Читать книгу An Oregon Girl: A Tale of American Life in the New West - Rice Alfred Ernest - Страница 3

The night of the Harris reception at “Rosemont,” in honor of Lord Beauchamp, was beautiful. Dark, yet serene and tranquil as the illimitable void through which the myriad of glittering stars swept along on their steady course.

The long, gentle, sloping, velvety lawn, stretching away from the broad steps of the great columned piazza, down to the placid waters of the Willamette, was artistically beautified by clusters of magnolias and chestnut trees and native oaks and firs, while the soft sway of advanced Autumn was disclosed in the mellow, gorgeous tints of the oak and maple leaf projected against the dark evergreen of the stately fir; and afar off, to the north, through vistas in the foliage, gleamed the steady electric arc lights of the city.

Marble statuary glistened in white repose, and groups of majestic palms and ferns and holly stood illumined in the soft light of frosted electric globes and quaint Oriental lanterns.

Out from the deep shadow of a wide-spreading oak, and remote from the range of illumination, an old, decrepit and poorly clad man emerged, peering cautiously about, as if afraid of discovery. As he approached near the house and came under the gleams of light, it could be seen that he was gray-haired and a cripple, for he hobbled slowly with the aid of a stout stick. He proceeded to a clump of ferns and close to a high-back, rustic seat, behind which he stood partially concealed.

Feeling satisfied that he had not been seen, and that he was alone, that part of the grounds being temporarily deserted, he muttered impatiently: “Where the devil does Rutley keep himself? I’ve been dodging about these grounds for an hour trying to locate him, and to get posted.”

The words had scarcely escaped his lips when down behind the seat he ducked.

Simultaneously, Virginia Thorpe and William Harris appeared, descending the piazza steps.

“Congratulations, Mr. Harris, on your reception. It is a brilliant affair, and the grounds are simply beautiful.”

“I am delighted at receiving congratulations from a lady whose taste is acknowledged without a peer.”

“Now, Mr. Harris, you know I object to flattery,” responded Virginia, in a deprecating tone of voice. “Why, I have lost my fan. How unfortunate! I fear I have dropped it in the ball-room.”

“I shall try to find it immediately. No, no; no trouble whatever.”

“Thanks, Mr. Harris. I shall await your return here.”

As Mr. Harris hastened up the steps, Virginia leisurely moved a few yards, and then sat down on a seat, quite unconscious of the figure crouched in hiding behind it.

The proximity of Virginia did not suit the fellow, and he forthwith endeavored to sneak away unseen, but the noise, faint as he made, attracted her attention.

She sprang to her feet with a slight, terrified shriek, but quickly recovering her self-possession, as she noted his aged and bent condition, gently said: “Poor old man, your intrusion on these premises may be unwelcome.” After a pause, evidently for an answer, she went on kindly: “Do you seek alms?”

Leaning on his stick he humbly removed his hat, and said in abject tones: “Pitty da sorrar dees old-a da gray hairs. Eesa mak-a da bolda to come a da here, so much-a da rich-a kind-a people to da poor old-a men lik-a da me. Ten-a years eesa black-a da boot; saw da-ood, sella da ba-nan, turnoppsis, carrotsis, ca-babbages; do any-ting for mak-a-da mon, go back-a da sunny Italy. Look-a da lame! Canna da work – mussa da beg, sweet-a da lady – kind-a charity.”

“Dear me!” replied Virginia, regretfully. “I haven’t a coin with me, but let me advise you to begone, for you must know that if you are discovered here your age will not protect you.”

The old man bowed low. “Essa many tanks, kind-a lady. Essa da go.”

“And mark me, sir,” added Mr. Harris, who had quickly returned with the fan. “Should I find you loitering around these grounds again tonight, officers will take care of you.”

“Oh, Signor! Dona tell a da po-lis. Da poor a da old a man essa much da hunger. Begga do mon to buy a da bread. Eesa da all-a Signor. Eesa da all.”

“Oh, Mr. Harris, please lend me a coin for him. I fear he really is in need,” broke in Virginia.

“There!” responded Mr. Harris, throwing him a coin. “You can thank this benevolent lady, whose presence affords you liberty. Not a word. Off with you from these grounds. Begone.”

The old fellow picked up the half-dollar piece, and hobbling away, soon disappeared into the shadow.

“It is a pleasure to return your fan. I found it in the vestibule uninjured.”

“Thanks, Mr. Harris,” said Virginia, receiving the fan. “I shall be more careful of it hereafter.”

“Ea-ah, I guess so, eh, Uncle!” broke in Sam, striding toward them.

“Oh, oh, Sam! Really!” laughed Mr. Harris, as he looked meaningly at him. “Ah! You seem delighted.”

“I think so, eh, Uncle,” accompanied by the habitual side movement of his head. “Congratulate me on having found Miss Thorpe after a long search,” and turning to Virginia, he added, with a smile broadening his face – “you have promised to dance with me. May I indulge in the pleasure now?”

“Yes, Sam,” she replied, with an air of fatigue, “but I would rather you defer the pleasure.”

“Miss Thorpe is fatigued and Sam is too much of a gallant to deny her a little rest,” appealed Mr. Harris.

“Cert!” answered Sam, as a shade of disappointment flitted across his face. “Anything I can do to serve Miss Thorpe shall be done.”

“Thank you, Sam,” replied Virginia, relieved.

“I will call upon Miss Thorpe to favor me with her company later, eh, Uncle?” and Sam bowed and quickly disappeared.

“Sam is a noble-hearted fellow! Ranged the Texas plains a few years, didn’t he?”

“Yes,” replied Mr. Harris. “When a lad he was threatened with consumption, and physicians recommended a few years of out-door life in Texas. It cured him, but he became a little fixed in the customs. Sterling fellow, though – great heart – all heart. Be seated,” pointing to the seat which she had previously occupied.

At that moment there appeared descending the piazza steps Mr. Corway, with Hazel and Constance on either side of him.

“Your reason, Corway, for doubting his title of lord?” interrogated Constance.

“I possess no proofs,” replied Corway. “I but express an opinion,” and he discreetly refrained from further utterance on the subject, though his thoughts were insistent on his identity of Lord Beauchamp as Philip Rutley.

“But you must have some grounds even for an opinion,” persisted Constance.

