Evening Republican, Volume 19, Number 139, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 12 June 1915 — Page 2

Dark Hollow

By Anna Katharine Green

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y SYNOPSIS. A curious crowd of neighbors Invade tne mysterious home of Judge Ostrander, sounty Judge and eccentric recluse, following a veiled woman who proves to be ths widow of a man tried before the judge and electrocuted for murder years before. Bor daughter is engaged to the judge's •on. from whom he is estranged, but the Mordor Is between the lovers. She plans to clear her husband's memory and asks the judge's aid. Deborah Scoville reads the newspaper clippings telling the story •f the murder of Algernon Etheridge by John Scoville tn Dark Hollow, twelve years before. The judge and Mrs. Scotrtlle meet at Spencer's Folly and she ■hows him how, on the day of the murder. she saw the shadow of a man. whittling a stick and wearing a long peaked eap. The judge engages her and her daughter Reuther to live with him In his mysterious home. Deborah and her lawyer, Black, go to the police station and •ee the stick used to murder Etheridge. She discovers a broken knife-blade point embedded in It. Deborah and Reuther go to live with the judge. Deborah sees a portrait of Oliver, the judge's son, with a Mack band painted across the eyes. That night she finds, tn Oliver's room, a cap With a peak like the shadowed one, and a knife with a broken blade-point. Anonymous letters and a talk with Miss Weeks increase her suspicions and fears. She finds that Oliver was In the ravine on the murder night.' Black warns her and shows her other anonymous letters hinting at Oliver's guilt. In the court room the judge is handed an anonymous Bote. The note is picked up and read aloud. CHAPTER Xll—Continued. As for Deborah, she had shrunk out of sight at his approach, but as soon as he had ridden off she looked eagerly for a taxicab to carry her in his wake. She could not let him ride that mile alone. She was still fearful for him. though the mass of people about her was rapidly dissolving away, and the streets growing clear. She can see his carriage now. Held «p for a moment by the crowd. It has broken through, and Is rolling quickly towards Ostrander lane. But the mob is following, and she is yet far behind. t ’ Shouting to the the chauffeur to hasten, the insistent honk! hank! of the cab adds it raucous note to the turmoil! They have dashed through one group—they are dashing through another —naught can withstand an onrushing automobile. She catches glimpses of raised arms threatening retaliation; of eager, stolid, uncertain and furious faces —and her breath held back during that one instant of wild passage rushes pan tingly forth again. Ostrander lane is within sight. If only they can reach it —if only they can cross it! But they cannot without sowing death in their track. No scattered groups here, the mob fills the corner. It is {lacked close as a wait Brought up against it, the motor necessarily comes to a standstill. She will have to wait until the crowd sways apart, allowing her to — Ah. there, some heads are moving bow! She catches one glimpse ahead of her. and see —What does she see? The noble but shrunk figure of the judge drawn up before his gate. His ups are moving, but no sound issues from them; a change passes like stroke of lightning over the surging mass. Some one shouts out “Coward I** another. '“Traitor!” and the lifted head falls, the moving lips cease from their •Sorts and in place of the great personality which filled their eyes a moment before, they see a man entrapped, waking to the horror of a sudden death in life for which no visions of the day. no dreams of the night, had been able to prepare him. It was a sight to waken pity, not derision. But these people had gathered here in a bitter mood and their rancor had but scented the prey. Calls of “Oliver!” and such threats as “You saved him at a poor man’s expense, but we’H have him yet, we’ll have him yet!" began to rise about him; followed by endless repetitions of the name from near and far: “Oliver! Oliver!” Oliver! His own lips seemed to reecho the word. Then like a lion baited beyond his patience the judge lifted his head and faced them all with a fiery intensity which for the moment made him a terrible figure to contemplated “Let no one utter that name to me Imre 1 ” shot from his lips in tones of unspeakable menace and power. “Spare me that name, or the curse of my ruined life be upon you. I can bear no more today.” The cry arose again: “Oliver! Oliver! The sons of the rich go but ours have to hang! ” At which he gave them one stare ■nd fell back against the door. It yielded and a woman’s arms received hint The gentle Reuther in that hour of dire extremity, showed herself stronger than her mother who had fallen in a faint amid the crowd. To one who swoons but seldom, the moment of returning consciousness is often fraught “with great pain and ■ometimes with unimaginable horror It was such to Deborah; the pain and horror holding her till her eyes, accustomed to realities again, saw tn the angel face which floated before her vision amid a swarm of demon masks, the sweet and solicitous countenance Reuther, taking her mother’s hand in hers, said softly: "I knew you were not seriously ill. only frightened by the crowd and their senseless shoutings. Don’t think of it nay son, dear mother. The people

