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HOPE HATHAWAY
[Illustration]
_HOPE HATHAWAY_
A Story of
Western Ranch Life
_BY
FRANCES PARKER_
[Illustration]
BOSTON, MASS.
C. M. CLARK PUBLISHING CO. (Inc.)
1904
_COPYRIGHT, 1904_
_by_
_C. M. CLARK PUBLISHING CO. (Inc.)
BOSTON, MASS., U. S. A._
_Entered at Stationers Hall, London_
_Rights of Translation, Public Reading and
Dramatization Reserved_
HOPE HATHAWAY
CHAPTER I
Hathaway's home-ranch spread itself miles over an open valley on the
upper Missouri. As far as the eye reached not a fence could be seen, yet
four barbed-wires, stretched upon good cotton-wood posts, separated the
ranch from the open country about.
Jim Hathaway was an old-time cattle-man. He still continued each summer
to turn out upon the range great droves of Texas steers driven north by
his cowboys, though at this time it was more profitable to ship in
Western grown stock. He must have known that this was so, for every year
his profits became less, yet it was the nature of the man to keep in the
old ruts, to cling to old habits.
The old-time cowboy was fast disappearing, customs of the once wild West
were giving way before an advancing civilization. He had seen its slow,
steady approach year after year, dreading--abhorring it. Civilization
was coming surely. What though his lands extended beyond his good
eyesight, were not these interlopers squatting on every mile of creek in
the surrounding country? The open range would some time be a thing of
the past. That green ridge of mountains to the west,--_his_ mountains,
his and the Indians, where he had enjoyed unmolested reign for many
years,--were they not filling them as bees fill a hive, so filling them
with their offensive bands of sheep and small cow-ranches that his
cattle had all they could do to obtain a footing?
On one of his daily rides he had come home tired and out of humor. The
discovery of a new fence near his boundary line had opened up an
unpleasant train of thought, and not even the whisky, placed beside him
by a placid-faced Chinese servant, could bring him into his usual jovial
spirits. After glancing through a week-old newspaper and finding in it
no solace for his ugly mood, he threw himself down upon his office
lounge, spreading the paper carefully over him. The Chinaman, by rare
intuition, divined his state of mind and stole cautiously into the room
to remove the empty glasses, at the same time keeping his eyes fixed
upon the large man under the newspaper.
Hathaway generally took a nap in the forenoon after returning from his
ride, for he was an early riser, and late hours at night made this habit
imperative. This day his mood brought him into a condition where he felt
no desire to sleep, so he concluded, but he must have fallen into a
doze, for the sharp tones of a girl's voice directly outside his window
brought him to his feet with a start.
"If that's what you're driving at you may as well roll up your bedding
and move on!" It was spoken vehemently, with all the distinctness of a
clear-toned voice. A man replied, but in more guarded tone, so that
Hathaway went to the window to catch his words.
"You don't know what you're talking about," he was saying. "This is my
home as well as yours, and I'd have small chance to carry out my word if
I went away, so I intend to stay right here. Do you know, Hope, when you
get mad like that you're so devilish pretty that I almost hate you! Look
at those eyes! You'd kill me if you could, wouldn't you? But you'll love
me yet, and marry me, too, don't forget that!"
"How can you talk to me so," demanded the girl, stepping back from him,
"after all my father has done,--made you his son,--given you everything
he would have given a son? Oh!" she cried passionately, "I can't _bear_
you in this new role! It is terrible, and I've looked upon you as a
_brother_! Now what are you? You've got no right to talk to me so--to
insist!"
"But your mother----" he interrupted.
"My _mother_!" weariedly. "Yes, of course! It would be all right there.
You have money--enough. A good enough match, no doubt; and she would be
freer to go,--would feel better to know that she had no more
responsibility here. You know your ground well enough _there_." Then
with growing anger: "Don't you ring in my mother on me! I tell you I
wouldn't marry you if I _never_ got married! I'm strong enough to fight
my own battles, and I will, and you'd better forget what you've said to
me and change the subject forever!" She walked away, her strong, lithe
body erect.
"But you're handsome, you brown devil!" he cried, taking one step and
clasping her roughly to him. She tore herself loose, her eyes blazing
with sudden fire, as Hathaway, white with anger, came suddenly around
the corner of his office and grasped the offender by the coat collar.
Then the slim young man was lifted, kicked, and tossed alternately from
off the earth, while the girl stood calmly to one side and watched the
performance, which did not cease until the infuriated man became
exhausted. Then the boy picked himself up and walked unsteadily toward
the building, against which he leaned to regain his breath while
Hathaway stood panting.
