Democratic Sentinel, Volume 19, Number 37, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 20 September 1895 — HIS FRIEND'S DECEIT. [ARTICLE]

HIS FRIEND'S DECEIT.

There was a dejected look on Caul Gardner's face as he seated himself at his writing table, and, in spite of himself, a sigh escaped him He had come to the parting of the ways in his existence —was now confronting the fact that the career of honor, ease and usefulness which, three or four years ago he had mentally mapped out for realization, was impossible of attainment. His hopes were dead- Only one thing remained for him to do now. But that was surely the hardest of them all! That was the primal cause of his dejection; ana that was the source of his sigh. His lip quivered, and his fingers trembled as he stretched forth his hand and took up a pen. For a moment he toyed nervously with it, as if unable to trace the necessary words on the paper before him. Then he wrote “ Deax Beexda —My heart fails me as I begin this task, but honor compels the conviction that it is a necessary one. By the time this reaches you. I shall be many miles upon my journey. It seems but yesterday since 1 settled here and opened my doors for the reception of pat lent.v I had some $lO, Oik) then, and I believed that by judicious management, it would suffice until Iha 3 made a start. In spite of energy. frugality, and 1 believe, skill, my practice has yet to be begun. My ■wailing has been in vain, and my brass plate insufficient to attract the practical attention of those requiring medical aid. Now 1 have come to the end of my resources and I must leave you—you whom I love better than life. I have made up my mind to woo Fortune in a foreign clime. I know you love me. and the recollection of the many happy hours we have spent together will, in the future as in the past, be a cheering iivcentive to me in my work. But I dare not ask you to await my return. I hope for success, but I had hoped for it at the outset, and the , future may possibly be as unpropitious, and the hopes as visionary as those of the past. No; however powerful my inclinations, justice to yourself compels me to relinquish the claim I have hitherto had upon you. Consider yourself, then, dear Brenda, under no obligations to your old love. Pray for me, and may God bless you. Ever yours in heart, “Paul.”

It was written at last. He dare not j breathe a good-by; dare not utter S one of those terms of endearment he j had been so accustomed to use. His heart was quickly sinking within him. To pause for a moment would be a fatal hesitation. He did not 5 read the letter through, but placed it quickly in an envelope and hurriedly directing it "and sealing it, de- ; posited it on the mantelpiece, out of j sight, as if he would fain forget its existence. At that moment the door opened, and Paul looked up as his friend, Mark Trevor, entered. “Come in, Trevor, and don’t mind the confusion,” he said. “I’m glad to see you, as I was just going to look you up.” • “By Jove! Then you really intend leaving us?” said Trevor, elevating his eyebrows and attempting a smile. “I thought when you mentioned it last week, that it was the outcome of impulse and disgust. But, my dear fellow, why this haste? And Miss Heathcote-Brenda ! Yon surely ” “Trevor, don’t. At times, as I think of her, my resolution wavers, and yet I know I am right in what I am about to do.” ‘ ‘But is she not aware of your departure ?” “No: neither can I tell her verbally. Her tears would make me weak and I want to spare her as well as myself the pain of saying farewell. ’ “Farewell 1 Nonsense. You’ll get an appointment out there, on landing, and in a few months at most you’ll be back again for your bride,” and ,a cloud, evidently the outcome of contemplating such a possibility, obscured Trevor’s face. A silence of some moments followed. Then Trevor resumed his gayety; his face lit up with hope and his eye scintillated wilh more than ordinary brilliancy •

“Well, well,” he said, “you know your own affairs best I suppose and after all you’re only doing what an honorable man ought to. But if I can help you in any way don’t -be afraid of commanding me. I’m at your service, Gardner, although I don’t suppose you have any commissions to give.” “Yes, I have. You can do me a great favor, old fellow. I —I—the fact is, I’m just a bit short of funds and if you could see your way to lend me, say, £50,1 should be uncommonly grateful. One never knows what may happen, you know, and all going well I will l return it in the course of a few months.” “Certainly! I’m glad you mentioned it, my boy. It would never do to cripple yourself at the outset by being short of the ready. I’ll lend it you with pleasure. When do you start?” he asked, eagerly. “In the morning, early.” “Fact is, I haven’t the money by me, but I can get it in an hour. D’Arcy owes me fifty, and promised to let me have it this morning without fail. I’ll just run round and get him to draw the check in your favor instead of mine, and—' “Thanks, awfully. It's very good of you, Trevor.” “Tut, tut; don’t mention it. Get yourthlngs putin order, and I’ll be back in an hour,” and Trevor, snatching op his hat, departed.

