THE evening after the mailing of that fatal letter to Dr. Jack Redfield, some one rapped on Hugh Stanton’s door.
“Come in,” said Hugh, as he went on with his toilet. The door opened, and Judge Lynn walked in. The judge’s facial appearance gave evidence that he had just come from a barber shop. He frequently passed one hand over his smooth-shaven chin, as if to call attention to it.
“Hello, Mr. Stanton,” said he, as he helped himself to a chair. “You’re dressin’ up like you might be goin’ somewhere.”
“I have been invited to dine with the Osborns.”
“Jist so; danged good place to get a square meal; bet yer life it is.”
“The Osborns are very hospitable people,” observed Hugh, as he went on with his toilet.
“Look ‘e here, Stanton,” said Judge Lynn, “did you think I was drunk the other evenin’ when you and Major Hampton and myself were discussin’ the Barley Hullers?”
“I don’t know,” replied Hugh, evasively, “were you?”
“No, sir,” said the judge, emphatically, “don’t you believe it; not for your life. I jist got to thinkin’ about a case I’d decided in my court that day. A complex, tryin’ question of law, sir, always exhausts me, as it did the other night, and I fell asleep.” Hugh turned his face away to conceal his amusement.
“What’s the matter with you, anyhow, Stanton; you’re gettin’ mighty disbelievin’ it ‘pears to me; what are you grinnin’ ‘bout? Can’t a feller go to sleep if he feels like it?” asked the judge.
“How is business in your court, Judge?” asked Hugh, paying no attention to his irritation.
“Oh, she’s poppin’ these days, and don’t you forget it,” replied the judge. “You see, we’ve had no rain since last fall, and here it’s the first of May. Dry weather nachally makes our people irritable and brittle. Fellers ‘round here can’t pay their interest, and the Eastern capitalists are gettin’ down on ‘em. Mortgages are bein’ foreclosed, right and left; bet yer life, law business with me is hummin’.”
“We certainly need rain,” said Hugh. “The farmers, however, tell me that the barley, wheat, corn, and other crops are looking fairly well, notwithstanding the dry weather.”
“That’s a fact,” replied the judge, “crops are lookin’ devilish good, considerin’. Fact is, there’s lots of water in the ground from last year’s rains, but she’s oozin’ out danged fast lately, and within a week or two more, unless we have rain, things’ll be dryer ‘n powder dust. Yes, sir, loan companies are already gettin’ skittish, and sendin’ back applications for farm loans, unfilled.”
“Oh, come,” said Hugh, “you are a pessimist. We shall have a good rain before many days, and then you will change your mind.”
“Don’t you believe it, sir,” remarked the judge, with emphasis. “Now let me tell you,—but gosh almighty, what’s the use of talkin’ to you, Stanton; I can’t convince you, though I am right. It’s only a waste of words. You ‘re lariated with the balance of ‘em, and held in the iron grip of error. You go on believin’ jist as you please, anyway. Say, I called for a little favor. I want to borrow five dollars.”
“Want to borrow five dollars?” repeated Hugh.
“Yes, sirree, I do,” answered the judge, “and see here, Stanton, you must n’t refuse me. You see I had a case in my court the other day, and sort of attempted to interfere with a decision of the Supreme Court of the Sunflower State. It has resulted in the attorney-general’s gettin’ gay and frisky like, and sendin’ me the most contemptible and impudent telegram I ever read. I want the five dollars to telegraph back my defense. Fact is, I have jist got to have it; bet yer life I have. Oh, I can mighty near tell by the way my neck itches that somebody is makin’ a halter for it, bet yer life.”
“Why don’t you send it collect?” asked Hugh.
“Why, dangnation, man, I tried it, and the fool of an operator down here someway don’t have the right idee about the importance, dignity, and responsibility of my court, and he would n’t send it unless the shekels were put up in advance.”
Hugh handed the judge five dollars, and asked him if he did not think he had exceeded his authority in interfering with a decision of the Supreme Court.
“Law, my dear Stanton,” replied the judge, blandly, as he put the five dollars in his pocket, “law is my hobby. Speakin’ unreserved-like, they can’t down me on the statutes, no, sir; and if I had that low-down varmin of an attorney-general here, why, I’d fine him for contempt of court; bet yer life I would. Oh, I know a whole lot when it comes to law. Well, I must be goin’.”
“Good day,” said Hugh, as the judge started toward the door; “call again.”
“Good day,” responded Judge Lynn. “I’ll hand you back this special accommodation tomorrow.”
A little later Hugh hurried along the street toward Captain Osborn’s, laughing softly to himself at the oddities of Judge Lynn. When he reached the Osborn home, to his surprise he found Miss Marie Hampton there.
“I intended to surprise you,” said Mrs. Osborn, coquettishly, “by having Major Hampton and Marie with us, but have succeeded only partially. The major is away from home, but I carried Marie away with me this afternoon, and have persuaded her to remain with us for dinner.”
“I am truly delighted with your thoughtfulness,” replied Hugh, bowing deferentially to Marie, “but, really, Mrs. Osborn, you have no need of adding to the attractions of your lovely home to induce me to come.”
“I am not so sure of that,” replied Mrs. Osborn, as her musical laugh rang out merrily, “the captain and I are beginning to believe that you are incorrigible in your habit of neglecting your friends.”
