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[Illustration: Virginia "cautiously pushed aside the portiere, then
entered the room."]
An Oregon Girl
Alfred Ernest Rice
1914
SCENES: Portland, Oregon, and environs.
TIME: Within the last fifteen years.
PERSONAE:
John Thorpe: Director, Investment Co.
Constance: His wife
Virginia: His sister, An Oregon Girl
Dorothy: His five-year-old daughter
Hazel Brooke: His niece
Smith: His Irish coachman
Philip Rutley: Ex-president, Investment Co.
Jack Shore: Ex-secretary Investment Co.
James Harris: Retired merchant
Mrs. Harris: His wife
Sam Harris: His nephew, and hero
Joe Corway: Secretly engaged to Virginia, but forsakes her for Hazel
Mr. Williams: Attorney at Law
Dr. Mackay: The Harris family physician
Simms: A detective
Wells: Harris' coachman
Gene, Spike: Boys
Ship's officers, and others
INTRODUCTORY
In the year 19-- a legend adorned with gold and bearing the significant
words, "The Securities Investment Association, Mr. Philip Rutley,
President, Mr. Jack Shore, Secretary-Treasurer," appeared on the glass
panel of a certain office door on Third street, in the city of
Portland, Oregon.
These two men were middle-aged bachelors, and moved in select society.
Through their social standing they had persuaded two wealthy men of
the city to lend their names as stockholders and directors in the
company; but the Investment Company's business failed to meet the
expenses which the social living of the two promoters felt were
demanded of them, and the inevitable happened, viz., a resort to
dishonest manipulations of sundry bond transactions by which the two
wealthy directors had to "make good."
It resulted, on discovery, in the immediate closing of the office and
prosecution of the offenders was ordered; but because of their social
standing and promise to leave the city at once, criminal proceedings
were suspended.
Three years elapsed. In the medium-sized room of a plainly furnished
flat, in a genteel suburb of the "Bay City," a man sat brooding over
the ill luck which had pursued him for the past few years. This man,
as he sat with elbows on his knees and chin resting on his hands, was
looking through the open window and out over the bay, out over that
far off rugged ridge of purple and gray and white that projected up in
the clear ethereal blue, northward, gazing with eyes fixed into
nothingness, for he was deeply absorbed in a review of his past career
and of the sunny time he had enjoyed while living in Portland.
His straw colored hair, verging to a sandy hue, framed a smooth shaven
face of marked strength and intelligence. His eyes of a bluish gray,
were bright when shielded by spectacles, worn more from fashion than
necessity, glittered with keenness and energy.
Jack Shore rarely allowed his naturally aggressive and buoyant spirits
to remain for long depressed by a gloomy retrospect; but the purpose
of his prolonged stare at vacancy on this occasion was attributable to
the necessity of another visit to Mr. Loan-on-personal-property.
His reverie was ended by the abrupt entry of his companion, Philip
Rutley, who drawled out in quiet tones: "Jack--Aw--I beg pardon. I see
you are engaged."
Jack looked at his visitor, noted his dignified bearing and unwonted
coolness as he removed his gloves; noted the smile of cunning pleasure
that played about his mouth and, from experience, concluded that some
deep scheme had been thought out and a line of action forming.
"Well, Phil," he replied, "what game is on now?"
"A well dressed lady and gentleman, strangers," began Phil, "halted me
on Market Street and addressed me as 'My Lord Beauchamp.' They warmly
shook my hand and gushingly insisted that I promise them the pleasure
of presenting our very dear friends,--Mr. and Mrs. Orthodox--to Lord
Beauchamp at the Palace tonight."
"Of course, you consented!" quietly laughed Jack.
"Ahem! Unfortunately I had instructed my secretary to 'clear' the
yacht for the north this evening, and as all arrangements were
complete, must beg, with profound regrets" (and he bent low with
courtly grace) "to decline the pleasure. Should you be visiting
England next summer, my cordial invitation to rest a month or so
at--a--Beauchamp, Isle of Wight."
"And you--"
"Beckoned a passing cab; bade them 'adieu' and drove on a few blocks."
"I congratulate you on your iron-clad nerve," laughingly remarked
Jack. "And you withdrew with your new title,--a--me Lord Beauchamp,
sitting jauntily, like a chip on your shoulder,--undisturbed."
"How could I do otherwise? You know I am opposed to shocks, but
seriously, Jack, the incident has suggested a way out of our
embarrassment."
"How?"
"By carrying the thing on and be a lord in fact, with you as my
secretary."
Jack laughed, low and yet with a heartiness that was rollicking in its
abandon, and then added by way of parenthesis:
"I shall announce 'Your Grace's' intention to visit Portland."
"Precisely! You are well aware of the great esteem in which Me Lord
Beauchamp is likely to be held there, particularly by our friends, The
Thorpes, Harrises, et al."
"A proper entry will create quite a stir among the fashionable set,"
remarked Jack reflectively.
"And give us opportunities to 'work' them some."
"Are you agreed?"
"Yes," responded Jack. "It will be a damn good joke, anyway," and
again he laughed, for as the horn of plenty flitted before his vision
his spirits soared once more, above the measly depths of want and
anxiety. "As an American," he continued, "you have as much right to
play the role of Lord, General or Judge as any other name by which
your friends may be pleased to 'dub' you."
CHAPTER I.
Within the perimeter of a great semi-circle window in a large
luxuriously furnished room of a fashionable residence not far from
6666 Hill, in the city of Portland, two women sat reading.
It was an autumn afternoon, just after a light shower, a little warm
but rarely matched for the unusual splendor of its soft, dreamy
atmosphere--calm and clear as infinite space.
