CATTLE Thieving and Its Punishment,” was the headline of an editorial written by Maj. Buell Hampton for thePatriot. This editorial, perhaps, brought its writer more subscribers from the cattlemen than any other one editorial ever published in southwestern Kansas.
Notwithstanding this article and the wide notice it received, cattle thieving continued. John Horton estimated that he had lost, during the year, fully one hundred thousand dollars worth of beeves, while other cattlemen of less pretensions had also lost heavily.
With a view to popularizing the Barley Hullers, Major Hampton announced through the columns of his paper that he was preparing to issue a general order to all lodges of Barley Hullers bordering on No-Man’s-Land, to resolve themselves into committees, and, by a concert of action, annihilate, root and branch, the cattle-thieving cancer that had fastened itself upon the frontier of the Southwest.
Since the country had been devastated by hot winds, cattle thieving had noticeably increased. Major Hampton’s duties as district organizer of the Farmers’ Alliance, also as a general lecturer of the Barley Hullers’ organization, called him away from his home much of the time.
He was perhaps the most resourceful citizen of Meade, and, when not engaged in work that called him away from home, he was actively and energetically endeavoring to advance the interests of his town by advocating policies that he believed to be for the good of the people, and by secretly giving help to the needy. It was a noticeable feet that the farmers in their straitened circumstances, surrounded by ruin and want, became more active than ever in organizing Alliances. Overtaken by a great calamity, they seemed to believe that the laws of both state and nation were seriously at fault. They denounced the money-lender and the coupon-clipper in scathing terms. Day after day they brooded over their misfortunes, nursed their wrath, and swore vengeance against the loan companies and the capitalists to whom they had mortgaged their farms. They forgot that the merchant and the banker who had given them credit were also bankrupts.
In the meantime, the announcement of the betrothal of Ethel Horton to Lord Avondale was heralded throughout the country. Mrs. Osborn may have been responsible for its wide publicity. Hugh was greatly depressed by the turn affairs had taken.
One morning he received a letter from Jack Redfield, which briefly stated that his letter had been received and that he would leave Chicago for Meade the next day. Hugh wondered whether Jack’s presence in the Southwest might not now complicate matters more than ever, but he concluded that its possible beneficial results were well worth the trial. “Ethel must be saved,” said he; and conscience applauded the declaration. He knew her to be a proud and spirited girl, and, now that her betrothal to Lord Avondale had been announced, he feared she would be actuated by some fancied sense of duty.
That same evening, by invitation, Hugh called at the Osborns. The old captain was not a man easily discouraged. He told Hugh that they must keep the bank doors open at all hazards, and, if possible, never permit the word “failure” to cloud their name.
“We may lose our private fortunes, Hugh, my boy,” said he, “but if you have the blood in your veins that your father had, you will care more about protecting your name, and having it said by the world that every depositor was paid in full, than you will for the fortune you have lost.”
Mrs. Osborn seemed but little distressed by the captain’s financial embarrassment. She was as animated and bewitching as ever in her conversation. Little Harry nestled in his father’s arms, and seemed to realize, far more keenly than his mother, that the old captain was engulfed in a perilous position. Hugh wondered, as the conversation went on, if the captain knew what the daring tongue of gossip was saying about his wife and Lord Avondale; but he could not penetrate the calm exterior of his old friend, for nothing was to be read in his bronzed face.
“It may be that we shall have to call upon Lucy for a little money to help us out,” said the captain, winking at Hugh.
“Captain,” replied his wife, determinedly, “you have hinted several times about appropriating my private fortune to save yourself from bankruptcy, and I want you to understand distinctly that I object. You know I am going to England soon, and do not want to be bothered by having my private means interfered with.”
“All right, Lucy, all right,” replied the captain, but there was a look of genuine disappointment on his face as he spoke. “We will try to get along without calling on you. You see, Hugh, when Mrs. Osborn and I were married, I made her a present of a hundred thousand dollars in government bonds. I collect the interest and place it in her private account, and keep the bonds securely locked in a strong box in our vault.”
“That reminds me, Captain,” observed his wife, rather frigidly, “I wish to take my bonds with me when I start for England. I have concluded to deposit them in a New York bank.” The captain made no reply.
“When do you expect to start on your European trip?” inquired Hugh.
“In six weeks,” replied Mrs. Osborn. “You know Ethel is to be married on the first of September, and we shall start immediately after that notable event. You really must not ask me when I am going to return,” she said, laughing coquettishly. “Lord Avondale has extended such a pressing invitation that I have at last yielded. Mrs. Horton says we may not return for a year.”
The next day Doctor Redfield came. His meeting with Hugh was at first a little strained, but soon mellowed into the old-time comradeship.
“Why the deuce, Hugh, didn’t you tell me before leaving Chicago, that you were coming to this out-of-the-way frontier town of Meade?” asked Redfield, when they were comfortably seated in Hugh’s room at the hotel.