“Hugh is a most excellent man of business,” replied the captain, “but he throws social obligations to the winds, unless his frequent visits to the Hortons prove an exception.”
“Don’t jest about impossibilities, Captain,” said Mrs. Osborn. “Lord Avondale will soon return, and—well, we all know what that means.”
Hugh’s face reddened at Mrs. Osborn’s words. He was not at all sure about the correctness of her inference.
“My calls at Major Hampton’s are quite as frequent as at Mr. Horton’s,” replied Hugh.
“You could come oftener and still be welcome,” observed Marie, while her heart beat fast with admiration for Hugh, an admiration she could not entirely conceal.
“Oh, thank you,” said Hugh, “that is a compliment I shall not soon forget,” and, as he spoke, caution beat a hasty tattoo on the drumhead of conscience.
Hugh could not help noticing that Marie was growing more and more beautiful. She was attired in an evening dress of black lace, which was admirably becoming to her graceful figure. Her heavy tresses shone like burnished gold and the softer shades of copper, while the rose hue of perfect health tinted her cheeks. The animated way in which she conversed with Hugh confirmed Mrs. Osborn’s suspicions that she was in love with him, while he was too stupid, she told herself, even to suspect it.
The dinner-hour passed pleasantly, Mrs. Osborn giving the captain but few of her tiger-claw scratches. The veteran invariably took refuge in the snug harbor of little Harry, whenever a serious break seemed imminent, and thus warded off all collisions with the war-cruiser of his domestic life. As they arose from the table, Hugh turned to Mrs. Osborn and asked her rather abruptly when Lord Avondale was expected.
“Why, what is that to you?” replied the wily
Mrs. Osborn, as she looked rather exultingly at him.
“I am interested in knowing,” replied Hugh.
“Well, but your interest is only platonic, you know.”
“Perhaps,” answered Hugh.
“Oh, perhaps,” repeated Mrs. Osborn, as she elevated her eyebrows and smiled bewitchingly at him. Hugh, however, made no reply, and Mrs. Osborn’s nerves received a shock by his silence as well as by the turn affairs were taking. She mentally resolved to wire Lord Avondale, on the next day, to hasten his coming.
Returning to the drawing-room, Captain Osborn pushed aside the heavy hangings that separated it from Mrs. Osborn’s music-room.
“Lucy, my dear,” said he, “I am sure Miss Marie and Mr. Stanton would enjoy some music.”
“By all means,” said Marie, “I have often wished to hear you play, Mrs. Osborn.”
“Captain, what shall I play?” asked his wife, seating herself languidly at the piano.
“Oh, anything,” replied the jovial old captain, “anything from ‘Old Dan Tucker’ to the ‘Fisher’s Hornpipe.’.rdquo;
“You will observe,” said Mrs. Osborn, looking back at Hugh over her shoulder, and smiling, “that my husband is quite primitive in his musical tastes.”
Then followed several selections. She played mechanically, however, and with little expression. There was no soul to rebound from the strings of the instrument. In the very middle of a classical piece, which was beyond her, she suddenly stopped playing, and, turning to Hugh, said:
“Excuse me, but did you not, on one occasion, speak of Miss Hampton’s playing?”
“I doubtless have mentioned it,” replied Hugh.
“Ah, you naughty girl!” exclaimed Mrs. Osborn, laughing, “why did you not tell me? Come, Marie, you must help me entertain these American financiers—these men of affairs. I promise you,” she went on, patronizingly, “that they will not know whether you play excellently or otherwise.”
ICAN’. speak for Captain Osborn,” said Marie, as she seated herself before the piano, “but I fear, Mrs. Osborn, that you misjudge Mr. Stanton.”
“Oh, thank you,” said Hugh, bowing at the compliment.
“Papa insists,” Marie went on, as she looked at Hugh with her laughing eyes, “that you are wonderfully appreciative, and, doubtless, critical.”
“Indeed,” interposed Mrs. Osborn, with some surprise, “well, had I known that, I would have been more careful in the selections I played.” Marie turned to the instrument, softly fingering the keys and striking a chord here and there until finally she drifted into Chopin’s Fifth Nocturne. Her interpretation was that of a born artist. The music fairly rippled from her deft fingers, as she glided on and on from one beautiful cadence to another, until at last—note by note—as if sobbing a farewell, the melody died away. Then striking a few chords sharply, she took up a lively refrain, which gradually materialized into Rubinstein’s Melody in F. There was a wild abandon and rare power in her playing that appealed to Hugh Stanton’s soul like the wild sweep and rush of sighing winds in a primeval forest.
Again the music melted away to a single note, which quivered like an echo that would not cease its reverberations. Then, gathering the notes in her masterful hands, she played Beethoven’s exquisite Moonlight Sonata. As the rich tones came in answer to her wonderfully magic touch, Marie seemed oblivious of time or of place, and conscious only of the music which swayed and lifted her. She astonished Hugh, Mrs. Osborn, and the captain as well, in her wonderful interpretation of the grand old master. Presently she glided skilfully into the first movement, sustaining and making each melodious note sing out like a thing of life; then, with a genius bordering on the infinite, she masterfully executed the allegretto movement with vivaciousness, and the agitato movement with a hurried, standing effect, and concluded the adagio with an indolent, romance melody of whispers. There was something almost divine in the rich harmonies that filled the room with rapturous ecstasy, while the languorous air trembled with renascent song.