The incessant roar of the city's commerce floated up and through the
screened windows in muffled echoes, but the readers being accustomed
to the sound, were undisturbed.
At length one of the readers, a girl who had not seen more than twenty
summers, closed the book she had just finished reading and broke the
silence with the remark: "Most interesting! A great story!"
"Yes," exclaimed her companion, looking up, "particularly in its
treatment of the bogus Count. Indeed, it is realistic enough to be
true."
"So it appears!" replied the maid, "but just imagine such a thing to
happen--as for instance a tramp to impersonate successfully Lord
Beauchamp!"
"My Lord is a gentleman 'to the manor born,' and impossible of
counterfeit."
"I understand the reception by Mrs. Harris is to be given in his
honor?"
"Yes," replied Mrs. Thorpe, and smiling she went on: "He has promised
to take tea with us today."
"And do you know," said Hazel in an awed tone, "he's a Knight of the
Order of the Garter? It is reported that he is to be married to a
beautiful San Francisco girl."
"I have heard it mentioned, but I hardly think his Lordship seeks a
wife in America, because he is very wealthy."
"But, Constance,--love is sometimes eccentric!"
"Quite true, when its underlying motive is mercenary. You remember
Philip Rutley."
"Constance!" exclaimed the girl, with a stamp of her foot. "You know
the wise proverb, 'Let sleeping dogs lie.'"
It was then that Philip Rutley, impersonating Lord Beauchamp, was
ushered in, accompanied by Mr. Joseph Corway.
"Ah! My Lord," greeted Constance arising from her seat. "This
delightful corner has lured us to forget to welcome you at the portal
of our home. Allow me the pleasure of introducing Miss Hazel Brooke,
and you, Mr. Corway,--well you know we are always 'at home' to you."
As Rutley deliberately placed a monocle to his eye, he said, "A corner
with such an entrancing vista," carelessly waving his hand toward the
open, "is a pardonable lure to dreamy forgetfulness."
Then he stared at the girl and, as he supposed, conveyed the desired
impression, muttered: "Charming!" and that word, uttered with quiet
and apparently involuntary emphasis, at once made Hazel Brooke his
friend, and, to add to the favorable impression which Rutley perceived
he had created, he bowed low and said suavely: "Miss Brooke will
permit me to say, I rejoice in her acquaintance."
"Your Lordship may find me a deceiver."
"I shall not believe so winsome a flower can be unreal." And he again
fixed the monocle to his eye and stared at her in pleased assurance.
"Art simulates many charming things of nature," remarked Mrs. Thorpe,
and she slyly glanced at Hazel.
The girl almost laughed; but her gentle breeding came to the rescue,
and she bore Rutley's stare with admirable nonchalance, until Mr.
Corway, feeling a little amused at Lord Beauchamp's monopoly of the
girl's attention answered Mrs. Thorpe: "Yet nature cannot be excelled
in anything that is beautiful in art."
For which he received from the girl a smile that thrilled him with a
conviction that no lord, no croesus, nor commoner, could dethrone him
from her heart.
The ordeal in which Hazel found herself under Rutley's disconcerting
stare, was terminated by Mrs. Thorpe.
"Your Lordship must be familiar with many beautiful things of nature.
By the way, I want you to visit our conservatory. We have some choice
exotics there from the Orinoco."
Rutley removed his monocle, and turned to Mrs. Thorpe. "My secretary
obtained some rare specimens in Bogota, nevertheless I shall consider
it a pleasure to visit your collection, for indeed it must be superb,
judging from such natural beauty already in evidence."
"You are coming, too," said Mrs. Thorpe, turning to Hazel and Mr.
Corway.
"Thanks!--that is,--we shall join you presently," stammered Mr. Corway,
looking at Hazel with a half smile.
Mrs. Thorpe looked amused as she said: "Oh, very well," and then,
halting on the threshold, turned again and added: "Hazel, dear, don't
forget the conservatory."
Rutley and Mrs. Thorpe had scarcely gone when Hazel exclaimed: "Well!
I'm waiting for you."
"Of course," Corway replied haltingly; then, after a pause, "Hazel!"
"Miss Brooke--please," she corrected, with a tantalizing smile.
"Oh--confound it. Hazel"--he began again.
"Are you coming?" she interrupted, moving away, but with an
aggravating smile playing fitfully about her face.
Whereupon he bowed low, with mock formality, approached her offering
his arm. "I crave the honor."
The girl placed her hand in his arm with a promptness that flushed his
face, but immediately blanched it with the teasing remark: "It's to be
only as far as the conservatory, you know."
"And from there around the grounds," he replied tenderly.
"Oh!" she exclaimed. "You insist on going the rounds with me? Oh, very
well!" and they laughed together.
Shortly after they had gone, the portieres of an entrance to the left
were cautiously parted and a young girl peeped in, then entered the
room. She was the embodiment of youth, happiness and expectancy.
She was dressed in the whitest of white muslin. A narrow band of
magenta-colored silk encircled her slender waist, the long, loose ends
of the bow flowing almost to her feet, while her mass of raven black
hair drawn back from her fair white forehead, and coiled at the back
of her shapely head lent a queenly grace to a divinely moulded form.
The suppleness of her carriage, intensified by the simplicity of her
soft, faultless dress, was a poem of delight which needed no skill of
adornment to beautify; no touch of art to dignify.
Across the room she stole, as lightly as though her feet were winged,
and listened at the door.
