THE CRY OF WOMANHOOD
The women have no voice to speak, but none can check your pen--
Turn for a moment from your strife and plead their cause, O men!
--KIPLING.
After all, it was not Tillhurst, but Jim Conlow, who had a Topeka story
to tell when he went back to Springvale; and it was Lettie who edited
and published her brother's story. Lettie had taken on a new degree of
social importance with her elevation to a clerkship in Judson's store,
and she was quick to take advantage of it.
Tillhurst, when he found his case, like my own, was hopeless with
Marjie, preferred that Rachel's name and mine should not be linked
together. Also a degree of intimacy had developed suddenly between Tell
Mapleson and the young teacher. The latter had nothing to add when
Lettie enlarged on Rachel's preference for me and my devotion to her
while the Nineteenth Kansas was mobilizing in Topeka.
"And everybody knows," Lettie would declare, "that she's got the money,
and Phil will never marry a poor girl. No, sir! No Baronet's going to do
that."
Although it was only Lettie who said it, yet the impression went about
and fixed itself somehow, that I had given myself over to a life of
luxury. I, who at this very time was starving of hunger and almost
perishing of cold in a bleak wind-swept land. And to me for all this,
there were neither riches nor glory, nor love.
Springvale was very gay that winter. Two young lawyers from Michigan,
fresh from the universities, set up a new firm over Judson's store where
my father's office had been before "we planted him in the courthouse,
where he belongs," as Cam Gentry used to declare. A real-estate and
money-loaning firm brought three more young men to our town, while half
a dozen families moved out to Kansas from Indiana and made a "Hoosiers'
Nest" in our midst. And then Fingal's Creek and Red Range and all the
fertile Neosho lands were being taken by settlers. The country
population augmented that of the town, nor was the social plane of
Springvale lowered by these farmers' sons and daughters, who also were
of the salt of the earth.
"For an engaged girl, Marjory Whately's about the most popular I ever
see," Dollie Gentry said to Cam one evening, when the Cambridge House
was all aglow with light and full of gay company.
Marjie, in a dainty white wool gown with a pink sash about her waist,
and pink ribbons in her hair, had just gone from the kitchen with three
or four admiring young fellows dancing attendance upon her.
"How can anybody help lovin' her?" Dollie went on.
Cam sighed, "O Lordy! A girl like her to marry that there pole cat! How
can the Good Bein' permit it?"
"'Tain't between her and her Maker; it's all between Mrs. Whately and
Amos," Dollie asserted. "Now, Cam, has anybody ever heard her say she
was engaged? She goes with one and another. Cris Mead's wife says she
always has more company'n she can make use of any ways. It's like too
much canned fruit a'most. Mis' Mead loves Marjie, and she's so proud of
her. Marjie don't wear no ring, neither, not a one, sence she took off
Phil Baronet's."
Springvale had sharp eyes; and the best-hearted among us could tell just
how many rings any girl did or didn't wear.
"Well, by hen!" Cam declared, "I'm just goin' to ask herself myself."
"No, you ain't, Cam Gentry," Dollie said decisively.
"Now, Dollie, don't you dictate to your lord and master no more. I won't
stand it." Cam squinted up at her from his chair in a ludicrous attempt
to frown. "Worst hen-pecked man in town, by golly."
"I ain't goin' to dictate to no fool, Cam. If you want to be one, I
can't help it. I must go and set bread now." And Dollie pattered off
singing "Come Thou Fount," in a soft little old-fashioned tune.
* * * * *
"Marjie, girl, I knowed you when you was in bib aperns, and I knowed
your father long ago. Best man ever went out to fight and never got
back. They's as good a one comin' back, though, some day," he added
softly, and smiled as the pink bloom on Marjie's cheeks deepened.
"Marjie, don't git mad at an old man like your Uncle Cam. I mean no
harm."
It was the morning after the party. Marjie, who had been helping Mary
Gentry "straighten up," was resting now by the cosy fireplace, while
Dollie and Mary prepared lunch.
"Go ahead, Uncle Cam," the girl said, smiling. "I couldn't get mad at
you, because you never would do anything unkind."
"Well, little sweetheart, honest now, and I won't tell, and it's none of
my doggoned business neither; but be you goin' to marry Amos Judson?"
There was no resentment in the girl's face when she heard his halting
question, but the pink color left it, and her white cheeks and big brown
eyes gave her a stateliness Cam had never seen in her before.
"No, Uncle Cam. It makes no difference what comes to me, I could not
marry such a man. I never will."
