As Morton Rutherford's fingers touched the key of the little
instrument that was to send forth that fateful message, it was the
unconscious touching of a secret spring which was to set in motion a
succession of events of which he little dreamed.
He remained at the station until the answer came back over the wires:
"Leave Chicago to-night; will follow instructions to the letter."
This was on Saturday. On Tuesday the expected party would reach Silver
City, where they were to be met by Van Dorn, who would furnish them
all details and accompany them on the evening train to the Y, from
which point Houston and Morton Rutherford would convey them by team to
the mining camp.
From Saturday until Tuesday only! but those intervening days were full
of a strange excitement for the little group of friends who were in
the secret, and there was that constant sense of expectancy, combined
with an alert watchfulness, which kept the nerves tense and rigid, and
rendered the mind unusually clear and active.
On Monday, Van Dorn left for Silver City, his errand ostensibly being
to replace the broken portions of the machinery, now nearly finished,
which were necessary for its completion.
All felt that the climax to which they had looked forward was now very
near, and Lyle, who perhaps realized the situation the most keenly of
any, was restless and excited, something very unusual for her.
Her search, thus far unsuccessful, had not been abandoned, and as she
sat in the little porch on that particular afternoon, idle because she
could not fix her attention upon book or work, it seemed as if the
years of her early life among the mountains stood out with more than
usual distinctness. Among other trifling objects, there was suddenly
recalled to her memory a box which used always to stand in Mrs.
Maverick's little bed-room, and which had looked wonderfully
attractive to her childish eyes on account of a flowered red and green
paper with which it was covered. Once, overcome with infantile
curiosity, she had tried to open it, and had received a severe
whipping therefor. She could remember it very distinctly now, a box
about eighteen inches square, with no fastening, but always securely
tied with a stout cord. Late years it had been removed to the little
attic and she had forgotten it. Where was it now? She had not seen it
for months, or was it years? What could it have contained?
Miss Gladden was occupied with a new magazine. Morton and Ned
Rutherford had gone out for a stroll among the rocks. Quietly Lyle
slipped up-stairs, and going to the dark, dusty attic, began searching
for the object so suddenly recalled to mind.
She could find no trace of it, however, and had about concluded that
it must have been destroyed, when her attention was arrested by a pile
of old clothing and rubbish on the floor in a particularly dark
corner, behind some large boxes. A slight examination revealed that
there was some solid substance underneath. Hastily overturning the
rubbish, her eyes descried in the dim light the identical red and
green papered box familiar to her childhood.
With an exclamation of joy she dragged it forth from its hiding place,
and going over to the one tiny window, covered with dust and cobwebs,
she sat down with the newly found treasure, first arranging a pile of
old bedding as a screen between herself and the door, to preclude all
possibility of her whereabouts being discovered.
With fingers trembling with excitement, she undid the fastenings of
the heavy cord and slowly lifted the cover, not knowing exactly what
she expected or hoped to find, but certain that the key for which she
had searched was close at hand.
Within the box lay a large parcel wrapped in a newspaper, worn and
yellow with age, and pinned to the parcel was a letter, addressed in a
cramped, almost illegible hand:
"To Lyle,
to be read after my death."
Lyle recognized the writing,--it was Mrs. Maverick's, whose
educational advantages, though exceedingly limited, were yet superior
to those of her husband, in that she could read and write, though she
had little idea of the rules of grammar or orthography.
Lyle unpinned the letter and turned it over curiously in her hands for
a moment; then she laid it aside, saying to herself:
"I will first see what this package contains, and will probably open
that later."
She lifted the parcel and began removing the paper wrappings, which
burst like tissue and dropped in pieces, leaving a mass of fine
cambric and dainty laces and embroideries, from which was exhaled a
perfume, faint and subtle, and yet which recalled to Lyle so vividly
the memories of that long-ago forgotten time, that she seemed like one
awakening from a long oblivion to the scenes of a once familiar life.
For a moment, she grew faint and dizzy, and, closing her eyes, leaned
against the wall for support, while she tried to grasp the vision that
seemed just ready to open up before her. But it passed, and with a
sigh she opened her eyes, her gaze falling on the contents of the
package which had fallen open.
She saw the dress of a little child,--apparently about two years of
age,--a marvelous creation of the finest of white linen and the
daintiest of embroideries; lying within it was a broad sash of blue
silk, neatly folded together, a pair of tiny, blue silk stockings,
and little kid shoes of the same delicate shade; but the shoes and
sash, as well as the dress, were soiled and blackened as if they had
come in contact with charred wood.
