The robbery at Walnut Hill caused a good deal of excitement in
Prairieville and for miles up and down Wild River Valley, but no clew
to the perpetrators could be discovered.
O’Rourke and his confederates scattered themselves about for the time,
seeking work here and there among the farmers, with whom it was a busy
season, behaved through the day like industrious working-men who had no
thought of anything but earning an honest living by the sweat of their
brows; and if they met at night while others slept, to hatch their
schemes of villainy, it was always in some lonely and unfrequented
spot—the depths of a forest, a cave among the hills, or by the
river-side, far from any dwelling. Thus cunningly they continued to
elude suspicion for weeks and months, till at length it began to be
said that the burglars must have been strangers to the community, who
had committed the one act and then fled from the vicinity.
But when the harvest was garnered, and some farmers, having sold their
wheat, were popularly supposed to have money in their houses, these
were entered and rifled night after night—now here, now there, at
places miles apart; now near Prairieville, now five, ten, or fifteen
miles away, either up or down the valley; and anon, the villains,
emboldened by success in eluding justice, ventured occasionally even to
enter the town and rob stores and dwellings where they had any reason
to expect to find rich booty.
Excitement and indignation grew apace as it became evident to all that
the valley was infested by an organized band of desperadoes.
Bangs, who was a prominent lawyer in Prairieville, very generally
feared and disliked, tried again and again to fix suspicion upon Barney
Nolan as one of the gang, but without success, as Nolan was liked in
the community, being entirely inoffensive, good-tempered, and
industrious.
Though a bachelor, Lawyer Bangs owned and lived in one of the finest
dwelling-houses in the town. He had it very handsomely furnished, too,
especially his parlor, bedroom, and private office.
His sister, Mrs. Wiley, kept house for him, and ruled with a high hand
over her husband, an orphan niece, who was so unfortunate as to have no
other home, and the maid of all work; the last named, however, being
treated far more leniently than the other two, because she might go
away if too hardly dealt with.
Mrs. Wiley dressed richly and sometimes wore expensive jewelry. Lawyer
Bangs liked a display of solid silver on his table; he was said to have
brought home a quantity of it when he returned from the war; how
procured was best known to himself; so that there was probably more to
tempt burglars in that house than in any other private dwelling of the
town, and it stood upon the outskirts, apparently more unprotected than
most; yet, strange to say, it was not entered. Phelim O’Rourke, it
would seem, had neglected to pay it a nocturnal visit, but he had been
there frequently in broad daylight, closeted for an hour or more with
the lawyer in his office.
But Phelim’s name had not been connected with the burglaries; and no
one denounced the scoundrels more loudly and indignantly than Bangs—or
the colonel, as he preferred to be called, though he had resigned his
commission with the close of the war.
Both he and Captain Charlton had been during all these weeks very
frequent visitors at Lakeside. The latter had become a great favorite
with all the family; his coming was ever hailed with delight by Ronald
and the little ones; the grandmother invariably welcomed him with a
smile and cordial grasp of the hand; and though Miriam’s greeting was
somewhat more formal and distant, the brightening of her eye at his
approach and the slight deepening of the rose on her cheek did not
betoken dislike or even indifference to her brother’s friend.
Bangs, on the other hand, could not but perceive that his visits were
barely tolerated. The children shunned him, and Miriam did the same
whenever she could without absolute rudeness.
It fired him with resentment and hatred toward Charlton, whom he looked
upon as a favored rival, and filled him with a dogged determination to
win the girl by fair means or by foul; she should marry him—willingly,
if she would; but her hand he would have, whether her heart went with
it or not.
Having come to this determination, he forthwith set his wits to work to
find means to accomplish his end.
“If I could get a hold upon the property,” he said to himself, “that
would be the likeliest thing to bring her around. She’s attached to the
place; still more to that crippled brother and the little ones, and
would sooner sacrifice herself than see them come to want. Yes, that
will be my very best chance. I wonder if they have the farm quite clear
of incumbrance, and if the title is without a flaw? I must find out.”
It was one evening, while on his way home from a very unsatisfactory
call at Lakeside, that Bangs held this conversation with himself. He
had that day engaged a man to attend to his horse, and as he rode up to
his stable the fellow stepped out and took the bridle.
Bangs alighted, and saying, “Rub her down well, O’Rourke, and give her
a good feed of oats when she has cooled off,” he walked into the house.
The sound of repeated vigorous blows, mingled with sobs and cries of
pain, fright and entreaty in a shrill female voice, “Oh, Aunt Dora, I
will be good! I will be good!” met his ear as he entered.
“What’s all this about?” he growled, throwing open the door of the
sitting-room, where a short, stout, broad-faced woman was belaboring
with a rattan a thin, pale, under-grown girl of fourteen, who, held
fast in the strong grasp of her tormentor, was vainly struggling to get
free, and as vainly endeavoring to dodge the furious storm of blows
rapidly descending upon her shoulders and arms.