are dispersing now, and you will soon be quite restored and ready to smile with us at an attack so groundless it is little short of absurd.” Astonished at such tranquillity where she had expected anguish if not stark unreason, doubting her eyes, her ears —for this was no longer her delicate, suffering Reuther to be shielded from all unhappy knowledge, but a woman as strong if not as wise to the situation c~ herself —she acrutinized the child closely, then turned her gaze slowly about the room, and started in painful surprise, as she perceived standing in the space behind her the tall figure of Judge Ostrander. “Pardon,” she entreated, forgetting Reuther's presence in her consciousness of the misery she had brought upon her benefactor. “I never meant —1 never dreamed —” “Oh, no apologies!" Was this the judge speaking? The tone was an admonitory, not a suffering one. It was not even that of a man humiliated or distressed. “You have had a unfortunate experience, but that is over now and so must your distress be.” Then, as in her astonishment she dropped her hands and looked up, be added very quietly, “Your daughter has been much disturbed about you, but not at all about Oliver or his good name. She knows my son too well, and so do you and I, to be long affected by the virulent outcries of a mob seeking for an object upon which to expend their spleen.” Deborah was glad to sit silent under this open rebuke and listen to Reuther’s ingenuous declarations, though she knew that they brought no conviction and distilled no real comfort either to his mind or hers. “Yes. mother, darling,” the young girl was saying. “These people have not seen Oliver in years, but we have, and nothing they can say, nothing that any one can say could ever shake my belief in him as a man incapable of a really wicked act He might be capable of striking a sudden blow —most men are under great provocation —but to conceal such a fact—to live for years the respect of all who knew him, with the knowledge festering in his heart of another having suffered for his crime—that, that would be impossible to Oliver Ostrander.” Some words ring in the heart long after their echo has left the ear. Im possible! Deborah stole a look at the judge. But he was gazing at Reuther, where he well might gaze, if his sinking heart craved support or his abashed mind sought to lose Itself in the enthusiasm of this pure soul, with its loving, upcalculating instincts. “Tell the judge who is as confident of Oliver as I am myself that you are confident, too. That you could no more believe him capable of this abominable act than you could believe it of my father." “I will —tell—the judge," stammered the unhappy mother. “Judge,” she briefly declared, as she rose with the help of her daughter’s arm, “my mind agrees with yours in this matter. What you think, 1 think.” And that was all she could say. As she fell again into her seat, the judge turned to Reuther: “Leave your mother for a little while,” he urged, with that rare gentleness he always showed her. “Let her rest here a few minutes longer, alone with me.” “Yes. Reuther," murmured Deborah, seeing no way of avoiding this inevitable interview. “I am feeling better every minute. I will come soon.” The young girl’s eye faltered from one to the other, then settled, with a strange and imploring look upon her mother. Had her clear intelligence pierced at last to the core of that mother’s misery? Had she seen what Deborah would have spared her at the cost of her own life? It would seem so. for when the mother, with great effort, began some conciliatory speech, the young girl smiled with a certain sad patience, and. turning toward Judge Ostrander, said as she softly withdrew: “You have been very kind to allow me to mention a name and discuss a subject you have expressly forbidden. I want to show my gratitude. Judge Ostrander, by never referring to it again without your permission. That you know my mind”—here her bead rose with a sort of lofty pride which lent a dazzling quality to her usually quiet beauty—“and that I know yours, is quite enough for me." "A noble girl! a mate for the best!" fell from the judge’s lips after a silence disturbed only by the faint, faroff murmur of a slowly dispersing throng. H Deborah made no answer. She could not yet trust her courage or her voice. The judge, who was standing near, concentrated hie look upon her features. “Madam!”—he was searching her eyes, searching her very soul, as men seldom search the mind of another. "You believe in the truth of these calumnies that have just been scouted in our ears. You believe what they say of Oliver. You, with every prejudice in his favor; with ev-

