A LAST APPEAL.
Jennie waited in the arbor until she saw Herbert Bernard enter the
house, and then she hastily made her way to her own room.
She was almost stunned with grief, and only her indignation kept her up.
As she was about to give way to a fit of weeping she beheld an Indian
coming at a gallop up the trail to the house.
"It is a Cheyenne, one of the Indian police," she said, quickly, and
she watched the redskin horseman approach and heard him call out to
some one on the piazza:
"Me Owl Eyes, Cheyenne soldier. Come from white Captain Carey, good
man, with letter for pale-face cattle man."
"From Captain Carey he says he comes. I will at once write a letter,
and give it to him to carry back," cried Jennie, and seating herself
at her table, she hastily penned the epistle which the reader knows
Lieutenant Carey had received.
Slipping out of the cabin, she met the Indian courier at the creek, and
handed him the letter.
"You will give this to Captain Carey, Owl Eyes?" she said.
"Oh, yes, me glad to give him talking paper from pretty squaw," was
the gallant response of the Cheyenne soldier, and he set off on his
return, Mrs. Bernard having given him a haversack full of provisions.
Then Jennie returned to the house, determined to have an interview with
Mrs. Bernard.
She found the woman, whom she had dearly loved as a mother, busy in her
household duties.
Mr. Bernard had gone off on the ranch somewhere, and Herbert had
mounted his horse, and ridden away.
Mrs. Bernard wore a distressed look, and appeared very much as though
she would have been glad to avoid an interview with the girl who deemed
herself so deeply wronged by the conduct of father and son.
"Mrs. Bernard, mother, may I talk with you, for I am so unhappy," she
said.
"Yes, my poor child, I will come to your room, if it must be; but you
are not more unhappy than I am," was the kindly response.
The two went together to Jennie's room, so pretty and inviting under
her refined taste, and throwing herself upon her knees she buried her
face in the lap of Mrs. Bernard, who was herself deeply affected.
"Come, my child, you must not yield to your grief, or you will make
yourself ill."
"But have you heard all, mother?"
"Yes, my husband said that he had told you the secret of your
parentage."
"But that is not all."
"No, your father was murdered, and the shock of his death killed your
mother."
"But all that I could hear with composure, mother, for bad as it is, it
is not the worst."
"What is worse, then, my child?"
"That Herbert has dared to love me, dared to ask me to be his wife."
This touched the mother's heart, not for the sorrowing girl, but for
her son, and she said quickly:
"And is it so terrible to become my son's wife, Jennie?"
"Oh! are you too blind not to see that my regard for him is so
different, that I could never become his wife, never love him, that I
hate him?"
"You hate my son?" cried the mother.
"Yes, and his father, and you surely do not wish me to hate you, too,
by urging that you wish me to marry Herbert Bernard," and Jennie was
upon her feet now, her face flushed with indignation.
"Jennie, I never had a daughter, and you have held the place of one in
my heart. I have loved you from the moment you came into my home, and
knowing that Herbert knew you were not his sister, knowing the truth
myself, I have not regarded it as wrong that he should love you. Now
that you know that he is not your brother, and, unless you are in love
with this wild Lieutenant Carey, that your affections are not centered
elsewhere, I must do as my husband and son demand, and tell you that it
is the wish of us all that you shall become Herbert's wife."
As though she were a snake in her room Jennie sprang away from her,
while she cried:
"I have seen you weak and yielding to your husband and son, and
often wished that you had some of my spirit; but I did not deem you
so criminally weak as to turn against me when I appeal to you as a
daughter to a mother."
"Jennie! Jennie!" cried the unhappy woman, who was fighting her heart
to serve her husband's will, to obey her son's command.
"I will say no more, for I can do nothing, say nothing now, as I have
appealed in vain."
"But what can you, will you do, my poor child?"
"God only knows," was the pitiful reply, and as she threw herself down
upon the bed Mrs. Bernard arose and glided from the room.
But poor Jennie was in no mood to remain quiet, and soon she sprang to
her feet and hastily descended to the piazza.
There were the large saddle bags belonging to Mr. Bernard, and seizing
these, she went back to her room.
Quickly she packed into the leather pouches such clothing as she could
conveniently carry, and then put on her buckskin riding-habit and
slouch hat.
She had some money of her own, and this she put in her pocket, rolled
up a couple of blankets, and with her rifle in hand sallied forth,
carrying the heavy saddle bags.
Going to the stable she saddled and bridled her own horse, mounted, and
rode away, no one observing her departure.
She took the trail toward the hostiles' retreat, and had gone but a
mile, when she rode unexpectedly into the midst of a group of Indian
horsemen.
It was Red Hatchet and his band.