The Manning Times

The Substitute

By WILL N. HARBEN.

Author of "Abner Daniel," "The Land of the Changing Sun," "The North Walk Mystery." Etc.

Copyright 1905, by Harper & Brothers

CHAPTER XXXIV.

The next morning at breakfast, while Hillyer sat sipping his coffee his wife stood near his chair

"It's time I played my last card," she was saying. "I tell you thar's some mistake. I don't believe Lydia Cranston would let that pore boy lie upstairs an' suffer without one word from her at sech a time—a time when the whole town au' county is a-talkin' about his manliness an' bravery an' the wrong done his daddy. That hain't like a woman one bit. Not one woman in ten thousand would stay quiet at such a time without some strong reason."

"Well, what are you goin' to do about it?" the merchant asked.

"Do? Why, I've got my case all in hand, as Mr. Trabue would 'a' said. The evidence is all in, an' it will have weight when I sum it up. I'm simply a-goin' to them weevil eaten aristocrats an' have it out with 'em, one way or tother."

"You say you are?"

"Yes, I am. I know human natur' an' I'm not afeard to risk my judgment. I'm a-goin' to take that letter George writ to you the night he was shot—oh, yes, I am; you needn't raise a kick about that. It is admitted as evidence, an' strong evidence at that. Then I'm a-goin' to tell 'em what me'n' you have agreed on. That is my trump card. It'll knock out anything they hold; now you see ef it don't I'm goin' to give them a-talkin' to that they won't forget soon, an' I'll do it right, too, fer I don't expect to tell anything but the truth. Ef Lydia Cranston has engaged 'erself to that stuck up bump on a rotten log, she'll have the satisfaction o' knowin' that thar's one woman in the land that knows whar she's drivin' 'er ducks."

Hillyer rose, with a smile. "Well, maybe you kin sorter bring 'em to the'r senses, an' I say go it. I lost control o' myself t'other day an' give the old major a piece o' my mind, an' he mought as well git t'other half from you. I wish you luck. Ef you fail, it will be about the fust time you've missed fire since I've knowed you. I reckon it won't kill 'im. Mrs. Dugan says the New York doctor found 'im as sound as a dollar."

About 10 o'clock Mrs. Hillyer went down to Cranstons'. She was attired in her best black silk gown and flowered bonnet, and she walked with a firm, decided tread. She was invited by the maidservant at the door into the sitting room, where Cranston sat before an open window, looking out into the balmy spring sunshine. His wife was near him, and Lydia had just come in with a glass of claret punch and stood stirring it at his side. They all greeted her pleasantly, and Lydia seemed somewhat surprised at the unexpected visit, for it occurred to her quick powers of observation that, while George Buckley lay ill at the Hillyers' and right upon the news of his father's death and public exoneration, a call from Mrs. Hillyer was, to say the least, extraordinary. So Lydia's face became rigidly expectant as she seated herself and endeavored to participate calmly in the platitudes that her mother, with her usual tact, managed to set going.

"I was powerful glad to hear," said Mrs. Hillyer to the major, "that the New York specialist made a favorable report on yore case."

"Yes; he took quite a load of worry off my mind, thank you, madam."

The major always addressed ladies as "madam" whom he did not specially like. It was a way he had of leaving the impression that he might or might not remember their names. In the same way he frequently greeted certain men whom he considered beneath him socially with a vague "How do you do, sir?" However, his formality of speech today had little effect on the visitor. If he had called her by her given name, without a prefix, she would not have spoken what was on her mind any sooner.

"Thar's no use beatin' the devil around a bush, folkses," she began lightly. "I've come here this mornin' to do my duty as I see it, an' I hadn't a-goin' to waste time. The good book says do unto others as you'd have them do unto you, an' ef I was actin' as wrong as you uns are I'd want folks to tell me of it. I'd want'em to telegraph ef they couldn't git to me right away."

The Cranstons were all staring fixedly. The warm color was rising in Lydia's face.

"Why, what's wrong, madam?" asked the major in astonishment.

"It's all about yore daughter here n' George Buckley." Mrs. Hillyer blurted out with firmness. "Them two hain't bein' treated right. It may seem like I'm takin' a lots fer granted in includin' her, but she don't look to me like a fool, an' any woman would be a fool to be adored by a man like she is by George Buckley an' not want to treat 'im with common decency."

Lydia started to speak as she drew herself up more erectly, but her father prevented it.

"I trust you will pardon me, madam," he said, "for frankly saying that the subject isn't agreeable to us."

