in the neighbourhood, and at the same time, being in fact a girl, I
couldn’t go out and associate with the boys. So my only companion
was Mrs. Dennison. We lived together in a tiny bit of a house that
belonged to her, and she was the only real teacher I ever had. I reckon
she didn’t know much about books. At any rate, she didn’t care about
them. But she let me read mine as much as I pleased, and she taught
me how to do all sorts of household things. Especially she taught me
to do needlework, and as I used to do it in our little porch in the
summertime, the boys thought it strange for a boy to use a needle, so
they used to call me “Miss Charlotte” and gibe and jeer at me a good
deal. But I didn’t mind, particularly as there was a woodland near our
house, so that I could see a great deal of my birds and squirrels.
It was then, too, that I made acquaintance with many insects and
bugs—pinch-bugs, ants, yellow-jackets, and a lot more. You can’t
imagine how greatly interested I became in studying the ways of these
creatures. They all have characters of their own; and when one really
becomes acquainted with them, they are vastly more interesting than
commonplace people are.
Chapter the Eleventh
AFTER we had lived for more than a year in the little cottage, Mrs.
Dennison one day told me we must go away quickly, and we left within an
hour. She let me put my girl’s clothes on before we started.
“They have found out that you are disguised as a boy,” she explained,
“and when they set out to find us again, they’ll probably look for a
lady and a boy. So, by wearing girl’s clothes again, you’ll have a
better chance to escape their clutches.”
I was getting to be a pretty big girl by that time, and so I had been
ashamed of wearing boy’s clothes for some time past. But when I put on
my gowns again, they made me still more ashamed, because they were so
short.
So, as soon as we got to a place where we could stop for a few days,
Mrs. Dennison sent for two dressmakers to fashion some new gowns for
me, and I really looked quite like another person when I put them on.
That must have been about four years ago. According to what I was
afterward told, I was then thirteen years old. I know now that I was
fifteen. But I’ll tell you all about that further on.
All this while, Mrs. Dennison was receiving money from my father at
regular intervals, and there was plenty of it. But it never came
directly from my father. It came from a bank, with a very formal note
saying that the money was sent “by order of Mr. Jackson Byrd,” and
asking Mrs. Dennison to sign and return a receipt for it. My father
sent us no letters and no messages. This troubled me very much when I
got to thinking about it. And that made me very unhappy, for I loved
my father dearly, and I remembered how happy I had been with him. But
after thinking more about it, I saw that he hadn’t forgotten his little
girl and hadn’t quit caring about her, because if he had, the money
wouldn’t have come so regularly.
Still, that troubled me more than ever, because it must mean that
my father was in some kind of difficulty, that he could not send any
letters to us. I learned afterward that this was so, but Mrs. Dennison
would never tell me anything about it.
We were moving about a good deal at this time, generally starting
suddenly—sometimes so suddenly as to leave many of our things behind.
But I always carried the little satchel that contained the papers my
father had given me.
At last, one day when we left the train at Chicago and entered a
carriage to drive to a little hotel that we were to live at, a man
came to the carriage door and handed Mrs. Dennison a paper. He said
something which I did not understand, and Mrs. Dennison kissed me and
got out of the carriage. The man got in, and ordered the carriage
to drive away with us, leaving Mrs. Dennison standing there on the
sidewalk.
I was terribly scared, and wanted to jump out. I tried to open the
doors, but the man had placed his hands on the two latches, so that I
couldn’t move them. I felt like shrieking, but I decided that it was
best to control myself, keep my wits about me, and be ready to deal
with the situation wisely, as soon as I should find out what it really
was. So, summoning all my self-control, I entered into conversation
with the man who sat on the front seat opposite me.
“Do you mind telling me,” I asked, “why you have kidnapped me in this
fashion?”
“It ain’t kidnapping, young lady, an’ it ain’t anything else irregular.
You see, I had a warrant. I’m a court officer, an’ I does what the
court orders an’ nothin’ else.”
“Then a court ordered you to seize me?” I asked.
“Ya’as ’m,” he answered.
“But on what ground?”
“‘Tain’t my business to know that, Miss, an’ as a matter of fac’ I
don’t know it. All I know is, I was give a warrant an’ tole to serve
it, an’ bring you to the court. Don’t you worry about a-payin’ of the
cabman. I’ll ten’ to all that.”