Hugh Stanton had arisen and gradually approached the player as the music went on. When it ceased, he seemed suddenly to awaken. Mrs. Osborn was noticeably moved by Marie’s renditions, and yet her admiration was for the execution rather than for the music itself. She observed Hugh’s agitation, and mentally resolved that Marie Hampton’s music should prove the solution of keeping Hugh Stanton from declaring himself to Ethel Horton. To Hugh she spoke, in a low voice, of Marie’s wonderful gift and of her lovable character. Hugh, however, answered only in monosyllables, for he had been strangely moved.
Mrs. Osborn interpreted his silence differently; and rejoiced at her clever planning in bringing them together in her own home, that she might read what was written.
Hugh escorted Marie to her home that evening. As they walked along he was conscious of a wonderful power in the girl, which he could not understand. In the uncertain darkness her beautiful face was forgotten, and he thought of her only as a materialized genius, whose musical skill had enthralled him. Naturally reserved in the presence of women, he felt more awkward than ever when they were alone, and he was not sure that he answered intelligently Marie’s questions and vivacious girlish talk.
At the door, their hands touched for a moment, as Hugh bade her good night. He could not quite understand his feelings, but he concluded that it was only the remembrance of the music that thrilled him.
Looking back, as he walked along the street, he saw the dim outline of a man following him. So deeply absorbed was Hugh in his own thoughts that he did not hear the footsteps gradually gaining on him. When he reached a darker portion of the street, and not far from the hotel, his pursuer tapped him lightly on the shoulder and said:
“Look ‘e here, Stanton; I propose bein’ plenty p’lite, but I think we’d better hev a talk. I’m not assoomin’ to be much on chin music, but what I say goes.” Hugh turned and found himself face to face with Bill Kinneman, the cowboy. Kinneman was noticeably under the influence of liquor.
“What do you want?” asked Hugh, rather brusquely.
“I want you to browse on a different part of the range an’ quit hangin’ ‘round Major Hampton’s; thet’s what I want, an’ you’ll do as I say, or by the Eternal I’ll give you a dose uv this,” and quicker than a flash he pushed a revolver into Hugh’s face.
The streets were deserted and they were quite alone. Hugh realized his imminent danger. Kinneman held a cocked revolver in his face, and it would be folly to do other than try to effect a compromise. Presently he said: “Kinneman, I thought you had some sense.”
“Waal, hain’t I?” asked the cowboy, still holding his revolver in close proximity to Hugh’s face.
“You are certainly not a good judge of human nature,” replied Hugh.
“Waal, now look ‘e here, my wayfarin’ frien’, I’m no corn-field sailor, an’ I want you to know it,” said Kinneman. “The old major’s daughter possesses sooperier rectitood, and is not fur you. She don’t step in yer class, but she does step in mine, see? An’ you’re flounderin’ in the quicksands uv error if you think different.”
“Oh,” said Hugh, “I am beginning to understand what you mean. You are in love with Miss Hampton, and you fancy that I am also.”
“Thet’s ‘bout what I’d say if I wuz unbosomin’ myself,” replied Kinneman, as he pressed a little closer to Hugh.
“Your fears are groundless,” replied Hugh, emphatically. Kinneman dropped his revolver to his side and exclaimed, “Pardner, is thet squar’.”
“My dear sir,” replied Hugh, “I do not know what love is. I have made no untruthful statement, if that is what you mean by asking, ‘Is that square?’.rdquo;
“Thet’s all I wanted to hear you say,” said Kinneman; “but somethin’ mighty thrillin’ is liable to happen if you reach fur yer artill’ry, so jist keep yer hands away from yer belt.” With this, he turned on his heel. He walked a few steps and then stopped.
“Look ‘e here, Stanton,” said he, “speakin’ wide-open like, there’s only one special thing on earth thet I’ve set my heart on, an’ if I find thet you’ve lied to me, I’m ‘lowin’ I’ll push you off the face uv the earth, an’ fill you so full uv holes that St. Peter won’t know you. I’ll take my chances on the major bein’ favorable, an’ thet girl’s goin’ to be mine if I hev to kill a baker’s dozen to git her.” With this he walked away in the darkness.
Hugh hastened to the hotel. Whether from the exaltation occasioned by Marie’s playing, or from the counteracting influence of Bill Kinne-man’s wicked threat, or from both, he knew not, but nevertheless he felt strangely disturbed, as if a soul chord had suddenly been unkeyed in his life’s harp.
He sat by the window far into the night, endeavoring to choose a course to pursue. Lord Avondale would soon return. A sense of duty forced itself upon him when he thought of Ethel Horton, and he determined to declare himself to her without further delay. He tried in vain to analyze his feelings toward the beautiful and accomplished Marie. A mist rose up before him and he seemed to hear once more the Moonlight Sonata. Then he felt that his interest in Marie was embodied solely in the one word, music. He longed for a confiding hour with his old boyhood friend, Jack Redfield. “If he were only here,” he mused, “I would talk it all over with him and be guided by his advice.” Seating himself at his table, he determined to write to him. Then he fell to musing again, and left the letter unwritten.