"I am sure I heard his voice!" Then with a smile of joy, she tripped
to the open window overlooking the piazza, and looked out,
murmuring--"how I long to see him. My Joe! Handsome, manly Joe, I adore
you. And these, his flowers--his favorite flower, our beautiful rose,"
drawing from her hair two red roses, which she kissed again and again.
"I hurried home because I could not remain away from you, and now--oh,
the joy of a glad surprise--I hear footsteps!" and she listened
expectantly, then turned to behold Mrs. Harris, an elderly lady of
portly bearing and elegantly dressed, who was at that moment entering
from the piazza.
"Why, Virginia, I am delighted. You look the happiest girl in the
land," taking her hand and kissing her. "Oregon peach-bloom on your
cheeks, too; I'll wager you are just in from the farm, you hayseed."
"Yes, and I've had the most delightful time," replied the girl softly.
"Romped over the fields of sweet-smelling clover, and through the
orchards, and helped in the hay-field, too," she laughed joyously.
"Hands up! I mean the palms," said Mrs. Harris, in mock severity. "It
must have been a silver rake you handled in the hay-field," she
resumed, after scrutinizing the palms of Virginia's outstretched
hands, "for there isn't even a callous."
"It is harvest time," replied the girl, laughing, "and the harvest
moon is death to callouses, you know."
"We've missed you, dear, at Seaside," said Mrs. Harris. "But still you
look just as charming as though you had been there the entire season."
"You rude flatterer. The seaside is nice, but I love our dear old farm
home in the valley, best. Yet"--Virginia continued, demurely, with
downcast eyes, "it seemed a little dull this year, and, you see, I
have a reason for coming in before the harvest is over."
As the girl stood with downcast eyes, her countenance appeared
exquisitely regular, dignified and very beautiful.
"Ah, dear!" exclaimed Mrs. Harris, with admiration. "An affair of the
heart--a man in it, eh, dear?--I know him. He will be here in a few
moments--lucky fellow!"
"Will he?--are you sure?"
"Dear me! How joyful you are!" said Mrs. Harris, staring kindly at
her.
"Oh, if you had been away from your sweetheart for so long a time as I
have been from mine"--
"Ha! ha! ha! ha!" laughed Mrs. Harris. "Why, Virginia dear, only two
weeks! Really you carry me back to my own girlish days, just after I
met James--I remember well--my heart nearly fluttered out of its place."
"My heart fluttered out of its place weeks and weeks ago, and will not
flutter back, unless"--
"Unless what, dear?"
"Unless he despises it," she said, with a sigh.
"Well, the dear boy is pining to see you. That I know, so there is a
pair of you."
"Is he getting thin?" questioned Virginia, eagerly.
"Not exactly, but--listen!" And Mrs. Harris held up a warning finger as
she looked out over the piazza.
"He is coming!"
"Oh, dear!" exclaimed Virginia, in an ecstacy of joy. "I shall hide
and surprise him. Oh! his favorites have wilted. I will pluck fresh
ones in the conservatory, and hasten back--don't tell!" and with that
she flew out of the room through the portieres.
As Mrs. Harris stood alone in a contemplative mood, she said aloud to
herself: "Oh, dear! These hearts of ours! How foolish they make us at
times--I have often thought our Sam was a 'lady killer,' now I am sure
of it."
Just then Sam Harris stepped across the piazza and entered the room.
Sam was a young man just having passed his twenty-fourth birthday. His
strong chin was indicative of fidelity to his friends, and his mass of
reddish, curly hair lent expression to a jovial expression of
countenance.
Sam was particularly joyous in anticipation of meeting Virginia
Thorpe. "Have you seen her, Auntie?" and he straightway opened a door
leading to the library and looked in; then he closed it.
Mrs. Harris quietly watched him and became disturbed with misgivings,
lest his zeal in his present frame of mind would impair the dignity
she considered so essential to his enterprise as well as to the
position the Harrises held in society.
It was therefore necessary to impress on him the importance of
"proper" form, which she immediately undertook, and addressed him with
calm stateliness.
"Now, Sam, I warn you to be careful how you greet Virginia. Remember,
though but twenty-two, she is an accomplished young lady."
"Don't I know it!" he replied, with a satisfied smile.
"Don't touch the portieres, Sam! Sam!" she exclaimed in alarm, but her
command was unheeded, and Sam spread them wide apart, much to his
aunt's consternation.
No one being behind the portiere, she appeared amazed, but quickly
recovering her composure, continued:
"Dear me! How very strange! Oh, yes, I forgot. She has gone to the
conservatory." Then she muttered in low tones:
"Now I have said it, and she told me not to tell."
"Well, I'm off to the conservatory, too--eh, Auntie! Don't follow me,"
and he strode toward the piazza.
"Sam! Sam! Remain here. I have something to say to you."
"Well, be quick, Auntie. You know I am crazy to see her. Eh! I guess
so."
"'Crazy!' Well, remember the least display of rudeness or unseemly
eagerness will be promptly met with a frown of displeasure."
"Auntie, she's finer than the petals of a rose."
"But, like a rose, too, she is just as sensitive," cautioned Mrs.
Harris, as she majestically moved over to the mantel--and then she
abruptly turned, at a fresh thought. "Sam, for the sake of our social
prestige--for my own hope that your affection shall be reciprocated"--
"Love, Auntie!" interrupted Sam. "That's the word. It's short and to
the point. Eh?"
Quite undisturbed by the interruption, she continued: "And for the
supreme pleasure it would afford me to see the house of Harris united
to the house of Thorpe, I desire that you give me an example of the
manner you intend to approach Virginia."
The idea appeared so grotesque to Sam that he gave a slight
inclination of his head, a habit he had somehow acquired in the
"Desert," and exclaimed in startled emphasis: "Ea-Ah! How?"