“It certainly was very careless of me not to,” replied Hugh, “and I was likewise very neglectful in not writing to you long before I did. You see, Jack, the frontier was like a new world to me—foil of excitement and money-getting. Why, at one time, before the hot winds came, I supposed that I had at least doubled my fortune, and now,—well, let us not talk about it,—it is practically all gone. I shall not care for the lost fortune, however, if I can only in some small way help to bring you and Ethel together. Ah, Jack, she is indeed a fine character.”
Doctor Redfield paced the floor in silence for a few minutes. “I never knew the meaning of the word love, until I met Ethel Horton at Lake Geneva,” he finally said. “My whole heart was, then and there, given to her. I have been waiting the longest year of my life for the letter that never came—a letter that would tell me to come. The destiny marked out for her by her ambitious mother, I fear, has proved stronger than her love. Really, Hugh, did you ever read a more cruel letter than the one Mrs. Horton wrote me?”
“Let me see it again,” said Hugh. “I have a suspicion that Mrs. Horton never wrote that letter.”
“What do you mean?” asked Jack, in astonishment, as he handed it to Hugh.
“Just this,” replied Hugh, “I have an impression that it was written by Mrs. Osborn. I should like to show this handwriting to Captain Osborn.”
“As you like,” replied Jack. “But what am I to do? Here I am, within a half-hour’s ride of Ethel; have come without her permission, only to learn of her approaching marriage to Lord Avondale. Was ever a man placed in such a trying position?”
“Cheer up, old fellow,” said Hugh, good-naturedly. “Come, faint heart ne’er won fair lady—or anything else. We must prevent this widely-published marriage if possible.”
“Easily enough said,” replied Jack, dejectedly. “Of course,” he went on, half jestingly, “we might raid her home some dark night and carry her off into captivity, and then take our chances on a reconciliation.”
“Not a bad idea, after all,” said Hugh, elevating his eyebrows, “and if we are pushed too closely by the enemy, we may consider the plan seriously. You see, Jack, I would not be quite frank with you did I not confess that at one time I asked Ethel Horton to become my wife.” Jack looked at his friend in utter astonishment. “Yes,” Hugh went on, “and that is the way I learned of her love for you—a love that you never need doubt. I was dumfounded, for how should I be expected to know that you had ever met her. I finally pulled myself together, however, and sent for you.”
Jack took his friend’s hand in both his own, and pressed it warmly. “Hugh,” said he, “you are a good fellow. The fight is now on, and, with your help, I must and shall win.”
They talked far into the night, but this did not deter them from arising early next morning and making ready for a horseback ride. Immediately after breakfast they set out for Martilla, a little village some fifteen miles to the northwest.
“I want to show you Kansas,” said Hugh, “and there is no better way for you to meet the people and familiarize yourself with their customs. The recent heavy rain has made the country look habitable again. If the rains had only come before the hot winds, why—we would have had no hot winds, and plenty instead of poverty would now be the farmer’s lot, to say nothing of my own condition.”
The morning was an ideal one. There was an exhilarating tonic in the soft west winds. Vast herds dotted the prairie. The catde, in their lazy, contented way, went on biting shorter the short, green buffalo-grass.
A little way on, at the side of the road, lay a cowboy reading, while his bronco was near him, munching and browsing. As they drew near, Hugh exclaimed, “Why, it’s Seaton Cornwall, my English friend!” They reined their horses and dismounted.
Seaton Cornwall arose from where he had been lying, laid aside his book and came toward them. After an introduction, Doctor Redfield observed: “I see you pass some of your time reading. An interesting novel, I suppose?”
“No, I was reading ‘Plutarch’s Lives,’ replied Cornwall. Since leaving Oxford I have never been able to give up entirely my admiration for some of the old masters, and, notwithstanding my home is on a catde range, I still find great pleasure in keeping up my studies.”
“Mr. Cornwall,” interposed Hugh, “is one of my earliest acquaintances in Kansas, and, while he is of English birth and a lover of his native land, still, he admires America and American institutions.”
“Yes,” said Cornwall, “instead of hearing the music of ‘God Save the Queen’ out here, or even my ‘My Country, ‘T is of Thee,’ I listen to the lowing of herds, the bawl of mavericks, the yelp of coyotes, and the howl of wolves. However, I am not lonely, for I have quite a number of books with me.”
“I hope you like America?” Doctor Redfield interrogated.
“Very much, indeed,” replied Cornwall. “There are opportunities here which England can never give to her people. I love the land of my birth, I love Englishmen and English ways,—I none the less, however, love democratic America and the opportunities that it affords. We are one race, anyway, speaking a common language and closely allied on all international subjects.”