TWO weeks had passed since the Osborn dinner. One morning the captain observed to Hugh, “My boy, have you been idling your time away, or can’t you decide?”
“I don’t quite catch your meaning,” said Hugh, pleasantly.
“Well, to be more explicit,” replied Captain Osborn, “you haven’t yet asked Ethel Horton to become your wife, have you?”
Hugh’s face reddened, and he answered, slowly,’ “No, I have not.”
“Perhaps you have changed your mind,” the captain went on. “Mrs. Osborn says you are desperately in love with Miss Hampton, but I don’t rely on second-hand evidence, and that is why I ask you pointblank. Of course, follow your heart, my boy, wherever it leads you, and you’ll not make any great mistake, provided your affection is reciprocated. Reason cannot be depended on in such matters, for usually it spreads its wings and flies away when we become thoroughly inoculated with the illusion of love.”
“My dear Captain,” replied Hugh, “I feel it to be both a duty and a privilege to declare my love to Ethel Horton. I believe I love her, and I am ashamed of myself for having procrastinated as I have.”
“Are n’t you sure that it is love, my boy?” asked the captain.
“No,” replied Hugh. “I am impressed, however, that my interest in Ethel Horton is genuine, and I know that whatever I say to her will be sincere.”
“Well, you had better say it pretty quick,” observed the captain, gravely. “My wife tells me that the Englishman will be here to-morrow.”
“To-morrow,” repeated Hugh, looking at the captain in surprise.
“To-morrow,” repeated the captain, “and I fancy that, with all his English traits, bad manners, and poor taste, he will not dilly-dally as you have about asking a girl like Ethel Horton to become his wife.”
Hugh made no reply, but all day long he kept thinking of Ethel Horton. Sometimes Marie Hampton’s deep blue eyes would look at him from under their long lashes, and he would fancy that in their pleading sweetness he beheld a fascination that lost itself in mystery. He put it away from him, however, and went on thinking of Ethel.
That evening found him at the Grove. Ethel’s greeting was all that a hesitating lover could desire. She was seated in an easy chair on the wide veranda overlooking the terraced lawn and the lake. The cool breezes from the far-away foothills came gently down, gladdening the landscape with their refreshing breath.
Hugh seated himself near her, and they soon fell into a pleasant conversation. He fancied that there was less restraint in her manner and voice than usual, but in her soft brown eyes there was still a look of sadness. The fun-loving girl he had first known was now a subdued and saddened woman.
“I have something that I have long wanted to say to you,” said Hugh.
“Indeed?” she asked, listlessly, raising her eyes to his face.
“Yes, something I wanted to say long ago. I can hardly believe,” he went on, “that we have known each other only a year.” The flush had gone from his face as he spoke, and in its place had come an expression of uncertainty. Ethel moved uneasily in her chair. Her heart cried out, “Oh, Jack! Jack!” while her better judgment prompted her to look upon Hugh Stanton as a welcome avenue of escape.
“Ethel,” said he, and his voice was low and earnest, as he bent toward her, “I have come to-night to ask you to become my wife. I do not say that my feelings are those that are pictured sometimes in fiction; but, Ethel, the deep respect I have felt for you from our first meeting has ripened into a warm and intense feeling. I cannot pay you a higher compliment than I have in asking you to Become my wife. I am filled with a chivalrous sentiment that will not be satisfied unless the right is given me to protect and care for you.” He raised her hand to his lips, and kissed it deferentially. She did not seek to withdraw it, but remained silent.
When Hugh looked at her face, he saw that her eyes were full of tears. She was gazing far away across the brown prairie.
“Yes, Hugh,” she finally faltered, “you have, indeed, paid me a compliment—the greatest that man can pay to woman, but I fear that you would not be satisfied with what I have to give.”
“Satisfied!” cried Hugh, in the excitement of the moment, “satisfied? Why, Ethel, tell me that you care for me, and it will make me the happiest man in the world.”
There was a pitiful look in her eyes as they rested on his face.
“Hugh,” she said very slowly, “it is a woman’s heart that an earnest man desires when he asks a woman to become his wife. My heart is like the worm-eaten rosebud,—it is the semblance of what you seek, not the reality.”
Hugh imagined that she referred to Lord Avondale, and, again, he told himself that it could not be true,—that she surely was not grieving for him.
“Listen, Hugh,” she went on, “listen, while I tell you of a great love which grew up in my heart almost in a day, and which flourishes and grows stronger with each passing hour. The fear that my love is unreciprocated has grown almost to certainty. The love still remains,—but hear my story, and then,—then, Hugh, if you still wish me to be your wife, after you have had time to think it over, my answer shall be as you wish.” She then told him briefly of Jack Redfield, and of the great love that had come to her on the shores of Lake Geneva,—a love for him that must abide forever,—although he, perhaps, had already forgotten, as he had so long left her letter unanswered. Hugh’s astonishment was very great,—he was stunned,—but he did not mention the fact that he even knew Jack Redfield.
When she had finished her narration, he asked: “What of Lord Avondale?”