"Here, hold on a minute," roared the angry father as the young man moved
away. "I ain't done with you yet! Get your horse and get off this ranch
or I'll break every bone in your damn body! You will treat my girl like
that, will you? You young puppy!" The young fellow was whipped
undoubtedly, but gracefully, for he turned toward Hathaway and said
between swollen lips:
"You don't want to blame me too much, Uncle Jim. Just look at the girl!
Any man would find it worth risking his neck for her!" Then he moved
slowly away, while the girl's eyes changed from stern to merry. Her
father choked with rage.
"You--you--you----Get away from here, and don't talk back to me!" he
roared at the retreating figure.
The girl moved forward a few steps, calling: "That's right, Sydney, keep
your nerve! When you're ready to call it off we'll try to be friends
again." Without waiting for her cousin's reply she ran into the house,
while he lost no time in leaving the ranch, riding at a rapid gait
toward the nearest town. Hathaway watched him out of sight, then with a
nervous, bewildered shake of the head joined his wife and daughter at
luncheon.
"At last your father has come," sighed Mrs. Hathaway, as he appeared.
"Hope, ring for the chocolate; I'm almost famished. It seems to me,
James," turning to her husband with some impatience, "that you might
_try_ to be a little more prompt in getting to your meals--here we've
been waiting ages! You know I can't bear to wait for anyone!" She sighed
properly and unfolded her napkin.
"My dear," said Hathaway blandly, "I'm sorry to have kept you waiting,
but I've been somewhat occupied--somewhat."
"But you should always consider that your meals come first, even if your
wife and family do not," continued the lady. "Where is Sydney? The dear
boy is generally so very prompt."
The effect of her words was not apparent. Her husband appeared
absent-minded and the meal began.
The daughter, Hope, with quiet dignity befitting a matron, occupied the
head of the table, as she had done ever since her mother shifted the
responsibilities of the household to her young shoulders. When this
question was asked she gave her father a quick glance. Would he
acknowledge the truth? Evidently not, for he began immediately to talk
about the new fence near his boundary line. It was a shame, he said,
that these people were settling in around him.
"The land's no good," he declared. "Nearly all the water around here
that's any account is on my place. All on earth these hobos are taking
it up for is in expectation that I'll buy them out. Well, maybe I will,
and again maybe I won't. I'd do most anything to get rid of them, but I
can't buy the earth." At this Hope smiled, showing a flash of strong,
white teeth.
"And if you could buy the earth, what would you do with these people?"
she asked, her face settling into its natural quiet. Her mother gave her
the usual look of amazement.
"Hope, I must ask you not to say impertinent things to your father. You
no doubt meant to be witty, but you were none the less rude. Why do you
allow her to say such things to you, James? You have succeeded in
spoiling her completely. Now if _I_ had been allowed to send her away to
school she would have grown up with better manners."
Hathaway passed his cup to be refilled, making no answer to his wife's
outburst. Perhaps he had learned in his years of experience that the
less said the better. At any rate he made no effort to defend his
daughter--his only child, and dear to him, too. If she had expected that
he would defend her it was only for a passing instant, then she returned
to her natural gravity. Her face had few expressions. Its chief charm
lay in its unchanging immobility, its utter quiet, behind which gleamed
something of the girl's soul. When her rare smile came, lighting it up
wonderfully, she was irresistible--in her anger, magnificent.
Ordinarily she would not have been noticed at first glance, except,
perhaps, for the exceptionally fine poise of her strong, slim body. She
was a true daughter of the West, tanned almost as brown as an Indian
maid, and easily might have passed for a half-breed, with her blue-black
eyes and hair of the darkest brown. But if she had Indian blood she did
not know it. Her mother, during the season, a flitting butterfly of New
York society, a Daughter of the Revolution by half a dozen lines of
descent, would have been horrified at the mere thought.
The girl herself would not have cared had she been born and raised in an
Indian camp. She had what Mrs. Hathaway termed queer ideas, due, as she
always took occasion to explain to her friends who visited the ranch, to
the uncivilized life that she had insisted upon living.
Hope had been obstinate in refusing to leave the ranch. Threats and
punishments were unavailing. When a young child she had resolved never
to go away to school, and had set her small foot down so firmly that her
mother was obliged to yield. Hathaway was secretly glad of this, for
the ranch was home to him, and he would not leave it for any length of
time.
The little girl was great company to him, for his wife was away months
at a time, preferring the gayety of her New York home to the quiet,
isolated ranch on the prairie. Some people were unkind enough to say
that it was a relief to Hathaway to have the place to himself, and
certain it is that he never made any objections to the arrangement.
Their only child, Hope, was educated on the ranch by the best
instructors procurable, and readily acquired all the education that was
necessary to her happiness.