“England,” he continued, “is seriously misunderstood by many in America. This misunderstanding is occasioned by adventurers with titles, questionable or otherwise, who do not represent the true sentiment of the mother country. Personally, I believe that a country which affords me a home and protection, and which I have adopted for my own, merits my loyalty and unswerving devotion; therefore, although not an American born, I am in sentiment American, in all that the term implies. Indeed, I have no patience with that class of my countrymen who omit no opportunity to impress upon the people of this country the superiority of England and her people. It is a cockney trait at the best, and does not represent the true sentiments of England toward her American cousins.”
“I am delighted at your expressions,” said Doctor Redfield.
“That which prejudices Americans against the English,” continued Seaton Cornwall, “more than any other thing, is the delegation of adventurers who come to this country to barter their titles for American wealth. Fortunately, they deal with a class of Americans as foolish as they are themselves. Efforts in this direction, both on the part of my countrymen and on the part of Americans, are to be lamented. Indeed, in my opinion, this class of intermarriages engenders more criticism on the part of the masses than any other one thing in this generation, and if this selfish and ambitious, ‘barter and sale’ custom were abrogated, America and England would entertain still more friendly relations than they do to-day.”
When Hugh and Doctor Redfield had taken their leave of Cornwall, the latter returned to his Plutarch. Hugh and Jack, as they rode on, mutually agreed that Cornwall entertained a most sensible view of the existing conditions, and both deplored the Anglomania of the age.
At midday Hugh drew rein and dismounted in front of a dugout home. It was a sample of hundreds in the Southwest, and from the outside had more the appearance of a cyclone cellar than a dwelling.
The owner came out and greeted them warmly, and, with usual western hospitality, insisted that they feed their jaded animals, and share with his family their noonday meal.
“I assure you,” said Mr. Redner, “that such as we have you are most welcome to.”
The Redner family consisted of Mr. Redner, his wife, a lovely daughter, Miss Lena, and a son whom they called Dick. Their dugout home was furnished with fragments of eastern elegance. A Chickering upright stood in one corner, strangely contrasting with the rude sideboard-table, which was supported by pins fastened in the wall.
The luncheon consisted of corn bread, potatoes, bacon, and coffee. No apology was offered for the meagre fare. It was the best they had.
The Redner family was a representative one. They had emigrated from the East to better their condition, if possible, in the great Southwest. The devastation of the hot winds had reduced them to direst want. Even the absolute necessities became luxuries. This frugality and scant provender was but a link in the great chain of experiences on the frontier. In all their suffering, these people were still happy in anticipation that after awhile the rain belt would creep westward, and that their homestead of 160 acres would yet bless them in their old age.
After luncheon, Hugh and Doctor Redfield bade adieu to the Redner family, and turned their ponies homeward by a circuitous route.
“We will return by a different route,” said Hugh, “for it just occurs to me that I want you to see the flowing wells in the Crooked Valley north of Meade.”
“This is a new life to me,” said Jack,—“the frontier. It has a new meaning to me.”
“Yes,” replied Hugh, “and, strange as it may seem, I love the frontier. It is true the hot winds have swept away my fortune, and I am penniless. Still, on the frontier one is surrounded by friends different from those one makes in cities,—the great congested centres of our population.”
“I deeply regret,” replied Jack, “your having come into this inhospitable place. However, old fellow, your coming may be the means of my succeeding in restoring relations with Ethel.”
“It must be the means,” said Hugh, decidedly. “Really, Jack, I hardly believe you understand the depth and nobleness of Ethel’s character.”
“Well, Hugh,” replied Jack, thoughtfully, “I know she appealed to me as no other woman ever has or ever will. You assure me that she still loves me. This fills me with a determination at least to let her know that my love is the one strong fiber of the fabric in my existence.”
“You will not fail, Jack, but if you should—?”
“Ah! if I should,” said Jack, energetically, as he looked far away across the prairie, “yes, that is a question to be considered. If Ethel, for any reason, objects to marrying me, excepting for the one reason that she does not love me, I will overcome every obstacle, and carry her away. If, contrary to your belief, her love has been given to another, or she no longer cares for me, I will return to Chicago and devote my life to my profession. True, my sad heart may be reflected in my countenance; but then, you know, a physician’s life leads him into scenes of suffering, and it is not strange if sometimes one’s surroundings are depicted in one’s face, and my patients will interpret my sadness as sympathy rather than a broken heart. After all,” mused Jack, “an elastic falsehood by inference is often more impressive than a cumbersome truth indifferently spoken.”
For awhile they rode on in silence, when suddenly Jack, in some surprise, exclaimed, “Why, what is that over yonder?” pointing to an agile prairie-dog, and then another, and still another.
“They are prairie-dogs,” laughingly replied Hugh. “There may be ten thousand dogs within a radius of half a mile.”
