Buch lesen: «An Oregon Girl: A Tale of American Life in the New West», Seite 16

By this time Smith had mounted the stairs, when he was again startled to hear her cry: “Help! Oh, hasten, or blood will be shed!”

“I’m comin’, darlint. Hould him wan minnit and I’ll attind to him.” Upon entering the room, he at once seized Rutley’s hands and twisted them behind his back.

“A bit of stout cord, miss, is what we want to bind the divil.”

“Hold him!” and she flew to the linen closet.

“Hould him, is it!” exclaimed Smith, with a laugh. “Sure, miss, yees nadn’t hint that to me at all, at all. Indade, miss, it’s a nate bit ave wurruk well done, and I do be proud of yees, too, so I do.”

Virginia soon entered the room with a stout piece of cord, which she handed to Sam, saying, “Oh, I’m so thankful for your opportune arrival!”

On seeing Rutley thoroughly secured, and her excitement subsiding, Virginia expressed her gratefulness to Sam and Smith for rescuing her from what she believed to be a terrible fate, then snatching up the shawl from the floor, flew down the stairs with a cry of pain on her lips for Constance.

Having at last securely bound Rutley’s hands, Sam signalized the event with a broad grin.

“There, old chappie! I don’t think you will break away a second time.”

“Sure, ave ’e do, ’twill be after this bit of Arigin fir’s been splintered on his hid,” answered Smith.

Rutley made no reply. He seemed absorbed in thought, and though chagrin and disgust on his face betrayed a sense of his plight, no expression of bitterness escaped him. His dauntless, debonair spirit was still unbroken.

“I had her bound and shut up in the closet,” he muttered to himself. It was an involuntary exclamation in an undertone, and at the moment he seemed quite oblivious to his position.

“Yees did!” explosively exclaimed Smith. “The likes of yees, a dirty, thavin’ blackguard, to bind the young lady and shut her up in a closet! Sure, if I had seen yees do it, there’d be somethin’ doin’.” And Smith flourished his stick in a threatening manner.

“The sissy is no match for a fool-killer,” grinned Sam, as he wound the cord several additional turns around Rutley’s arms and body.

“Outclassed by a slip of a girl,” Rutley muttered abstractedly, and enslaved by her witchery; “surely hell hath no cunning to match her genius for strategems!”

“Indade, the divil’s imp is azey mark for the wit ave an Arigin girl, an’ be the token ave it, yees’l go back and jine yees mate with the bracelets,” said Smith ironically.

“Aunty is coming!” exclaimed Sam in a listening attitude. “We must get him out of the house at once!”

“March, yees blackguard, march!” promptly ordered Smith, laying his hand roughly on Rutley’s arm to urge him along.

“Hands off!” sharply exclaimed the latter, shaking Smith’s hand off and regarding him with a haughty stare; then, in a cutting high-pitched voice, he went on: “No liberties, flannel-mouthed cur – scat!”

“He is game,” muttered Sam.

The stigma uttered in tones of withering contempt fairly lashed Smith into a foaming passion. He instantly dropped his stick, tore off his coat, spat on his hands, and while squaring off to Rutley, pranced about, beside himself with rage, and when he at last found speech, he said explosively: “Flannel-mouthed cur, is it yees be callin’ me? Sure, Oi’ll attind to yees blackguard. Och, sure Oi wouldn’t strike yees wid yees hands tied, ye murtherin’ villain! Oi mane to be fair wid yees, too, so Oi do, though ye little desarve it, and be the token ave it, Oi’ll sit ye free to recave the batin’ that will make yees respect my nation!” and in the heat of his rage and quite forgetful of place and environment, furiously untied the knot Sam had made to fasten the cord which he wound several times around Rutley’s body, and then giving it a vigorous pull, sent Rutley spinning around like a top.

The thing was done so quick that Sam in his surprise was unable to check Smith, and had difficulty in restraining him from untying Rutley’s hands also.