"Oh, yo're excusable," said the caller. "I wouldn't hold that agin you, but it won't hurt you to git down to rock bottom facts. I believe yo're tryin' to keep yore pure hearted daughter from doin' what's right, an' to persuade'er to do what she'll regret. Thar hain't but one man on the topside o' God's green globe today that she ort to marry, an' that man is—George Buckley. An' what have you got ag'n him now, I'd like to know? After seein' all that pitiful account in the papers of the wrong done his old father, you cayn't shake that in the pore, wounded boy's face. You cayn't say he's a coward, as they say about the lordly governor o' this state. You cayn't say he's a bankrupt an' a spendthrift, like they say about Telfare. Nor you cayn't accuse George Buckley o' resortin' to low political tricks to advance his interests, an'—"

"Madam," the major broke in, raising his thin hand protestingly, "I must beg you"—

"Don't beg me, Major Cranston," hurried on the woman, her eyes flashing, her bosom heaving excitedly, as she leaned forward, her elbows on her knees. "I've come here to talk, an' I will be heard. I want Lydia to hear more than I do you, fer I believe she'll act. She's been blinded, that gal has, or she's a unnat'ral woman, one or t'other, fer no woman made on the right plan would let things go jest like they are a-goin' an' never cheep a word agin it. Lydia Cranston"—she turned to the staring, wondering girl—"did you hear about a certain letter George Buckley wrote my husband jest before he thought he was goin' to be shot by them robbers?"

"I heard he wrote something, some instructions to Mr. Hillyer," replied the girl in an unsteady voice, "something about what the men had demanded, but that's all father told me. I haven't been out of the house since we got back from Atlanta."

"Well, le' me tell you some'n'," went on Mrs. Hillyer. "Thar hain't a woman today in all America—an' I'm no exception—that knows, actually knows, she's loved enough by a man to be in his last thoughts when he's expectin' every second to meet a horrible death. I've got that letter in my hand. I did intend to read it to you, but I won't, fer it's too sacred. But I'll tell you what the pore boy was bothered by jest one thought in that awful moment, an' that was that the woman he loved an' wanted to care fer was to be left to marry a worthless man. He begged Mr. Hillyer to ax 'er not to do it. Ef George had 'a' died that ud 'a' been his message from the grave. I wonder ef—"

Lydia Cranston had risen to her feet and stood bending toward the impassioned speaker, her great, beautiful eyes distended.

"Did—did he write that, Mrs. Hillyer?" she cried. "Oh, did he?"

"Not only that," replied Mrs. Hillyer, "but he has laid thar in my house ever since, pinin' fer a word, a message, a line from the woman he loved, but not a thing come. I got to lookin' fer it, too, fer I 'lowed I'd made no mistake in sizin' the woman up, an' t'other day, when a big bunch o' roses come fer 'im with a note, I actually run up to his room with 'em, I was so glad. I knowed whar they growed, an' like a fool, I told 'im they was from the right source. His pore, pale face flushed all over. But when he opened the note it was from somebody else. His lip jest sagged down an' jerked as he tol' me I was mistaken in the pusson that had sent them. My Lord! I was hoppin' mad then! Say, what are you uns, anyway, that you kin hold yoreselves aloof from sech a man at sech a time? Even ef you did intend to balk the marriage you could 'a' treated 'im like a human bein', stricken in upholdin' his honor an' protectin' the rights o' other people."

"Mrs. Hillyer"—Lydia drew herself up to her full height, her startled eyes bearing down on the caller—"do you mean to say that George Buckley has not had a letter from me since he was wounded?"

"I certainly do, Miss Lydia."

Then the girl turned to Mrs. Cranston, taking a step toward her in her eagerness. "Mother," she said fiercely, "you took my letters away from Jane. I saw you talking to her."

"Why, daughter, I"—

"Did you do it?" the girl demanded sharply. "Did you?"

Mrs. Cranston hesitated and then said falteringly, her eyes on the carpet:

"You were so unduly wrought up and excited by—by the report of the shooting that really I—I"—

"Mother," Lydia interrupted her, "you have gone too far. You had no right under heaven to act as you did. It was a crime, considering his condition and—my feelings. Mrs. Hillyer, is Hortense at home?"

"Yes, she's thar, Miss Lydia."

"Well, I'm going to explain to George, and I'm going now," Lydia said. "He shan't wait one minute longer to know how I feel and how I've felt all along. You have done everything on earth to make me untrue to my better self, mother, and at last resorted to actual dishonesty. I'll never marry the man you want me to—never!" With that the girl turned quickly from the room.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]