“Well, what a novel sight!” exclaimed Doctor Redfield. “I should say there were rather more than ten thousand, than less, and every one of the little fellows sitting up on his haunches in such an observant way.” With this, Jack put spurs to his horse, and made a dash toward the nearest prairie-dog, uttering a great whoop as he did so, when, instantly, this army of prairie-dogs disappeared as if by magic into their burrowed homes.
“Well, did you ever!” he ejaculated in wonder at the activity of these little animals.
“Yes,” replied Hugh, “they really possess great caution. It is said they migrate in companies from one locality to another, and live principally on roots.”
While they were yet talking, a myriad of heads protruded from the doorways of the underground ones, as if sentinels on the lookout for danger, with petite faces turned toward Jack and Hugh.
“Just look at the little fellows,” cried Jack, enthusiastically, “hundreds of little heads, and double that number of spying eyes peeping at us in intense wonderment. How I should like to carry some of them back to Chicago with me.”
“And deprive them of their liberty?” asked Hugh.
“I forgot,” replied Jack, “that you are a sympathizer with the Humane Society.”
“I certainly am,” replied Hugh. “I would not purposely take the life of a worm. To me the freedom these little prairie-dogs enjoy in the companionship of their mates is very beautiful, and I should be grieved to see even one of them deprived of liberty. Then, too, they are the most hospitable creatures in the world. It is said that a prairie-dog town is the home of as many rattlesnakes and owls as of dogs, all occupying the same underground apartments. Whether they do so willingly or not, I am unable to say. I only know that such a condition prevails, and it is said that they live in perfect harmony.”
Jack Redfield insisted upon riding clear through the dog town, and was greatly interested in chasing the dogs, watching their rapid disappearance and then reappearance and the blinking of their bright eyes.
The afternoon was well-spent before they reached Meade. On entering the town they came by the public school building. Through an open window the united melody of a hundred little voices rose and fell in their afternoon exercises before dismissal. They were singing:
“John Brown’s body lies a-mouldering in the grave,
John Brown’s body lies a-mouldering in the grave.”
“Ah,” said Jack, as he turned to Hugh, “there is indeed a patriotism peculiar to itself in the great Southwest. I have marveled at your love for the frontier, but why should I, when the very air is redolent with the songs of school children immortalizing the great emancipator, John Brown? I am beginning to have a profound respect for the Sunflower State myself.”
“Yes,” said Hugh, “it is the birthplace and home of Ethel Horton.”
“Ah!” said Jack, looking up quickly, “what magic there is in that name. The good right arm of the breadwinner is strengthened more, my dear Hugh, by an unexpected caress or an encouraging word from loved ones than by all the roast beef in Christendom.”
MRS. HORTON was tireless in her devotion to Ethel. “The poor child,” said she to Mrs. Osborn, “needs a change—salt breeze and good old English air again, and then the color will come back to her cheeks.”
“How charming it will be,” replied Mrs. Osborn, “to see jolly old England once more.” She was a little nervous as she spoke, and seemed ill at ease.
She had called at the Hortons’, accompanied by Lord Avondale. Ethel begged to be excused, pleading weariness, and remained in her room. The English lord seemed anything but dejected at Ethel’s not wishing to see him, and, with his pipe, he strolled leisurely down the graveled walk toward the lake. A sense of proprietorship came to him as he walked back and forth in a contemplative mood. A wedding portion in good government bonds had already been formally agreed upon.
“By Jove! I wish the affair were coming off to-morrow,” mused Avondale, as he knocked the ashes from his brier-root pipe and refilled and lighted it afresh. “Those beastly hot winds have left the landscape deucedly barren. The recent rains brightened it up a bit; otherwise it would be unendurable. It’s a blooming country, I must say. This little lake and woods surrounding Ethel’s home are about the only sights worth seeing.” He laughed a little, and repeated the name of Ethel. “It sounds odd, quite odd,—and yet—” He did not audibly finish the sentence, but went on walking and smoking in a most self-satisfied way.
Ethel was in a listless mood. Her betrothal to Lord Avondale, however, while far from her own wish of making, was gradually becoming less terrible to contemplate. After all, it would be a change, and what did it matter? Jack had long ago forgotten her, while Hugh had deserted her at the first test.
In the meantime, a rather animated conversation was going on in the parlors below, between Ethel’s mother and Lucy Osborn.
“There is another matter,” Mrs. Osborn was saying, “that is unfortunate, to say the least. It has disturbed me quite a little.”
“Nothing serious, I hope,” exclaimed Mrs. Horton, as she looked anxiously into the pretty face opposite her.
“Not necessarily serious, but very annoying,” replied Mrs. Osborn. “Now, don’t let it worry you, Mrs. Horton, but Doctor Redfield is in Meade.”
“Impossible!” exclaimed Mrs. Horton, in great astonishment.
“Yes, I saw him last evening while driving with Lord Avondale. He was walking down the street with Mr. Stanton. It is rather deplorable that he should have turned up just at this time. There is no mistaking his broad shoulders and blond mustache.”