"Oh, Lord bless you, Marjie!" Cam closed his eyes a moment. "They's a
long happy road ahead of you. I can see it with my good inside eyes that
sees further'n these things I use to run the Cambridge House with.
'Tain't my business, I'm a gossipin' inquisitive old pokeyer-nose, but
I've always been so proud of you, little blossom. Yes, we're comin',
Dollie, if you've got a thing a dyspeptic can eat."
He held the door for Marjie to pass before him to the dining-room. Cam
was not one of the too-familiar men. There was a gentleman's heart under
the old spotted velvet "weskit," as he called his vest, and with all his
bad grammar, a quaint dignity and purity of manner and speech to women.
But for all this declaration of Marjie's, Judson was planning each day
for the great event with an assurance that was remarkable.
"She'll be so tangled up in this, she'll have to come to terms. There
ain't no way out, if she wants to save old Whately's name from dishonor
and keep herself out of the hired-girl class," he said to Tell Mapleson.
"And besides, there's the durned Baronet tribe that all the Whatelys
have been so devoted to. That's it, just devoted to 'em. Now they'll
come in for a full share of disgrace, too."
The little man had made a god of money so long he could not understand
how poverty and freedom may bring infinitely more of blessing than
wealth and bonds. So many years, too, he had won his way by trickery
and deception, he felt himself a man of Destiny in all he under-took.
But one thing he never could know--I wonder if men ever do know--a
woman's heart. He had not counted on having to reckon with Marjie,
having made sure of her mother. It was not in his character to
understand an abiding love.
There was another type of woman whom he misjudged--that of Lettie
Conlow. In his dictatorial little spirit, he did not give a second
thought beyond the use he could make of her in his greedy swooping in of
money.
"O'mie knows too much," Judson informed his friend. "He's better out of
this town. And Lettie, now, I can just do anything with Lettie. You
know, Mapleson, a widower's really more attractive to a girl than a
young man; and as for me, well, it's just in me, that's all. Lettie
likes me."
Whatever Tell thought, he counselled care.
"You can't be too careful, Judson. Girls are the unsafest cattle on this
green earth. My boy fancied Conlow's girl once. I sent him away. He's
married now, and doing well. Runs on a steamboat from St. Louis to New
Orleans. I'd go a little slow about gettin' a girl like Lettie in here."
"Oh, I can manage any girl on earth. Old maids and young things'll come
flockin' round a man with money. Beats all."
This much O'mie had overheard as the two talked together in tones none
too low, in Judson's little cage of an office, forgetting the clerk
arranging the goods for the night.
[Illustration: They came slowly toward us, the two captive women for
whom we waited]
When Judson had found out how Mrs. Whately had tried to help his cause
by appealing to my father, his anger was a fury. Poor Mrs. Whately, who
had meant only for the best, beset with the terror of disgrace to
Marjie through the dishonorable acts of her father, tried helplessly to
pacify him. Between her daughter and herself a great gulf opened
whenever Judson's name was mentioned; but in everything else the bond
between them was stronger than ever.
"She is such a loving, kind daughter, Amos," Mrs. Whately said to the
anxious suitor. "She fills the house with sunshine, and she is so strong
and self-reliant. When I spoke to her about our coming poverty, she only
laughed and held up her little hands, and said, 'They 're equal to it.'
The very day I spoke to her she began to do something. She found three
music pupils right away. She's been giving lessons all this Fall, and
has all she can give the time to. And when I hinted about her father's
name being disgraced, she kissed his picture and put it on the Bible and
said, 'He was true as truth. I won't disgrace myself by ever thinking
anything else.' And last of all, because she did so love Phil once"
(poor Mrs. Whately was the worst of strategists here), "when I tried to
put his case she said indifferently, 'If he did wrong, let him right it.
But he didn't.' Now, Amos, you must talk to her yourself. I don't know
what John Baronet advised her to do."
Talking to Marjie was the thing Amos could not do, and the mention of
John Baronet was worse than the recollection of that callow stripling,
Phil. The widower stormed and scolded and threatened, until Mrs. Whately
turned to him at last and said quietly:
"Amos, I think we will drop the matter now. Go home and think it over."
He knew he had gone too far, and angry as he was, he had the prudence to
hold his tongue. But his purpose was undaunted. His temper was not
settled, however, when Mapleson called on him later in the day. Lettie
was busy marking down prices on a counter full of small articles and the
two men did not know how easily they could be overheard. Judson had no
reason to control himself with Tell, and his wrath exploded then and
there. Neither did Mapleson have need for temperance, and their angry
tones rose to a pitch they did not note at the time.