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ery desire to recognize his worth! You, who have shown yourself ready to drop your husband’s cause though you consider it an honest one, when you saw what havoc it would entail to my boy’s repute. You believe —and on what evidence?” he broke in. “Because of the picture and the coincidence of his presence in the ravine?” “Yes.” “But these are puerile reasons." He was speaking peremptorily now and with all the weight of a master mind. “And you are not the woman to be satisfied with anything puerile. There is something back of all this; something ynu have not imparted. What ie that something? Tell —tell —” “Oliver was a mere boy in those days and a very passionate one. He hated Etheridge—the obtrusive mentor who came between him and yourself.” “Hated?” “Yes, there Is proof.” He did not ask where. Possibly he knew. And because he did not ask she did not tell him, holding on to her secret in a vague hope that so much at least might never see light. “I knew the boy shrank eometlmes from Algernon’s company," the judge admitted, after another glance at her face; “but that means nothing in a boy full of his own affairs. What else have you against him? Speak up! I can bear it alt” “He bandied the stick that —that —” “Never! Now you have gone mad. madam.” "1 would be willing to end my days in an asylum if that would disprove this fact.” “But, madam, what proof—what reason can you have for an assertion so monstrous?" “You remember the shadow 1 saw which was not that of John Scoville? The person who made that shadow was whittling a stick; that was a trick of Oliver’s. I have heard that he even whittled furniture." “Good God!” The judge’s panoply was pierced at lapt. “They tried to prove, as you will remember, that it was John who thus

Deborah Made No Answer. She Could Not Yet Trust Her Voice.

disfigured the bludgeon he always carried with pride. But the argument was a sorry one and in itself would have broken down the prosecution had he been a man of better repute. Now, those few chips taken from the handle of this weapon will carry a different significance. For in my folly I asked to eee this stick, which still exists at police headquarters, and there in the wood I detected and pointed out a trifle of steel which never came from the unbroken blades of the knife taken from John’s pocket" Fallen was the proud head now and fallen the great man’s aspect If he spoke it was to utter a low “Oliver! Oliver!” The pathos of it—the heart-rending wonder in the tone brought the tears to Deborah’s eyes and made her last worde very difficult. “But the one great thing which gives to these facts their really dangerous point is the mystery you have made of your life and of this so-called hermitage. If you can clear up that, you can afford to ignore the rest.” “The misfortunes of my house!" was his sole response. “The misfortunes of my house!" \ CHAPTER XIII. One Secret Less. Suddenly he faced Deborah again. The crisis of feeling had passed, and he looked almost cold. "You have had'advisers," said *he. “Who are they?” "I have talked with Mr. Black." The judge’s brows met. “Well, you were wise," said he. Then, shortly, “What is his attitude?” Feeling that her position was fast becoming intolerable, she falteringly replied. “Friendly to you and Oliver, but, even without all the reasons which move me, sharing my convictions.” “He has told you so?” “Not directly; but there was no misjudging his opinion of the necessity you were under to explain the mysteries of your life. And it was yesterday we talked; not today." Like words thrown into a void, these slow, lingering, half-uttered ohraaes seemed to awaken an echo

which rung not only in his inmost being, but in hers. Not till in both natures silence had settled again (the silence of despair, not peace), did he speak. When be did it was simply to breathe her name. i "Debobah?’’ Startled, for it bad always before been “madam," she looked up to find him standing very near her and with his band held out. “I am going through deep waters." said be. “Am I to have your support?” "Ob. Judge Ostrander, how can you doubt it?" ehe cried, dropping her hand into his, and her eyete swimming with tears. “But what can I do? If I remain here I will be questioned, if I fly—but, possibly, that is what you want —for me to go—to disappear—to take Reuther and sink out of all men’s sight forever. If this is your wish. 1 am ready to do it Gladly will we be gone—now —at once—this very night. His disclaimer was peremptory. “No; not that I ask no such sacrifice Neither would it avail. There is but one thing which can reinstate Oliver and myself in the confidence and regard of these people. Cannot you guess it, madam? I mean your own restored conviction that the sentence passed upon John Scoville was a just one. Once satisfied of this, your temperament is such that you would be our advocate whether you wished it or no. Your very silence would be eloquent." “Convince me; I am willing to have you, Judge Ostrander. But how can you do so? A shadow stands between my wishes and the belief you mention. The shadow cast by Oliver as he made his way towards the bridge, with my husband’s bludgeon in his hand.* “Did you see him strike the blow? Were there any opportune shadows to betray what happened between the instant of —let us say Oliver’s approach and the fall of my friend? Much can happen in a minute, and this matter is one of minutes. Scoville had a heart open to crime, Oliver not. This I knew when I sat upon the bench at his trial; and now you shall know it, too. Come! I have something to show you.” He turned towards the door and mechanically she followed. Her thoughts were all in a whirl. She did not know what to make of him or of herself. The rooted dread of weeks was stirring in its soil. This suggestion of the transference of the stick from hand to hand was not impossible. Only Scoville had sworn to her, and that, too, upon their child’s head, that he had not struck this blow. And she had believed him after finding the cap; and she believed him now. Yes, against her will, she believed him now. Why? and again, why? (TO BE CONTINUED.)