"By addressing me as you would her."
With a smile broadening his face and a roguish twinkle of the eye, he
exclaimed: "Can't be done, Auntie! You ain't the real thing. Can't
work up any excitement over a counterfeit."
"Sam! It grieves me to say that I fear for your success. Her rejection
of your suit would mean humiliation for us. Therefore I insist that
you remember what I have told you and address Virginia as I shall
instruct you."
Sam was too shrewd to oppose his aunt's determination--a previous
experience having taught him the desirability of quietly agreeing with
her notions, so with a smile of acquiescence he answered:
"All right, Auntie! Fire away."
Drawing herself up in a stately pose, she passed to the end of the
room, turned, and again faced him. "Now, Sam, I request you to impress
upon your memory every word I utter, so that you may salute your
lady-love in a similar manner. Do you comprehend?"
"I think so, Auntie," and thereupon thrust his hands in his trouser
pockets.
"Sam, remove your hands from your pockets. It is neither good form nor
in accordance with polite usage, for a gentleman to bury his hands in
his trouser pockets, when in the presence of a lady."
"All right, Auntie!" and he grinned broadly as he removed the
offending hands.
With a most affable smile, yet maintaining a dignified carriage, she
advanced down the room, halted midway, and gracefully bowed, then
continuing, extended her hand, which Sam took. She again bowed and
carried his hand to her lips; then taking both his hands in hers and
looking straight into his eyes, smiled and said:
"I am delighted to have the honor of congratulating Miss Thorpe on her
safe return." She then released his hands and proceeded across the
room.
"Is that all?" came from Sam, in a burst of dismay.
Mrs. Harris turned sharply and emphatically exclaimed: "Yes, Sam. In
your conversation with Virginia beware of gushing familiarity. Nothing
to my mind is more likely to jeopardize your suit than absurd
vulgarity." So saying, she again turned and proceeded toward the door.
"Auntie, I can do better than that. Why, you left out the best part."
And his eyes twinkled mischieviously, while a laugh on his face was
suppressed with difficulty.
She turned quickly, and in much surprise exclaimed: "Dear me! I didn't
know it. What is it?"
"I will show you." With that Sam passed to the end of the room and
turned. "Now, Auntie, I'll try to think that you are my sweetheart,
Virginia."
Smiling, he proceeded down the room, halted midway, bowed and then
continued toward his aunt, took her right hand, clasped it between his
two, and looked into her eyes. He then raised her hand to his left
shoulder and while he held it there, pressed her waist with his right
arm--"I am delighted to welcome you home again." Pressing her closer to
him--"Believe me--I--I can never forget--that I--I,"--then he became
absent-minded and, to save himself, suddenly blurted out--"I love
you--there!" And he kissed her lips and embraced her vigorously. Then,
with a whirl, he released her, laughing as he did so, and exclaimed:
"Ah ha! I guess so, eh, Auntie?"
Mrs. Harris recovered herself, in the middle of the room, and gasped
out: "Oh, dear! What a shock. I am sure I am twisted all out of
shape."
Sam stood with a satisfied grin on his face, and thrust his hands in
his trouser pockets, and watched her. "That was love! The real
thing--eh, Auntie!"
"Dear me," she exclaimed, between her labored breathing. "I was never
treated to anything so rude in my life. Your arm, Sam. Assist me to
the piazza. I must have more air."
"Auntie, you wait till I try it on Virginia. Oh, my! Eh!"
Meanwhile a little scene was being enacted in the conservatory,
destined to produce the gravest consequences to others than those
directly concerned. After examining the rare plants, Mrs. Thorpe and
My Lord had passed out to an attractive bed of massed chrysanthemums,
fringed with geraniums, then in full flower--leaving Hazel and Corway
alone.
Propitious fate again granted him the opportunity he so ardently
desired.
They were looking at some violet buds, concealed by giant Canna leaves
and a profusion of palms, when there passed through the girl's frame
one of those mysterious thrills--which man designates magnetic, but
which Providence has really made inscrutable to the human
understanding.
"I wonder," she faintly exclaimed, and slowly turning her head--their
lips met.
Though stolen, it was delicately done--one of those exquisite little
gems of cause and effect, which naturally happen to true sweethearts.
They stood looking at each other in surprised silence.
"I did not grant you that privilege," at length broke from Hazel, in a
faltering manner--her cheeks flushing and her soft blue eyes dancing.
"I could not resist the temptation," and taking her two hands in his,
added: "Hazel, I love you! Will you be mine?"
"Why, Mr. Corway!" replied the maid, disengaging herself.
She spoke and acted quietly, while a bewitching smile shone in her
eyes.
At that moment, unnoticed by them, a shadow suddenly darkened the
doorway. It did not tarry long, and swiftly disappeared.
Unseen herself, Virginia had entered the conservatory, her footfalls
as light as her joyous young heart, the happiest of the happy.
Hearing that voice, she had paused, then gently parted some leaves
and--the smile died on her lips.
She stood for a moment like one transfixed, listening in an amazed
wonder, then, undiscovered, she silently withdrew into deeper foliage.
"Why draw away from me, Hazel?" went on Corway.
"Because! You may not be sincere!" replied the girl, shyly.
"Not sincere? Hazel, from the first moment that I beheld you I felt
that I stood in the presence of my fate."
"But, Mr. Corway,"--she returned, with that provoking smile still
lurking about the corners of her pretty mouth--"don't you love any
other?"
"No," he softly replied.
"Are you sure?"
"Sure!"
"Not even Virginia?"