“Well, if he is not a lord,” hazarded Hazel, who, purposely or otherwise, by her joining the discussion, released Mr. Corway from an embarrassing reply, which at that time he was loath to make, “he certainly should be one, for he is such a dear, sweet man, so eminently exact and proper.”

“And so distinguished, don’t-che-know,” finished Mr. Corway, with such peculiarly keen mimicry and smiling abandon as to draw from Hazel a flash of admiration, and from Mrs. Thorpe a ripple of laughter with the remark, “Satire unmasked by Cupid.”

Further conversation was interrupted by Beauchamp himself, who appeared alone, descending the broad piazza steps. “It’s so warm in there I decided to refresh a little in the cool air.”

He halted a moment on one of the steps, fixed the monocle to his left eye, and lordly surveyed the two groups.

After evidently satisfying himself as to their personnel, he deliberately removed the monocle from his eye and resumed his passage down the steps. “Miss Thorpe here, and Mr. Harris, and Mrs. Thorpe, and the fair Hazel” – and ignoring Corway, he went on – “then I shall have no need to commune alone with my thoughts.”

“I am sure my Lord Beauchamp is too much of a devotee to the ‘tripping muse’ to absent himself very long from the ball-room?” volunteered Constance.

“Indeed it would be difficult for me to enjoy myself for any length of time away from the place where, as Byron puts it, ‘Youth and Beauty meet, to chase the glowing hours with flying feet.’” And moving over to Hazel, he said: “By the way, you have promised me the pleasure of dancing with you the next waltz.”

“Indeed!” replied the maid, eyeing him archly, “the honor of a waltz with my lord is too rare a favor to be neglected.”

The gracious and suave smile with which Rutley answered her was not at all appreciated by Mr. Corway.

And as Rutley glanced his way, their eyes met. Virginia saw it. She instantly grasped the full meaning of that glance – the deadly hatred of rivals.

Rutley, with familiarity begotten of mutual esteem, as he fondly hoped, linked Hazel’s yielding arm in his and led her toward the piazza. “By the way,” and he spoke very confidently, “Mr. Corway seems to have a warm attachment for Mrs. Thorpe” —

The girl halted and looked questioningly at him.

“I mean,” continued Rutley, in a sort of apologetic tone, “he is apparently quite the lion with her.”

Passing a few feet near them were John Thorpe and Mrs. Harris, who had appeared unnoticed from another part of the grounds.

John Thorpe plainly heard Rutley’s allusion to Corway and his wife, and became profoundly sensible of that same strange feeling infolding him, as he experienced when Virginia first intimated Corway’s questionable character. “Is it possible that, after all, Constance, and not Hazel, is the real object of his attention?”

He was conscious of a sense of jealousy arising within him, and so strong and virulent as to be beyond control, and compelled him to turn aside, to conceal the anger that must be depicted on his face. He halted while Mrs. Harris joined Virginia and Mr. Harris.

“Mrs. Thorpe is most attractive,” Hazel at length replied.

“I have heard that not long ago he was attached to Miss Thorpe, but lately has transferred his affection to another,” continued Rutley.

“Virginia was fond of his society, yet ’tis not always, you may remember, that those who have won our love return it.”

The strains of dreamy music drifted out upon the air.

“Well, at present, Corway seems persistent in his attentions to Mrs. Thorpe.”

Again John Thorpe winced at the connection of his wife’s name with Corway.

And then Rutley felt himself pushed aside, while Corway offered his arm to Hazel.

“Will you accompany me to the ball-room?”

Hazel drew a step aside and exclaimed, half angrily, yet seemingly rather pleased at Corway’s audacity.

“Joe!”

“Hazel!” he responded with just the faintest suggestion of command in his voice.

It was his first assumption of authority over his affianced, and he won – for unlike the “feminine forwards” of the new school, she appreciated his strong character and showed it by clinging to his arm.

Neither of these two men could be considered handsome, though Corway had the advantage of being more youthful and taller of stature, with large, bright eyes and dark curly hair, which with clear-cut, manly features, seemed to charm the fancy and captivate the maiden’s eye.

While Rutley’s graceful and pliant frame carried more elegance, an assumed superb superiority, a cold, ironical disdain and lofty ease, bespoke an imperious nature, indifferent to that soft, beguilement so charming to women.

Corway turned to Rutley, and, bowing low, exclaimed, with studied politeness: “I beg my lord’s pardon,” and so saying, he passed up the piazza steps with Hazel and disappeared within.

They were closely followed by Mr. Harris and Mrs. Thorpe.

Rutley fixed the monocle to his eye and stared at the retreating Corway in blank amazement.

Meanwhile, John Thorpe was absorbed in profound thought, and oblivious of his surroundings, said to himself: “What can his lordship mean? Corway’s persistent attention to my wife! Was that mere accidental gossip? He shall explain!” And he looked fixedly at Rutley.

It was at that moment that Mrs. Harris, having reached his side, said: “Your arm, Thorpe. Dear me!” And she started back at seeing his gloomy face. “Why, I declare, the frowning ‘Ajax’ could not look more unsociable.”

For a moment Thorpe displayed confusion, but by a strong effort subdued his agitation and offered his arm. “Of late,” he explained, “my nervous system has been subject to momentary shocks.” Leading her toward the piazza, “I beg your pardon.”

“I am afraid that unless you provide yourself with a mask for such occasions the shock is likely to become contagious,” she remarked, as they passed up the steps.

Meanwhile Rutley, having removed the monocle from his eye, allowed his frigidity to dissolve, and, slowly stepping a few paces toward the east end of the house, paused under the shadow of a magnolia, and at once seemed to plunge in deep reflection, to be startled a few moments later by hearing Virginia close to him, in a low tone, saying: “How does my lord propose to resent that insult?”

Seeing him alone, she had noiselessly and unperceived, stolen to his side, convinced by what she had just discovered, that he was meditating some sort of revenge on Corway, and she determined to ascertain its nature.

Her fertile brain had already conceived Rutley her ally, and it was with no uncertain or wavering purpose that she approached him with a question pregnant with sinister import.

Rutley looked at her steadily, as though trying to penetrate her motive, then, without moving his eyes from hers, said deliberately: “Well, if he doesn’t apologize, my friend will call on him.”

“You mean a shooting affair?”

“I do not say, but I understand that is a popular way in this country to avenge an outrage.”