“Hold, Smith! Have it out with him some other time, not now or here,” he said, laying his hand on Smith’s arm, and then observing Smith with an angry stare, directed at him, Sam grinned and went on mockingly:

“His lordship wants you to keep your hands off.”

“’E do, do ’e?” replied Smith, his anger abating, and breaking into a hoarse laugh; “sure, Oi would not touch yees at all, at all except wid a pair ave steel nippers.” Then he put on his coat, picked up the stick and commenced to poke Rutley toward the door, saying meanwhile, much to Rutley’s frowning mortification, but helpless resistance: “March, yees blue-blooded gintleman, with the appetite for a pinitintiary risidence. March, yees thavin’ ruffian, march!”

Scowling and turning, yet maintaining his always haughty bearing, Rutley passed “off the stage” by the back stairs, accompanied by his guards, but as Sam had declared, “game to the last.”

In order to avoid creating excitement by appearing within view of the little sorrowful group, now near the front of the house, they placed him in a vine-covered arbor, which was convenient and, leaving Smith to guard him, Sam hurried off to inform the officers of their capture.

CHAPTER XXIII

Down on the beach they found her – the woman upon whom the blow had fallen so cruelly, and from whom the “grim sickle” had so recently turned aside.

She was sitting on a low grassy knoll, gentle and pensive, a vacant stare in her sweet brown eyes as they wistfully scanned the surface of the water.

“Oh, heavens! We must get her to the house at once! Go, Sam, bring the carriage down. Haste, haste!” urged Mr. Harris.

And then John Thorpe saw her. Absorbed in deep meditation of his wrong to his innocent wife, ashamed and sorrowful, he was proceeding to the little depot, when, observing the frantic rush down the slope, and desiring to ascertain its cause, yet with an indefinable panicky feeling that seemed to freeze the very blood in his veins, he followed on. Without an instant of delay, in a moment, he had leaped to her side, tenderly clasped her to his heart, and with a voice trembling with emotion, said:

“Oh, my darling wife, my pure, sweet, injured Constance! Forgive me! It was all a terrible mistake!”

“I must go now. The storm is nearly over. I know that she is in the water, and the lilies are hiding her from me. But I shall find her. Give me the paddles. Save Dorothy.”

Constance had spoken in a soft, quiet voice. It had no touch of bitterness, no plaint of sadness; yet the yearning note of a heart dry with most intense grief was there – sounded on the chord of dethroned reason.

When she began to speak, he looked into her eyes with an eager, appealing tenderness, expecting a responsive, forgiving tear, but instead he met a gentle, strange, vacant stare. As she proceeded he held her from him at arms’ length, bewildered and confused for the moment in his interpretation of her meaning, and then the truth burst upon him. Shocked and horrified, he cried out in the anguish of his heart, “Merciful heaven, she is mad!” And then his eyes fell on her wet garments.

“God forgive me, darling! I know you never can!” he said in a voice made husky with a great sob that rose up in his throat. Without further delay, he gathered her unresisting form in his arms and tenderly bore her up to the house. The grave little procession followed.

He had arrived with his precious burden close to the great steps of the piazza, when she struggled from his arms, and stood half turned about, her wistful brown eyes looking blankly at him.

It was then that Virginia appeared on the piazza, her face deathly white and her eyes still bearing traces of the terrifying ordeal she had so recently gone through with Rutley. On seeing Constance, down the steps she flew and folding the shawl about her stricken friend’s shoulders, clasped her arms about her and said chokingly: “Oh, why have you followed me, poor suffering heart?”

“I’m so cold,” was all Constance said, and she shook as with an ague.

“Oh, this is too appalling to be true! Speak, dear! Throw off that meaningless stare, and assume intellect’s rightful light,” beseeched Thorpe, and as he paused and gazed upon her sweet pensive face, awaiting recognition, great tears welled up in his eyes and silently rolled down his cheeks. Again he spoke to her: “Constance, do you not know me?” and then he turned his head away with an indescribable sickness at heart.