"I respect her, but do not love her--Oh, Hazel, do not keep me in
suspense. Tell me you requite my love--promise to be mine, to cherish
and protect forever"--and again he took her unresisting hand in his and
drew her near him.
"Well, this is so serious that--don't you think that I should have a
little time to consider it?"
Her face had taken on a half-serious look, but the little cloud was
quickly chased away by a happy smile.
Nor did it escape the eager eye of her sweet-heart. He saw that her
hesitation was not to be taken seriously, and as a test he said in
soft, tremulous accents: "Then the girl I would die for does not love
me, does not care for me--"
Turning half around to him, in a pleading and half-reproachful way,
she tenderly emphasized: "Oh, I do love you, Joe, with all my heart."
And throwing wide her arms, fell on his breast, with the joy of a
maiden's first love flushing her face.
And then their lips met--deep in the sweet intoxication of love's first
confiding trust.
"Thou perfect flower! To express the fullness of my heart would be
impossible," he joyfully exclaimed.
And thus, while pressing her hand on his shoulder and feeling a ring
on her finger, he gently removed it.
"Oh! that's Virginia's ring; that is, I got it from her," she
protested feebly, her head pillowed on his breast.
"It shall be a 'Mizpah' of trust, dearest, and shall come back to you
with an engagement ring," he softly replied, as he slipped it into his
vest pocket.
In one of Virginia's happy girlish moments, she had picked up the ring
from Constance's dressing table, and admiring its beauty, smilingly
slipped it upon her own finger, with the owner's permission to wear it
awhile, but with the injunction to "be careful not to lose it, dear,
for I value it very highly. It was John's gift to me before we were
married"--and then later, on that same day, with Hazel's arm clasping
her waist and her own arm clasping Hazel's, the two happy girls
strolling through the grounds--to have Hazel remove it in the same
admiring fashion and slip it on her own finger, Virginia yielding to
her young cousin, just as Constance, in perfect trust, yielded to her.
And then in the morning, all forgetful of the ring, she left for the
Valley farm.
And now, on her sudden return, she beheld that same ring taken by
Corway as a size for Hazel's engagement ring, and heard him declare
"it shall be a Mizpah of trust, dearest."
A sigh unconsciously escaped her; a sigh freighted with the blood of
fibers as love tore itself away from her heart.
Hazel heard it, and in alarm said to Corway: "What is that? Did you
hear it? So like a moan?"
He looked around. "You were mistaken, dearest; there is none here but
you and me."
"Oh, yes, I heard it"--and with a timidity in which a slight sense of
fear was discernible, said: "Let us go out in the open."
But he held her firm, loath to release the beautiful being clasped
close to his heart.
"This is for truest love"--and he kissed her again, as she looked up
through eyes of unswerving fidelity. "This for never-faltering
constancy"--and again their lips met--"And this, a sacred pledge of
life's devotion, God helping me, forever more"--and their lips met yet
once again.
Then they passed out to join Mrs. Thorpe and Rutley.
Virginia had witnessed the pledge that meant the blighting of her
life's fond hopes, and she had heard his passionate declaration.
With straining eyes and a very white face, she watched them depart,
till there welled up and gathered thick-falling tears that mercifully
shut him out from her sight. She sat down on a bench.
She thought of the honeyed words and eager attention with which he
wooed her, and made captive her young heart's deepest, most ardent
passion, and now his perfidy was laid bare.
With an effort she became more composed, and exclaimed aloud: "So, the
almighty dollar is the object of Joseph Corway's devotion." And as her
indignation increased, she sprang from her seat, and with quivering
voice, said: "Oh, God! and I did confide in him so fondly, trusted him
so guilelessly, and now our engagement is ended and all is over
between us--forever." And notwithstanding her effort to suppress them,
sob after sob burst forth.
Strong-minded and of powerful emotions, Virginia Thorpe was a queenly
woman, a woman whose friendship was prized by her acquaintances, and
whose wealth of intellect was a charm to a strikingly graceful figure;
and the love that was in her nature once awakened, grew and
intensified day by day till at last a steadfast blaze of trust and
confidence glorified her personality.
Such she bore for Corway--until she discovered he loved Hazel. Oh, what
a change then came over her, as her heart yielded up its dearest
desire in tears of scalding bitterness.
"Oh, Joe! tenderly I loved you, passionately I adored you, and you led
me to believe that you loved none but me, yet all the time your heart
had gone out to another, and this is no doubt the real reason you
wanted our engagement to be kept a secret, and my love, which no woman
had greater, was but a plaything!" she thought to herself.
She looked at the roses she had unconsciously held in her hand, with
infinite tenderness, then crushed them, and broke them.
"Farewell, sweet emblems of truth and love." And throwing the flowers,
which she had so fondly kissed but a few moments before, among dead
leaves on the ground, said in a voice that trembled with the pathos of
the death of love's young dream:
"Thus perish all my young life's happy hopes. Gone! Gone among the
things that are dead." Sobs of bitterest disappointment again burst
from her lips.
Suddenly she brushed her hand across her eyes--it was then that
Virginia's transformation took place.
From the guileless, joyful, winsome maid, emerged a woman--beautiful,
but alas, subtle, alert and avenging. With a stamp of her foot she
said, with sudden determination:
"Away with these tears. What have I to do with human feelings now? I
will conquer this weakness, though in the process my heart be changed
to stone.
"Now, Corway, beware of me, for you shall know that the love you have
toyed with has changed to hate, an unappeasable, undying hate, and you
shall learn, too, that a woman's revenge will pause at nothing that
will help to gratify it." Then she slipped out of the conservatory,
with the intention to get to her room, if possible, unobserved, but
was halted by hearing Constance say: "Virginia, dear! I wish to make
you acquainted with Lord Beauchamp."