“Yes, that is true,” she said, “particularly in our West, but it is fast going out of fashion. In fact, on the Coast, it is seldom practiced now. Besides, my lord, I advise you not to try it. I’ve heard he’s a dead shot,” and she abruptly stopped and looked furtively about, and then, in a more discreet tone of voice, said: “Will you walk?”

He instantly comprehended her desire to confide something of interest to him, and as they slowly proceeded over the soft, velvety grass, and without betraying haste to know what she was evidently anxious to disclose, he replied, sneeringly:

“Ah, he is! Well, these affairs are settled in an honorable way in a gentleman’s country.”

“I again warn you not to try it,” she said. “If you do, you will likely find yourself a subject for some hospital surgeon.”

“Indeed!” laughed Rutley, with a sarcastic ring in his voice.

She halted, turned to him, and continued in a low tone. “Yes, there is a better plan – that insult can be wiped out in a more effectual manner.”

“How?”

For one moment Virginia looked far off across the placid waters of the Willamette, over and beyond the rugged hills shrouded in gloomy repose. Was it the “still small voice within her crying in anguish ‘beware, beware’,” if so, it was unheeded, drowned in the impetuous desire for revenge.

Shocked and enraged by the discovery of what she considered Corway’s perfidy, a strain of virulent passion possessed her, and subdued her softer and otherwise most charming personality.

“Corway has done me a wrong I never will forget, and I shall not pause at any opportunity to avenge it. My cousin, Hazel, is betrothed to him. My brother has a rash, impetuous temper, and is exceedingly jealous of our family honor. By insinuating Corway’s insincere attachment to Hazel, his money-mad impecuniosity, and so forth, you will produce a coolness between John and Corway that may end in their complete estrangement. We are watched,” she whispered. “Let us move on.” Her alert eyes had discovered Sam standing alone on the piazza steps, shading his eyes with his hand as he looked at them.

She guessed his purpose, but was too far away to hear him say angrily: “If that lord attempts any fooling with that fair party, I’ll give him some eye-shutters, I guess so!”

Without heeding the episode, Rutley replied: “But you must know that your brother has not insulted me, and you must also be aware that the attempt to influence him may fail.”

“If you will follow my directions John will consider you his friend. If properly managed you need have no fear of its ultimate success. For several months last year John was in China. During that time Corway paid frequent visits to his home.”

“But” – interposed Rutley, quickly.

“Do not misunderstand my meaning,” responded Virginia, with an involuntary flash of indignation. “Corway is a man of great moral probity. But John may be brought to think him something the reverse. Do you understand?”

“I will have satisfaction!” exclaimed Rutley.

“Somebody is following us,” whispered Virginia.

“Where?” queried Rutley. “I fail to see anyone.”

“It may have been the shadow of the swinging light,” at length she remarked, reassured, and, dismissing the thought from her mind, continued: “I have already warned you of a duel. To prove how insincere Corway’s affection is for Hazel, you may call my brother’s attention to a ring that he wears on the little finger of his left hand. I let Hazel have it for a short time because she admired it, and begged it from me, and Corway took it from her.”

“Has the ring any peculiar feature by which it may be distinguished from others?”

“Yes, a single diamond set in a double heart of pearls.”

“Is it yours?” he asked, softly.

“No,” Virginia promptly answered, but she added in a hesitating manner, as though weighing the propriety of further explanation – “that is – well – it is mine for the purpose. I let Hazel have it unknown to Constance.”

And so it happened, a slip of the tongue, one inadvertent, indiscreet admission, gave him his cue. A vision opened to his mind and he immediately speculated on its possibilities.

“Then the ring belongs to Mrs. Thorpe?” he questioned, insidiously.

“Yes,” Virginia affirmed, in a halting way. “John gave it to Constance before they were married.”

“Oh, indeed!” Rutley exclaimed, and he muttered low and meaningly, while the whites of his eyes gleamed with sinister import. “Corway wears a ring given by John Thorpe to his wife.”

Soon as he had spoken Virginia heard and instinctively felt that she had been indiscreet in admitting the ring belonged to Constance, and said by way of caution: “Of course, I trust in the honor of your lordship to refrain from connecting Mrs. Thorpe’s name with the ring, or to, in any manner, let it be known that you know it is not mine.”

Evidently Rutley did not hear her, for he was absorbed in thought – thought that produced an evil gleam in his eyes.

A slight pause followed, and taking it for granted my lord would not betray the trust she reposed in him, she said, as looking in his eyes with significant daring: “Draw John’s notice to it as confirming Corway’s bold and deceitful attention to Hazel.”

Virginia was aware that John would recognize the ring as his wife’s, but she under-rated the violence of the storm it would precipitate, and she trusted too much in her own ability to control it in the direction she desired. She likewise rated Beauchamp as a weak, egotistical, effeminate sort of man. She was now to experience her great mistake.

Rutley in his turn fixed his gaze steadfastly upon her, and which became so intense, so mysteriously searching, as to cause her, strong-minded woman as she was, to feel she was but a weak thing beside him.

He spoke quietly and without the faintest tremor in his voice. “Do you know to whom you suggested this?”

“Lord Beauchamp,” she timidly responded. And then there suddenly sprang into her eyes a new light, accompanied by a slight start.

“Why do you start?” asked Rutley, not for a moment removing his eyes from hers.

“No, ’tis impossible. You cannot be Philip Rutley?” she gasped, as she drew back amazed. “For you have already denied him once to me.”

“Yes, I am he!” he exclaimed.

There followed a moment of profound silence. Rutley watching the effect of his disclosure upon her.

And she, at first astounded by his audacious nerve, at length grasped his position, and finally smiled, as though in admiration of his arch achievement. “You are a master imposter,” she broke in. “Be as clever with the material I have given you, and Corway will not long stand in your way.”

“Did Hazel tell you of my proposal to her three years ago?”

“Yes,” she answered promptly.

“I believe she rejected me at that time because of Corway,” he musingly added.

“Your opportunity is at hand,” she affirmed.

“I accept it;” and then he cautioned in a low tone: “Be careful never to breathe my real name.”

“And you – you will continue to be?” – and she smiled quizically as she put the question.

“My Lord Beauchamp.”

“A most consummate scoundrel!” she added pleasantly.

“The scoundrel begs to share the compliment with his colleague, Miss Virginia Thorpe,” he ironically replied, again bowing low.