“Yes! Oh, yes! I know you! You want ransom money for my Dorothy. Very well, you shall have it!” and she thrust her hand into her corsage, and took therefrom some scraps of paper, a few of them falling on the grass. “There are ten thousand” – and she handed the papers to him, in a manner so gentle yet so full of unaffected artfulness, that he took them, while his heart seemed to still its beat and sink leaden and numb with the torture of his own accusing conscience.

“You shall have more,” she continued with plaintive assurance, “all I can get.” Then her eyes fell on the scraps of paper on the grass. She picked them up and pushed them with the others into his hand. “There are more thousands. Take it all for my Dorothy – my darling! Now give me the paddles, the paddles! Where are the paddles? Hasten, save Dorothy!”

There were no dry eyes in the little gathering of friends – all friends now – who heard her, and even Sam, who had halted on his way to the officers, was forced to turn aside and wipe his eyes and remark in an unsteady voice:

“I don’t know what makes my eyes water so.”

“God help me!” exclaimed Virginia. “Henceforth my life is consecrated to watch over and care for her.”

“I am equally guilty,” solemnly continued Mr. Thorpe. “I should not have acted with such anger. This is the blackening left by jealousy’s burning passion, the essence of which will cling to my soul long after my heart becomes insensible clay.”

“It is not insanity of an incurable kind,” gravely remarked Mr. Harris. “I have closely watched her facial expression and it appears to me the trace of reason is not entirely gone. I think she is delirious, and I have read that when persons are delirious some slight token, perchance a flower, a chord of melody, a face, a name, brought forcibly to bear on the mind may recall it to moments of reason. If it is so, then her intellect will recover from the shock. We will bring this to proof, Mrs. Thorpe,” he proceeded, “look at these friends about you; do you not remember any of us?”

“I must not rest longer,” Constance said suddenly; “I thought I had her once, but the water was so deep I could not reach her.”

“We must get her into the house and into bed at once,” said Virginia, clasping her tenderly about the waist.

“Dear me! Yes, I am sure her wet garments will jeopardize her health,” said Mrs. Harris in support of Virginia.

But Constance resisted, and in doing so sat down on the bench. Hazel addressed her: “Constance, do you not know me? Do you not remember Hazel? Try to think, dear Constance, you surely cannot forget me!”

She slowly shook her head and said plaintively: “The storm is over. Make the boat go faster. We must be quick. There, she is calling – ‘Mama! Papa! Mama! Help!’ Listen, Virginia, dear, do you not hear her?” And sure, enough, the voice of Dorothy was heard, saying: “Oh, Sam! Where is mama? Tell me.”

And around from the conservatory, with a snow white aster in her hand, ran the child, followed by Sam, who, fearing the child in her rambles was likely to discover the presence of Rutley, induced her to appear on the front lawn by telling her that her mother was not far away. The child did not stop, but continued right up to her mother and clasped her arms about her neck.

“Oh, mama! Dear mama! I’m so glad you have come! Aren’t you going to kiss me?”

Receiving no immediate response, the child unclasped her arms and drew back a pace offended.

“That voice!” said Constance, startled. She drew the tips of her fingers across her forehead, very much like one clutching at the filmy shreds of a vanishing dream. “Oh, the boat rocks!”

“Mama, aren’t you going to speak to me?” and tears began to gather in the child’s eyes. Again Constance started, and her frame trembled, as her eyes rested on Dorothy. She raised her hands slowly and covered her face. Again she removed her hands and muttered: “It’s a spectre – a thing unreal which haunts me. Leave me. Pity me, oh, pity me, shade of my darling! You pain me! You make my heart ache! Go, go!”

Dorothy wept, and turning to Virginia, said: “Mama won’t kiss me, nor speak to me,” and the heartbroken child buried her head sobbing in the folds of Virginia’s dress.