“Oh, Hugh,” she replied, “I shall marry you, if at all, to escape that calamity. Do you not feel honored,” she said, smiling through her tears, “at the use I may make of your devotion?”
“My devotion is very great; it is eternal, Ethel,” replied Hugh, huskily.
“Understand, Hugh,” said Ethel, “my respect and confidence in you are almost limitless. Indeed, I have come to look upon you as a tower of strength. It is my desire that you should deliberate long and earnestly before you arrive at a conclusion. When you have done this, Hugh, know that your wishes shall be mine.”
They had arisen from their chairs, and were standing near the edge of the veranda. When Ethel ceased speaking, Hugh remained silent for a long time. He finally said:
“Ethel, my little girl, I feel more than ever that I have a duty to perform, and that duty is to protect you.” He lifted her hand again to his lips, and then hurried away. A little later he was galloping madly across the prairie toward Meade, where he was soon in the privacy of his own room.
For the first time in his life, he believed Jack Redfield to be a scoundrel. All his chivalrous manhood had been aroused by Ethel’s story, and he determined to protect her—though it cost him his life.
Through the long, weary hours of the night he paced restlessly back and forth in his room, nor did he seek his pillow until the gray of another day had dawned—the day that brought Lord Avondale again to Meade.
LORD AVONDALE took up his residence, as before, at the Osborn Hotel. He called frequently at the Hortons’, and was also much in Mrs. Osborn’s society. The tongue of gossip was again beginning to wag. She and the Englishman renewed their relations afresh, and went on with a boldness that might almost cause one to doubt the truthfulness of the rumors.
Lord Avondale’s self-conceit and audacity were more apparent than on his former visit. He felt sure that Ethel Horton would soon become his wife; and he not only entreated, but commanded Lucy Osborn to hasten the affair along, as he was impatient to return to England.
Hugh, in the meantime, was following Ethel’s advice, and deliberating most earnestly as to what was best to do. He could not understand why his old friend, Jack Redfield, whom he had always regarded as the personification of honor, had acted in such an inexplicable manner toward Ethel Horton. If Ethel had not told him of her love for Jack Redfield, the way out of the dilemma might have been very simple. In that event, he would have married her at once, and sent the English lord about his business.
It was nearing the last days of June. The cool night breeze, so exhilarating in the Southwest, died away each morning as the dawn streaked the east, and the sun climbed above the horizon. The limitless sky bent above the earth in silence and grandeur. No breath of air stirred leaf, or flower, or grass-blade. It was but one of a hundred such quiet, perfect days, on any one of which you might have searched the heavens from horizon to horizon and found neither cloud nor the semblance of one; silent, hazy Indian summer days. The bountiful fields of wheat and barley were beginning to yellow with golden promise. The farmers said that the wheat and arley were almost out of “the milk,” and in the “dough,” and, while the dry weather would prevent the kernels from filling as in former years, yet, after all, there would be a fair yield. The cattlemen laughed and said, “Wait, and you’ll see whether the Southwest is an agricultural paradise or a cattle range.”
The farmers, however, were not easily discouraged. They pointed with pride to the thousands of acres of growing corn, and said, “See how rapidly it is growing. It is not firing, even at the roots, to speak of, and its color is such a dark healthy green; it is so luxuriant and tall, with its broad bending blades,—so stately, indeed that a squadron of cavalry might ride a few rods into the edge of the field and be hidden from view.” The farmers expressed a firm belief that the corn, which was beginning to “tassel” and “silk,” would have plenty of rain to make it “ear” well, and that an abundant yield would reward their labors, even though the small grain should happen to prove a light crop.
It was, perhaps, ten o’clock one morning when Hugh walked down the street from the hotel to the bank. Major Buell Hampton and Captain Osborn were discussing the weather. They were standing on the sidewalk in front of the banking-house, and several townspeople, cattlemen, and farmers had congregated around them; and the discussion of a possible crop failure became general.
“‘Pears to be mighty sultry on the range these ‘ere days,” said Dan Spencer, as he borrowed a chew of tobacco from his neighbor. “Speakin’ careless-like, I don’t reckon this dog-goned dry weather kin loaf ‘round much longer. I’m ‘lowin’ the water’s sure ‘nuff all dried up in Crooked Creek; dang my buttons if it ain’t.”
“Mighty sorry fur you farmer fellers,” observed Bill Kinneman, patronizingly. “I’m not hankerin’ to be onpop’lar, but you jist wait an’ you-alls ‘ll see what kind uv a farmin’ country this is.”
“It is either a farming country,” said Hugh to Captain Osborn, “or else our bank is located in the wrong part of the world.”
“Country’s all right, my boy,” replied Captain Osborn. “Don’t get disheartened. We’ll have rain before many days.”
“Now, look ‘e ‘ere, boys,” said Judge Linus Lynn, who had joined the group a few minutes before and caught the drift of their conversation. “Let me tell you what’s goin’ to happen. I am no tenderfoot—say, what’s all you fellers laughin’ at, anyway? Can’t a graduate of a jagcure make a few sober remarks without bein’ giggled at, I’d like to know. If you fellers had just a little wit—but you hain’t got it—to put with yer giggles, you’d have sarcasm. You bet!”
“Hain’t you tasted no corn-juice yit, Jedge, fur sure?” asked Dan Spencer, laughing.