That accentuated remark by Rutley revealed to her with sudden vividness the detestable character she was developing.

Acutely sensitive, the stigma smote her with a repugnance that stung and smarted as quivering flesh under the sharp cut of a lash; and being naturally of a fiery temper, she passionately retorted, “It’s false!”

The words had scarcely escaped her lips when she realized her indiscretion, and faltered, “I – I – mean – ” and then unable to recover from her sudden flight of passion, or to completely subdue her agitation, she burst out aloud, in utter disregard of her surroundings, “Oh! It is awful, awful!”

Rutley was alarmed, and hastily gripped her wrist, and in low tones cautioned, “For God’s sake, hush! Don’t shout it to the winds! Remember, you urged this damnable business upon me. Do you want me to give it to the world?”

His artifice succeeded, and under his influence she became quieter. “No! No! No!” she whispered. “Don’t, please!” Then again she stared at the ground as though dazed with some vague terror. Suddenly she covered her face with her hands and moaned, “What have I done?”

Then, arising from a place of concealment close by, the old Italian Cripple previously mentioned doffed his hat and said, “Eesa da bet, much-a keep-a do mon! Do poor old-a man, Eesa beg-a da mon, a da charity Signora, Signor.”

Tossing him a coin, Rutley said, “This is an unseasonable place for your calling, old man.” Then, turning to Virginia – “Permit me to escort you to the house.”

“I don’t like that old man,” she replied. “He is prying about everywhere. Do you think he heard me?”

“I have no fear of that,” replied Rutley, as they moved on toward the house. “He appears quite old and no doubt is partially deaf.”

“Very well,” responded Virginia, “and now that we understand each other, I think it time for me to mingle with the guests.”

As they disappeared in the distance, the old cripple followed them, flitting from shadow to shadow, with catlike agility, astonishing in such an apparently old man.

Having arrived at the piazza steps, Rutley and Virginia parted.

Returning some distance into the shadow, he softly laughed. “A little startled, eh? Didn’t think I could impersonate a peer of England’s realm. Well, she knows the secret now and I can safely rely on her assistance because Corway has cast her aside for Hazel. She has given me material with which to strike at him and I will strike home – but not as she suggests. Oh, no!” and again a sinister smile crept over his face. “Dangerous, but Hazel’s wealth is worth the risk.

“Meanwhile, I am getting short of funds, and cannot keep up the pace much longer, unless my other plan succeeds. But should I fail altogether – ” and he became absorbed in deep study, silent and motionless as the statue of Lincoln by which he stood, but only for a moment. “Everybody here lionizes me, believing I am a genuine nobleman.” And then he looked up with a far-off, triumphant expression in his eyes and a cunning smile on his lips, “My lord will borrow a few thousand on his – name – just for a temporary accommodation, and then he will vanish.”

A slight noise behind startled him and caused him to look about; but, discovering no one, he regained his composure. To make sure, however, he called in a low voice, “Jack! Jack!”

Whereupon the old cripple again stood forth from his concealment, this time from behind the trunk of the wide spreading oak and, leaning on his stick, obsequiously doffed his hat. “I uncover to a prince of villainy.”

“Ha, ha, to my arms, you rascally imposter!” joyfully exclaimed Rutley, as he embraced him.

Halting and drawing away in pretended surprise, Jack exclaimed with dreamy reflection, “Naw, Eesa, not-a bees-a da imposeator. Eesa be Ital-e-own!”

“Splendid, Jack!” exclaimed Rutley with admiration. “Your disguise is perfect, but” – and Rutley laughed – “a little pale about the gills, eh?”

“Eesa look-a like-a ma fadder,” and Jack proudly expanded himself. “Make-a da great-a soldier. Note-a da pale here – Naw,” touching his ears. “Garibaldi geev-a ma fadder dees-s da Palestrino,” and Jack threw open his coat and proudly displayed a medal.

“Palestrino!” exclaimed Rutley gleefully. “Jack, things are coming our way with a rush. Did you hear her – the maiden fair, with the blue black hair, how she plays into our hands?”

Jack grinned and chuckled, “Ah, ah – a Portland rose, Phil!”

“Incomparably beautiful, Jack! But, oh, such devilish thorns!”

“Good for twenty thousand simoleons at any rate? Eh, Phil?”

“Twenty thousand or bust, Jack,” grinned Rutley. “You watch me do the trick. I’ll make Thorpe wish he were dead. I shall connect his wife’s name instead of Hazel’s with Corway.”

“What!” gasped Jack, dismayed by Rutley’s daring.

“By a little juggling of facts, as it were, I’ll make Thorpe believe Corway wears the ring given him as a love token by Constance. It was Thorpe’s gift to his wife. Do you comprehend? Now, do you understand how simple a thing it will be to make Thorpe wish he were dead? Remember how he and old Harris broke up our investment company?

“Maybe I don’t,” replied Jack dolefully, rubbing his stomach in a significant manner.

“And, Jack!” and Rutley glinted at him meaningly and said very seriously, “That fellow Corway suspects me.”

“The devil he does! We must get him out of our way.”

“Tomorrow!” – and for the space of perhaps five seconds they looked meaningly at each other. Then Rutley broke the silence.

“The child is in the house,” continued Rutley seriously and in a low voice.

“Good!” responded Jack. “I was afraid your tableau scheme had failed and Dorothy remained at home.”

“Not at all. They jumped at the idea,” laughed Rutley, “and on my suggestion Mrs. Harris begged for Dorothy’s presence at the ‘Fete’.”

“Fate!” corrected Jack.

“Too pointed,” calmly remarked Rutley.

“Well, the tableau was a great success, ‘Hebe’ attended by ‘Circe’ and ‘Cupid’.”

“Dorothy as ‘Circe’ posed splendidly; she is the pet of the guests” – and, lowering his voice, Rutley continued gravely:

“I have persuaded her indulgent mother to let the child remain up and enjoy her honors a little longer; she may be out and around now at any moment.”

“She wears a white dress and with a light brown sash about her waist. Long golden hair – oh, you know her.”

“I shall keep a sharp lookout and take her the first opportunity.”

“Skip!” suddenly cautioned Rutley. “Somebody’s coming. Keep in the deep shadow.”

“Trust me.” And as Jack turned to move away he said to himself, “Tonight there’ll be things doing, for the devil is at work and hell’s a-brewing.”