“Oh, Uncle Avery, save me! she’s killing me!” shrieked the girl.
“No interference; she richly deserves all she’s getting!” exclaimed the
operator between her set teeth, and turning on him a pair of light blue
eyes, glittering with passion, as he strode across the room toward
herself and the victim of her rage.
“What has she done now?” he demanded. “You wear yourself out in beating
her, Dora; and I don’t see that she’s a whit the better for it. Come,
come; whatever she’s done she’s had enough for this time, and I want to
talk with you.”
At that Mrs. Wiley released the girl, who threw herself, trembling and
sobbing, on a lounge.
Bangs glanced at her half pityingly, half contemptuously; then turning
to his sister, “Were you going out?” he asked. “I see you have on your
bonnet and shawl.”
“No; I’ve just come home from church; where, by the way, you ought to
have been with me.”
“Not I, indeed,” he returned, sneeringly. “I have no religious
character to keep up; never made any pretensions in that line; one
saint in the family is sufficient—especially of the kind I’m most
familiar with.”
“I fully understand your insinuations,” she said, her eyes flashing
with anger; “but I shall do my duty by Mary, nevertheless. I must help
her to conquer that dreadful temper of hers.”
“‘Example is better than precept,’” he quoted, significantly; “but what
particular exhibition of temper had she given to entitle her to so
thorough a flogging?—a punishment, by the way, rather unsuited, in my
humble opinion, to a girl of her years.”
“It’s the only thing that has any effect,” Mrs. Wiley asserted, with
decision. “I reproved her for mislaying her gloves (she had laid them
on the table in the parlor instead of carrying them up to her room and
putting them in their proper place), and you should have seen the scowl
she gave me when I spoke to her about it.”
“Well, well, enough said, Dora; though it strikes me that if I
professed to be a saint, and had just come home from church, I’d feel
called upon to exercise some patience with the faults and follies of
youth. But come into my private office, for, as I said, I want a little
talk with you on a matter of business.”
Having led the way, and seen her dumpy figure comfortably ensconced in
the large, leather-cushioned arm-chair, which usually held his own
spare person, he opened the conference with an abrupt query.
“You are intimately acquainted at Lakeside, are you not? and esteemed
there as a burning and shining light in the church?”
“How should I know whether they think me that or not?” she asked,
reddening and tossing her head.
“Well, answer to the best of your knowledge.”
“We’ve not visited much; but only because we lived so far apart, and
are all busy with our own affairs and church work. They know I’m always
active in those things; and I presume they have every confidence in my
piety—as most people have who know me.”
“But not too well—eh, Dora?” he supplemented, with a sneer.
“Avery, if you have nothing but insults for me, I’ll go back to my own
part of the house,” she said, rising with dignity, while her face
flushed hotly and her eyes sparkled with anger.
“Nonsense! we understand each other, Dora,” he returned, with an
unpleasant laugh, as he pushed her back into her seat—not roughly.
“Stay and hear me out. I think you’ll find it to your advantage to do
that and something besides, which I am going to propose.”
She yielded, though ungraciously and with a frowning face.
He told her of his purpose to wed Miriam Heath, and the small
encouragement he had to hope she would ever become his bride of her own
free will.
Mrs. Wiley’s face grew darker as he proceeded. “Why do you seek her,
then?” she asked in impatience. “She is no such prize that—”
“Pardon me, madam, if I venture to differ from you there,” he
interrupted, drawing himself up with a haughty air. “Miriam Heath is an
uncommonly fine girl in both looks and character. Where, let me ask,
could you find another who could and would do what she has done—carry
on a farm and support a family in comfort?”
“I don’t see what you want to marry for; you are much better off as you
are,” remarked his sister, ignoring his query.
“There, again, your opinion and mine fail to coincide. I tell you, I am
determined to make Miriam Heath my wife—willingly, if possible;
otherwise unwillingly.”
“I don’t see how you can force her into it.”
“I think I do; and I want your help in carrying out my scheme.” He then
unfolded his plans, and told her her part must be to cultivate the
acquaintance of the family, and when an opportunity offered to worm out
of Mrs. Heath the desired information. “Remember, she is the one,” he
said in conclusion; “the girl and Ronald would be too sharp to give it;
the children are too young to know anything about such matters; but the
old lady, of course, knows everything; and she is very simple-hearted,
frank, and doubtless has entire confidence in you.”
Mrs. Wiley demurred; was not sure it would be quite right to do what he
wished—so she said; but the truth of the matter was that she did not
want him to marry; for should he remain single, and she outlive him,
she would be his natural heir.
He read her motives, and set them aside by remarking that if he could
get the desired hold upon Miriam, and she refuse in spite of all to
give him her hand, he would add Lakeside to his property.
The pale blue eyes opposite him brightened visibly. “And we might move
out there,” she observed, with ill-concealed eagerness. “It’s a lovely
place. I have always thought the Heaths very fortunate in owning it.
Well, Avery, every one must look after his own interests. I’ll do as
you wish.”