There was no chance for evasion or escape. Virginia had not noticed
them as she passed, for they were hidden by the angle of the
conservatory, and she was quite close to them when addressed by
Constance.
Quick of wit, the girl realized that some excuse was necessary to
account for the appearance of her tear-stained face. Halting in her
flight, she drew her handkerchief and commenced to rub her eyes, and
speaking with faltering lips, for the wound in her heart was yet raw
and tender, she said: "Your Lordship finds me at an awkward
moment--something has gotten into my eye, and causes me acute pain, but
please believe, I esteem it an honor to number Your Grace among my
acquaintances."
"Dear heart!" exclaimed Constance, at once proceeding to examine the
girl's eye. "Let me try to relieve you!"
As Virginia felt the touch of loving fingers on her eyelids, she felt
powerless to restrain her emotion, and great tears welled up. Her
weary head fell forward upon her friend's shoulder, and she sobbed:
"Oh, Constance, dear, the world to me is one black charnel house."
The gentle nature of Constance leaped out in sympathy which, for the
moment, smothered her surprise. She threw her arms around Virginia and
kissed her on the temple.
That Virginia suffered was enough, she felt instinctively that such an
outburst of grief was from a far deeper source than that produced by
the mote in her eye.
Virginia always had confided in Constance. That desire to communicate,
so natural in youth, was strong in the girl. In Hazel, she had been
met with a sort of pity, till she ceased to touch upon girlish secrets
with her altogether, but in Constance she found one who would not
chide even folly, and so these two were, by the nature of things, very
close friends.
"There, dear heart," soothingly said Constance, "rest awhile, for I
know the pain must be severe."
Rutley was an involuntary witness to this bit of feminine sympathy,
and, no doubt, recalled it to memory in the events that were to come.
His immediate concern, however, expressed itself in a cold,
matter-of-fact manner. "Oftentimes," he said, "the protection supplied
by nature to the human eye seems insufficient, and consequent
suffering must be endured. I trust Miss Thorpe will soon find relief."
"Oh! I am sure the pain is only temporary," half rebelliously replied
Virginia, drawing away from Constance, and rapidly recovering her
self-possession, as she brushed the tears from her eyes. "There," she
said, "it is passing away now, and I can see quite distinctly already.
Why, how like your lordship resembles a past acquaintance," she
remarked, as she eyed him critically.
"Indeed, if the acquaintance you mention was not consigned to the
gallows, it might be no sin to resemble him," responded Rutley,
stroking his Vandyke beard.
"Oh! his offense was quite serious, poor fellow! Some shady bond
transaction with an investment association, in which he, and one Jack
Shore, were the officers. I have heard that the directors agreed not
to prosecute them on condition that they left the city and never
returned."
"In England, were it not for the color of my hair, I should have been
taken often for the Marquis of Revelstoke," and to the girl's dismay,
he stiffened up and directed on her a most austere and frigid look,
then deliberately fixed the monocle to his eye, and remarked, as his
frame faintly quivered, as with a slight chill--"It's deuced draughty,
don't-che-know!"
He then removed the monocle, and suddenly resumed his habitually suave
manner. Picking up a binocle, which lay on the table, he turned to
look toward Mt. Hood--"Sublime!" he exclaimed.
"It is very beautiful and white today," remarked Constance.
"Indeed," assured Rutley, "it seems close enough to touch with my
outstretched hand."
"My lord's arm would need to be thirty miles long," smiled Mrs.
Thorpe, who was then ascending the steps.
"A long reach," responded Rutley, lowering the glass.
"The illusion is due to our clear atmosphere," replied Mrs. Thorpe.
"I presume so," agreed Rutley.
"At times the air is phenomenally clear. One day this past Summer I
fancied I could make out the 'Mazamas,' who were then ascending the
mountain," quietly remarked Virginia.
"Aw, indeed, very likely; quite so," continued Rutley, handing the
glass to Constance, and then turning to Virginia with an alluring
smile, added: "And then, the ladies--are so bewitchingly entertaining."
"Presumably your idea of American girls has suggested the art of
flattery."
"No, no!" he replied. "It's no flattery, I assure you."
Just then Hazel and Mr. Corway approached the group standing on the
piazza.
Virginia saw them, and with an affected sigh, she turned to John
Thorpe, who was standing at the head of the piazza steps, and who also
was looking at the approaching couple, and taking him aside, said in a
low voice: "John, has it occurred to you that Corway is a handsome
man?"
"He certainly is good looking and well proportioned, too," replied
Thorpe, with a quizzical stare at his sister, and his stare developed
a smile, as he added, pleasantly: "But why?--are you, too, becoming
enamored of this handsome man?"
With downcast eyes, and sudden flushed cheeks, that betrayed the shame
she felt at the part she had elected to assume, her answer was given
in a low, serious voice: "I have reason to warn you as my cousin's
guardian, that his intentions are not of the best."
Thorpe felt a strange gripping sensation creep into his heart, and
then he, too, looked serious, but his seriousness quickly passed, as
he thoughtfully muttered: "No, no, 'tis impossible!" and then, in a
more unperturbed manner, said slowly: "His reputation for honor and
rectitude is above reproach."
Though his muttering was scarcely audible, Virginia heard him. "Are
you sure?" she replied, in a voice equally subdued, and with a flash
of anger in her meaning glance. "You may find that he will bear
watching. And you also may find that his attention to Hazel is an
insult to our family honor."
