttered. “He will not know how to use it; he will be more uncomfortable than pleased. He becomes heir to 10 times what should originally have been his through one man’s perfidy, and because I am that man’s son, and because it is a just law that the sins of the father shall be visited on the children I must suffer. There is but one consolation —no one knows, or ever can know, the depth of our father’s baseness but ourselves.”

It suddenly flashed upon him that the knowledge had now narrowed down to himself. He turned the envelope over caressingly, repeating softly, “No one on earth knows but myself.”

He seemed to derive a certain satisfae tion from the words.

“Were we right in so summarily deciding that only through our death could restitution be made?” he demanded. “Howard would be far more content if left with his books and a modest competency. The control of vast wealth would be nothing but a burden to him. Of course he could not be given what is rightfully his without creating suspicion, and that must be avoided, but we can”—

He went no further, for he was again confronted by his brother’s death. He once more extended his hand to the revolver, and all his lately acquired repose vanished. His face hardened; a look of subtle cunning crept about his lips. “Perhaps it is as well,” he urged. “He would never have been at peace, for he had an exaggerated idea of honor. If I determine to live,” he pursued, “I shall resolutely thrust from me the remembrance of what we discovered. There will be nobody, nothing, to remind me of it, and even to myself I shall appear as much a man of honor as before we happened upon these papers. With dogged firmness he replaced the cartridges and revolver in their compartment. No sign of the conflict which had raged remained. It had grown late, and he carefully dressed for dinner. Once or twice liis thoughts hovered over the motionless form lying in his brother’s room. It would be necessary for him to feign surprise when the servants found the body, but he impressed upon himself the fact that he must be cautious not to overact bis role. He bad dressed without his valet’s help, but as he was about to leave the room he heard him in the corridor. He advanced toward the door, smiling a little, as if pleased at having got along without the man’s assistance. He opened the door, then retreated a step, as did also the man on the threshold. The two brothers, both carefully dressed, stood face to face.—Alice S. Wolf in Argonaut. Canning: Industries In tlie South.. One of the smaller industries in which the south lias made considerable progress of late is canning fruit and vegetables, and there is room for still greater development, as the south is now raising most of the fruit and vegetables for the whole country. Scarcely a day passes that does not chronicle the establishment of one or more canneries in some portion of the south, and nearly every center of production here possesses these factories now and is able to utilize the surplus crops by canning them/ ” ' ■ —i