True to hlo word, Mark Trevor returned within an hour. “Just caught him in, my boy,” he said. “Here you are, the check's drawn in your favor, to save my indorsement.” “Thanks for all you have done for me,” said Paul, taking up the check apd putting it into his pocketbook. “I shall never forget your goodness, ” gratefully clasping Trevor’s hand in ; his. In a short time Panl was on his : way to the East India Dock. As he was about to step on to the gangway, | two men who had watched his egress | from the vehicle approached and laid hands on him. “Paul Gardner, I suppose?” said j the foremost of them. “That is my name.” “It is our duty to arrest you on a ! charge of forgery in connection with a check which you cashed yesterday, bearing the signature of - Edmund D’Arcy, and to warn you that anything you may say may be used as evidence against you.” The shock staggered Paul for an instant. “Arrest! Forgery!” he murmered, at length. “There is some mistake. Ido not understand I certainly cashed such a check, but it was not forged, it was drawn by D’Arey himsels. Good gracious I” he exclaimed. “Can it be true? Can there be truth j in those rumors after all? Can he love Brenda, and have concocted this villainous plot to ruin me?” and as a , conviction of the truth flashed upon ! him, it required a superhuman effort to hold himself in check. On arriv- j ing at the station he reiterated his innocence—but, of course, to no purpose. “May I send a telegraphic mes- ) sasre?” he inquired. “The police will lend you any reasonable assistance, if you wish to | communicate with your friends,” i was the reply. “I have just a dozen words. Wire j them to the person I name as soon ! as it is daylight : Bewar§ of Treyorj —he is at the bottom of my ruin. Am innocent. Paul to Miss Heathcote. ’ and Paul gave him her address. “You have the words? You j will not forget them?” “I can remember. They’ll do no harm anyway, they won’t,” muttered the man. “As soon as it’s daylight. Depend upon me, sir.” There could be no question as to the outcome of the well-contrived plot against him. Paul Gardner saw ! that. Unless Trevor made a clean | breast of his duplicity, nothing but impr.sonment awaited him. And it ; turned out a 3 he feared. Trevor denied every word of Gardner’s i statement, ev c n going to the length of saying that they had never met on | the day that Paul stated the check was handed over to him. His in-i tended flight and his arrest just as he was about to leave the country were construed into evidence against him. He was committed for trial by the magistrates, and eventually sentenced to three years’ imprisonment.

For months Mark Trevor shrank at the thought of going near Brenda Heathcote. In spite of his craft and duplicity he could not summon the necessary courage to confront her, but eventually sought her out, and endeavored to persuade her that her impressions were false, that Paul was deserving of his fate, and that he— Trevor—was much injured by being dragged into the horrible affair. “Explain that telegram,” said Brenda, showing him the wire Paul had contrived to send her. “Explain that. I believe every word of it, and I know the man who sent it too well to think that, even in misfortune, he would make such a charge falsely against one whom he had professed to honor.” Trevor took the wire, and his face turned ghastly white as he read the words, "Beware of Tre'vor—he is at the bottom of my ruin. Am innocent^” j “When did you receivo this?” he j inquired.

“On the night or rather early morning, of his arrest. I know the reason you betrayed him, and evidently Paul did, too. The reason he wired me was to prevent all possibility of your plot succeeding so far as j your intentions with me were con- | cerned. Now go, and never seek my face again. Only remember that those who suffer innocently may make even their suffering a stepping stone to future success, while those guilty of such offences as yours must eventually sink deeper in crime.” It was a memorable morning when the young doctor found himself once more at liberty. The very thought that he was free was almost sufficient to overwhelm him ; and, as he confronted the traffic of the busy streets, he could scarcely credit the fact that he would not be summoned to continue the daily routine of prison life. Beneath his desire of vindication there lurked an inclination for revenge—and Paul knew it. Forgive ! No, he could scarcely do that. How he longed to see Brenda!