The possibility of Hazel, his guileless orphan niece, of whom he was
so proud, could be the victim of a base deception, had never entered
his mind, and so it happened that the first shadow that had darkened
the serenity of his trust, was, strangely enough, projected by his
sister.
As his eyes again fell upon Hazel's sweet, sensible face, then lifted
to the manly, honest countenance of her companion, he at once banished
the fear from his mind, and impatiently exclaimed: "Oh, this is
nonsense!" Then he turned on his heel, hesitated, and again turned,
and looked furtively at Corway, muttering: "Yet I cannot banish the
thought. I wonder what causes Virginia--no, I have never suspected him
of vice." Then he slowly disappeared through the vestibule.
As Corway and Hazel approached the steps, Virginia seemed to stiffen
and slightly shudder. She felt like ice, and disdained the slightest
recognition which he made to her. She turned away with a look of
ineffable contempt, and moved slowly over to Rutley and Constance.
Corway instinctively felt that she had been a witness to his scene
with Hazel, but he affected unconcern, and allowed the incident to
pass without comment.
During the brief time this significant episode was being enacted,
Hazel's attention was attracted to Sam and Dorothy approaching on the
drive, so she was unaware of the change that had come over her cousin.
"You must come in, Sam, 'cause I like you, and you haven't been to see
us for a long time--Oh, mamma, we have had such fine fun, Sam and
I"--and there appeared from around the corner of the piazza Dorothy
Thorpe pulling Sam Harris along by the sleeve.
"Well, Sam," said Mrs. Thorpe, overlooking him from the piazza, "we
thought you had forgotten us."
"No, indeed," replied Sam, and as he discovered Virginia, he added
under his breath: "At least not while that fair party is around."
"Of course, you have acted as Mrs. Harris' escort?"
"My aunt is on the lawn," he answered, and then as he ascended the
steps, greeted Virginia. "Miss Thorpe will permit me to congratulate
her upon her safe return."
"I have had quite a journey," replied Virginia coldly.
"Well, you have enjoyed it?" ventured Sam, and then he noted a swift
questioning glance of anger.
In his dilemma, he felt an awkwardness creeping over him and grinned
broadly, and then stupidly faltered: "That is, I guess so!"
"You guess wide of the mark."
"Aha," replied Sam, with a roguish twinkle of the eye, "my eyes do not
deceive me, eh?"
"Flattery is embarrassing to me. I beg of you to avoid it." And she
thereupon, with a look of weariness, turned and disappeared through
the vestibule.
"I guess so! I guess so!" exclaimed Sam, abashed, and a flush of
mortification overspread his face.
"Do you like auntie, Sam?" abruptly questioned the child.
She had softly stolen to his side, unperceived, and her voice sounded
so close as to startle him.
"Ea, ah!--well, I should think so," he unconsciously muttered.
"Mercy!" exclaimed Mrs. Thorpe, who could ill repress a
smile--"Dorothy, dear! I think the robins are calling for you out in
the sunshine."
"Come, little one," said Sam, glad of an opportunity to escape from an
awkward position. "And while you are listening to the feathered
songsters, I'll keep a sharp lookout for the fair party you call
auntie. Come," and he took the child's hand and the two ran down the
steps. Darting around the corner, they almost collided with John
Thorpe and Mrs. Harris, who were approaching to join the company on
the piazza.
"Ha--democratic Hazel in the role of 'noblesse oblige,' is something
new--congratulations, my lord, on the conquest!" said Mrs. Harris.
"I am proud of the acquaintance of so fair a a democrat," and
confronting Mrs. Harris, he continued: "England's nobility lays homage
at the feet of your fair democrats, for they are the golden links in
the chain of conquest."
"And it is my hope that soon one of the golden links will bear the
distinguished title, Lady Beauchamp," replied Mrs. Harris, while her
eyes flashed a merry twinkle in the direction of Hazel.
"Of course," remarked Mr. Corway, who, flushed with jealousy resented
the allusion. "His lordship doubtless since his arrival in the country
has been overwhelmed with offerings of the youth and beauty of
America."
"It seems to me that you are talking in mysteries," remarked Hazel.
Mr. Corway moved toward her. "I appeal to the shrine of beauteous Hebe
for vindication."
"Ha! ha! ha! ha!" laughed the girl. "Wouldn't it be a surprise if the
appeal should be negative?"
"But the shrine of Hebe is not often invincible," rejoined Constance.
"You must remember there is hope and there is perseverence--but this is
irrelevant," and, turning to Mrs. Harris, continued: "Have you left
Mr. Harris at Rosemont?"
"Oh, no! James is out in the flower garden, discussing rose culture
with Virginia."
"Then I propose that we join them," said Mrs. Thorpe.
"And I suggest a stroll through the lovely lawn, under the glory of
Autumn foliage," added Rutley, who immediately turned and offered
Constance his arm, and the two passed down the steps.
Hazel and Corway were following Rutley, when John Thorpe attracted the
girl's attention by quietly exclaiming: "Hazel!"
She at once turned to Corway: "I shall be with you directly--uncle has
something to say to me."
As Mr. Corway and Mrs. Harris passed down the steps, John Thorpe and
Hazel entered the house.
"You have something to say to me, Uncle?"
"Yes, Hazel," and as they passed into the drawing room he bit his lip
in an endeavor to appear unperturbed.
With a girl's intuition, she scented something unpleasant, and with a
timid and startled look, she faltered: "What--is it Uncle?"