Rutley watched Jack vanish in the gloom, then muttered to himself, “Why this fear? Out with it and to my purpose.”

Some readers would call it fate, others would probably have construed it as accidental, while yet again others of a more scientific turn of mind would have reasoned it a result of that strange magnetic attraction whereby two minds, simultaneously engaged in deep absorbing thought on the same subject, are mysteriously drawn toward each other.

That John Thorpe was alone at that moment descending the steps of the piazza, was proof of the phenomenon, there could be no question, and that he was deeply thinking of a subject very near and dear to him was also evident, for he paused on one of the steps and clapped his hand to his forehead as though to draw out some evil thing that lay leaden within.

Once he shivered as if shaken with a cold of the shadow of some indefinable disaster about to overwhelm him, and then he passed on down the steps muttering to himself in an abstracted manner, “Doubt; terrible, torturing doubt; I cannot endure it!”

“Welcome, Mr. Thorpe,” came from Rutley in the mild regularly moderated voice of a man content with his surroundings. “It only needs the quiet tones of a gifted conversationalist to make this beautiful spot supremely pleasant. All honor to Mrs. Harris and her companion.”

Mrs. Harris, accompanied by Virginia, had just then appeared from around the east side of the house – “Ah, my lord, your absence from the ballroom occasions much inquiry,” said Mrs. Harris.

“Mrs. Harris will confer a favor by satisfying the inquirers with the excuse that his lordship is enjoying a smoke with a friend. Does my lord approve the answer?” replied John Thorpe, eyeing Rutley furtively.

“Most decidedly!” he affirmed.

“Then Virginia and myself will be spectators of the next waltz. Your lordship will favor us with your company soon? Mr. Thorpe, you will not forget your promise to Constance for the Newport?”

“Just in time, eh, auntie, I guess so!” cut in the cheerful voice of strenuous Sam, who had bounded down the steps and stood in front of them before they could turn around.

“Oh, horrors!” gasped Virginia under her breath.

“Why, Sam!” laughed Mrs. Harris, “you want me to dance with you again and Virginia here?”

“Oh, no, not you! I mean her, auntie. If you please,” and he bowed to Virginia as he offered her his arm.

Without an instant’s hesitation she accepted his arm and at the same time so artfully masked her real feelings that the hot blood raced with joyous glee to the very roots of his hair and caused him to say proudly, “Ha, ha! at last, eh, auntie!”

“I shall be a witness, Sam,” replied his aunt in a tone which conveyed a warning.

On ascending the steps Virginia paused to gather up her skirt, turned half around and looked very significantly at Rutley.

He met her glance and bowed. The action brought Mrs. Harris also to a stop.

Observing the halt, Mr. Thorpe exclaimed, “His Grace and myself will be along presently. Au revoir.”

And as the party moved on, Sam rejoined under his breath, “I guess so, but not with his fair party, not if Sam knows it.”

In the silence that followed for both men, now being alone, were alert, instinctively apprehending danger, John Thorpe drew from the inside pocket of his coat a small cigar case and tendered it to Rutley.

Silently and with studied poise, Rutley took therefrom a cigar and returned the case.

Thorpe then took from the case a match, lighted and offered it to Rutley, who, having meanwhile clipped the end of the cigar with a penknife, accepted the light and then broke the silence with, “Are you not going to smoke, Thorpe?”

“Not at present. A stroll through the grounds is more to my fancy.”

“Agreed!” promptly responded Rutley, who added, “and may the exercise lighten your spirits, which appear heavy tonight.”

“Yes, unfortunately I have never been able to conceal my emotions, hence the correctness of your conjecture. My spirits are heavy tonight,” replied Thorpe in a low voice and with a deep, long drawn sigh.

It was plain to Rutley that Thorpe was evading an abrupt approach to some potent question in his mind, feverishly eager, yet dreading the kind of information it might elicit.

“Bad digestion, Thorpe. Headaches, troubled dreams and the like fellow,” suggested Rutley in his jerky manner.

“Deeper!” added Thorpe in a low voice.

“Ha!” exclaimed Rutley significantly, as he eyed his companion askance. “Family!”

“Oh, God! what shall I do?” suddenly broke from Thorpe in a stifled cry of anguish. “I cannot carry the load!” And then he did that which some readers might term a cowardly thing. No doubt he was actuated by motives irresistibly impelling in a man of his peculiarly sensitive nature.

With head bent low, much as a culprit condoning his infamy, humbled as was his pride, to thus confide his misgivings to a stranger, he began in a low voice:

“My Lord, a few moments since I casually heard you drop a remark suggesting a knowledge of my domestic affairs. I speak to you in confidence, and I am sure Your Grace will spare me the humiliation of feeling that confidence is misplaced. Your position gives you at times the advantage of hearing – a – things said of others that is of no moment or concern to you.”

Rutley’s first thought was, “My opportunity to strike at Corway has come,” and if Thorpe at that moment could have seen the cunning leer play about the corners of Rutley’s mouth and the flash of exultation that sprang into his eyes, he might have hesitated, nay, ceased to have conversed with him further on such a grave subject.

But the fleeting smile went unseen, the exultant flash as quickly disappeared, and in its place a very serious look came over Rutley’s face, as in a low voice he replied, slowly but very distinctly. “Really, Thorpe, I am at a loss to understand your motives in questioning me on matters relative to your domestic affairs, and though I may possess information in which I am not particularly interested, still to asperse the character of any person on mere rumor is not compatible with the dignity or honor of my house; however, if you will be explicit on the subject of your singular request, I shall, through sympathy, communicate all I have heard to relieve or confirm your mind of a – I fancy – a terrible suspicion.”

For a few moments Thorpe could not control his agitation. Overpowered by a sense of shame, his imagination at once conjured up dreadful thoughts.

“Sympathy! a – a – to relieve or confirm a terrible suspicion! My God! what does he mean?” And he placed his left hand tightly over his breast as if something hurt him there, while a cold sweat stood out on his brow. Then with a forced calmness, said:

“A – a – have you heard any disparaging remarks about – a – Mr. Corway?”

“Well, Thorpe, you know ’tis not honorable to repeat the ‘chic’ scandals one hears, though to satisfy you I will say that if you will look at the little finger of Corway’s left hand, you will see a gold ring with a single diamond set in a double heart, which he at times – a – carelessly displays.”

