THE ENDING
At crack-o'-day Kenneth rode out of his stable-yard on Brandy Boy,
and went cantering away, followed on foot by the excited Zachariah,
bound for the parade ground where the "soldiers" were to concentrate.
The rider turned in his saddle to wave farewell to the little group
huddled at Rachel's gate,--three tall women who waved back to him.
Rounding the bend, he sent a swift glance over his shoulder. There
was but one figure at the gate now; she blew a kiss to him.
Nearly three hundred horsemen moved out of Lafayette that forenoon
amidst the greatest excitement and enthusiasm. Most of them swam
their horses across the river, too eager to wait for the snail-like
ferry to transport them to the opposite bank. They were fearfully
and wonderfully armed and equipped for the expedition. Guns of all
descriptions and ages; pistols, axes, knives and diligently scoured
swords; pots and pans and kettles; blankets, knapsacks and parcels
of varying sizes; in all a strange and motley assortment that would
have caused a troop of regulars to die of laughter. But the valiant
spirit was there. Even the provident and far-sighted gentlemen who
strapped cumbersome and in some cases voluptuous umbrellas (because
of their extraneous contents) across their backs alongside the
guns, were no more timorous than their swashbuckling neighbours
who scorned the tempest even as they scoffed at the bloodthirsty
red-skins. Four heavily laden wagons brought up the rear.
Kenneth Gwynne rode beside the ubiquitous "Judge" Billings, who
cheerfully and persuasively sought to "swap" horses with him when
not otherwise employed in discoursing upon the vast inefficiency
of certain specifically named officers who rode in all their plump
glory at or near the head of the column. He was particularly out
of sympathy with a loud-mouthed lieutenant.
"Why," said he, "if the captain was to say 'halt' suddenly that
feller'd lose his mind tryin' to think what to do. No more head
on him than a grasshopper. And him up there givin' orders to a lot
of bright fellers like you an' me an' the rest of us! By gosh, I'd
like to be hidin' around where I could see the look on the Indian's
face that scalps him. The minute he got through scrapin' a little
hide an' hair off of the top o' that feller's head he'd be able to
see clear down to the back of his Adam's Apple."
Historians have recorded the experiences and achievements of this
gallant troop of horse. It is not the intention of the present
chronicler to digress. Suffice to say, the expedition moved sturdily
westward and northward for five or six days without encountering
a single Indian. Then they were ordered to return home. There were
two casualties. One man was accidentally shot in the arm while
cleaning his own rifle, and another was shot in the foot by a comrade
who was aiming at a rattlesnake. Nine or ten days after they rode
out from Lafayette, the majority of the company rode back again
and were received with acclaim. Two score of the more adventurous,
however, separated from the main body on Sugar Creek and, electing
their own officers, proceeded to Hickory Creek and on to the River
O'Plein in Northern Illinois, without finding a hostile redskin.
As a matter of fact, Black Hawk was at no time near the Indiana
border. His operations were confined to Northwestern Illinois in the
region of the Mississippi River. Subsequently a series of sanguinary
battles took place between the Indians and strong Illinois militia
forces supported by detachments of United States troops under
General Brady. It was not until the beginning of August that Black
Hawk was finally defeated, his dwindling horde almost annihilated,
and the old chieftain, betrayed into the hands of the whites
by the Winnebagos, was made a prisoner of war. And so, summarily,
the present chronicler disposes of the "great Black Hawk war," and
returns to his narrative and the people related thereto.
Kenneth Gwynne did not go back to Lafayette with the main body of
troops; he decided to join Captain McGeorge and his undaunted little
band of adventurers. Gwynne's purpose in remaining with McGeorge
was twofold. Not only was he keenly eager to meet the Indians but
somewhere back in his mind was the struggling hope that, given
time, Rachel Carter's reserve would crack under the fresh strain
put upon it and she would voluntarily, openly break the silence that
now stood as an absolutely insurmountable obstacle to his marriage
with Viola. Not until Rachel Carter herself cleared the path could
they find the way to happiness.
He would have been amazed, even shocked, could he have known all
that transpired in Lafayette on the day following his departure.
He was not to know for many a day, as it was nearly three weeks
after the return of the main body of troops that McGeorge and his
little band rode wearily down through the Grand Prairie and entered
the town, their approach being heralded by a scout sent on in
advance.
Kenneth searched eagerly among the crowd on the river bank, seeking
the face that had haunted him throughout all the irksome days and
nights; he looked for the beloved one to whom his thoughts had
sped each night for communion at the foot of the blessed elm. She
was nowhere to be seen. He was bitterly disappointed. As soon as
possible he escaped from his comrades and hurried home. There he
learned from Rachel Carter herself that Viola had gone away, never
to return to Lafayette again.