“But what do they want with me in court?” I asked insistently.
“Dunno, Miss.”
“But who is it that wants me?”
“Dunno, Miss, only the warrant head said, ‘Campbell vee ess Byrd and
Dennison.’”
“But what right have they to bother me in this way? Am I not a free
person? Haven’t I a right—”
“Dunno, Miss, ’tain’t my business to know. But I suppose you’re a
gal under age, and I suppose gals under age ain’t got no rights in
pertic’lar, leastways in opposition to their gardeens.”
By this time, we had arrived at the courthouse, and I was taken before
the judge. I remember thinking that if I should displease him in any
way, he could order me hanged. I know better now, but I thought so
then; so I made up my mind to be very nice to the judge.
Campbell was there, and he had a lawyer with him. The lawyer told the
judge that Campbell was—something in Latin—_loco parentis_, I think
it was. Anyhow, it meant stepfather, or something like that. He said
the courts in his State had made him my guardian; that I possessed
valuable property; that I had been abducted by my father, who was a
dissolute person, now serving out a sentence in the State’s prison for
some crime. He gave the judge a lot of papers to prove all this.
I was so shocked and distressed to hear that my father was in prison,
that for a while I couldn’t speak. At last I controlled myself and
said to the judge:—
“I love my father. If he has been sent to prison, it was that
man”—pointing to Campbell—“who got him sent there. My father is good
and kind, and I love him. Campbell is wicked and cruel, and I hate
him. Look at his flat nose! That’s where I smashed it with a heavy
hair-brush when he tried to whip me for telling the truth about him. I
don’t want to go with him. I want to go back to Mrs. Dennison, till my
father can come after me. Please, Judge, let me do that.”
The judge asked Campbell’s lawyer how old I was, and he answered:—
“Thirteen years old, your Honour.”
Then the judge said:—
“She seems older. If she were fourteen, I should be bound by the law
to let her choose her own guardian for so long at least as she shall
remain in Illinois. But as the papers in the case seem to show that
her age is only thirteen, I am bound to recognise the guardianship
established by the courts of another State. I must remand the girl to
the custody of her guardian, Mr. Campbell.”
Then, seeing in how desperate a strait I was, I summoned all my
courage. I rose to my feet and faced the judge. I said:—
“But, please, Mr. Judge, this isn’t fair. That man Campbell hates me,
and I hate him. Isn’t it better to send me to somebody else? Besides
that, he has a lawyer, and I haven’t one. Can’t I hire a lawyer to
speak for me? I’ve got two dollars in my pocketbook to pay him with.”
Everybody laughed when I said that. You see, I had no idea what the
price of lawyers was. But just then an old gentleman arose and said to
the judge:—
“If it please the court, I will appear as counsel for this persecuted
girl. I have listened to these proceedings with indignation and horror.
It is perfectly clear to my mind that this is a case of kidnapping
under the forms of the law.”
There the judge interrupted him, saying:—
“The court will permit no reflections upon its proceedings.”
Then my lawyer answered:—
“I have cast no reflections upon the court. My challenge is to the
integrity and good faith of this man, Campbell. I do not know the
facts that lie behind this proceeding. I am going to ask the court
for an adjournment, in order to find them out. It is obvious that this
young girl—helpless and friendless here—looks not only unwillingly,
but with positive horror, upon the prospect of being placed again in
Campbell’s charge. Morally, and I think legally, she has a right to be
heard in that behalf, to have the facts competently explored and fully
presented to the court. To that end, I ask that the matter be adjourned
for one week, and that the young girl be paroled, in the meanwhile, in
the custody of her counsel.”
Then the dear old gentleman, whom everybody seemed to regard with
special reverence, took his seat by my side, and held my hand in his.
Campbell’s lawyer made a speech to the judge, and when he had finished,
the judge said that my lawyer’s request was denied. He explained the
matter in a way that I did not understand. It seemed to anger the old
lawyer who had taken my case. He rose and said, as nearly as I can
remember:—
“Your Honour’s denial of my motion is a denial of justice. This young
girl, my client, is a minor child, utterly defenceless here except in
so far as I have volunteered my services to defend her. But she is
an American citizen, and as such is entitled to be heard in her own
behalf. In this court she cannot get a hearing, for the reason that
this court has corruptly prejudged the case, as it corruptly prejudges
every case in which money or influence can be brought to bear.”