“A ring with a single diamond! What of it?” impatiently questioned Thorpe.

“Oh!” replied Rutley, with an imperturbable stare, “it was a love token from Mrs. John Thorpe.”

“You lie!” exclaimed Thorpe, the nails of his fingers imprinting deeply in the flesh of his tightly clenched fists, with the fierceness of the passion that had flamed within him.

“I do not lie!” Rutley calmly and slowly replied, as he looked steadily into Thorpe’s eyes.

“You confound my wife with Hazel,” hoarsely accused Thorpe.

“I reiterate,” responded Rutley, in the same even tone of voice, “the particular ring in question was a gift from Constance, John Thorpe’s wife, and not from Hazel.”

Gasping for breath, Thorpe turned his head aside and groaned as he remembered it was his gift to Constance before they were married.

Suddenly he gripped Rutley by the sleeve. They halted and confronted each other. And the dark formless shadow that had followed them also halted.

“From whom have you your information?” queried Thorpe, looking into Rutley’s eyes.

“I do not feel at liberty to mention, but it can be substantiated.”

“By whom?” demanded Thorpe.

“Well, I don’t know of any person more capable than a – a – Mr. Thorpe’s wife!” replied Rutley in a most nonchalant and matter-of-fact manner.

And even through the depth of the gloom that surrounded them he saw the scarlet flush of rage and shame flame across Thorpe’s white brow as he bowed his head, humbled to the dust.

For a moment not a word was spoken by either of the men. Suddenly Thorpe looked up and hoarsely said:

“My wife! Give me two or three, one which she can substantiate.”

“My dear Thorpe,” deprecatingly pleaded Rutley. “You have called upon me to undertake a very unpleasant task.”

“Your Lordship has gone too far to recede. I must know all” – and there was imminent danger in Thorpe’s quivering voice, which Rutley felt was not to be trifled with.

“Well – one thing – Corway’s close and steady attention to her during your absence in China.”

“You mean to Hazel?” said Thorpe, with a look so deeply concentrated that the movement of a single hair of Rutley’s eyelash would have meant an instant blow on the mouth.

“No, I mean – to your wife,” accentuated Rutley. “Their secret and protracted wanderings offended your sister. Reproofs, reproaches and warnings were unavailing and ended in Corway being refused admittance to your house, which resulted in frequent quarrels between your wife and your sister.”

Thorpe here recalled Virginia’s warning, “Corway will bear watching,” and he moaned, “Oh, God!”

“He tried many pretenses to regain communication with your wife,” resumed Rutley, “one being to visit Hazel Brooke, for whom, except for her money, he has no regard whatever. At length on the discovery of secret correspondence, Virginia became aghast at his boldness and contemplated seeking legal aid when you returned. Of course, she retired and left the matter in your hands and she was unwilling at that time to shock your home-coming with a knowledge of the truth.”

“Enough! Enough! Oh, God, what a vile thing has nestled here!” And John Thorpe pressed both hands tightly over his heart in a vain endeavor to suppress the emotion that filled his throat and choked his utterances, and tears of shame gathered in his eyes as he continued slowly:

“When – I – wedded Constance – I took to myself the purest angel out of heaven. But now – ! Farewell happiness – farewell peace – forever! Oh, Corway, I want to clutch you by the throat!”

Turning to Rutley, he added tensely, “Follow me.”

“Now for satisfaction,” muttered Rutley exultantly, and with a sinister smile on his lips he followed John Thorpe up the broad steps and into the blaze of the brilliantly lighted ballroom.

A shadow straightened itself up behind a bed of massed asters, deepened, grew thicker and resolved itself into the solid form of a man. It was Jack Shore. He had dodged them unseen and overheard their conversation.

Perhaps it was through hearing the conspiracy and its masterly execution that shocked him into moralizing on man’s inhumanity to man.

At any rate, he exclaimed half aloud, “As cold-blooded a bit of villainy as possible to conceive. I didn’t think Phil had it in him.” Suddenly he shrugged his shoulders.

“I say, old man,” cut in Sam, appearing from the east side of the piazza, “you want to look alive there. You are getting too near the front. First thing you know uncle will have you sent up as a vag.”

Though taken by surprise, Jack, having just turned to move off into the deeper shadow, halted and, removing his hat, faced Sam in an assumed most humble and abject terror, “Signor, I don-a mean to come-a da close. Jess-a tried to get-a da peep ov-a da grand-a fete of-a much-a da rich people. Eesa da all, Signor.”

“It’s all right, old man, but take my advice and keep off the grounds. ’Twill be better for your health.”

In the meantime Dorothy had fluttered down the great steps and ran toward Sam.

“Hello, little one! Having lots of fun, eh!”

And with the same, he caught Dorothy’s hands and he commenced to dance her about as he sang the words, “Little Bo-peep had lost her sheep and couldn’t tell where to find them.”

“Oh, don’t Sam; I want to find papa!” replied the child, impatiently.

“You do, eh? Now, don’t you want me to be your escort?”

“Come, I’ll tell you how to find him. You shall sit on my shoulder and be the tallest queen of the party, while I be the horse to ’lope about in search of your papa.”

“Thank you, Sam, but I can’t stay for a ride now. I’m in such a hurry; some other time,” and the child turned from him and ran toward the slowly retreating form of Jack.

“You are, eh? All right, and while you are looking for papa, I’m going to look for the fair party you call auntie. I guess so!” Whereupon Sam quickly sprang up the steps. Arriving on the piazza he halted, turned around and looked toward the child as though the premonition of something wrong – something associated with the child’s insecurity, being alone – had suddenly darted into his brain; but seeing others of the guests at that moment emerging from the east front of the house on the well lighted grounds, he dismissed the “still small voice” of warning from his mind and passed in among the dancers.

“Papa, papa! Where is my papa?” called Dorothy.

Jack, while pretending to leave the grounds, had kept a sly eye on Sam, and upon that individual’s disappearance, at once turned and answered the child in a voice soft and gentle, and soothing as that of dreamy Italy.

“Yous-a tink-a your-a papa was-a da here-a. What eesa da name?”

“Thorpe!” replied Dorothy, without the faintest fear or hesitation. “That is my name, too. I want to find him right away. Can you tell me where he is? Mama sent me to ask him to come and dance.”