How would she counsel him to act? Should he go to her? He scarcely knew. He required time for thought. After he procured suitable clothing he repaired to one of the parks and sat down upon a seat. The thoroughfare he had chosen was well nigh deserted, and Paul was soon lost in the intricacies of thought. He had just determined that he would not visit Brenda until he could take convincing proof of his innocence, when his privacy was intruded upon. Two men, supporting the tottering form of ap elderly gentleman between them, came up to the seat. “You are ill, sir,” said Paul, making room, and assisting the old man in a comfortable posture. “Ye—yes—l—l’m very ill,” was the reply. “Can Ibe of service to you? lam a medical man.”

“Then—as—as you value —suffering humanity—follow to my—residence,” and the than brokenly whisf pered his name and address. “What is the name of the doctor attending Mr. Easton?” Paul asked of the attendant as soon as he arrived. “Barrow, sir,” replied the man. “And between you and me, sir, I believe there’s something wrong between him and Mr. Mark. He’s a broken down drink ridden beast, sir, and Mr. Mark won’t hear of any one else being called, and ” “Who is Mr. Mark?” I

“Mr. Easton's adopted son. Ha ain’t no ralatme, air," said the man, subduing his voice to an almost inarticulate whisper, “but he’s the master’s heir and ” “Enough,” said Paul. “See, take this prescription to the chemist, and bring back the medicine at once, j Then run round and ask Dr Roose | Feldter to come here instantly; it is 1 a matter of life and death.” The man set off at once, and speed- | ily returned with the requisite medi- ' cine, and then went as requested for j the specialist. When the eminent I scientist appeared, Paul, without i more ado, asked him to make an examination of the invalid, and to state what he considered was the nature of his complaint. Several minutes elapsed, then, taking off his spectacles, Dr. Feldter said: “1 see by the remedies you are employing that we have both arrived at the same conclusion. You are giving chloral?” “Yes.” “Quite right. This condition is owing to the cumulative properties of strychnine.” “So I conjectured. The patient seems easier now; may I have a word with you in private?” The two were conducted to an elegantly furnished dressing room, and in a few moments Paul announced his belief that Mr. Easton was being slowly but deliberately poisoned. The specialist looked exceedingly grave, but counselled him to take up his quarters in the dressing room and await developments. An hour after Dr. Feldter’s departure two men entered the bedroom. A cry of horror almost escaped Paul, as he saw from his hiding place that one of these was Mark Trevor, and the other, he had no doubt, was the broken down, morphia dominated medical man who was doing his bidding. The latter took a small vial from his pocket, and poured a little of its contents into a wine glass. “How long before the end now?” wliispered Trevor. "To-morrow, sometime, I will finish,” was the reply. Paul waited no longer. With a bound he entered the room, and confronted the two startled men.

“Scoundrels!” he cried, “What would you do! Poison him 1 Thank fate that my first act after liberation is to save life and not to destroy it.” “Paul Gardner!” exclaimed Trevor, starting backward, his face livid and : his limbs trembling as if palsied. ; “Yes, I,” said Paul, “back to charge you with one crime, and to save you from completing a more heinous one.” “It was he who suggested and paid me to do it,” moaned the abject I brute who sank tremblingly to the ground. Half an hour afttrward, I both men were in custody, and Paul was busy at the bedside of the invalid. For days he continued his unwearying attentions, and eventually had the satisfaction of fully restoring his patient. Nor was gratitude wanting on Mr. Easton’s part. On his recovery, Paul unburdened his own sad story, and, a week later, his name stood in his patient’s will in the place recently occupied by that of Mark Trevor. Nor was this all. A sudden fame attached itself to him, and, with Dr. Roose Feldter as his patron, his professional career was quickly established. Trevor and his accomplice were sentenced to a long term of imprisonment. On convic- | tion, the former at once made a written statement, completely exonrating Paul from the offence for which | he had suffered, and only two days i later, Paul and Brenda were together, i “Proof of my innocence, darling,” said he, producing the document. “Ido not need it,” she replied. “I knew it.”