Evening Republican, Volume 20, Number 181, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 29 July 1916 — The Wrong Man [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

The Wrong Man

By Walter Joseph Delaney

(Copyright. 1916. by W. G. Chapman.) “Poor Angela!” "You bare heard from her? There is some trouble!” “Not that affects her—as yet.” replied Mrs. Rushton and her ‘husband expressed a sigh of relief. They were people of wealth and had a delightful home. Mr. Rushton had just returned from a stroll to one of his farms. He noted the distressed look on the face of his wife the moment he entered the house. “It is too bad, John,” she said, “but something has happened that may paean sorrow for our only darling. I am glad she is away. She little dreams the grief that must come to her tender heart, but we must be very firm, John, for her sake.” “If I only knew what you were hinting at,” observed her husband quite testily, “I might comprehend the significance of your strange words.” “It is this, John, replied Mrs. Rushton. “You know that when -Angela went away for a week’s stay with a friend, she told us with tremors and blushes that the young man who proposed to her in the city had asked permission to call upon her.” “And state his case. Go on,” spoke Mr. Rushton impatiently. “He came today—about two hours ago.” “Well?" Mrs. Rushton almost cried. Her face puckered.— She could scarcely control her emotion. “He came, John,” she said brokenly. “The hired man, Fulton, told me about

two hours ago that a young man was asleep on the front steps. I was startled and amazed. You know we expected Mr. Lyle Wyman today. Well, there he was, John, helpless—oh, John! worse than that, helpless, intoxicated ! ’’ The strong firm Jaws of the old man came together with a fierce resounding Snap. “What did you do with him?” he demanded. “Hia card had fallen from his pocket —‘Mr. Lyle Wyman.’ I got Fulton to hitch up the buggy and take him down to the hotel.” “Send Fulton to me at once," spoke Mr. Rushton, his brow dark, his lips set. He went into the library and wrote a brief note addressed to the young man he had half decided to accept as a son-in-law. Its import was: “I desire that you have no further acquaintance or communication with any member of my family.” Fulton appeared. He took the sealed missive tendered. “You recall the young man who was here this afternoon?" questioned his employer. “Only too well, sir. He was a wild one! We had a time getting him to bed at the hotel, sir.” “See that this letter gets to him as spon as he returns to his right mind.” “Yes, sir,” acquiesced Fulton, and when he returned from his mission it was to inform Mr. Rushton that the hotelkeeper had agreed to see that the letter was delivered. “You will write to Angela at onces directed Mr. Rushton to his wife, that evening. “Oh, John! about this unfortunate young man?” “The wretch! Yes.” “It will break her heart.” “Better that than a lifetime of drawn out misery. Tell her clearly how the worthless fellow has manifested himself. Further, she must never write or speak to him again. She must forget him.” In her woman’s way Mrs. Rußbton went at the hard task set. The letter was sent to Angela. She aeturned home three days later, wan, samfellent. Except for one brief Interview with her mother the subject of her lover was not referred to in the house. With Angela the will of her parents was law. She mourned, she pined in secret, but she never complained openly. One day she sought her father. If ! was to hand him a sealed letter directed to herself. She had recognized the handwriting. a* -V* * •

“Please bum it, papa!” she pleaded, in crushing agony of spirit. “You are a good daughter,” spoke her father and for the first time in his stem career his voice was husky and unsteady. “We will go South soon and see if we cannot woo the roses back to your cheeks.” Angela sighed wearily. Her father, alone, read the letter. It pleaded for an interview. It spoke of injustice, mystification. John Rushton tore it to ribbons and ground his teeth. Angela sat in the lonely garden one afternoon a week later. Oh.! where was the roselit rapture of the near past, when love was hers? All life was dull and expressionless. She bowed her face in her hands and shut out all save memory. There was a rustle in the hedge behind her. She lifted her head. Her heart stood still. She arose to her feet swaying, her face white and drawn. “Angela!" spoke Lyle Wyman and held out his arms appealingly. She drew a rustic chair towards her. «he held it so it was a barrier between them. “You must not speak, you must go, now and for all time!” she uttered in pained fluttering whisperings. “Yes, that is true,” came the sad resigned reply, “but I could not leave you, home, friends, all, never to return without once more looking upon your face. Dearest Angela, what does it all mean? Why have I been suddenly cruelly parted from you as though 1 were a pestilence?” “You must go, go!” faintly reiterated Angela, “In all Ijonor do not linger. I only hope that time will heal the wounds, that you will forget and repent and —and become a man among men. Oh, leave me I beseech of you! My soul is rent —I am dying!” She felt that the words were true. A weak young girl, unaccustomed to the harshness and world experiences, that moment seemed to bulk up all the agony and heartbreak she had suffered, a mute, obedient victim, for the past few weeks. She tottered. He caught her limp, swaying form and supported her. She had not fainted, but her senses were reeling, and she was very nearly at the point of a collapse. As he held her she waved her hand feebly and her eyes distended. “Go, go,” she gasped. “See —my father!" The next moment there came a rush past a line of high bushes. A man burst through them with force, a human whirlwind. "Father, it is he—father, he is going! Oh, I cannot say the words —I love him so! I love him so! I love him so!” wailed poor Angela, and swooned to the garden seat. John Rushton was white to the lips. He faced the young man, his great hands gnarled, his eyes flashing dangerously, his giant frame fairly convulsed. “Go!” he said, and posed as though he would rush at the devastator of the family peace. Lyle Wyman cast one fond look at the blighted flower on the garden seat He was helpless to resent the dictates of stern, relentless destiny. A sob choked him. He turned to leave, with bowed head and stricken soul. Fulton, a few steps behind his master, caught the latter by the sleeve. “Sir, sir, this is not the man!” he spoke rapidly. “What do you mean?" challenged Mr. Rushton furiously. “Not the one I took to the hotel —oh, no, sir!” “Wait!” A dim suspicion of a possible error urged the utterance of the word. After the retreating Wyman Mr. Rushton hastened. And then explanations, the truth, a wretched error revealed. Upon that inauspicious day in his life, just approaching the village where he expected td see the parents of his fiancee, a telegram had reached Wyman, directing an immediate return to Jhe city on important business. His cousin, a weak, Irresponsible young man, was with him. He had given him his card and directed him to see Mr. Rushton and explain that a later call would be made. The cousin had fallen a victim to his habitual infirmity. He carried the letter of dismissal to Wyman. When gentle Angela awoke it was to find her lover anxiously awaiting her return to consciousness—and to happiness complete.

He Took the Sealed Missive Tendered.