Constance pressed her hand over her heart and muttered: “Oh, John, I have been faithful to you, yet you doubted me – spurned me on that dreadful night I found Dorothy! She is gone from me now – gone, gone, gone!” and she bent forward, covering her face with her hands, and sobbed bitterly.

“Thank heaven!” exclaimed Virginia, “reason’s floodgates have opened at last.”

Sam again turned away to wipe his eyes, saying, “I cannot think what makes my eyes so sore.”

And John Thorpe exclaimed, with trembling lips, “My God, have mercy! I cannot bear this!” And he, too, turned as though to walk away.

Mr. Harris held up a warning finger for him to stay.

“My poor mama!” and Dorothy again went close to her, comprehending in her childish way that her mother was sorely distressed. The sound of the child’s voice caught Constance’s attention. She lifted her head and fixed her eyes on Dorothy. Then she fell forward on her knees, stretched out her hands and murmured: “Not gone, still here!” She touched the child’s hands and uttered a low cry, continuing in quavering accents of fear, of hope, of joy:

“Solid flesh; warm, pulsating life!” and she gently clasped the child’s face between her two hands. “You cannot be a phantom! In the name of heaven, speak!”

“Indeed, mama, I am your own Dorothy. Aren’t you going to kiss me?” and the child again entwined her arms about her mother’s neck and looked into her eyes with a wistful appeal.

“Dorothy, my darling Dorothy, alive!”

It was a moment of absorbing interest. For an instant she held the child at arms’ length, with eyes devouring her lineaments. Then in a rapture of joy and thanksgiving she folded Dorothy to her heart and kissed her again and again.

“Oh, heaven, I thank thee!” were the only words she could utter, as she strained the little form tighter to her heart. And as she looked upward, and the mist cleared from her eyes, she saw John bending toward her – saw him lift his arms and outstretch them to her – saw his lips part, and heard him say, as though his heart were in his mouth, “Constance, forgive me!”

Oh, such sweet relief! Her gaze was steadfast for an instant, then arising to her feet, she fell on his breast and clasped her arms about his neck and sobbed, “John! My own dear John! I’ve had such a horrid dream!”

He folded his arms about her and pressed her very close to his breast, and as his lips tremulously touched her forehead, said with heartfelt fervor: “God grant that we may never part again. No, nevermore, my darling Constance.”

“Thank heaven, she was only delirious!” fervently exclaimed Mr. Harris.

“I guess so, eh, aunty?” and Sam, with a look of immense satisfaction, suddenly threw his arms about Virginia and gave her a tremendous hug, and to his inexpressible joy and amazement she reciprocated his caress.

“Noble Sam, my hero, you have won my heart at last!”

Her words were of tremendous meaning to Sam. His joy knew no bounds. He looked over to his aunt, amazement, intense satisfaction and admiration sparkling in his eyes. “At last, eh, aunty!” and then his lips touched Virginia’s in a kiss of undying fidelity.

CHAPTER XXIV

The exposure and wet garments, which Constance had worn during the most critical period of her delirium, had the customary effect. She had been quickly ushered into the house, the wet clothes removed, her limbs and feet chafed by tender hands, and under the influence of a stimulant, and warmly wrapped and in bed, the poor, worn, exhausted soul soon fell asleep. She awoke six hours later in a raging fever.

The doctor had anticipated that something of the kind would happen, and was in the house at the time of her awakening. In so fragile a constitution, weakened by grief and trouble, it was not strange that the fever made prodigious headway, and swiftly reached its height. The crisis arrived several hours after the attack.

She lay very still, apparently on the confines of death. The most profound stillness pervaded the room. The doctor, watch in hand, held her wrist and noted her pulse. Its beat was so feeble that only his experienced fingers could detect it at all. John Thorpe stood at the side of the bed opposite the doctor, bending over and watching her half open lips with an intensity of anxiety impossible to describe. Beside him stood Dorothy, with tears trickling down her face, for the child, though too young to comprehend its meaning, was affected by the solemnity of the scene, and by her aunt’s quiet grief.