Welsh Songs Promised.

A Cardiff correspondent of an English newspaper says:

“Cymric ardor on the battlefield is going to be inspired and sustained by Cymric music. Not the least impressive sight today, and during the past week, among the Welsh units training at Porthcawl has been the gathering of the soldiers for choral singing. When the new Welsh army of 40,000 men take the field it will go to battle to the sound of a Cymric war chorus, which experts have described as the finest martial music m the world.

“The organization just’ formed is known as the Welsh Army Male Voice chorus, and as the recruits include some of the finest singers in the Welsh valleys, men who have competed in scores of Eisteddfods, the soldiers’ practice sings at Porthcawl partake of the character of first-class concerts, which attract to the vicinity of the hall large numbers of residents of the town and visitors. “Miss Gee of Denbigh, an ardent patriot, is distributing a fine selection of Welsh war songs, with a request for the rendering of these and less singing of ‘Tipperary.’ ”

Who Go to Church?

The facts about church membership are contained in United States census bulletin No. 103, and the percentage of church membership in the total population is given for the year 1906, 26 years after Kansas has become a prohibition state. According to this tabulation, which is the latest obtainable, the lowest percentage of church membership was in Oklahoma, including Indian Territory, the rate being 18.2. The rate in New York was 43.7; in Pennsylvania, 43; in Illinois. 38.3; in Nebraska, 32.4; in Maine,29.B; and in Kansas. 28.4. Forty-three states had a larger percentage of membership than had Kansas. Since ttyis tabulation was made up, two of the four states that had a lower rate of church membership than had Kansas, namely Oklahoma and West Virginia, have joined the ranks of the prohibition states. Of the six states, therefore, having the lowest rate of church membership in the United States, four are prohibition states. —Royal E. Cabell in Leslie’a

Destroying the Mosquito.

The way to destroy the mosquito in its larval stage is to pour a little kerosene on the surface of the pool or stream inhabited by the industrious wiggler. The oil shuts out the supply of oxygen from the water beneath. The wiggler rises tail, first to the surface and tries to force his breathing tube through the thin layer of oil- He fails and promptly dies from suffocation —a suitable death for so fratricidal an insect

Enjoys His Grouch.

“When a man has a grouch mo* dan two days in succession," said Uncle Eben. “let im alone. It’s his way injoyia’ hisse t" •

GOOD JOKES

WHY HE LIKED IT. Mrs. Styles—You don’t like dogs, do you. dear? Mr. Styles—No. “Don’t you like any animal, dear?” "Oh, yes.” “What animal do you like?” "Why, the giraffe." "How ridiculous!” "It’s not ridiculous at all. I once read in the paper that, so far as known at present, the giraffe is the only animal which is entirely dumb.”

Perplexed.

"I understand he married a widow.” “Yes.” “How are they getting along?” “He says he doesn’t know which gives him the most trouble —she or the second hand automobile he was persuaded to buy.”

Retort Discourteous.

“Pardon me, sir," said the lady in the automobile. “You nearly ran me down,” retorted the gentleman in the gutter. “Why don’t you honk, you goose?”

Prediction and Practice.

“Bligglns regards himself as a great weather prophet.” “Yes. But he has to ask for the loan of an umbrella now and then the same ,as anybody else.”

Easily Mended.

He —There’s too much caloric in this soup. She—Well, next time I’ll tell Bridget not to be so heavy-handed with the seasoning.