“Yes-a da child-a. Eesa da know where eesa papa be. Eef-a youse-a be note-a fraid and will-a come wid-a me, Eesa take-a youse-a da papa,” and the sly old man looked into her eyes with such beaming kindness that at once won her confidence.

“I’m not afraid of you. I like old men. Mama says we should respect old men. But I’m in such a hurry, you know. Mama is waiting for me.”

“Well, geeve-a me youse-a da hand and Eesa take-a you straight-a da heem.”

Without the least suspicion or timidity, she instantly placed her little hand in his and the two proceeded toward the river, much faster than his supposed crippled condition would lead an older person to expect.

“Youse-a love-a da papa and da mama much-a, donn-a youse?” he continued.

“Oh, yes! Ever so much.”

“Eesa good-a girl. We’ll soon-a da fine eem,” and he added to himself, “when the horn of plenty pours its golden stream into Jack’s pocket.”

While they were crossing a depression, or rather a long hollow formation in the contour of the grassy slope, and close to some locust trees, the thick foliage of which threw a deep shadow on the spot, Jack thrust his free hand into his pocket and removed the stopper from a bottle of chloroform which he had provided for this occasion, and saturated a colored handkerchief with it. Some of it passed through the lining of his pocket and immediately impregnated the air with its odor.

Dorothy got a whiff of it and drew away with the remark, “Dear me, what a funny smell!”

“Naw, eesa – nicey da smell, jes like-a da poppy, so beautiful-a da flower,” replied Jack, reassuringly.

“Well, I don’t like it, anyway,” she said.

At that moment she was standing a couple of yards from him, they had come to a halt, and it was necessary for him to act adroitly and with promptness, to reassure her and avoid arousing her suspicion, so he pretended to stumble and then fell to the ground.

Arising to his knees, he groaned as though in seeming pain, and gripped his right wrist with his left hand.

“Oh, oh! Eesa da hurt-a bad. Break-a da arm; oh, oh!” And in order to get her close to him, he said, “Get-a da bot’ in-a da pock’.”

The cunning fellow knew well how to touch the chord of sympathy that is ever present in the guileless heart of innocent childhood.

The response came in a wondering look of infinite tenderness and compassion, for the child did not clearly comprehend Jack’s request and she asked:

“Did you break your arm?”

“Eesa da hurt-a bad. Oh, oh!” he groaned, “get-a da bot’, da bot’-a, child; get-a da bot’.”

“Poor man! Shall I run for the doctor?”

“No, no, no, note-a da dock! Help-a me get-a da bot’ in-a da pock! Quick-a, deeze-a side. Put in-a da hand. Take eem out – oh, oh!”

Perceiving that he meant her to take something out of his pocket, on the right side of his coat, and not understanding the significance of the word “bot,” she drew near to thrust in her hand.

That instant Jack’s left arm encircled her form and his right hand clapped the saturated handkerchief over her mouth and nostrils and held her to him.

She struggled in his arms to free herself, but without avail.

As a feeling of stupor stole over her senses, Jack, still on his knees, watched her with the keenest of eyes, and muttered soothingly, “Eesa nice-a da girl. Nice-a da smell lak-a da dreamy Italy.”

Some rascals would have made short work of the matter, but Jack was by nature very tender and considerate of children, which accounted for his slow application of the powerful drug. It soon had her under its influence, and when she became limp and nerveless he laid her on the grass. Again he saturated the handkerchief and held it to her nostrils, and with distended, tragic eyes watched her doze into unconsciousness.

Feeling satisfied that she would not speedily recover, he let the handkerchief lie loose on her nostrils and mouth, then he arose to his feet and with the stealthy, catlike tread of an Indian, skulked from shadow to shadow until he had made a complete circuit of the spot.

Having assured himself that no one was in the vicinity, he swiftly turned and again fell on his knees beside the child.

He looked intently in her face and noted the sweet expression of childish innocence and trust in the repose. “She sleeps, beautiful child! As sweetly innocent and confiding as God ever inspired with the breath of life.”

Then from under his coat, where a hump appeared in the back, he drew out a grey woolen cloth about four feet square and folded it about the child, gathered her in his arms and arose to his feet.

“Mine, mine, though no harm shall come to you, pretty one! Twenty thousand dollars shall be the price of your liberty.”

And, keeping in the shadows and away from the lights as much as possible, he wended his way toward the river and soon became obscured in the distant gloom.

When John Thorpe, closely followed by Rutley, entered the great ballroom in search of Corway, the guests who saw him were struck with the pallor of his face and the strangely piercing yet lustreless dark eyes that shone out from beneath his shaggy, frowning eyebrows. His cold, stony look repelled all smiles and discouraged all questions. Through the room he strode, regardless alike of the timid whisperings of women and offended stare of men. He cared not what they thought, for every sentiment of rudeness or discourtesy, every tender feeling of grief or pain, was drowned by his one great mad, overpowering passion to wreak summary vengeance on the author of his bitter shame.

Not for a moment had he suspected “My Lord’s” integrity and utter disinterestedness, and the maddening fire of his disgrace kindled within him and fanned to a crucible heat by Rutley burned with unquenchable fury.

Men of the temperament of John Thorpe are not blessed with a stoical mind in moments of great excitement, nor are they apt to pause and tranquilly reason out the pros and cons of this most prolific source of human tragedies.

He had loved his wife too fondly and too well to go and openly charge her with unfaithfulness.

His life heretofore had been very happy, but now the first “damned spot” in the clear blue of his domestic horizon would not out, the feeling of suspicion would not smother. And it grew and enlarged with amazing rapidity, and haunted him till the very thought of Corway aroused his latent jealousy to a pitch that became unbearable. Rutley had developed the demon within him.

The love that had become a fixed part of his being, flooding him with its radiance, had been violently wrenched from his heart, and his only, all-absorbing, insatiable desire was to confront the man who was responsible for it.

Oh, for the frailty of human happiness!

Out near the steps of the east piazza a group of ladies and gentlemen, composed of Mr. and Mrs. Harris, Mr. Corway and Hazel were chatting merrily about the new waltz and incidentally they had referred to the prolonged absence of “My Lord” and John Thorpe from the ballroom. Mrs. Harris discovered them on the piazza approaching the steps and exclaimed, “Ah, here come the truants.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, John Thorpe descended the steps alone, Rutley remaining on the piazza.