Mrs. Horton was seriously perplexed and noticeably agitated, while Lucy Osborn fidgeted about in her chair, as she remembered the part she had played in Ethel’s correspondence. She secretly wondered if Doctor Redfield had preserved that letter written over Mrs. Horton’s signature. It made her nervous to contemplate the possibly humiliating results of an investigation. Her almost reckless relations with Lord Avondale placed her in a position, however, that compelled her to go on doing his bidding, until the farce of his marriage to the American heiress was consummated. She was tired, alike, of the spiritless behavior of Ethel and the silly ambition of Mrs. Horton for an English alliance. True, it afforded Lucy Osborn a way of escape from the monotony of frontier life, and, at the same time, placed her on English soil with a firmer footing, she fancied, than ever before, and this thought was milk on which she fed her famishing ambition. That Ethel, in time, would become insanely jealous, or possibly would have ample reason to be so, if appearances counted for anything, she did not doubt. Her self-assurance, however, told her that she could easily call Lenox Avondale to her when his honeymoon with Ethel was over, and her beauty would compel him to be her champion. Another thought slipped in unbidden, and it made her shudder a little; the thought was this,—what would become of her when her beauty of face and figure was gone?
Mrs. Horton assured Lucy Osborn that she would not have a moment’s peace until Dr. Jack Redfield had taken his departure.
“My dear Mrs. Horton, I shall be constantly on the watch. Should any letters come, they might seriously complicate our arrangements, unless you intercept them and bring them to me.” Mrs. Horton blushed at the remembrance of her unworthy actions in regard to her daughter’s letters, and said, “Why, Doctor Redfield has evidently heard before this of the betrothal of my daughter, and he certainly is too honorable to interfere.”
When Mrs. Osborn and Lord Avondale were driving away from the Grove, he turned and asked her, rather brusquely, “Why did Miss Ethel refuse to see me?”
“Indeed, Lenox, I did not see her myself.”
“I will teach her, after we are married, that it is contrary to the canons of good form to go moping about and wearing that bored expression.” As he finished speaking, he gave the horse a stinging cut with his whip.
“Her actions are not very commendable,—in fact, rather disagreeable,” replied Mrs. Osborn.
“Stop!” said Lord Avondale, bluntly; “please have the kindness to say nothing of a disparaging nature concerning the future Lady Avondale. I will not permit it. Ethel is a noble woman, with a virtuous and wholesome air of purity about her.”
“Oh, how delicately considerate you are,” replied Mrs. Osborn, piqued and stung by his brusque words and manner.
“Do you doubt my estimate of her?” asked Avondale.
“No, I do not,” replied Mrs. Osborn, rather spiritedly, “but I certainly doubt your being worthy of her. In fact, I know you are not.”
“Take care, don’t go too far, Lucy!” exclaimed Lord Avondale, coloring with anger. “I do not claim to be a paragon of virtue, but you invited me to dishonor. You would make any man doubt the goodness of womankind.”
“It is false!” cried Lucy Osborn, while a dangerous anger flashed from her eyes. “A man who has made vows to as many women as you have, hesitating until invited to dishonor! Bah! Lenox, you weary me with your mock piety. That you should turn against me, after all my sacrifices and devotion, now that you have secured the promise of Ethel Horton to become your wife, proves you to be a contemptible toward, and destitute of chivalry or any sense of gratitude.”
“Come, come, my dear Lucy,” said Avondale, in a conciliatory tone, “you are a very clever woman; indeed you are, and have been quite invaluable to me. Do not be so hasty as to accuse me of ingratitude. I fancy you are trying to quarrel with me now for a purpose.”
“Indeed?” said Mrs. Osborn, haughtily. “Who commenced the quarrel, pray? And what object could I have in quarreling with you?” The carriage stopped before the Osborn home as she ceased speaking.
“I asked you this morning for an additional loan of a hundred pounds,” said Lord Avondale, “but as yet I have not received the favor.”
“And I am not at all sure that you will,” replied Lucy Osborn, disdainfully, as he handed her from the carriage. Lord Avondale, lifting his hat, bowed low, while Mrs. Osborn turned stiffly away and disappeared through the doorway of her home.
REACHING the privacy of her room, Mrs. Osborn threw herself into a chair and cried. She felt relieved afterward and thought how foolish it was of her to have quarreled with Lord Avondale. Unlocking a small drawer of her writing-desk, she fondly scrutinized, with an absorbing and passionate glance, a late photograph of the blasi Englishman.
“Yes,” she said aloud, “I was very rude to Lenox. But I will make amends. He shall come to-night, and we shall be friends again. Of course the dear fellow can have the money for which he asked.”