"I tell you, Amos," Lettie heard Tell saying, "you've got to get rid of
this Conlow girl, or you're done for. Phil's lost that Melrose case
entirely; and he's out where a certain Kiowa brave we know is creepin'
on his trail night and day. He'll never come back. If his disappearance
is ever checked up to Jean, I'll clear the Injun. You can't do a thing
to the Baronets. If this thing gets up to Judge John, you're done for.
I'll never stand by it a minute. You can't depend on me. Now, let her
go."
"I tell you I'm going to marry Marjie, Lettie or no Lettie. Good Lord,
man! I 've got to, or be ruined. It's too late now. I can get rid of
this girl when I want to, but I'll keep her a while."
Lettie dropped her pencil and crept nearer to the glass partition over
the top of which the angry words were coming to her ears. Her black eyes
dilated and her heart beat fast, as she listened to the two men in angry
wrangle.
"He's going to marry Marjie. He'll be ruined if he doesn't. And he says
that after all he has promised me all this Fall and Winter! Oh!" She
wrung her hands in bitterness of soul. Judson had not counted on having
to reckon with Lettie, any more than with Marjie.
That night at prayer meeting, a few more prominent people were quietly
let into the secret of the coming event, and the assurance with which
the matter was put left little room for doubt.
* * * * *
John Baronet sat in his office looking out on the leafless trees of the
courthouse yard and down the street to where the Neosho was glittering
coldly. It was a gray day, and the sharp chill in the air gave hint of
coming rough weather.
Down the street came Cris Mead on his way to the bank, silent Cris,
whose business sense and moral worth helped to make Springvale. He saw
my father at the window, and each waved the other a military salute.
Presently Father Le Claire, almost a stranger to Springvale now, came up
the street with Dr. Hemingway, but neither of them looked toward the
courthouse. Other folks went up and down unnoted, until Marjie passed by
with her music roll under her arm. Her dark blue coat and scarlet cap
made a rich bit of color on the gray street, and her fair face with the
bloom of health on her cheek, her springing step, and her quiet grace,
made her a picture good to see. John Baronet rose and stood at the
window watching her. She lifted her eyes and smiled a pleasant
good-morning greeting and went on her way. Some one entered the room,
and with the picture of Marjie still in his eyes, he turned to see
Lettie Conlow. She was flashily dressed, and a handsome new fur cape was
clasped about her shoulders. Self-possession, the lifetime habit of the
lawyer and judge, kept his countenance impassive. He bade her a
courteous good-morning and gave her a chair, but the story he had
already read in her face made him sick at heart. He knew the ways of the
world, of civil courts, of men, and of some women; so he waited to see
what turn affairs would take. His manner, however, had that habitual
dignified kindliness that bound people to him, and made them trust him
even when he was pitted with all his strength against their cause.
Lettie had boasted much of what she could do. She had refused all of
O'mie's well-meant counsel, and she had been friends with envy and
hatred so long that they had become her masters.
It must have been a strange combination of events that could take her
now to the man upon whom she would so willingly have brought sorrow and
disgrace. But a passionate, wilful nature such as hers knows little of
consistency or control.
"Judge Baronet," Lettie began in a voice not like the bold belligerent
Lettie of other days, "I've come to you for help."
He sat down opposite her, with his back to the window.
"What can I do for you, Lettie?"
"I don't know," the girl answered confusedly. "I don't know--how much to
tell you."
John Baronet looked steadily at her a moment. Then he drew a deep breath
of relief. He was a shrewd student of human nature, and he could
sometimes read the minds of men and women better than they read
themselves. "She has not come to accuse, but to get my help," was his
conclusion.
"Tell me the truth, Lettie, and as much of it as I need to know," he
said kindly. "Otherwise, I cannot help you at all."
Lettie sat silent a little while. A struggle was going on within her,
the strife of ill-will against submission and penitent humiliation. Some
men might not have been able to turn the struggle, but my father
understood. The girl looked up at length with a pleading glance. She had
helped to put misery in two lives dear to the man before her. She had
even tried to drag down to disgrace the son on whom his being centred.
In no way could she interest him, for his ideals of life were all at
variance with hers. Small wonder, if distrust and an unforgiving spirit
should be his that day. But as this man of wide experience and large
ideals of right and justice looked at this poor erring girl, he put away
everything but the determination to help her.
"Lettie," he said in that deep strong voice that carried a magnetic
power, "I know some things you do not want to tell. It is not what you
have done, but what you are to do that you must consider now."