At Mrs. Hathaway's outburst the girl made no effort to defend herself,
and was well aware from former experiences that her father would not
come to her aid. That he was afraid of her mother she would not admit.
It seemed so weak and foolish. She had exalted ideas of what a man
should be. That her father fell below her standard she would not
acknowledge. She loved him so, was proud of his good points, and in
many ways he was a remarkable man, his greatest weakness, if it could be
called that, being his apparent fear of his wife. Her dominion over him,
during her occasional visits at the ranch, was absolute. Hope shut her
eyes to this, telling herself that it was caused by his desire to make
her happy during these rare opportunities.
Hathaway did not respond to his wife's somewhat uncalled-for remarks,
but after a moment of silence adroitly changed the subject by inquiring
of Hope who it was that had ridden up to the ranch just as he left that
morning.
"It must have been Joe Harris, from the mountains," she replied, "for he
was here shortly after you rode away. I thought he was out hunting those
cattle of his that I saw over on Ten Mile the other day, but he informed
me that it was not cattle he was hunting this time, but a
_school-teacher_. They have some sort of a country school up there in
his neighborhood, and I think, from what he said, and what some of the
boys told me, that he must be the whole school board--clerk, trustees,
and everything. He was on his way over to the Cross Bar ranch to see if
he could secure that young fellow who came out from the East last fall.
One of the boys told him that this young man had given up his calling
indefinitely and was going on the round-up instead, but Harris rode on
to try what persuasion would do."
"That _dreadful_ man," sighed Mrs. Hathaway. "He is that _squaw-man_
with those _terrible_ children! Hope, I wish you wouldn't talk so
intimately with such people; it's below your dignity. If Sydney were
here he would agree with me. Where _is_ Sydney? Do you know where he
went? He will miss his luncheon entirely, the poor boy!"
Hope looked searchingly at her father, but he ignored her glance. Surely
he would say something now! The question trembled upon the air, but she
waited involuntarily for him to speak.
"I've asked you a question, Hope. Why don't you answer; are you dumb?"
said her mother, with a show of impatience. "Where _is_ Sydney?"
"I don't know _just_ where he is," replied the girl at length, "but I
think it would be safe to say that he is riding toward town; at least he
was heading that way the last I saw of him."
"Toward town!" gasped her mother. "Why, he was going to drive in for the
Cresmonds to-morrow! You must be mistaken. Please do not include me in
your jokes!" Then, turning to Hathaway, continued: "James, where _did_
he go?"
Hathaway moved uneasily under the direct gaze of his daughter. "I
haven't the least idea," he finally answered. "I can't keep track of
everyone on the ranch." The girl's face turned pale under her tan. She
rose from the table and stood tall and straight behind her chair, her
clear eyes direct upon her father.
"Why don't you tell her," she cried with passion. Then the usual calm
settled over her face. She turned to her mother. "I may as well tell
you that we had a little scene this morning, Sydney and I. He proposed
to me." She hesitated an instant, turned and caught her father's
nervous, anxious look direct. He was watching her uneasily. She
continued deliberately: "I refused him--and sent him away from the
ranch. You may as well know all about it."
"_You_ sent him away from the ranch," gasped Mrs. Hathaway.
"Yes," answered the girl quietly. It was her first lie.
"You _dared_ send him away--away from his own home!" almost screamed
Mrs. Hathaway, her rage increasing with every word. "_You dared!_ _You_,
my own daughter--ungrateful, inconsiderate----You _know_ how I love that
boy, my poor Jennie's son! What business had you sending him away, or
even refusing him, I'd like to know! What if he is your cousin--your
second cousin? Oh, you have no consideration for me, _none_--you never
had! How can I ever endure it here on this ranch three whole months
without Sydney! It was bad enough before!" She wrung her hands and rose
sobbing from the table. "James, do go after that poor boy. Say that I am
willing he should marry Hope if he is so foolish as to want her. Tell
him not to mind anything she says, but that he _must_ come home. You
will go at once, won't you?"
She placed both hands imploringly on his arm.
"Yes, I'll go after him to-morrow, so stop your worrying," he answered
soothingly. "Hope, fetch your mother a glass of wine, don't you see
she's all upset?"
The girl brought the wine and handed it to her father, but his eyes
shifted uneasily from her clear, steady ones. He led his unhappy wife
from the room, leaving Hope alone with the empty wine glass in her hand.
She stood so for a moment, then walked to the table and set the tiny
glass down, but, oddly, raised it up again and looked at it closely.
"As empty as my life is now," she thought. "As empty as this home is for
me. I have no one--father, mother--no one." A queer look crossed her
face; determination settled over her, as with a sudden, vehement motion
she shattered the frail glass upon the floor. A single thought, and a
new life had opened before her.