“Not a dangnation swallow!” replied Judge Lynn, emphatically. “I took my friend Major Hampton’s advice, availed myself of the gold cure at his expense, an’ by the great horn spoon, I’ll never drink nary another drop; no, sirree. Bin shakin’ hands with the back end of drug stores, partin’ company with my good cash, an’ bein’ bit with the same old snake long enough. Oh, I know when I’ve got enough of even a bad thing. Bet yer life I do. Now as I was goin’ to say, I’m no tenderfoot. I’ve lived in Kansas twenty years. Uster gather up buffalo-bones from these prairies with a yoke of oxen, haul ‘em two hundred miles an’ sell ‘em’ at ten dollars a load. Yes, sir; think I don’t know what I’m talkin’ about? Bet yer life I do.”
“I should nach’ally hev thought you’d bin a rich man afore this, Jedge,” said Bill Kinneman.
“Oh, you’d thought that, would you?” replied the judge. “I’ve heard you tell how to get rich, Kinneman, fur the las’ ten years. Fact is, if every man was to get rich who believes he knows how, we’d have no paupers.”
“Say, Jedge, we’re goin’ to hev hot winds, ain’t we?” asked Dan Spencer, grinning. “Thet’s what you’ve bin preachin’ fur the last three years, ain’t it, boys?”
“Gee whillikens!” exclaimed the judge, “did you feel that? That’s a hot wind, sure as you’re born.”
“Oh, no, Judge,” said Captain Osborn, “that could hardly be called a hot wind. Still, it is rather warm.”
“Gentlemen,” said Major Hampton, as he moved along with the crowd on the sidewalk to a point somewhat sheltered from the wind, “if Judge Lynn is correct, and we do not have rain soon, the growing crops will be seriously injured.”
Judge Linus Lynn walked on down to the corner of the building, where the wind was unobstructed, and, hastily returning, said, “The jig’s up, boys, an’ bets are all off. The hot winds of hell are sweepin’ the plains; bet yer life they are. The wolves will sure’nuff scratch the varnish off the front door of the new town hall and dig holes in the public square this winter, if this dangnation holycaust of hot wind keeps on Mowin’ very long. You bet I know a thing or two.”
The hot wind began blowing a regular gale, and soon the crowd disappeared. All feeling of merriment gave way before the contemplation of the ravaging blast that was hourly doing irreparable damage to the growing crops. As the day advanced, the wind became hotter and hotter, until not a soul was visible on the streets of Meade. People hastened to their homes, offices, and stores for shelter, and shut themselves away from the intensely suffocating air. A few minutes’ exposure would blister the face and hands of the hardiest farmer.
On rushed the scorching wave,—its wilting breath shriveling up every growing thing as effectually as a prairie fire,—everything excepting the native buffalo-grass, the cacti, and the sunflowers. The grass it cured, and made more sweet and fattening for the cattlemen’s herds.
The thermometer registered 102 degrees in the shade. The following day it ran up to 108 degrees,—next day it registered 114 degrees, while on the fourth day of this terribly heated blast of parching, burning winds, the mercury reached 119 degrees in the shade.
It was a suffocation indescribable, dealing relentless death to the agricultural hopes of the great Southwest. It was like some intense heat driven from thousands of furnaces, where limitless quantities of anthracite burn with blue and forked flames, creating heat sufficient to change even the very rocks into liquid. For a hundred hours this stifling, burning breath belched forth from the jaws of calamitous destruction. Utter devastation followed.
On the first day, the fields of growing corn seemed to shrink in timidity; on the second day the proud plumage of tassels drooped on the stalks; on the third day the blades whitened and shriveled and became like some aged and decrepit thing; while on the fourth day the tassels, blades, and even the stalks were snapped off in their parched brittleness and scattered by the winds of this terrific tornado of heat.
The fields were swept of every vestige of growing grain. The entire country became a desolate waste. For a hundred miles in every direction no living vegetation, planted by the hand of man, survived. The hopes, the labors, and the achievements of years were alike swept into the vortex of absolute ruin; and these farmers in the Southwest beheld the Great American Desert, as depicted by the earlier geographers, in all its primitive awfulness.
Farmers became mendicants; business men, paupers; while notes and bonds in the bankers’ hands turned into worthless assets. A cry went up from the starving thousands, and once more train-loads of provisions came from the East for the relief of the Kansas sufferers.
John B. Horton, the cattle king, caused hundreds of beeves to be brought in from the range, and he opened a free market on the public square of Meade, to feed the destitute and hungry.
AFEW days after the country had been devastated by the hot winds, Hugh met Major Hampton on the street.
“Come on,” said the major, “I am going over to thePatriotoffice, and I want to have a talk with you.”
“All right,” replied Hugh; “financially, I am ruined; and I now have more time on my hands than anything else.”
On reaching the major’s den at thePatriotoffice, he turned to Hugh and said, “I can distinctly see, Mr. Stanton, that there’s something on your mind. Perhaps you’d like to ask my advice. If so, you need not be backward.”
Hugh laughed good-naturedly, as he puffed a ring of cigar smoke toward the ceiling. “Well,” he replied, “bankruptcy stares us in the face. Our bank, in all probability, will have to close its doors. Is not that quite enough to have on one’s mind?”