By this time the judge was pounding with his mallet, and the whole
court-room was in an uproar. But, raising his voice, my dear old lawyer
continued:—
“If justice were done, you, sir, would be dragged from the bench that
you dishonour by sitting upon it. Oh, I know, you can send me to jail
for speaking these truths in your presence. I trust you will try that.
If, by any martyrdom of mine, I can bring the corruption of such judges
as you are to the knowledge and attention of this community, I shall
feel that my work is well done. In the meantime I shall set another to
secure for this helpless girl a writ of habeas corpus which shall get
for her, in another and more righteous court, the fair hearing which
you insolently and criminally deny to her here. Now send me to jail
in punishment of the immeasurable contempt I feel for a court where
justice is betrayed for money, and where human rights are bartered away
for a price.”
The judge was very angry, and a lot of men surrounded my old lawyer.
But what happened afterward I have never known. For no sooner was I
put in Campbell’s charge than I was hurried to a train, and the next
morning I heard him say to one of the men he had with him:—
“We are out of Illinois now; we’ve beaten that writ of habeas corpus.”
Then he turned to me and said:—
“If you care for your own comfort, you will recognise me as your
guardian, and behave yourself accordingly.”
I reckon you must be tired reading by this time, Dorothy, so you are
to take a rest here, and I’ll write the remainder of my story in other
chapters. I’m afraid I’m making my story tedious; but I’ve fully made
up my mind to tell it all, because I don’t know what you will care
for in it, and what will seem unimportant to you. If I try to shorten
it by leaving out anything, the thing I leave out may happen to be
precisely the thing that would change your opinion of me. I want to
deal absolutely honestly with you; so I am telling you everything I
remember.
XXVII
KILGARIFF’S PERPLEXITY
DURING the two days that Dorothy had thus far given to the reading of
Evelyn’s book, Kilgariff had been chafing impatiently. He wanted to go
back to Petersburg and active duty, and he wanted, before doing so, to
ride over to Branton and “talk it out with Evelyn,” as he formulated
his thoughts in his own mind.
He could do neither, for the reason that his wound began to trouble
him again, and Arthur Brent, upon examining it, condemned him to spend
another week or ten days in the house.
So far as “talking it out with Evelyn” was concerned, it was perhaps
fortunate that he was compelled to submit to an enforced delay. For
he really did not know what he was to say to Evelyn; and the more he
thought about the matter, the more he did not know.
The question was indeed a very perplexing one. How should he even
begin the proposed conversation? Should he begin by abruptly telling
Evelyn that he loved her, but that there were reasons why he did not
want her to give him love in return? That was not the way in which a
woman had a right to expect to be wooed. It would be a direct affront
to her womanly and maidenly pride, which she would promptly, and
bitterly, and quite properly, resent. Moreover, by arousing her anger
and resentment, it would utterly defeat his purpose, which was to find
out his own duty by finding out how far Evelyn had already learned to
think of him as a possible lover.
Should he, then, ask her that question, in her own singularly direct
and truthful way of dealing?
That would be to affront and wound her by the assumption that she had
given her love unasked.
Should he begin by explaining to her the circumstances which prompted
him to shrink from wooing her, and then offer her his love if she
wanted it?
Nothing could be more preposterous than that.
Should he simply pay her his addresses, ask her for her love, and
then, if she should give it, proceed to explain to her the reasons why
she should not have permitted herself to love such a man as he?
That question also promptly answered itself in the negative, with
emphasis.
What, then, should he do?
Clearly it would be better to await Evelyn’s return to Wyanoke, and
trust to good luck to open some possible way. At any rate, he might
there approach the subject in indirect ways; while if he could have
ridden over to Branton for the express purpose of having a conference
with her, no such indirection would have been possible. His very going
to her there would have been a declaration of some purpose which he
must promptly explain.
