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IN THE NAME OF THE LAW
A Story in Which Incidents Recorded Are True —Scenes From Real Life, in Some Cases Names Not Even Changed.
CHAPTER VI. (Continued.)
Found.
C
REAT heavens,” exclaimed Dr.
Thornton, as he bent over the pros
trate form of Harry Wardsworth,
“can such a heinous crime as this
have been permitted in America!
Is this what they call a Christian
country! And that miserable, ly
ing scoundrel, that licensed dealer
in the slow murder business, would
_— . . z
make us believe that poor Wordsworth came
here and nailed himself in, of his own free will.
Poor fellow, he looks more like a dead man
than a living one. Let us try to get him out
of this, and take him at least to where he can
have God’s pure air.”
“Let me see,” said Mr. Simpson, as he at
tempted to raise up the helpless and almost
unconscious man, “is not Pitman regarded as
the highest class saloonkeeper in Cedarville?
Have not thirty of the freeholders of our city
testified, in their petition, that he is a man of
good moral character? And is not this place
often referred to as a model saloon?”
“Very true,” replied Dr. Thornton, “but
that is 'only as it appears before the footlights.
You and I have had a view behind the scenes.”
Yes, it was said that Walter Pitman kept the
highest class saloon in the city—and perhaps
he did. His barroom was the resort of the so
called better class of business men who pro
fessed to drink only in moderation. And was
not the place licensed by law? And was it not
by far the best fitted up and most nicely fur
nished, with its costly mirrors, beautiful paint
ings, cut-glass, and silver and gold?
Indeed, Pitman considered his place so high
class that he could not afford to have Wards
worth found there in a drunken condition, or
to be detected in the act of getting some one
to take him home; but preferred to rob him
alike of his money and his reason, then store
him away in an old outhouse, and lie about
his being there.
And is such an occurrence as this rare? No,
sad to say, it is one oft-repeated in this pro
fessed! Christian land of ours. Thousands of
American homes are nightly made desolate by
the absence of a father, son or brother who
has been hidden under the shelter of some sa
loon that he may sleep off the effect of the
poison administered by the authority of the
law.
Pitman knew Harry Wardsworth as well as
he knew his own brother. He knew his friends
were anxiously searching for him. He knew
that he had received favors from him without
number. But now, in the hour when he need
ed a kindness, Pitman considered it beneath
his position to lend a helping hand in doing
the right thing—to send Wardsworth to his
home. Such is the cruelty of the liquor traffic.
What a terrible wreck twenty-four hours
had made of Harry Wardsworth! Could that
ghastly, besotted-looking creature be the same
handsome young fellow who had gone out
from his happy home, devoted wife, and beau
tiful boy, only yesterday?
He was carried back to the home which he
had gambled away; and there, through the long
hours of the night, kind friends guarded him
during his fierce battles with all the imaginary
demons which hell on earth could produce.
One who has never witnessed such a scene can
not possibly imagine the horrors of that vigil.
He imagined that huge beasts were tearing his
flesh, that venomous snakes were darting their
fiery tongues at him and choking him to death
as they coiled their huge bodies around him,
and that his beautiful home waft being burned
in which he and his wife and boy were being
roasted alive. Ah, the scenes of that night
can not be pictured either by word or pen!
Ye who have carelessly turned away from
the warnings of those who have witnessed such
heart-rending scenes, and have entered the
The Golden Age for March 7, 1912.
By REV. H. P. FITCH.
road that leads down to those regions of black
ness, that hell of such hideous monsters, permit
this writer to entreat you to stop now, before
you pass beyond the door of TOO LATE,
through which no one is ever able to return.
For days and nights to come, Harry Wards
worth’s struggle continued down to the very
doors of death. At last nature triumphed, and
he slowly rallied. But every spark of manhood
within him seemed to have been stifled. He
made a few feeble efforts to regain his poise,
but to no avail. He seemed to have passed that
turning point, beyond which scarcely dawns
a ray of hope. To be tempted was to yield, and
soon it became a common saying, “Poor Wards
worth is drunk again.” The wife’s cup of
misery seemed more than she could bear.
CHAPTER VII.
The Comforter.
The family of Rev. Charles Bradley had risen
from breakfast, and the minister had retired
to his study to perform some pastoral duty,,
when the postman came with a special delivery
letter for Mrs. Bradley. It was postmarked
“Cedarville,” and the address was evidently
in the handwriting of her sister, Belle, but per
formed in a very trembling manner. A strange
foreboding seized her, and it was some mo
ments before she could open the letter. Finally
she broke the seal, and after reading the letter
twice over, remained some moments in prayer
ful meditation.
Finally, going to her husband’s study, she
entered and asked, “Husband, can you spare
me from home for a few weeks?”
After looking up for a moment in some sur
prise, he answered pleasantly, “I presume I
can, my dear, if you so wish. ’ ’
For answer, his wife placed in his hand her
sister’s letter, which he read slowly and care
fully :
“Cedarville, June —, 18 —.