Easier the Harder.

"Do not fear work," said old man Dobbs, "Pitch In with brain and hand; For you will find that easy jobs Are mighty hard to land.”

A Racer.

“How fast is your car, Jimson?" asked Harkaway. “Well,” said Jimson, "it keeps about six months ahead of my Income generally.”—Harper’s Weekly.

Wrecking a Superstition.

“Do you think there is good luck in picking*up a pin?” “I doubt It. I picked up a hairpin the other day and my wife found it in my pocket.”

WISE CLERK.

Loyd de Broke (after registering)— Now, aw—my good fellow, what are your terms? Hotel Clerk (after reading name) — Strictly cash in advance.

The One Fault.

I thought her features perfect. And three times I did propose; But at last Pm quite disillusioned— I really don’t like her “noes.** ..

Correct.

Professor (in history)—How was Alexander 111 of Russia killed? Freshman —By a bomb. Professor —How do you account for that? Freshman —lt exploded.—Punch BowL

Applied Flattery.

“My angel!” she exclaimed. /He moved uneasily. Few men like such open flattery. But she told only the truth. For he was backing her musical show.

No More Fairy Tales.

“Children are getting all mixed these days.” “What’s mind?” “My little nephew only knows Robin Hood as a character in comic opera.”

Unsettled.

“I hear that they belong to the early settlers." “Well, you wouldn’t think so if you could see the bill collectors climbing their front steps.”—Judge.

A Narrow Squeak.

“I’ll give you a Hamburg steak,” began the kind lady, “if you’ll chop—” Here the man darted out of the yard. “If you’ll chop the meat.” she concluded. “Come back if you’re hungry. I wouldn’t think of asking you to chop wood.”—Louisville Courier-Journal.

This Is No Joke.

Omar—A well-known scientist says that men who work live longest Heiny—Oh. I don’t know. It depends on whom they try'to work.

Still Waiting.

“Feminine attire is a mystery 'to me.” "For instance?” "If I were dressed like that woman > over there in green and gold I’d be afraid to shrug my shoulders.” "Nonsense. I’ve been waiting around a long time and I’ve never seen an evening gown fall off yet.”

Audience Reversed.

“What are you going to tell your constituents when you go home?” “I’m not going to tell them anything," replied Senator “Out our way the people used to expect a statesman to give instructive discourse. Now they require him to keep quiet while they tell him a few things.”

Poor Woman.

"She’s a nervous wreck because her husband talks in his sleep so much.” “You mean the loss of sleep has injured her health?" “It isn’t the loss of sleep that is sending her to a sanitarium, but the fact that her husband mumbles and she can’t understand what he says.”

HOW MEAN.

Tom Rigby—Ah! there is nothing so sweet as the sound of her voice. Miss Caustlque—She seems to think so.

Time’s Prints.

Lives of great sleuths oft remind us. We can make our Ilves sublime, And departing, leave behind us Thumb-prints on the rolls of time.

Opposite Views.

“My dear, everybody says young Staylate, who is courting our Jane, is a coming man.” “Well, I A would like him better if he were more of a going one.”

An Accomplished Woman.

Mistress —Look here, Susan, I can write my name in the dust upon this table. Susan —Ah, mum, there’s nothing like eddlcation, is there, mum?

Exceptions.

“So it has been decided that whatever offers itself in the shape of a trunk must be transported by the railroads.” “Even if it is an elephant’s?”

One Slight Usefulness.

The Demon Rum Is due to quit; Yet as his grip relaxes His foemen thoughtfully admit He paid a lot of taxes.

Contrary Process.

“They are faking queer ways to smooth out prison life." “How do you mean?” “I understand they have stopped ironing the convicts."

POSSIBLY.

Wifey—Here’s an account of a village parson who left the pulpit to become an actor. I. wonder what could have induced him to do a thing like that? • Hubby—Perhaps he thought the donation of eggs and vegetables would be more liberal.

Between Friends.

Miss Overton —Mr. Gayboy told me I was a true daughter of Eve. Miss Younger—How very ungallant! Miss. Overton —Why do you say that? Miss Younger—l’m sure you don’ t t look to be more than her great-grand-daughter. ;

Officer, the Wagon, Please!

Ginks —1 saw a woman hold up < train one night last week. Blinks —Where? Ginks—-At a society ball