Obviously, therefore, it was better that he should not go to Branton,
but should await such opportunity as good fortune might give him after
Evelyn’s return to Wyanoke. But that necessity postponed the outcome,
and Kilgariff was in a mood to be impatient of delay, particularly as
every hour consciously intensified his own love, and rendered him less
and less capable of saying nay to his passion.
With her woman’s quickness of perception, Dorothy shrewdly guessed
what was going on in his mind, and she rejoiced in it. But she made
no reference to the matter, even in the most remotely indirect way.
She simply went about her tasks with a pleased and amused smile on her
face.
XXVIII
EVELYN’S BOOK, CONCLUDED
WHEN Dorothy took up Evelyn’s manuscript again, it was nine o’clock in
the evening of the second day, and, moved by her eagerness to follow
the story, even more than by her conscientious desire to finish it
before the author’s return on the morrow, she read late into the night.
But she had sent Evelyn a note in the late afternoon, in which she had
written:—
My Evelyn is not to fail in her promise to come back to me to-morrow.
I have not yet completed the reading of the manuscript, though I hope
to do so to-night, if a late vigil shall enable me to accomplish that
purpose. I have asked Arthur to let me sleep in the nursery to-night,
if I finish the reading in time to sleep at all. So I can sit up as
late as I please without fear of disturbing him. Poor fellow, he
is working too hard and thinking too hard even for his magnificent
strength.
But whether I finish your manuscript to-night or not, Evelyn dear, I
have read enough of it to know that your life-story only confirms the
judgment I had formed of your character, and draws you nearer to my
sympathies. So come home in the morning, and don’t disappoint me.
When she took up the manuscript again, this is what she read:—
Chapter the Twelfth
WE travelled by the railroad as far as it went. Then we had to get into
a big wagon, drawn by six mules.
The country we passed through was wild, and quite uninhabited, I think.
At any rate, we saw no houses, and no people except now and then a
little party of Indians. There were no roads, only dim trails, and
there were no bridges, so that it sometimes took us three or four days
to get across a river.
We carried all our provisions in the wagon, and when we stopped for the
night we cooked our suppers by great big fires, built out of doors. It
was usually about nightfall when we pitched our camp, and so long as
our way lay through the woods, I used to lie awake for hours every
night, looking up and watching the light from the camp-fire as it
played hide and seek among the great trees. When at last we got out of
the woods and began travelling over a vast prairie, the camping was
far less pleasant, particularly when a norther blew, making it bitter
cold. Still, I insisted on sleeping out of doors, although Campbell
had fitted up a cosy little bedroom for me in the big wagon. That was
because it was Campbell’s wagon. Out of doors I felt a sort of freedom,
while if I even looked into the wagon I realised that I was that man’s
prisoner.
He was trying to be good to me then. That is to say, he was trying to
make me think him kind and to make me like him. Among other things,
he gave me a horse to ride on. He had intended at first that I should
travel in the wagon, but I would not do that. I preferred to walk,
instead. So, after the second day, when we met a party of Indians, he
bought a horse of them and gave it to me to ride. It was a vicious
brute, bent upon breaking my neck, but I knew how to ride, and within a
day or two I had taught the animal to like me a little, and to obey me
altogether. I had no saddle, of course, but I never did like a saddle,
and I don’t, even now, as you know. So I got one of the men to strap a
blanket on my horse’s back with a surcingle, and I rode upon that.
The men who drove our mules were very rough fellows, but they soon got
to liking me. I suppose that was because I knew how to ride and wasn’t
afraid of anything. However that may be, they seemed to like me. They
would do their best to make me comfortable, giving me the best they
could get to eat—birds, squirrels, and the like—and always making for
me a pallet of dry grass or leaves to sleep upon.
Finally, one evening, when Campbell had gone away from the camp for
some purpose or other, one of the rough men came to me and said:—
“Little Missy”—that is what they always called me—“little Missy, you
don’t like Campbell an’ you want to get away from him. Now he’s pretty
quick on trigger, but I’m a bit quicker’n he is, an’ anyhow I’ll take
the chances for you. Ef you say the word, I’ll pick a quarrel with
him an’ kill him in fair fight. Then my pards an’ me’ll take you to
some civilised town an’ leave you there, so’s you kin git back to your
friends. Only say the word, an’ I’ll git him ready for his funeral
afore mornin’.”