"Hazel," he began, and his eyes rested on his beautiful niece--very
beautiful just then, her eyes bright and clear and "peach-bloom" of
health, the famed Oregon coloring so becoming to the sex, and as he
looked at her he became suddenly conscious of a struggle raging in his
breast. A struggle between doubt and confidence--but he stumbled on
slowly--"I think--you show more--concern for--a--the company of Mr. Corway
than prudence--I mean--Hazel!"
At that moment Virginia pushed aside the portiere and silently stepped
into the room.
John Thorpe paused, for he saw the girl's face whiten, and her eyes
look into his with an expression of wonderment, and then his heart
seemed to leap to his throat, and choke him with a sense of shame at
his implication.
He put his arm gently about her, looked into the depths of her blue
eyes, and said, kindly: "As you love the memory of your father and
your mother, Hazel, beware that you do not make too free in the
society of Corway. Let your conduct be hedged about with propriety"----
"Uncle!" she interrupted, drawing away from him like a startled fawn
hit from ambush.
Virginia saw her opportunity to sever the friendship between her
brother and Corway.
Before her transformation she would have been shocked beyond measure
at so wicked a falsehood, as she then decided to launch. Impelled by a
consuming desire for revenge, no blush of shame checked her mad
course, and "no still small voice" warned her of her sin.
She said: "John, if our family honor is to be protected from scandal,
you will prevent your niece from having further to do with Mr.
Corway."
Both John and Hazel turned toward her. A deep silence ensued.
Implicit trust and confidence, the confidence begotten in perfect
domestic peace and contentment, had followed John Thorpe--but now, for
the first time, he found a tinge of shame and indignation had crept
into his heart--and he could not banish it.
At last he gravely broke the silence--"Have you no answer to this,
Hazel?"
The girl's eyes flashed resentment, but she refrained from angry
expression, for to her uncle she always showed the greatest deference,
yet her voice trembled a little as she said, with girlish dignity: "I
decline to reply to such an absurdity."
"Hazel!" warned Virginia, "you are dangerously near ruin when in the
company of that man, for his reputation is anything but clean."
Again a painful silence followed, Hazel, appearing incapable of
clearly understanding just what it was all about, stood dumb with
astonishment, while John's varied emotions were seen plainly through
the thin veneer of tranquility he tried to maintain.
John Thorpe was jealous of the honor of his house. The mere thought of
its possible violation bruised and lacerated him.
Proud of his high position in society; proud of his high rectitude;
proud of his father's untarnished life; proud of the fact that not the
faintest shadow of scandal could ever attach to his house or name--the
hinted criminations of his his orphan niece, maintained in his home as
one of the family, beat upon him with much the same effect as the
horrifying wings of a bat upon the face of a frightened child.
Virginia saw and felt that the crisis of her ruse was near. Again a
flush of daring sprang into her eyes, ominous of deeper sin, but John
unconsciously spared her from further commitment. Doubt was master at
last, for he chose to lean toward Virginia.
"Hazel!" he exclaimed, his white, grave face betraying a keen sense of
his shame. "Your rash fondness for that man is a sacrifice of
affection, and I shall forbid him visiting our house."
"A wise precaution," commented Virginia.
At last Hazel's indignation broke through all restraint.
"I am astonished at your implications," she retorted, her voice
becoming pathetic with the sense of her wounded honor. "My 'rash
fondness'! Uncle!" and she drew her slight form up erect, her eyes
flashing defiance: "If to believe in Mr. Corway's preferment is a
sacrifice of affection, then that sacrifice is to me an exalted honor,
for I have consented to become his wife!"
"Hazel!" gasped John Thorpe, amazed and dismayed at her declaration.
"I have suspected such a calamity would happen--but even now it is not
too late to prevent it!" exclaimed Virginia, sharply.
"Why, Virginia," reproached Hazel, with a stamp of her foot. "You
insult me!" and she turned away to conceal the tears that arose.
During a short, impressive silence, Mrs. Harris abruptly entered the
room, followed by Corway and Sam. "Dear me!" she exclaimed, as she
smilingly surveyed the trio, "James has often gone into raptures over
the domestic cooing of the Thorpes, but I was quite unaware that it
made them careless of the wishes of their guests.
"Thorpe, your arm"--and she swept down the room and seized his arm.
"Hazel, I have brought you an escort," and with a smile at Virginia,
"I don't think that Sam is far away. You cannot refuse to come now."
Hazel proudly accepted Corway's arm. Then they turned to leave the
room. As they neared the door, Virginia exclaimed, with low but
startling irony: "Il. cavalier is careful to make it appear he is
delighted with the society of his affianced. No doubt feeling an
honorable justification for his mercenary felicity. Ho, ho," Virginia
laughed, her lips quivering with scorn. "The situation is charming.
Ha, ha, ha, ha."
The principals to this little drama understood its meaning perfectly,
but while Mrs. Harris paused for an instant in wonderment, her easy
nature forbade worry--and so the incident quickly passed out of her
memory, and Sam was too shrewd to show that he heard it, and with his
round face beaming with unquenchable admiration, bowed and offered his
arm to her, accompanied by the characteristic side movement of his
head--"Ea, ha, I guess so--eh, Auntie?"
The joyous manner of utterance was like a shaft of sunshine bursting
through the dark, tragic clouds of impending storm.
Virginia's first attack fell short of accomplishing the purpose
intended, yet the seed of doubt, of suspicion and fear of family
disgrace had been grounded in her brother's mind, and it would be
strange, indeed, if Corway's position proved invulnerable to more
carefully-planned attacks.
It must be remembered that an opportunity had come at an unexpected
moment, and she impulsively seized upon it. Through it all, however,
Virginia must be credited with a sincere belief that Corway's
intentions toward Hazel were as insincere and mercenary as they had
been to her.