The dress and the little undergarments each and all bore the initials
"M. L. W.," and Lyle pondered over them with wondering eyes, while
handling with reverent touch these relics of her childhood,--a
childhood which she could not recall.
As she unrolled the blue sash, there dropped from within its folds a
small, pasteboard box, which she hastily opened, exposing to view a
tiny gold locket and chain of rare workmanship and exquisite design.
Upon touching a little spring, it opened, and Lyle gave a low cry of
delight, for there was revealed the same beautiful face which she had
seen in Jack's cabin,--the face of her mother. For some time she gazed
at it through fast-gathering tears, then happening to note the
engraving on the inside of the case, opposite to the picture, she held
it closer to the light, to discern the delicate characters of the
inscription, and read:
"To Marjorie Lyle Washburn,
Upon her second birthday."
Lyle Maverick no longer, but Marjorie Lyle Washburn! She repeated the
name over and over to herself,--the magic talisman by which she was to
find the home and friends she sought!
Kissing the locket reverently, she replaced it in the box, and folding
together the little garments, she again took up the letter. She
studied it for a moment, then resolutely breaking the seal, began to
read its contents. It was slow work, for the writing in many places
was so poor as to be nearly illegible, but, with burning cheeks and
eyes flashing with indignation at what it revealed, she read it to the
end.
In uncouth phrases and illiterate language, and yet with a certain
pathos, Mrs. Maverick told the story of the death, years before, while
their home was east, in Ohio, of her own little girl between two and
three years of age, and her inconsolable sorrow. A few months
afterward, Jim had suddenly returned from a neighboring town where he
was working, bringing with him a beautiful little girl of the same age
as her own, but unusually advanced for her years, whose father and
mother he claimed had been killed in a railroad accident, and of whose
friends nothing could be learned. His wife had accepted his story in
good faith, and welcomed the motherless little one to her own lonely
heart. Unknown to Jim, who had charged her to burn them, she had also
preserved the garments worn by the little stranger on that day.
But the little one did not take kindly to her new surroundings but
cried piteously for her mother, night and day, even refusing food of
all kinds, until she was suddenly taken with a strange illness which
lasted for many weeks. When she finally recovered, all memory of her
former life seemed to have been completely blotted out of her mind,
and she no longer called for her mother, except occasionally in her
sleep. Very soon after they had come out to the mines, and nothing of
any importance occurred until Lyle was about seven years old.
At that time, Jim had suddenly made his appearance at the house one
day, appearing both angry and frightened, and had ordered his wife to
keep Lyle locked up, on pretext of punishing her, until he gave
permission for her release. He would give no explanation, and by his
curses and threats compelled her to obey.
That day, a fine-looking, elderly gentleman, who had just arrived from
the east to purchase some mining property, came to the house for
dinner, and took his meals there for the two days following, during
which time, Lyle was not allowed her liberty. Not until nearly a year
later did Mrs. Maverick learn that the eastern stranger, whose coming
had so terrified Maverick, was Lyle's grandfather. Jim then confessed
that he had taken the child from the wreck where its mother had lost
her life, and brought her west with him, knowing whose child she was,
and keeping her out of revenge for some wrong which he claimed this
man had done him years before.
In vain his wife urged to have the child returned to her rightful
home; he threatened her life if she ever breathed the secret to any
living soul. A sense of guilt made her unhappy for a time, but as
years passed she grew more indifferent to it, and as she saw, more and
more, how utterly unlike any of her own family Lyle was growing, she
no longer cared for her as she had done, though she tried to treat her
kindly. Jim's hatred of Lyle seemed to increase with every year, until
his wife sometimes feared that he would resort to personal violence.
As she found her own health and strength failing she began to reflect
upon the terrible position in which Lyle would find herself in case of
her own death, left alone with Maverick and his two sons, and to save
her from such a fate, she had resolved to write this letter,
acquainting Lyle with her own history so far as she was able to give
it.
At the close she begged Lyle not to think too harshly of her or
consider that she was altogether to blame in this matter, and
expressed the wish that she might some day find her own friends from
whom she had been taken.