“Quite enough,” replied the major, “but there is something else that is worrying you. Come, what is it?”
“I almost believe, Major, that you are a mind-reader,” replied Hugh.
“Oh, I am a student,” replied the major, “and it would be strange, indeed, if I had not made some progress in all my years of study.”
“Well, I will ask you a question,” said Hugh. “If something you coveted very much were within your grasp, and you should awaken to find that it really belonged to another—some one whom you believed unworthy of the prize—what would you do?”
The major lay back on the lounge, and, after deliberating fora moment, replied: “From a selfish standpoint, I would secure for myself that which I coveted; but from an altruistic standpoint, it would be mean, low, and contemptible to take an unfair advantage of one’s equals, and much worse to take advantage of one’s inferiors. Again, the prize coveted should not be made a football, to toss about for transitory pleasure. One becomes a social outcast when he loves himself better than he loves his neighbor.”
The major’s reply struck home, and Hugh was noticeably ill at ease. Presently he said, “Major, what is going to become of the Southwest? The crops are all burned up,—our bank securities are worthless. Financially, I am a ruined man.”
“Help the poor,” replied the major. “Personally I have laid something away that will help me to accomplish charitable purposes toward the ever increasing army of unfortunates. Next year the crops may be better. I believe it is in my power to put you in a way to retrieve some of your lost fortune, and at the same time enable you to benefit mankind.”
“In what way?” asked Hugh, eagerly.
The major hesitated for a few moments, and then said: “I do not feel at liberty to explain just now, but I will think it over for a day or two, and if I can be of service to you, Stanton, you will find me a true friend. My keenest pleasure is in befriending those in need of help, and wreathing the face of pain and sorrow with smiles of gladness.”
“Thank you, Major,” replied Hugh, “It’s very kind of you, I am sure, and I shall wait with impatience for any suggestions that you may have to offer.”
That evening Hugh called at the major’s house. He quite forgot his losses and the ruined condition of the country in the pleasant conversation with the major and his daughter. The music, which formed a feature of the evening, was concluded by Marie singing a selection from Tannhbuser.
As Hugh was getting ready to bid his host good night, the major said: “Stanton, I am exceedingly glad you came to-night; I feel ennobled,—feel that it is good to live and that my days have been lengthened. The true epicurean of rationalism teaches us that the good and bad in man are engaged in a constant combat, and even the bad can better enjoy occasional indulgence by permitting the good to rule most of the time.” It struck Hugh as being an odd remark for the major to make.
After bidding them good night, he walked hurriedly along the street toward the hotel in a thoughtful mood. When he reached his room, he sat down by the open window, determined to reach a decision in regard to Ethel Horton.
He had now been in Meade a little over a year. His inheritance of fifty thousand dollars from his father’s estate had been swept away by the hot winds, and the securities which he held, bearing a high rate of interest, were practically worthless. The cattlemen were the only people who had not suffered by the cancerous breath that had swept over the country.
Ethel had trusted him to decide a momentous question. If he decided one way, Ethel Horton would become his wife. A voice whispered to him from the night wind, “Do this, and you need not care for the fortune you have lost. Ethel is the only child and heiress to millions.”
“No,” shouted Hugh, vehemently, starting up as if combating with the tempter, “no, that is a contemptible, cowardly thought. It is true that to-day poverty with her sable robe envelops me, and that a fortune is mine if I will only reach out and take it—a fortune that will make me a Croesus, while a resigned and heart-broken woman is ready to lift up her fair white arms to me as her savior, if I—I, Hugh Stanton—am willing to place upon her lips the kiss of a Judas. Shall I do it?” Conscience pricked him to a decision, and he fairly shouted, “Never, never, so long as my soul is in partnership with God Almighty.” His clenched fist struck the table. His victory was complete.
Seating himself at his desk, he hastily wrote the following letter:
“My dear Jack:—About a year ago I called on you and said good-bye. Forgive me for not writing before. Jack, this letter must determine whether I ever again address you as a friend. I have met Ethel Horton, and have learned—God knows the price of the wisdom—that her heart is wholly yours. Why have you trampled upon it? If you are an honorable man, as I have ever believed you to be, answer her letter, or, better still, come to me at once. I regard her as one of the noblest girls in the wide, wide world. If the love which you whispered to her at Lake Geneva was not sincere, then I am no longer your friend, but shall ever remain your enemy.“Awaiting an answer, I am“Your friend,“Hugh Stanton.”
“My dear Jack:—About a year ago I called on you and said good-bye. Forgive me for not writing before. Jack, this letter must determine whether I ever again address you as a friend. I have met Ethel Horton, and have learned—God knows the price of the wisdom—that her heart is wholly yours. Why have you trampled upon it? If you are an honorable man, as I have ever believed you to be, answer her letter, or, better still, come to me at once. I regard her as one of the noblest girls in the wide, wide world. If the love which you whispered to her at Lake Geneva was not sincere, then I am no longer your friend, but shall ever remain your enemy.
“Awaiting an answer, I am
“Your friend,
“Hugh Stanton.”