Mid-morning on the day after the troops rode away, Rachel Carter
appeared at the office of her lawyer, Andrew Holman. There, in the
course of the next hour, she calmly, unreservedly bared the whole
story of her life to the astonished and incredulous gentleman.
She did not consult with her daughter before taking this irrevocable
step. She put it beyond her daughter's power to shake the resolution
she had made on the eve of Kenneth's departure; she knew that
Viola would cry out against the sacrifice and she was sorely afraid
of her own strength in the presence of her daughter's anguish. "I
shall put it all in the paper," she said, regarding the distressed,
perspiring face of the lawyer with a grim, almost taunting smile,
as if she actually relished his consternation. "What I want you
to do, first off, Andrew, is to prepare some sort of affidavit,
setting forth the facts, which I will sign and swear to. It needn't
be a long document. The shorter the better, just so it makes
everything clear."
"But, my dear Mrs. Gwyn, this--this may dispossess you of everything,"
remonstrated the agitated man of law. "The fact that you were never
the wife of Robert--"
"Your memory needs refreshing," she interrupted. "If you will
consult Robert Gwyn's will you will discover that he leaves half
of his estate, et cetera, to 'my beloved and faithful companion
and helpmate, Rachel, who, with me, has assumed the name of Gwyn
for the rest of her life in view of certain circumstances which
render the change in the spelling of my name advisable, notwithstanding
the fact that in signing this, my last will and testament, I recognize
the necessity of affixing my true and legal name.' You and I know
the sentence by heart, Andrew. No one can or will dispute my claim
to the property. I have thought this all out, you may be sure,--just
as he thought it all out when he drew up the paper. I imagine he
must have spent a great deal of time and thought over that sentence,
and I doubt if you or any other lawyer could have worded it better."
"Of course, if the will reads as you say,--er,--ahem! Yes, yes,--I
remember now that it was a--er--somewhat ambiguous. Ahem! But it
has just occurred to me, Mrs. Gwyn, that you are going a little
farther than is really necessary in the matter. May I suggest that
you are not--er--obliged to reveal the fact that you were never
married to him? That, it seems to me, is quite unnecessary. If,
as you say, your object is merely to set matters straight so that
your daughter and Mr. Gwynne may be free to marry, being in no
sense related either by blood or by law,--such as would have been
the case if you had married Kenneth's father,--why, it seems to me
you can avoid a great deal of unpleasant notoriety by--er--leaving
out that particular admission."
"No," she said firmly. "Thank you for your kind advice,--but, if
you will reflect, it is out of the question. You forget what you
have just said. For a lawyer, my dear friend, you are surprisingly
simple to-day."
"I see,--I see," mumbled the lawyer, mopping his brow. "Of
course,--er,--you are quite right. You are a very level-headed
woman. Quite so. I would have thought of it in another moment or
two. You can't leave out that part of it without--er--nullifying
the whole object and intent of your--er--ahem!--I was about to
say confession, but that is a nasty word. In other words, unless
you acknowledge that you and Robert were never lawfully married,
the--er--"
"Exactly," she broke in crisply. "That is the gist of the matter.
Society does not countenance marriage between step-brother
and -sister. So we will tell the whole truth,--or nothing at all.
Besides, Robert Gwyn put the whole story in writing himself, as
I have told you. The hiding-place of that piece of paper is still
a mystery, but it will be found some day. I am trying to take the
curse off of it, Andrew."
As she was leaving the office, he said to her, with deep feeling:
"I suppose you realize the consequences, Mrs. Gwyn? It means
ostracism for you. You will not have a friend in this town,--not
a person who will speak to you, aside from the storekeepers who
value your custom and"--he bowed deeply--"your humble servant."
"I fully appreciate what it means," she responded wearily. "It means
that if I continue to hold my head up or dare to look my neighbour
in the face I shall be called brazen as well as corrupt," she went
on after a moment, a sardonic little twist at the corner of her
mouth. "Well, so be it. I have thought of all that. Have no fear
for me, my friend. I have never been afraid of the dark,--so why
should I fear the light?"
"You're a mighty fine woman, Rachel Gwyn," cried the lawyer warmly.
She frowned as she held out her hand. "None of that, if you please,"
she remarked tersely. "Will you have the paper ready for me to sign
this afternoon?"
"I will submit it to you right after dinner."
"You may expect me here at two o'clock. We will then step over to
the Free Press and allow Mr. Semans to copy the document for his
paper." She allowed herself a faint smile. "I daresay he can make
room for it, even if he has to subtract a little from his account
of the stirring events of yesterday."
"Your story will make a great sensation," declared the lawyer, wiping
his brow once more. "He can't afford to--er--to leave it out."