It would be impossible to describe Lyle's emotions as she finished the
perusal of this strange letter; joy that she had finally found the
evidence she sought, and an intense longing to see those from whom she
had been so cruelly separated all these years, mingled with a fearful
apprehension lest this knowledge might have come too late, when those
whose affection she would claim, might have already passed beyond the
limits of finite, human love, into the love infinite and eternal. And
deep in her heart burned indignation, fierce and strong, against the
one who had wrought all this wretchedness,--carrying additional sorrow
to a home already bereaved, robbing her of the love that was
rightfully hers and of the dower of a happy childhood which could
never be restored,--all to gratify his cowardly revenge!
In the midst of these reflections, Lyle suddenly recalled the promise
she had given Jack that he should be the first to learn of her
success. It was now time for him to be at the cabin and she would have
an opportunity to see him before the return of the others to the
house. Accordingly, she restored the empty box to its hiding place,
and having concealed the most of its contents in her own room,
started forth on her joyful errand, taking with her the tiny locket
and the letter.
As she approached the cabin she saw Jack sitting with Rex in the
door-way and knew that he was alone. Jack, to whom her face was an
open book, read the tidings which she had brought before they had
exchanged a word. He rose to meet her, and looking into her radiant
face, he said in gentle tones and with a grave smile:
"You have good news! Have you found what you hoped to find?"
"I have," she replied, "and you who have shared all my troubles must
be the first sharer of my joy."
Together they entered the cabin, and seated in the little, familiar
room, Lyle told the story of her discovery, and opening the locket,
placed it in Jack's hands.
For a moment he gazed silently at the little trinket, then he said in
low tones, as if half to himself, "It is she, and you are her child,
as I have always believed," then added, "I rejoice with you, Lyle, I
am glad for your sake."
But even as he spoke, Lyle, notwithstanding the exuberance of her own
joy, could not fail to observe in his face indications of poignant
pain, as he looked at the lovely pictured face, and as she repeated
the name inscribed opposite.
"Jack!" she suddenly exclaimed, "have I made you suffer by my
thoughtlessness? Forgive me!"
"No, my dear," he answered tenderly, "you have caused me no pain; if I
suffer, it is on account of bitter memories of which you as yet know
nothing, and I pray you may never know. What letter have you there?"
Lyle read the letter, Jack silently pacing up and down the room,
listening, with a look of intense indignation deepening on his face,
until she had finished.
"It is as I have suspected all these years," he said, "the dastardly
villain! the scoundrel! Thank God, it is not yet too late, there are
those who can and will right the wrong, so far as it is possible to
right it."
At Lyle's request, they compared the picture with the photograph in
Jack's possession; they were one and the same, except that the latter
had been taken a few years earlier.
"Jack," said Lyle earnestly, "can you tell me anything about my
relatives? Are my grandparents living? and had my parents brothers or
sisters?"
"I have learned quite recently that your grandparents are still
living," Jack answered slowly, after a pause, "as to the others I
cannot say; even of your own mother I can trust myself to say but very
little, it is too painful!"
"What would you advise me to do now?" Lyle asked wistfully, but with
slight hesitation. "What would be the best course for me to take?"
With an expression unlike anything she had ever seen on his face, and
a depth of pathos in his voice she had never heard, he replied very
tenderly:
"I can no longer advise you, my dear Lyle; take these proofs which you
have found to Everard Houston; he can advise you now far better than
I; show them to him, my dear, and you will have no further need of
counsel or help from me, much as I wish it were in my power to give
both."
"To Mr. Houston?" Lyle had risen in her surprise, and stood regarding
Jack with tearful, perplexed astonishment; there was a hidden
significance in his words which as yet she could not fathom. "I do not
understand you, Jack; why do you speak as though you could no more be
to me the friend and counselor that you have been?"
He smiled one of his rare, sweet smiles. "Do as I have suggested,
dear,--then you will understand; and I shall want to see you for a few
moments again to-night, after you have seen him."
Somewhat reassured by his smile, and yet perplexed by his manner, Lyle
left the cabin and slowly returned to the house, everything about her
seeming unreal, as though she were walking in a dream.
Miss Gladden was chatting with Morton and Ned Rutherford, and in reply
to Lyle's question whether Mr. Houston had returned, stated that he
was in his room, having just come up from the mines.
"Thank you, I will see him just a moment," Lyle responded, passing
into the house.
"You have not heard any bad news, have you?" asked Miss Gladden
apprehensively, noting the peculiar expression on Lyle's face.