Of course this horrified me, particularly the indifference with which
the man thought of murder. I told him he must never think of doing
anything of the kind, and asked him to promise me.
“It’s jest as you says, little Missy,” he answered. “Only me an’ my
pards wants you to know how ready we are to do you any little favour
like that ef you want it done.”
That night I couldn’t sleep. I lay all night looking up at the stars
and thinking with horror of the light way in which this man had
proposed to commit a murder for me. Then the thought came to me that
I had myself tried to kill Campbell once with a hair-brush, and for a
while I felt that after all I was no better than these murderous men.
But, after thinking the thing out, I saw that the two cases were quite
different. I had hit Campbell in self-defence, and I could not even yet
feel sorry that I had wanted to kill him.
Chapter the Thirteenth
CAMPBELL was living, at that time, in a little town somewhere in Texas,
and we got there after two or three weeks.
It was a dismal-looking place. All the houses were built of rough
boards, set upon end, and most of them were saloons. Campbell’s
house was like all the rest, and when I asked my mother why he lived
in so small a house, and what he had done with the fine one that I
remembered, she told me he had lost most of his money.
Almost immediately after I got to his house, Campbell took me before
a sort of judge who had two pistols and a knife in his belt. Campbell
told the judge that he wanted to adopt me as his daughter. When the
judge asked him how old I was, he said I was thirteen, and then the
judge said that my consent to his adoption of me was not necessary.
The reason he said that was because I had told him that I didn’t
want to be Campbell’s daughter. The judge signed the papers, and
told me that Campbell was my father now, and that I must obey him in
everything. Campbell told me that my name would hereafter be Evelyn
Byrd Campbell. I supposed then that he was telling the truth.
When he got home that evening, he had been drinking heavily, and
he seemed particularly happy. He told my mother that he had “fixed
things,” so that they wouldn’t be poor any longer. He said he was going
to buy a big ranch and raise horses.
That night when I went to my bed, I found that somebody had broken
into my closet and taken the satchel in which I kept my papers. When I
raised an alarm, Campbell told me he had taken the papers and put them
in a secure place, lest I should lose them. He said he was my father
now, and that it was his duty to take care of my property.
I was terribly angry—so angry that if the teamster who had offered to
kill Campbell for me had been there, I think I should have asked him
to get my papers for me, although I knew that he would probably kill
Campbell in doing so. But the teamster was gone from the town, and I
was helpless.
Campbell and my mother did not get on together very well at this time.
They never exactly quarrelled, at least in my presence, but I think
that was because my mother regarded quarrelling as vulgar. She was a
refined woman, or had been. She seemed now to be very unhappy, and I
was sorry for her, though I could not love her. I never had loved her
since she had married Campbell while her real husband, my father, was
still living. One day I asked her if she didn’t think she had made a
mistake in doing that, and if she didn’t think it wrong and wicked and
vulgar for a woman to have two husbands alive at the same time. She
rebuked me severely for what she called my insolence, and bade me never
mention that subject again. I never did—to her.
Chapter the Fourteenth
VERY soon after this, Campbell bought a large ranch, as he said he
would do, and we moved away from the town to live on the ranch.
I know now that he bought it with my money. When he had me made his
daughter, and got hold of my papers, the law somehow allowed him to
sell the stocks and bonds my father had given me, and he did so. I
never knew this until a very little time ago—since I have been at
Wyanoke. I’ll tell you about that in the proper place.
There were many horses on the ranch, and I spent nearly all my time
riding them bareback and teaching them little tricks. It was the only
thing I could do to amuse myself; for I did not like to be with my
mother, and I hated the very sight of Campbell.
I had already learned to ride standing on the back of a horse, and I
decided to learn all about that sort of riding. I enjoyed the danger
involved in it, for one thing, especially when I learned to ride two
horses at once in that way. But I did not practise these things for
the sake of the excitement alone. I had a plan to carry out. I had
determined to run away with the first circus that should come to that
part of the country. I thought that if I could learn to be a really
good bareback rider, the circus people would be glad to take me with
them, and in that way I should get away from Campbell.
So I practised my riding every day, growing steadily surer of myself
and more expert. I practised jumping through hoops, too—forward
and backward—and standing on my hands on horseback, and throwing
somersaults.