He enclosed this letter in an envelope and addressed it to Jack Redfield. He then wrote the following:
“My dear Ethel:—Only God knows how earnestly I have deliberated and prayed over the question which you commissioned me to decide. Since I saw you last, my thoughts have been given to this one subject. I feel exalted to-night. My soul has arisen from the mists of doubt and uncertainty,—and, I hope, selfishness,—and the way seems clearer to me. My regard for you remains unchanged, but I will not insist on your becoming my wife. To do this would prove me cowardly, selfish, and unjust. To pursue the course I have marked out, will, I trust, demonstrate ere long,—not only that I am unselfish where you are concerned, but also that I am securing a greater happiness for you than you could possibly know if our lives were more closely linked together. Do not think that I have arrived at this conclusion hastily,—far from it. It has cost me much suffering and many heartaches. You spoke of a calamity,—be patient and wait; an avenue of escape, bordered with fairest flowers, awaits you.“Affectionately your friend,“Hugh,”
“My dear Ethel:—Only God knows how earnestly I have deliberated and prayed over the question which you commissioned me to decide. Since I saw you last, my thoughts have been given to this one subject. I feel exalted to-night. My soul has arisen from the mists of doubt and uncertainty,—and, I hope, selfishness,—and the way seems clearer to me. My regard for you remains unchanged, but I will not insist on your becoming my wife. To do this would prove me cowardly, selfish, and unjust. To pursue the course I have marked out, will, I trust, demonstrate ere long,—not only that I am unselfish where you are concerned, but also that I am securing a greater happiness for you than you could possibly know if our lives were more closely linked together. Do not think that I have arrived at this conclusion hastily,—far from it. It has cost me much suffering and many heartaches. You spoke of a calamity,—be patient and wait; an avenue of escape, bordered with fairest flowers, awaits you.
“Affectionately your friend,
“Hugh,”
After this letter was written, sealed, and addressed to Ethel Horton, Hugh paced the room, weighing the justice of his conclusion. Yes, he believed he had acted honorably.
Notwithstanding the lateness of the hour, he went out and posted his letter to Jack Redfield; then, mounting his horse, he galloped away across the prairie toward Horton’s Grove. As he neared the place, he met Mrs. Osborn’s turnout, and he noticed, as it passed him, that Lord Avondale accompanied her. Dismounting and hitching his horse, he walked along the winding path, and was fortunate in meeting one of the servants. After securing her promise that the letter would be delivered at once to Miss Ethel, he dropped a coin into her hand and, turning back, was soon riding homeward.
When Ethel had broken the seal and read Hugh’s letter, no tears came to her eyes, but, as she put it from her, a stony expression was on her face. “He has no use for the worm-eaten rose,” said she to herself, “that’s what his letter means. A girl’s artificiality is forced upon her in this cold, scheming world. I long to get away from it all. Oh, Hugh, my fancied tower of strength,—you, too, are crumbling. The environments are closing around me. I presume resistance is almost useless. Nothing will satisfy them but a human sacrifice on the altar of a questionable nobility, and a repetition of the old fable of the earthen and iron pots drifting down the stream together.”
Mrs. J. Bruce-Horton was looking out of her window and recognized Hugh Stanton as he came up the path. She surmised that he had brought some communication for Ethel, and she determined to make sure before retiring. She rapped at Ethel’s door, and, without further announcement, made her appearance in her daughter’s room.
“Why are n’t you in bed, Ethel?” she asked, stroking the girl’s heavy tresses affectionately. “I fear you are not getting sufficient sleep. You look pale, and there are dark circles under your eyes.”
Ethel was indeed far from the rosy-cheeked girl of a few months before. She seemed listless and indifferent, as her mother went on. She spoke, in an incidental way at first and then with feverish enthusiasm, of Lord Avondale, and told Ethel how madly in love with her he was.
“Mamma, mamma, please don’t!” cried Ethel, burying her face in her hands.
“Why, child, you must not take on so,” said her mother, drawing near and attempting to take her in her arms. “Come, Ethel, you must be sensible about this. You should have confidence in my judgment. It is for your good,—really it is.”
After a time, Ethel looked up at her mother. Her hot cheeks had dried the tears. Her voice sounded strangely harsh, as she said, “Very well, mamma, make yourself easy; I will do as you wish.” There was a sad smile of resignation on the face of the girl as she spoke. She permitted her mother to take her in her arms, and she listened to her expressions of gratitude.
Ethel had surrendered to the wishes of an ambitious mother, whose respect for titled aristocracy exceeded her admiration for independent American womanhood.
The next morning a thin, misty rain began falling. A prayer of thanksgiving was in the hearts of the people. The rain gradually increased and continued a steady downpour all that day and night, and all of the following day. The earth was saturated with refreshing moisture. Then the sun came out, wreathed in smiling gladness. The browned landscape took on a new life. The buffalo-grass, within a few days, was a carpet of living green. The cacti put forth new shoots and spines, and their buds opened into beautiful flowers, as fragrant as the Cape jasmine. The sunflowers lifted their drooping leaves, and bulbs of promise swelled in triumph under the caressing rays of the wooing sun.
No wonder hope sprang up anew in the hearts of the farmers. True their crops were gone,—the country devastated,—but here was nature smiling with promise. To them it was the rainbow of hope, and they began making ready for another seed-time.