"No," the latter answered with a smile, "it is about nothing regarding
himself that I wish to see him, only something concerning myself."
The door stood open into Houston's room, and Lyle could see him
standing by the table, arranging some papers which he proceeded to
sort and tie up in separate parcels.
In response to her light knock he glanced quickly around, and
observing her unusual expression, advanced to meet her, thinking, as
did Miss Gladden, that possibly she had heard something appertaining
to the present situation of affairs at the camp.
"Good evening, Lyle, come in; you look as though you were the bearer
of important news of some kind."
"I have news," she replied, "though of importance only to myself; I
need a little counsel, and was told to come to you."
"You know, Lyle, I will only be too glad to give you any advice, or
render any assistance within my power."
"Thank you," she answered, at the same time producing the little box
and the letter. "Leslie has probably told you of the manner in which I
learned that the proofs as to my true parentage and my own identity
existed within this house, and of my search for them since that
time."
Houston bowed in assent.
"To-day," she continued, "my search proved successful, in so far as
that I have discovered my own name, and also the proofs that I was
stolen by that villain, Maverick, in a spirit of retaliation and
revenge; but I have as yet no knowledge as to who or where my friends
may be. Naturally, I took these proofs to Jack, and asked his advice
as to the best course to pursue, and he has sent me to you."
"I am more than glad to hear this, my dear Lyle," responded Houston
cordially; "I have always felt a great interest in you, and it will
give me much pleasure if I can assist you in finding your friends, and
I shall appreciate it highly if Jack has intrusted me with this
responsibility."
Taking the locket from the box, Lyle handed it, unopen, to Houston,
saying as she did so, "This is the only clue I have by which to
find my friends; it contains my mother's picture, and my own
name,--Marjorie Lyle Washburn."
"Washburn!" exclaimed Houston in surprise, pausing as he was about to
open the locket. "Washburn! Marjorie Washburn! That sounds familiar,
both those names occur in my uncle's family, his wife and his
daughter,--ah, I recall it now, that was the name of my cousin's
little daughter. Strange!--what! what is this?" He had opened the
locket and was gazing in astonishment at the beautiful face.
"This,--this is her picture, the picture of my cousin, Edna Cameron
Washburn! What is the meaning of this?" And, unable to say anything
further, he looked to Lyle for an explanation.
She, too, was nearly speechless with astonishment. "What did you say
was her name?" she stammered.
Houston repeated the name, while a strange light began to dawn in his
face.
"She was my mother," Lyle said simply. She could say nothing more, the
walls of the little room seemed to be whirling rapidly about her, and
she could see nothing distinctly.
Faintly, as though sounding far in the distance, she heard Houston's
voice as he exclaimed:
"Can it be possible? and yet, you resemble her! Why have I never
thought of it before? She had a little daughter Marjorie, whom we
always supposed was killed in the wreck in which her own life was
lost."
"And this," said Lyle, holding out the letter, but speaking with great
effort, for the room was growing very dark, and a strange numbness
seemed stealing over heart and brain, "this tells that I was stolen
from the side of my dead mother who was killed in a wreck--" She could
get no farther, and she knew nothing of his reply. A thick darkness
seemed to envelop her, fast shutting out all sense even of life
itself. There was a sound for an instant like the deafening roar of
waters surging about her, and then she seemed sinking down, down into
infinite depths, until she lost all consciousness. For the first time
in her life she had fainted.
Houston caught her as she was falling, and a moment later the little
group outside were startled by his sudden appearance.
"Leslie," he said, in quick, low tones, "you and Morton come to my
room. Lyle has fainted."
"What is the trouble, Everard?" asked Ned, springing to his feet.
"Anything serious?"
"I think not," was Houston's reply. "Her fainting was the result of
over-excitement. Come into my room, Ned, when she has revived, I think
I have made a discovery in which we will all be interested."
When he returned Lyle was beginning to revive, though unable to speak,
and leaving her in the care of Leslie and Morton for a few moments,
Houston hastily scanned the letter which Lyle had given him, soon
reading enough of its contents here and there to get a correct idea of
the whole.
Both Miss Gladden and Morton Rutherford realized that something had
transpired out of the usual order of events. Each believed it
connected with some discovery relating to Lyle's early history, but of
what nature the discovery might be they had no clue.
