Evening Republican, Volume 59, Number 66, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 9 April 1917 — “Hush!” [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

“Hush!”

By Victor Redcliffe

(Cojijright, 1917, by W. G. Chapman.) ■ “Who is she?” • —-- +■■ “Mrs. Barnabetta Burgoyne.” “She Is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen," pronounced Wayne Blatehford. only a humdrum law clerk, tret' artistic, temperamentally poetic, and, therefore, susceptible to strong impressions. He had paused in a casual stroll through the little inland city of Waithum to observe the occupant of a modest but expensive automobile. The ear was standing at the curb, its chauffeur evidently having been sent on some mission to one of the stores on this, the principal street of the town. A young lady sat in a somewhat rigid pose, her face statuesque in its classic beauty. \Vhat struck Blatehford was that, while to ordinary eyes, this superb, figure would have suggested the cold hauteur of an aristocrat, seeking the depths of her eyes he noted a hidden trace of sadness, subtle, ineffable. More than that, he discovered that While humble passers-by bowed to her ■with infinite respect, those in passing automobiles of higher social prestige either greeted her not at all or with a scant civility, and'the lips of the peerless creature fluttered tremulously at the fact, as though she felt deeply the contempt, or obloquy, expressed. Then the chauffeur returned and the automobile sped away. Leaving Blatehford like one in a passing trance. He aroused himself with an effort. “Burgoyne?” he repeated vaguely. “Where have I heard that name before? Ah! I fancy an old historical reminiscence.” Wayne Blatehford did not meet the young lady again during the next two days, but he did not forget her. Then his interest in her was revived by a strange circumstance. He was strollthrough tlie beautiful cemetery at the edgeol!; the city tree afternoon, ,wheq he observed a high, massive shaft bearing the name "Burgoyne.”

Again it suggested something he had forgotten, but the similitude once more escaped him. The imposing shaft bore a lengthy legend. ,It detailed the services to his country and t 6 his city of William Rnrgoyne ranking brigadier in the army and mayor of Waltham. It expanded on his integrity and public and private charities. v , _ Then, aroused to sheer amazement, Blatchford traced a brief and obscure legend upon a low, flat slab of marble placed at the remote edge of the same burial lot. for it read, “Williston, son of William Burgoyne—Hush I” He thrilled, and he knew not why. The uncanny sensation that overcame him was past analysis. Why the halfI hidden tablet] in the shadow of the towering shaft? Why—“hush”? It Was a warning, an appeal, a pitiful call for human charity. Why? Involuntarily, Wayne Blatchford removed his hat and stood with head bowed. His impressive nature responded to this fairly emotional presentment. The stone hid—what?—a secret?—a mystery?—a direful taint? And what might it not have to do with the bereaved,daughter of William Burgoyne ’ “Williston —ah! a clue, a vital suggestion. The names in conjunction stirred up memory to a new effort. Now he knew where he had seen that name before. His thoughts went groping to rest upon a clear central fact. Then a rustling sound In the grass behind him caused him to turn quickly, and he could noj restrain,a quick gasp, for, viewing mm wonderingly, was*Mlss Barnabetta Burgoyne. In the near distance was her automobile, in her hands she bore some flowers. Evidently her mission was ,to do homage to the dead. Blatchford drew aside almost guiltily, as though be were committing a desecration, for

fear she might construe ids presence here into callous seeking into the mystery Of the secret that hallowed grave might conceal. . T A fine bitter scorn came into that lovely facehe had not believed it capaas he said simply t “Pardon me,” and started respectfully to siove on. ' — “Oh, I understand!" she said:: —“they even enlighten strangers as to the wretched qaluumy that killed my poor father.” “You mistake,” spoke Blatehford speedily. “It was reverence, it was syffl]stithy; rr. wits »soidnn pity ’«« presence of that strange word — ‘huah! £”= , She fixed a look upon him as if Intent upon reading his very soul Then her eyes softened. Sheturned her face away. He caught the faint echo of a sob. - - _ “If I dared to believe that I could he of service to you!” he was con-. strained to speak, “not to intrude on your sorrow, only to lighten your burden, if that were possible. Believe me, all I see, all I surmise, appeals to the depths of my very soul.” Again those “translucent eyes fixed his own. She put out her hand. She did not withdraw It until she had led him to a rustic bench at the edge of the pathway. 'ZTZZZZZZZZZZ__.— “ ‘Hush’ 1” she said. “Do you understand what that means? Go ask any gossip of the town, look back in the public prints a year agone, learn all the tragic story as others tell it. Then, if your soul does npt shrink from the hideous presentment, come to me," as friend, as counselor of a broken-heart-ed woman with but one thought in life—to clear the memory of a noble father unjustly accused, driven to his Heath by the uncharitableness of a cruel persecution.” It was a strange soul communion. He welcomed it, he cherished it. And all the time his mind was repeating that name, “Williston Burgoyne.” The single name had simply awakened his memory, the two together—it all came back to him now! He did not tell his impassioned companion what was in his mind. He listened to her story and a new flood of light resulted. She told of her father, rich, honored, respected, accused by a business rival who hated him of faithlessness in the sacred trust of a widow and orphan. Long since the just division of an estate had been concluded. When Mr. Burgoyne went to get the papers proving every step lie had taken In the: trust, they were gone. “The house had been burglarized a nionth before,” narrated Miss Burgoyne. “Whoever took jewelry and money also carried away a portfolio containing those papers. The wicked, persecutor saw his power mid urged it cruelly. Our claims were treated as fiction, my father was disgraced. The blow killed him. The thief probably threw the papers away, for I have advertised a large reward for their ret urn.” An appeal for help, for sympathy, for interest was in those beautiful eyes. Blatehford arose, a great purpose in his mind. “Dear lady,” he said, and his strong voice trembled, “your pitiful story has openyd a sealed chamber in my mind. I may have great news for you within the next forty-eight hours.” He had, for this had happened: Nearly a year before his law firm had closed up the affairs of a notorious criminal and his wife had brought all of his papers to the office. Distinctly now Blatehford recalled It package of ddcuihehts“KearTng tlie~name ton Burgoyne.” Back he- sped to the - city. On a dusty shelf of the vault of the office Blatehford found them, where they had been cast aside as having no bearing on the estate of the criminal’s widow. ’ 7TZZZZZ But to Barnabetta Burgoyne they were everything, for they were the documents that proved her father an innocent man! It was the glory of her life, the rehabilitation of that beloved parent’s memory. It was Blatehford who stanchly assisted her in the task. In the glow of a beautiful summer evening those two, with joined hands and joined hearts, saw removed by the carver's chisel from the little obscure tombstone, that searing, sinister word, "Hush!”

“Williston”—Ah! a Clue, a Vital Suggestion.