“Dear Sister Kate:
“You remember when, on that bright May
morning, now five years ago, I stood up, and
in the glad joyousness of my girlhood, took
upon me the solemn vows of wife. And you
remember when you, my dearest friend, while
rejoicing with me in my happiness, bade me
remember that life was not all sunshine, I even
laughed at the thought that to me could ever
come sorrow.
“You know not, dear sister, how sadly I have
learned the bitter lesson. Hitherto I have tried
to write cheerfully, for I have hoped for the
best; but now all hope seems gone and my
heart is breaking with the fullness of its grief.
“You remember on the morning of my mar
riage, you referred to Harry’s habit of drink
ink wine; and said that was the only dark cloud
you could discern on the horizon of my life.
I could not then believe there could be the
slightest danger; but, oh! how bitterly I have
been compelled to mourn my mistake. Slowly,
but surely, the serpent has wound his deadly
coils around my dear husband until, all help
less he lies in the grasp of his foe. 0, dear sis
ter, what shall I do! My pen refuses to write
the sad words expressive of my sufferings.
“Is it too much, dear sister, to ask of you to
come to me for a short time? I need you, oh,
so much! Do not, when you write home, tell
the dear ones there the story of my trials. It
would almost kill them. I am glad they are
all far enough away not to hear it. May God
bless them, and make their life flow smoothly
on, whatever becomes of me.
“Write me, and if you can come, please do
so without delay.
“Your loving sister,
‘ ‘ BELLE WARDSWORTH. ’ ’
Without hesitation, Mr. Bradley said, “It
does seem like a call of duty. I think you would
better go and carry all the comfort you can.
Poor girl, if that is the state of affairs, she is
indeed in -want of all the sympathy it is pos-
sible to impart. When can you be ready to
start?”
“This is Thursday,” answered his wife. “I
hardly think I can go before Monday. I can
not well leave the children until I have sup
plied them with some necessaries. I can at
tend to that duty this week, and be ready to
start on Monday.”
“Very well, you would better get ready to
go on that day, dropping your sister a note
to that effect by today’s mail. And one word
more, dear, I fear we shall find matters even
worse than we expect. Should they have
reached a crisis, don’t fail to give Belle the
warmest assurance of a loving place in our
home and hearts. Poor girl, to think that such
a sweet, lovable character should suffer the
fate of a drunkard’s wife.”
“I can not suffeiently thank you, my dear
husband. It is what I might have expected
from one so noble and generous.”
The remainder of the week was all hurry
and bustle at the parsonage. Mrs. Bradley had
many duties to perform before she could leave
her own little family comfortable, and yet she
often found herself pausing in the midst of
some unfinished task, to picture the sad, lone
sister in the war-away Western home. Time
dragged heavily, although her hands were so
busily engaged; and for the first time in all
her married years, she was glad when the hour
arrived that was to see her borne away from
the home of her household treasures.
Wednesday evening brought her to her des
tination. Owing to some delay in the mails,
Mrs. Wardsworth had not receive the note in
forming her of her sister’s coming, and she
was not, therefore, fully prepared for her ar
rival. She had just tucked little Harry away
in his crib, and had taken up some sewing,
when a carriage halted at the gate and a lady
alighted Instantly she recognized her sister
Kate. If she had had time to get control of
her feelings, she could have been more com
posed, but as it was, she had strength only
to totter to the door, and fall sobbing into the
arms of her sister. All the long pent-up feel
ings of her breaking heart instantly burst forth,
and it was with the greatest difficulty that she
was supported to a couch upon which she fell
in an almost fainting condition. Kneeling by
her, the loving sister became a divine refuge in
this dark hour. No words were yet spoken,
but the elder sister was glad to see that the
younger could find relief in tears.
Presently she became calmer, and little by
little she was carefuly and tenderly led to voice
her sad story. Mrs. Bradley’s worst fears were
more than realized. Everything was gone.
Even some of their best furniture had been sold
to supply them with the necessaries of life.
“Even our beautiful home is gone!” she ex
claimed.
“Why, how is that?” asked Mrs. Bradley, in
great surprise. “Has Harry become so deeply
involved as that, and how ? ” ,
Mrs. Wardsworth buried her face in her
hands, and again gave way to another uncon
trollable fit of weeping. When she had suffi
ciently recovered to be able to speak coherent
ly again, with a crimson face, revealing how
deeply she felt her husband’s degradation, she
said:
“I can not tell how it is, but I awfully fear
that to the vice of drinking Harry has added
that of gambling. A man by the name of
Slocum, who owns a large distillery here, says
he holds a mortgage on our home for $7,000.
The neighbors say the place is worth SIO,OOO,
but is so fast going to decay that it won’t be
worth even the amount of the mortgage much
longer. I can not understand how Harry could
possibly have gotten so heavily in debt to him.
Once or twice I have mentioned the matter to
Harry, but he goes all to pieces at the mere
hint of it, so I have ceased to question him in
regard to it.
(To be continued.)
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