As soon as she was able to speak Houston was at her side, and she read
in his face the confirmation of the truth which had dawned upon her
mind as he had repeated her mother's name, but which had seemed to her
past belief.
"It is really true, and I have not been dreaming?" she asked.
"It is most certainly true, my dear Lyle," Houston replied, "and I am
very glad to find that you, who have seemed to me like a sister from
our first acquaintance, will soon be my sister in reality."
Stooping, he kissed her on the forehead, and then in reply to the
glances of astonishment on the part of the others, he said:
"Leslie, I will have to prepare you for a double surprise, and since
we four are now members of one family, I can speak here without
reserve. When I first won your love, my dear, it was as the salaried
clerk of a disreputable mining company. I was old-fashioned enough to
wish to win your love with love, to feel assured that you cared for me
for my own sake. Lately, you have known that I was the representative
of Mr. Cameron, of New York, but you did not know that I was Mr.
Cameron's nephew and adopted son,--his son in all respects, excepting
that I have not taken his name." He paused a moment, and laid his hand
affectionately on Lyle's shoulder. "I now have a pleasant surprise for
you both. I wish to introduce you to Marjorie Lyle Washburn, my cousin
and my adopted sister."
With a burst of tears, Miss Gladden knelt beside Lyle, throwing her
arms about her neck, while Lyle whispered:
"Dear Leslie, you have been like a sister to me in my poverty and
loneliness. I am glad we will not be separated in the life of love and
happiness that awaits me. We will be sisters still, more closely
united than ever."
Turning to Morton Rutherford, whose emotion seemed nearly as deep as
Miss Gladden's, Houston said:
"Morton, you remember hearing of my beautiful cousin Edna, and of the
sad death of herself and her little daughter, as we always supposed.
This is her daughter, and I know that when my uncle and aunt meet her,
they will adopt her as their own daughter in her mother's place."
It would be impossible to depict the scene that followed, the surprise
and delight of Miss Gladden, or the deep joy of Morton Rutherford, but
by and by, when they had become more calm, a knock was heard. Houston
opened the door, and Ned Rutherford, looking in, was entirely unable
to comprehend the scene. Houston held in his hand a small gold locket
and a photograph which he seemed to be comparing with each other. Lyle
looked very pale, but radiantly happy. Morton was standing near,
while Miss Gladden still knelt at her side, her eyes overflowing with
tears of joy.
"Come in, Ned," said Houston cordially. "We want you here to complete
the family group."
Ned looked rather bewildered, as he replied: "I just wanted to inquire
for Miss Maverick, to know if she was better."
"She is much better," said Houston with a smile, but before he could
say anything further, Morton turned toward his brother, saying in
gentle, quiet tones, but with a look in his eye which spoke volumes to
Ned's inner consciousness:
"Ned, this is Miss Maverick no longer, but Miss Washburn, the
grand-daughter of the Mr. Cameron whom we expect here to-morrow."
Poor Ned Rutherford! If he had ever laid any claim to dignity and
self-possession, they both deserted him now. Utterly bereft of speech,
he stood for a moment as if petrified. Then approaching Lyle, he
stammered:
"I beg your pardon, Miss,--Miss Washburn, but that is always Mort's
way, to spring anything on me in such a fashion as to knock me out
completely. I beg your pardon for appearing so stupid, and I
congratulate you on the good news, and extend you my best wishes,
Miss----"
"Oh, call me Lyle," she interrupted, with a rippling laugh. "I have a
right to that name yet."
"Is that so?" said Ned, with the air of a drowning man clutching at a
straw. "Thank you; I'm glad that's left for a sort of land mark, you
know. I'll call you 'Lyle' then, 'till I can get accustomed to the new
name," and he sank in a heap in the nearest chair.
The letter was read, and bitter were the denunciations against
Maverick.
"The scoundrel! He ought to be lynched this very night," said Ned.
"That's the way they do those things out here."
"Not late years, Ned," corrected his brother, "and even if they did,
that would not be best."
"It is a question with me," said Houston, "situated just as we are at
present, and with Mr. Cameron expected in a few hours, whether it
would be wise to do anything about this until after his arrival."
"I think not," said Morton, "under the circumstances, you do not want
to arouse the antipathy of any of the miners before Mr. Cameron's
coming, and as Maverick knows nothing of this discovery, he will of
course remain here, and Mr. Cameron can advise in this matter as he
thinks best."
And this was the final decision.