“Mr. Harris,” said John Thorpe in a husky voice, “in the name of the society whom he contaminates, I demand that you eject that man from this place.”

This peremptory and extraordinary demand, coupled with its insinuation, stunned the hearers, who looked from one to the other in startled amazement.

The dead silence that followed was broken by Mr. Harris, who answered in a grave, dazed way, as thoughts of Thorpe’s sanity flitted through his brain, “But, Thorpe! I – what – I don’t think – my hearing is not exactly right of late. I did not understand – ”

Without removing his steady gaze from Corway, Mr. Thorpe reiterated his words slowly and with stinging accentuation, “I demand that you eject that man from this place,” and he pointed his finger dramatically at Corway, while glints of merciless intent shot from his eyes.

The red flushed into Mr. Harris’s face as he realized the indignity his guests and himself were being subjected to.

“Thorpe – John – you are insulting all of us. Mr. Corway is my guest. What is the meaning of this affront to my hospitality?”

“To defend my honor!” cried the distracted man, lost to all sense of propriety or decorum, “or to add my blood to the other crimes that disgrace him.”

“In the name of all that’s astounding, what do you mean, Thorpe?” exclaimed Corway.

“I mean that I intend to avenge the irreparable wrong I have suffered,” replied Mr. Thorpe, fairly hissing the words from between his teeth.

“Irreparable wrong! To whom do you refer?”

“To you, scoundrel! Tell how you came by that ring!”

Mr. Harris had listened to the two men with ill-concealed impatience, but when Mr. Thorpe called Mr. Corway, one of his guests, a scoundrel, and dangerous business appearing imminent, he could control his indignation no longer and shouted, “Mr. Thorpe’s carriage immediately! Here, Sam, your assistance. Wells, get some more help to maintain order.”

The words had scarcely been uttered, when Sam, who had appeared with Virginia on the piazza, sprang down the steps to his uncle’s assistance. They were quickly joined by the coachman and gardener who, having chanced to meet in a nearby secluded angle of the porch, had heard the loud, passionate words and were at once available for duty.

“Hold, Mr. Harris!” spoke up Corway, who seemed to be less disturbed than either Thorpe or his host, “don’t be hasty in this matter! Mr. Thorpe is certainly laboring under some delusion.”

“I will not listen to you,” replied Mr. Harris, now worked up to a fury. “Mr. Thorpe’s conduct is outrageous. Away with him to his carriage.”

“I guess so!” responded Sam, pulling off his coat and looking at his uncle sideways, “stampede the corral, eh, uncle? That’s what you want!”

“Away with him!” repeated Mr. Harris, gesticulating with his arms wildly.

The two lackeys advanced, encouraged no doubt by the assurance of Sam’s assistance.

They were brought to an abrupt halt by Corway, who stepped in front of them and declared with heat, “Stand back! I demand an explanation!”

In a low, hoarse voice that quivered with the intensity of his passion, with ghastly white face, and glittering eyes that flashed the lie to his forced calmness, Thorpe replied: “You shall have it – blackguard, liar, and coward!” With which he struck Corway on the mouth with the back of his closed hand.

Corway passionately rushed at him and attempted to strike, but Mr. Harris sprang between them and caught his upraised arm, and with the help of Sam, separated them.

When Sam sprang down the steps to his uncle’s assistance, Virginia was left standing on the piazza watching the progress of the quarrel with intense interest and also evidently alarmed at the violent passion her brother displayed.

With a woman’s intuition, she surmised that Rutley had worked on John’s jealous susceptibilities with merciless finesse.

Rutley, who was watching her, noted her alarmed expression, and feeling it to be a sign of weakening purpose, stepped over and stood beside her, so silently that she was quite unaware of his presence.

“It’s a horrible wrong,” she muttered.

The words were caught by Rutley, and he whispered, so close as to startle her, “Remember the wrong Corway has done you.”

The excited men barely had been separated when Corway spoke with passionate emphasis, “You shall hear from me.”

“Quite soon enough for your courage,” sneered Thorpe.

“No, no, my brother shall not fight with him!” exclaimed Virginia, appalled at the magnitude the quarrel had assumed.

Swiftly she glanced at Rutley and said with tremulous lips: “What have you told him to cause such fearful passion?”

“What you bade me,” he coolly replied, and with a gloating smile on his lips, added: “The result is what you wanted, isn’t it?”

“Not so terrible,” she gasped. “There must be some awful mistake.”

And Rutley’s smile deepened, but as he looked into her horrified eyes and blanched face, and noted the change from vengeance to anxiety and consternation fast coming over her, he knew but too well when the change was complete, in a moment of frenzied zeal to explain and save her brother, she, womanlike, was likely to undo and wreck all his work.

He realized that the moment was fraught with the gravest danger to his plans and person, and he acted quickly, but with the utmost coolness.

Her hand held straight down by her side was closed tightly, expressive of immediate and determined action.

He gripped her wrist. It hurt her. The action concealed from others by the folds of her dress, succeeded in diverting her attention, and he followed it up by whispering, so that she alone heard him, “Remember – the material you gave me; Corway has met his deserts and you are avenged!”

And then the voice of Constance cleft the air, in a wild, terrifying scream. “John, John! Save Dorothy! She’s adrift on the water.”

Her piercing cry freighted with a mother’s anguish, at once filled all who heard it with consternation, in the midst of which Mrs. Harris exclaimed, “Dear me, how dreadful it all is!”

All turned in the direction of the cry and almost immediately Constance, in an agony of despair, and deathly white, frantically rushed among them.

She looked appealingly from one to the other, her heart in her throat and pathos in her voice. “I heard her cry, ‘Mama! Papa! Help! Save me!’ Oh, will no one rescue my darling?”

“I’m off,” said Sam, in his short, sententious way, and rushed toward the river.

The sudden strain on her nerves was greater than Constance could bear.

Naturally of a weak constitution, the ordeal was overpowering; the mother’s affection, forming a magnetic part of her heart, leapt out to her child and left her numb and cold almost unto death, and then her limbs trembled, and with Sam’s words ringing in her ears, down she sank, a senseless being.

Virginia’s consternation was complete. She rushed down the steps, knelt beside her prostrate form, thrust her arm lovingly under her head and sobbed: “Constance! Dear Constance! Don’t give way so. Dorothy will be found.”