Drawing some writing material toward her, she wrote the following letter:
“My own dear Lenox:—I am so sorry that we quarreled to-day. No, it was not your fault, but all my own. When I think of you, and how much we have been to each other, I wonder that I could ever have spoken so rudely to you. You will forgive me, will you not, dear?“Oh, Lenox, I forget all else at times in trying to make you happy. You cannot know how much you are to me.“Come to-night at eleven. I will admit you at the side door of my room. Will have the money you requested.“With my heart’s best love, I am, all your own, Lucy.”
“My own dear Lenox:—I am so sorry that we quarreled to-day. No, it was not your fault, but all my own. When I think of you, and how much we have been to each other, I wonder that I could ever have spoken so rudely to you. You will forgive me, will you not, dear?
“Oh, Lenox, I forget all else at times in trying to make you happy. You cannot know how much you are to me.
“Come to-night at eleven. I will admit you at the side door of my room. Will have the money you requested.
“With my heart’s best love, I am, all your own, Lucy.”
Laying the letter aside, she wrote a note to her husband, enclosing her personal check for five hundred dollars and requesting him to bring the currency that evening. Glancing at her watch, she saw that it was almost four o’clock. Addressing two envelopes, one to Lord Avondale and the other to her husband, she hastily enclosed the letters and rang for her maid, requesting her to deliver them at once.
“I want the captain’s letter handed to him before the bank closes. Call at the bank first, and afterward on Lord Avondale at the hotel. If he is out, push it under the door of his room.”
The maid hurried away, and Mrs. Osborn turned to her toilet, determined to surpass herself, in point of beauty and fascinating allurements, when Avondale should call that evening. It was a question whether it was adoration or adorers that she courted most.
It was scarcely four o’clock when one of the bank clerks informed Hugh that Captain Osborn wanted to see him in his private room. As Hugh entered the apartments of the president, he noticed that his old friend was under a strain of great excitement. His face was very white and his hands trembled.
“Close the door, Stanton,” said Captain Osborn, with forced calmness. “Perhaps you had better turn the key. I have something of a very private nature to talk to you about.”
Hugh complied with his requests, and, as he seated himself, Captain Osborn handed him his wife’s letter. “You will observe,” said he, “the envelope is addressed to me. Please read the letter carefully.”
As Hugh perused the billet-doux, he discovered that clever Mrs. Osborn had at last entrapped herself, and, by mistake, had enclosed the letter for Avondale in the envelope addressed to her husband.
“My old friend,” said Hugh, after he had read the letter to the end, “I am not only heartily sorry for you, but I stand ready to do your bidding in any way within my power.” He held out his hand, which Captain Osborn grasped eagerly.
“Ah, Hugh,” he replied, huskily, “there are many sorrows in life, but those which have to do with the heart cause the most suffering. Happiness at best, where a woman is concerned, is usually coextensive with our ignorance. Do not think that I have been entirely blind in the months past. We all have sorrows, but it really seems to me that I have had my heart-strings tugged at rather more than my share. I should have killed that scoundrel of a fortune-hunter months ago; I would have done so, had it not been for little Harry,—poor little chap, I love him so tenderly that I don’t want the blot of murder on his family name,—it is not fair to bequeath dishonor to such a loving little fellow.” Hugh hardly knew what to say, the captain seemed so noble, so deserving of respect and pity. Presently he said: “Had we not better secure the letter written by your wi—Mrs. Osborn to you? It might help us to act more intelligently.”
“That’s right, Hugh, do not speak of her as my wife,” replied the captain. “I told you once that my wife could do no wrong; neither can she, for a woman ceases to be a wife when she dishonors her marriage vows. Go to the hotel and secure the other letter, if possible. I shall be very impatient for your return.”
Hugh left Captain Osborn alone in his room, and half an hour later returned.
“I found this letter, Captain, pushed partly under Lord Avondale’s door,” said he.
“It is Mrs. Osborn’s writing,” said the captain, as he scrutinized the superscription. “A military necessity compels me to open it,” he continued, and, after glancing it over, he handed it to Hugh. “Cash the check, and bring me the currency,” he said.
When Hugh returned to the room, the captain placed the money in his pocket, and then enclosed the Englishman’s letter in the envelope addressed to him, saying, “Seal it as carefully as you can, and push it under the door of his room at the hotel. I want the titled scoundrel to keep his appointment!”
It was after eleven o’clock that night when Captain Osborn, who had ever been most considerate and deferential to his wife, admitted himself with his private key to her boudoir, without ceremony. The pretty little room was brilliantly lighted. Mrs. Osborn and the Englishman occupied a dainty settee, a rare creation of a French upholsterer. Their faces were partially turned from the door through which the captain entered. Before them, on a small, richly-carved table, was a basket of fruit, some cake, and a bottle of wine.
“Pardon me for intruding,” said the captain, in a cold, metallic voice. With one startled impulse they turned, and saw standing before them the wronged husband.
