A CHANGE OF NAME.
At the open upper window of the ranch the sad-faced, pretty girl watched
and waited till Frank Merriwell came riding back over the prairie.
"Here he comes!" she whispered. "He is handsome--so handsome! He is the
first man I have seen who could be compared with Lawton."
Kent Carson had heard of Frank's departure on Wildfire, the bucking
broncho. He found it difficult to believe that his guest had really
ridden away on the animal, and he was on hand, together with Bart and
Ephraim, when Merry came riding back.
Near one of the corrals a group of cowboys had gathered to watch the
remarkable tenderfoot, and make sarcastic remarks to Hough, who was with
them, looking sulky and disgusted.
Mr. Carson hurried to greet Frank.
"Look here, young man," he cried, "I'd like to know where you ever
learned to ride bucking bronchos?"
"This is not the first time I have been on a cattle ranch, Mr. Carson,"
smiled Frank, springing down from Wildfire.
One of the cowboys came shuffling forward. It was Hough.
"Say, tenderfoot," he said, keeping his eyes on the ground, "I allows
that I made some onnecessary remarks ter you a while ago. I kinder
hinted as how you might ride a kaow bettern a hawse. I'll take it all
back. You may be a tenderfoot, but you knows how ter ride as well as any
of us. I said some things what I hadn't oughter said, an' I swallers it
all."
"That's all right," laughed Frank, good-naturedly. "You may have had
good reasons for regarding tenderfeet with contempt, but now you will
know all tenderfeet are not alike. I don't hold feelings."
"Thankee," said Hough, as he led Wildfire away.
Frank glanced up toward the open window above and again he caught a
glimpse of that sad, sweet face.
Mr. Carson shook hands with Frank.
"Now I know you are the kind of chap to succeed in life," he declared.
"I can see that you do whatever you undertake to do. I am beginning to
understand better and better how it happened that my boy thought so much
of you."
He took Frank by the arm, and together they walked toward the house.
Again Merry glanced upward, but, somewhat to his disappointment, that
face had vanished.
It was after supper that Merry and Hodge were sitting alone on the
veranda in front of the house, when Bart suddenly said, in a low tone:
"Merriwell, I have a fancy that there is something mysterious about this
place."
"Is that so?" said Frank. "What is it?"
"I think there is some one in one of those upper rooms who is never seen
by the rest of the people about the place."
"What makes you think so?"
"There is a room up there that I've never seen anyone enter or leave.
The door is always closed. Twice while passing the door I have heard
strange sounds coming from that room."
"This grows interesting," admitted Frank. "Go on."
"The first time," said Bart, "I heard some one in there weeping and
sobbing as if her heart would break."
"Her heart?" came quickly from Merry's lips.
"Yes."
"Then it is a female?"
"Beyond a doubt. The second time I heard sounds in that room to-day
after you rode away on the broncho. I heard some one singing in there."
"Singing?"
"Yes. It was a love song. The voice was very sad and sweet, and still
there seemed something of happiness in it."
Hodge was silent.
"Well, you have stumbled on a mystery," nodded Frank, slowly. "What do
you make of it?"
"I don't know what to make of it, unless some friend or relative of
Carson's is confined in that room."
"Why confined there?"
"You know as well as I do."
Frank opened his lips to say something about the face he had seen at the
window, but at that moment Carson himself came out onto the veranda,
smoking his pipe. The rancher took a chair near, and they chatted away
as twilight and darkness came on.
"How are you getting along on your play, Mr. Merriwell?" asked the man.
"Very well." answered Frank. "You know it is a drama of college
life--life at Yale?"
"No, I didn't know about that."
"It is. just now I am puzzled most to find a name for it."
"What was the name before?"
"'For Old Eli.'"
"U-hum. Who was Old Eli?"
"There!" cried Merry. "That shows me there is a fault with the name.
Even though your boy is in Yale, you do not know that Yale College is
affectionately spoken of by Yale men as 'Old Eli.'"