At two o'clock she was in his office again. He read the carefully
prepared document to her.
"This is like signing your own death warrant, Rachel Gwyn," he
said painfully, as she affixed her signature and held up her hand
to be sworn.
"No. I am signing a pardon for two guiltless people who are suffering
for the sins of others."
"That reminds me," he began, pursing his lips. "I have been reflecting
during your absence. Has it occurred to you that this act of yours
is certain to react with grave consequences upon the very people
you would--er--befriend? I am forced to remind you that the finger
of scorn will not be pointed at you alone. Your daughter will not
escape the--er--ignominy of being--ahem!--of being your daughter,
in fact. Young Gwynne will find his position here very greatly
affected by the--er--"
"I quite understand all that, Andrew. I am not thinking of the
present so much as I am considering the future. The past, so far
as we all are concerned, is easily disposed of, but these two young
people have a long life ahead of them. It is not my idea that they
shall spend it here in this town,--or even in this State."
"You mean you will urge them to leave Lafayette forever?"
"Certainly."
"But if I know Viola,--and I think I do,--she will refuse to desert
you. As for Gwynne, he strikes me as a fellow who would not turn
tail under fire."
"In any case, Andrew, it will be for them to decide. Kenneth had
already established himself as a lawyer back in the old home town. I
shall urge him to return to that place with Viola as soon as they
are married. His mother was a Blythe. There is no blot upon the name
of Blythe. My daughter was born there. Her father was an honest,
God-fearing, highly respected man. His name and his memory are
untarnished. No man can say aught against the half of Kenneth that
is Blythe, nor the half of Viola that is Carter. I should like the
daughter of Owen Carter to go back and live among his people as the
wife of the son of Laura Blythe, and to honourably bear the name
that was denied me by a Gwynne."
He looked at her shrewdly for a moment and then, as the full
significance of her plan grew upon him, revealing in a flash the
motive behind it, he exclaimed:
"Well, by gosh, you certainly have done an almighty lot of
calculating."
"And why shouldn't I? She is my child. Is it likely that I would
give myself the worst of everything without seeing to it that she
gets the best of everything? No, my friend; you must not underrate
my intelligence. I will speak plainly to you,--but in confidence.
This is between you and me. There is no love lost between Kenneth
Gwynne and me. He hates me and always will, no matter how hard he
may try to overcome it. In a different way I hate him. We must not
be where we can see each other. I am sorely afraid that the tender
love he now has for Viola would fail to outlast the hatred he feels
toward me. I leave you to imagine what that would mean to her. He
has it in his power to give her a place among his people. He can
force them to honour and respect her, and her children will be
THEIR children. Do you see? Need I say more?"
"You need say nothing more. I understand what you want, Mrs.
Gwyn,--and I must say that you are in a sense justified. What is
to become of young Gwynne's property here in this county?"
"I think I can be trusted to look after it satisfactorily," she
said quietly; "perhaps even better than he could do for himself.
I am a farm woman."
"I thought maybe you had some notion of buying him out."
"He would not sell to me. His farm is being properly handled by
the present tenant. His lots here in town cannot run away. The time
will come when they will be very valuable, or I am no prophetess.
There is nothing to keep him here, Andrew, and his interests and
my daughter's will be as carefully looked after as my own."
"We will be sorry to lose him as a citizen."
"If you are ready, we will step over to the Free Press office,"
she said, without a sign that she had heard his remark.
They crossed the square and turned up the first street to the
left. "This will be a terrible shock to your daughter," said he,
breaking a long silence.
"She will survive it," replied Rachel Gwyn sententiously.
He laid his hand on her arm. "Will you accept a bit of advice from
me?"
They stopped. "I am not above listening to it," she replied.
"My advice is to postpone this action until you are sure of one
thing."
"And what may that be?"
"Kenneth Gwynne's safe return from this foray against the Indians.
He may not come back alive."
"He will come back alive," said she, in a cool, matter-of-fact tone.
"It is so ordained. I know. Come, we are wasting time. I have much
to do between now and nightfall. Bright and early to-morrow morning
my daughter and I are leaving town."
"Leaving town?" he cried, astonished.
"I am taking her out in the country,--to the farm. If I can prevent
it she shall never put foot in this town again. You know Phineas
Striker? An honest, loyal man, with a wife as good as gold. When
Kenneth Gwynne marches back to town again he will find me here to
greet him. I will tell him where to find Viola. Out at Striker's
farm, my friend, she will be waiting for him to come and claim his
own."
A smile he did not understand and never was to understand played
about her lips as she continued drily, for such was the manner of
this amazing woman:
"He will even find that her wedding gown is quite as much to his
fancy as it was the day he met her."
THE END