“What, you here, Captain!” exclaimed his wife, angrily, “and unannounced? Why, how dare you, sir; how dare—” She could not finish the sentence. Her eyes fell before the keen, stern look of the old veteran.
“Yes, strange as it may seem, I, your own husband, under his own roof, venture to visit you; a privilege you have not encouraged me in, I admit, but one I insist upon in this instance.”
The captain spoke calmly, and, whatever internal emotion he might have felt was concealed behind a cold, gleaming smile of determination and sorrowful triumph.
Avondale permitted his eye-glass to fall from its accustomed place, and started to arise. “Ah, really, sir,” said he, “I must be going. It is getting so late, I—”
“Remain where you are, sir!” said the captain, in deep, resolute tones. There was an iron ring in his voice that startled the Englishman. “Late as it may be,” the captain went on, “you have been in this room less than fifteen minutes. Subterfuges are unavailing.”
Lucy Osborn raised her queenly head, and, with one resentful glance at the old captain, hissed, “Spying on your wife is hardly in keeping with the dignity of a financier.”
“I have surrendered dignity, Lucy, in the hope of saving you,” replied the captain, calmly.
Her eyes flashed an angry glance at him. “What do you mean?” she stammered. “I don’t quite—” She broke off in silence, as her eyes met his sorrowful and yet scornful glance. There was something in the searching gaze of her husband that seemed to read the very secrets of her soul. It stung her proud heart with remorse.
Turning to Avondale, the captain said: “I ought to have killed you long ago, before this liaison with Mrs. Osborn began. I should have shot you to death like some vile cur, d—— you, and would have done so but for my little son.”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Avondale, now thoroughly alarmed. “Really, sir, you are mis-tak—”
“Stop!” cried the captain, fiercely, “do not add to your dastardly crimes by lying. I know all. Give me the letter—the one which Mrs. Osborn wrote you this afternoon—in which she promised to give you some money.”
Lord Avondale seemed to shrivel up before the captain’s emphatic demand. He nervously fumbled the letter from his pocket. The captain unceremoniously took possession of it.
“Really, sir,” stammered Avondale, “I am only a man, not a saint, you know, and these improprieties with Mrs. Osborn can hardly be considered as any fault of mine.” Mrs. Osborn turned toward her paramour, and a look of disgust flitted across her face. It began to dawn upon her that he was an arrant coward.
“Adam attempted to lay the blame on the woman in the Garden of Eden,” shouted the captain, in anger. “You, perhaps, are a gentleman by birth, but you are an infernal wretch by practice. Titled you may be, but at heart you are betrayer of the virtue of a weak woman. The nobility at your hands is a prostituted aristocracy; your admiration and attentions are an insult to all good women. Return to the shores whence you came, you contemptible scoundrel, and never again set foot on free America’s soil. Your mission was one of adventure and fortune-hunting. Release that noble girl, Ethel Horton, from the promise of marriage which you and your coterie of damnable conspirators have forced and inveigled her into making, or, by the Eternal, your bones shall bleach in Dead Man’s Hollow! Will you do this?”
“Yes, indeed—certainly,” stammered Lord Avondale, who was shaking from head to foot in cowardly fright.
“Then go!” fairly yelled the captain, “cur that you are, and, if you value your worthless life, never let me look into your licentious face again. I will look for you to-morrow morning at sunrise, and if I find you in this part of the State, by the living God, your life or mine shall pay the penalty.”
WHEN Lord Avondale had gone, Captain Osborn turned mechanically toward his wife. She stood before him, defiant and beautiful, like a tigress at bay, without defense or chance of escape. “Lucy,” said he, in resolute and yet sorrowful tones, “my very soul revolts at you. A pretty-faced woman whose purity is questioned is like a rose broken from its stem. We cannot use the one as a decoration and dare not trust the other as a companion.”
She started to speak, but he motioned her to silence.
“Explanations,” he continued, “are unavailing. Should you attempt to explain, you would but stultify the wife that I once knew and loved, and sink yourself still deeper into the quagmires of shame and dishonor. I have not been ignorant of the fact that the wagging tongues of scandal have for months proclaimed the liaison of which you are guilty. Yes, I have been silent while brooding over your shame, and yet, Lucy, I have suffered the tortures of hell. For the sake of my son, I had hoped that you would leave the Southwest forever; and I had arranged that a letter should follow you to England, requesting you never to return to further disgrace my name. In that letter I had expected to express all that I am now saying. Your marriage vows at the holy altar have been made a football of convenience to shield your wickedness under the protection of my good name. You have brought disgrace not only upon your family, but even upon the very name of wifehood and womanhood.”
The face of Lucy Osborn was indeed a study. Her haughtiness melted away before the ringing words of the old captain. She tried in vain to regain her self-control.