“That’s right, Dora,” he returned with satisfaction; “but let me
caution you not to broach the subject too soon, lest the old lady
should think you prying and be put upon her guard.”
“You may trust me to play my cards skilfully,” she returned, bridling.
“And not to let the grass grow under your feet? Love is impatient, you
know.”
“Greed also,” she added, with a malicious smile. “No; there shall be no
unnecessary delay. Lend me Phelim and the horse and buggy to-morrow,
and I’ll drive over and open proceedings by making a call.”
“They are all at your service whenever wanted for that purpose. You’ll
do, Dora.”
Mrs. Wiley drove over to Lakeside the next afternoon. It was a bleak
November day, and as she alighted at the gate Phelim growled out a
protest against “bein’ left to sit waitin’ out here in the cowld.”
“Keep yourself warm by exercise,” she said, sharply. “You can fasten
the horse, and pace back and forth in the path along the fence side
there.”
Bertie opened the door in answer to her ring, and ushered her into the
sitting-room, where Ronald, reclining in a large arm-chair, was reading
aloud to his grandmother, who sat placidly knitting by his side. Miriam
was not at home, as Mrs. Wiley knew, having passed her in the town.
The old lady rose with a polite greeting to the visitor, while Bertie
set a chair for her, then returned to his play—helping Olive to build
block houses in a corner of the room.
Mrs. Wiley was very sweet and condescending (how Ronald detested her
for that last!), made a few commonplace remarks on the weather and the
crops, then condoled with the lad on his protracted sufferings, and
with Mrs. Heath because of the care that devolved upon her in the
rearing of her grandchildren.
“I know how to sympathize with you,” she sighed, “having burdened
myself with the bringing up of an orphan niece. It is a great
responsibility. I feel that she can never repay me for all I am doing
for her; but I look to the Lord for my reward.”
“And I am sure, if you are doing it for His sake, He will not leave you
unrewarded,” returned the old lady, her eyes glistening. “But, indeed,
I cannot rate so highly my poor services to my son’s children, and
shall feel amply recompensed if they grow up to be good and useful
members of society. In fact, Mrs. Wiley, they repay me now by their
dutiful and affectionate behavior.”
“Oh, grandma, you put too low an estimate upon your good deeds!”
remarked Ronald, half playfully, half tenderly.
“Child, I have never done any worth the name,” she returned, with
unaffected humility.
Mrs. Wiley changed the subject. Turning to Ronald, she spoke in glowing
terms of the debt of gratitude owed by the country to her “brave boys
in blue,” the noble fellows who had fought and bled to save the Union
(she must say it, even though her dear brother Avery was one of them),
and she would try to do a little toward cancelling her own share of the
obligation to Ronald by sending over some little delicacy now and then
to tempt his sickly appetite; she was reckoned a good cook—she did not
say it boastingly—though, of course, not better than his own
grandmother and sister; but something sent in from a neighbor’s was
appreciated by an invalid just because it came from abroad.
Ronald thanked her, not too warmly, and added that he could not have
her put herself to so much trouble; his appetite was not bad, and home
cooking really suited him better than any other.
At that her cheek flushed, and for an instant she looked ill pleased;
then laughing lightly, she remarked that no one ought to blame him for
his partiality to those who were so very near and dear. Yet, as it was
often desirable and beneficial to vary the diet, she would venture to
do as she had proposed. It would be no trouble at all; on the contrary,
a real pleasure, for she loved to do good and to give.
“But we of this family are not in need, madam,” he returned, his tone
slightly sarcastic, “and your alms were better bestowed upon those who
are.”
“Oh, fie! you must not be so proud,” she said, adopting a sportive
tone, though evidently with an effort. “You are a reader, I see,” she
added, glancing at the book he had laid aside on her entrance. “I hope
you don’t neglect your Bible?”
“No, he does not,” said his grandmother, answering for him; “Ronald is
a good boy.”
“I rejoice to hear it,” was the gracious rejoinder, “and I shall do
myself the pleasure of bringing him some good books, of which I keep a
supply constantly on hand on purpose to lend or give where I think they
may prove useful.”
Ronald could not bring himself to thank her; but his grandmother did it
for him, and with a parting nod and smile, and an injunction to him to
take care of himself and get well as fast as possible, the visitor took
her departure.
“What a good woman she is!” Mrs. Heath said, coming back from seeing
her off. “What an earnest, faithful, working Christian! always at the
prayer-meeting, she tells me; always engaged heart and soul in some
good work. I wish I were more like her,” and she sighed involuntarily
as she resumed her knitting and her rocker by the side of her boy.
“And I do not, grandma,” he returned, with warmth; “you would not be
half so dear and lovable as you are.”
“My dear boy, how can you say it?” she asked, in mild surprise.
“Grandma, doesn’t the Bible say it is not he that commendeth himself
who is approved, but whom the Lord commendeth? And why does that woman
put on such airs of condescension toward you? She is not your superior
in any respect; no, nor half your equal in very many.”