"No, never knew it before; though, come to think about it, Berlin did
write something in some of his letters about Old Eli. I didn't
understand it, though."
"And the public in general do not understand the title of my play. They
suppose Old Eli must be a character in the piece, and I do not fancy
there is anything catching and drawing about the title. I must have a
new title, and I'm stuck to find one that will exactly fit."
"I suppose you must have one that has some reference to college?"
"Oh, yes! That is what I want. One that brings Yale in somehow."
"All you Yale men seem to be stuck on that college. You're true blue."
Frank leaped to his feet with a cry of delight.
"I have it!" he exclaimed.
"What?" gasped Mr. Carson.
"The title!"
"You have?"
"Yes; you gave it to me then!"
"I did?"
"Sure thing."
"What is it?"
"'True Blue.' That is a title that fits the play. Yale's color is blue,
you know. People may not understand just what the title means, but still
I believe there is something attractive about it, something that will
draw, and the audience will understand it before the play is over. 'True
Blue' is the name! I have been well paid for coming out here, Mr.
Carson! Besides entertaining me royally, you have given me a striking
name for my play."
"Well, I'm sure I'm glad if I've done that," laughed Kent Carson.
"I must put that title down on the manuscript," said Frank. "I feel an
inspiration. I must go to work at once. I am in the mood now, and I can
write."
Excusing himself, he hurried into the house. Soon a light gleamed from
the window of the room in which he worked, which was on the ground
floor. Looking in at that window, Hodge saw Frank had started a fire in
the grate and lighted a lamp. He was seated at a table, writing away
swiftly.
Kent Carson got up and stood beside Hodge looking into the room.
"Merriwell is a great worker," said the rancher.
"He's a steam engine," declared Bart. "I never saw a fellow who could do
so much work and so many things. There is no telling how long he will
drive away at that play to-night. Now that he has the title, he may
finish it to-night, and be ready to leave here in the morning."
"If that happens, I shall be sorry I gave the title so soon," said the
cattleman, sincerely. "I have taken a great liking to that young man."
Frank worked away a long time, utterly unconscious of the flight of the
hours. At last he became aware that the fire in the open grate had made
the room uncomfortably warm. He had replenished it several times, as
there was something wonderfully cheerful in an open fire. He arose and
flung wide the window.
The moon, a thin, shining scimitar, was low down in the west. Soon it
would drop from view beyond the horizon. There was a haze on the plain.
Slowly out of that haze came two objects that seemed to be approaching.
"Cattle," said Merry, turning back from the window and sitting down at
the table again.
He resumed work on the play. He did not hear the door open softly, he
did not hear a light footstep behind him, he did not hear a rustling
sound quite near, and it was not until a deep, tremulous sigh reached
his ears that he became aware of another presence in the room.
Like a flash Frank whirled about and found himself face to face with----
The girl he had seen at the window!
In astonishment Frank gazed at the girl, who was dressed in some dark
material, as if she were in mourning. He saw that she was quite as
pretty as he had fancied at first, although her face was very pale and
sad. The color of her dress and hair made her face seem paler than it
really was.
Only a moment did Frank remain thus. Then he sprang up, bowing politely,
and saying:
"I beg your pardon! I did not know there was a lady in the room."
She bowed in return.
"Do not rise," she said. "I saw you to-day from my window, and I could
not sleep till I had seen you again. Somehow you seemed to remind me of
Lawton. I thought so, then, but now it does not seem so much that way.
Still you made me think of him. I have been shut up there so long--so
long! I have not talked to anybody, and I wanted to talk to somebody who
could tell me something of the world--something of the places far away.
I am buried here, where nobody knows anything to talk about but cattle
and horses."
Frank's heart was thrilled with sympathy.
"Do they keep you shut up in that room?" he asked.
"No; I stay there from choice. This is the first time I have been
downstairs for weeks. I have refused to leave the room; I refused to see
my father. I can't bear to have him look at me with such pity and
anger."