"That's just it, Mr. Baronet," Lettie cried. "I've done wrong, I know,
but so have other people. I can't help some things I've done to some
folks now. It's too late. And I hated 'em."
The old sullen look was coming back, and her black brows were drawn in a
frown. My father was quick to note the change.
"Never mind what can't be helped, Lettie," he said gravely. "A good many
things right themselves in spite of our misdoing. But let's keep now to
what you can do, to what I can do for you." His voice was full of a
stern kindness, the same voice that had made me walk the straight line
of truth and honor many a time in my boyhood.
"You can summon Amos Judson here and make him do as he has promised to
do." Lettie cried, the hot tears filling her eyes.
"Tell me his promise first," her counsel said. And Lettie told him her
story. As she went on from point to point, she threw reserve to the
winds, and gave word to many thoughts she had meant to keep from him.
When she had finished, John Baronet sat with his eyes on the floor a
little while.
"Lettie, you want help, and you need it; and you deserve it on one
condition only," he said slowly.
"What's that?" she asked eagerly.
"That you also be just to others. That's fair, isn't it?"
"Yes, it is," she agreed. Her soul was possessed with a selfish longing
for her own welfare, but she was before a just and honorable judge now,
in an atmosphere of right thinking.
"You know my son Phil, have known him many years. Although he is my boy,
I cannot shield him if he does wrong. Sin carries its own penalty sooner
or later. Tell me the truth now, as you must answer for yourself
sometime before the almighty and ever-living God, has Philip Baronet
ever wronged you?"
How deep and solemn his tones were. They drove the frivolous trifling
spirit out of Lettie, and a sense of awe and fear of lying suddenly
possessed her. She dropped her eyes. The old trickery and evil plotting
were of no avail here. She durst do nothing but tell the truth.
"He never did mistreat me," she murmured, hardly above a whisper.
"He took you home from the Andersons' party the night Dave Mead was at
Red Range?" queried my father.
Lettie nodded.
"Of his own choice?"
She shook her head. "Amos asked him to," she said.
"And you told him good-bye at your own door?"
Another nod.
"Did you see him again that night?"
"Yes." Lettie's cheeks were scarlet.
"Who took you home the second time?"
A confusion of face, and then Lettie put her head on the table before
her.
"Tell me, Lettie. It will open the way for me to help you. Don't spare
anybody except yourself. You need not be too hard on yourself. Those who
should befriend you can lay all the blame you can bear on your
shoulders." He smiled kindly on her.
"Judge Baronet, I was a bad girl. It was Amos promising me jewelry and
ribbons if I'd do what he wanted, making me think he would marry me if
he could. I hated a girl because--" She stopped, and her cheeks flamed
deeply.
"Never mind about the girl. Tell me where you were, and with whom."
"I was out on the West Prairie, just a little way, not very far. I was
coming home."
"With Phil?" My father did not comment on the imprudence of a girl out
on the West Prairie at this improper hour.
"No, no. I--I came home with Bud Anderson." Then, seeing only the kind
strong pitying face of the man before her, she told him all he wanted to
know. Would have told him more, but he gently prevented her, sparing her
all he could. When she had finished, he spoke, and his tones were full
of feeling.
"In no way, then, has Philip ever done you any wrong? Have you ever
known him to deceive anybody? Has he been a young man of double dealing,
coarse and rude with some company and refined with others? A father
cannot know all that his children do. James Conlow has little notion of
what you have told me of yourself. Now don't spare my boy if you know
anything."
"Oh, Judge Baronet, Phil never did a thing but be a gentleman all his
life. It made me mad to see how everybody liked him, and yet I don't
know how they could help it." The tears were streaming down her cheeks
now.
And then the thought of her own troubles swept other things away, and
she would again have begged my father to befriend her, but his kind face
gave her comfort.
"Lettie, go back to the store now. I'll send a note to Judson and call
him here. If I need you, I will let you know. If I can do it, I will
help you. I think I can. But most of all, you must help yourself. When
you are free of this tangle, you must keep your heart with all
diligence. Good-bye, and take care, take care of every step. Be a good
woman, Lettie, and the mistakes and wrong-doing of your girlhood will be
forgotten."
As Lettie went slowly down the walk, to the street, my father looked
steadily after her. "Wronged, deceived, neglected, undisciplined," he
murmured. "If I set her on her feet, she may only drop again. She's a
Conlow, but I'll do my best. I can't do otherwise. Thank God for a son
free from her net."