“Lyman, Lyman,” she finally sobbed, clasping her jeweled hands together, “this chastisement is worse than death.” She sank to the floor in humiliation. “Oh, that I were dead,” she moaned. “Lyman, Lyman, what will become of me?”
The captain was visibly affected. A stifled sob seemed, for a moment, almost to shake his resolution.
“Lucy,” said he, “you are true to your selfish instincts even in your utter wretchedness. Self-love prompts you to inquire as to your fate rather than to consider the effect that your tarnished name will have on our little son,—to say nothing of myself. I have a question to ask. Was that letter to Doctor Redfield sent at Mrs. Horton’s request or with her knowledge?”
“No, no, she was quite ignorant of my having sent it.” Mrs. Osborn arose from the floor, where she had thrown herself in anguish. Approaching her escritoire, she unlocked a small drawer, and, in a hopeless endeavor to mend the luster of a dimmed diamond, she handed the captain four letters,—one addressed to Doctor Redfield and three addressed to Ethel Horton. The captain put them in his pocket.
“You ask,” said he, “in regard to your future. I have considered this question carefully since receiving that misdirected letter this afternoon. It is wonderful what painstaking consideration we can give some questions on a very few hours’ notice. Written evidence of the black passionflower of your choice is now in my possession. I have but one course to suggest. Your friend, the adventurer, is such a contemptible coward that I doubt not he is already on nis way to Dodge City. You can easily overtake him in New York, by leaving Meade to-morrow. You have your own private fortune, well invested in government bonds. This fortune is quite ample—it is even princely. I will forward your securities to you immediately. To-morrow morning I shall hand you ten thousand dollars, which will be quite sufficient to provide you and also your friend, the adventurer, with the necessities if not indeed the luxuries of life until you receive your quarterly interest. Lucy, I have but one request; in memory of other, sweeter and holier days, give me your promise that after to-morrow we shall never meet again. Your love for Harry, even though you have none for me, now that the blighting sense of shame has swept over your weak and foolish heart, should prompt you to see the wisdom of this.”
There was a cold, rasping ring in his voice, denoting unfaltering determination. The interview had evidently cost him great effort and much pain.
“Never, never!” she cried, with hysterical bitterness. “Oh, I loathe the very thought of that man; his name, even, has become a terrible nightmare to me. How could I have been so blind and wicked as to forget your strength and nobility! Lyman, oh, Lyman, my husband, is there no possible way to regain your pity, if not your love? Must I forever be separated from our little Harry? Yes, I shall go away from this home, if you insist, and shall never return, but for God’s sake, Lyman, believe me, here on my bended knees before you and before God, when I say that I shall never again willingly look upon the face of Lenox Avondale. Should I meet him by chance, I would not even speak to him. Believe this of me, and all else shall be as you wish.”
The captain looked into her tear-stained free, and he saw truth written thereon.
“Lucy, do not kneel to me: kneel to your God.”
“God will forgive me,” she sobbed, turning her eyes toward heaven, “but, Lyman, you will not.”
She arose and came close to him, and gazed sorrowfully up into his face.
“You do not understand me,” said the captain. “My pity you already have, although it is worth but little. Pity comes from the heart, and my heart has been made poor with long and bitter suffering.”
“But, Lyman, have you no forgiveness for the penitent? Must I go out into the world alone, believing that you will never forgive my sins? I do not ask you to compromise yourself by forgetting them; but, oh, will you not tell me that you forgive them?”
Captain Osborn sighed, as if a scalding tear had fallen down into his withered heart. His eyes rested for a moment upon her, and then he walked thoughtfully back and forth. His just resentment struggled with his innate tenderness of soul. He returned to where she was standing and said, in a low, husky voice, “Lucy, you have sinned against yourself, against me, against our baby boy, and against God; but if your contrition can gain the forgiveness of the Infinite, it certainly should gain the forgiveness of a poor, finite being like myself.” He turned away, and for a moment seemed to be struggling for mastery over himself. “Lucy,” said he, “our paths from this night must lead in opposite directions; but as I, myself, hope to be forgiven in the world to come, where mortal souls are weighed in the unerring scales of justice, so I, in my poor, weak heart forgive you.”
She sobbed aloud in fervent thanksgiving for her escape. “Oh, Lyman, Lyman, my tears are now of joy, rather than of sorrow! I feel regenerated and purified. Your mercy means more than you know.” Her countenance grew strangely fair. A halo of light seemed to envelop her. A tear trembled on the cheek of the old veteran as he said, “Good night.”
At an early hour of the following morning the muffled stroke of church bells sounded thirty-six times.
Lucy Osborn was dead. A council of physicians said that death had come to her through heart failure, caused by some great mental strain.
The clods that fell upon ner coffin sounded a plaintive requiem over the remains of an erring woman. However, they stilled the tongue of gossip. The captain may have been weak in his great forgiveness, but his was a weakness tempered with much mercy.