"Your father--he is Mr. Carson?"
"Yes."
"It is strange he has never spoken to me of you. I was not aware he had
a daughter, although he spoke proudly of his son."
In an instant Frank regretted his words. A look of anguish swept over
the face of the girl, and she fell back a step, one thin hand fluttering
up to her bosom.
"No!" she cried, and her voice was like the sob of the wind beneath the
leaves of a deserted house; "he never speaks of me! He says I am
dead--dead to the world. He is proud of his son, Berlin, my brother; but
he is ashamed of his daughter, Blanche."
Frank began to suspect and understand the truth. This girl had met with
some great sorrow, a sorrow that had wrecked her life. Instantly Merry's
heart was overflowing with sympathy, but his situation was most
embarrassing, and he knew not what to say. The girl seemed to understand
this.
"Don't think me crazy because I have come here to you in this way," she
entreated. "Don't think me bold! Oh, if you could know how I have longed
for somebody with whom I could talk! I saw you were a gentleman. I knew
my father would not introduce me to you, but I resolved to see you,
hoping you would talk to me--hoping you would tell me of the things
going on in the world."
"I shall be glad to do so," said Merry, gently. "But don't you have any
papers, any letters, anything to tell you the things you wish to know?"
"Nothing--nothing! I am dead to the world. You were writing. Have I
interrupted you?"
"No; I am through working on my play to-night."
"Your play?" she cried, eagerly. "What are you doing with a play?
Perhaps--perhaps----"
She stopped speaking, seeming to make an effort to hold her eagerness in
check.
"I am writing a play," Frank explained. "That is, I am rewriting it now.
I wrote it some time ago and put it on the road, but it was a failure. I
am going out again soon with a new company."
Her eagerness seemed to increase.
"Then you must know many actors," she said. "Perhaps you know him?"
"Know whom?"
"Lawton--Lawton Kilgore."
Frank shook his head.
"Never heard of him."
She showed great disappointment.
"I am so sorry," she said. "I hoped you might be able to tell me
something about him. If you can tell me nothing, I must tell you. I must
talk to somebody. You see how it is. Mother is dead. Father sent me to
school in the East. It was there that I met Lawton. He was so handsome!
He was the leading man in a company that I saw. Then, after the company
disbanded for the season, he came back to spend the summer in the town
where I was at school. I suppose I was foolish, but fell in love with
him. We were together a great deal. We became engaged."
Frank fancied he knew what was coming. The girl was skipping over the
story as lightly as possible, but she was letting him understand it all.
"I didn't write father about it," she went on, "for I knew he would not
approve of Lawton. He wanted me to marry Brandon King, who owns the
Silver Forks Ranch. I did not love King. I loved Lawton Kilgore. But the
principal of the school found out what was going on, and he wrote
father. Then Lawton disappeared, and I heard nothing from him. They say
he deserted me. I do not believe it. I think he was driven away. I
waited and waited for him, but I could not study, I could not do
anything. He never came back, and, at last, father came and took me
away. He brought me here. He was ashamed of me, but he said he would not
leave me to starve, for I was his own daughter. His kindness was cruel,
for he cut me off from the world. Still I believe that some day Lawton
will come for me and take me away from here. I believe he will come--if
they have not killed him!"
She whispered the final words.
"They? Who?" asked Frank, startled.
"My father and my brother," she answered. "They were furious enough to
kill him. They swore they would."
She had told Merry her story, and she seemed to feel relieved. She asked
him many questions about the actors he knew. He said he had the pictures
of nearly all who had taken parts in his two plays. She asked to see
them, and he brought them out from his large traveling case, showing
them to her one by one. She looked at them all with interest.
Of a sudden, she gave a low, sharp cry. Her hand darted out and caught
up one of the photographs.
"Here--here!----" she panted. "You have his picture here! This is Lawton
Kilgore--Lawton, my lover!"
It was the picture of Leslie Lawrence!