Virginia was kneeling at the foot of the bed, her face buried in her hands, in an endeavor to stifle her sobs, while Mrs. Harris looked ruefully out of the window.

Several times the doctor moved only to place his ear close to Constance’s heart, and again he would place his hand there and press gently. Now and again he moistened her lips with a piece of ice and cooled the damp cloth on her hot brow.

At a moment when least expected, she moaned and then her chest heaved with a light breath. Quietly she opened her eyes and looked slowly around. There, before her, stood John and Dorothy. Her eyes rested on them. She recognized them and smiled faintly and said feebly, scarcely above a whisper, “Dorothy, darling, and John!”

“Safe,” announced the doctor, and his face, beaming with confidence, carried joy to the little group of anxious watchers.

CHAPTER XXV

One day, shortly after Constance had started on the road to recovery, and before she had been removed from “Rosemont” to her home, Virginia, Hazel and Sam were grouped on the piazza discussing in low tones the probable sentence of Rutley and Jack Shore. Sam held the morning paper in his hand, which he casually perused. Virginia was particularly happy and vivacious, and indeed, had she not reason in the reconciliation of John Thorpe and Constance; the rescue of Dorothy; the recovery by Constance of her reason, so threatening and dire in its flight, and the passing of that awful consuming fever that had seized upon the frail mind and body of Constance – was productive of such devout and fervent gladness that she felt at peace with the world. Even that old bitterness, so virulent and overpowering toward Corway, had gone out from her heart completely, and as she pondered on his sudden disappearance, the thought that he may have come to a violent death caused tears to spring into her beautiful eyes. It was a mute but an inexpressibly sad testimony to the final closing of love’s first dream.

At that moment Sam exclaimed, “Well, what do you think of this?” and then he looked over the paper and grinned at Hazel knowingly.

The girl stood his stare for a moment, then impatiently said, “Why don’t you read it?”

And Sam read: “The item is headed, ‘A Bottle Picked Up at Sea. As the bar tug Hercules was cruising beyond the bar, farther out than usual, last Tuesday, Captain Patterson espied a bottle bobbing about in the wash of a swell and picked it up. On being opened, it was found to contain a sealed message to a young Portland woman, with instructions for the finder please to deliver at once.

“‘The bottle had been cast overboard September 15th, from the British bark Lochlobin, two days out, bound for Sydney.’”

Expressions of wonder and speculation from the young ladies were scarcely ended when a messenger boy was seen approaching. At the foot of the piazza steps he produced two letters and, tipping his cap to the group above, enquired for Miss Hazel Brooke.

Yes – a message from the deep.

He delivered one of the letters which he held in his hand to Hazel, and then said: “The other letter is for Miss Virginia Thorpe,” which the housekeeper at Mr. Thorpe’s home, where he had first enquired for Miss Brooke, had asked him to deliver at Rosemont, too.

The boy touched his cap respectfully and left. Sam accompanied him a short distance, and slipped a gold piece into his hand. The boy thanked him, and took his departure whistling.

Meanwhile Hazel opened the letter, and her eyes raced over the contents; then she fairly danced with joy.

“Oh, such good news, Virginia!” she exclaimed, without taking her eyes from the letter. “It’s from Joe. Poor Joe! He was sandbagged or shanghaied, whatever that is, but he is well now, on a ship bound for Australia, and will be home in about three months.”

But the glad message to one fell on the unreceptive ears of the other. Virginia had also opened the letter addressed to her. She had noted the bold letters and familiar writing, glanced at the postmark, and noted its date; dated at Portland over two weeks past; but, undeterred save by a slight fluttering at her heart, she read:

“Dear Virginia: For some time past; in fact, since our hasty engagement, I have been searching the depths of my heart, to see if my love for you is genuine, and I am sorry to say that I have found the love I had rashly expressed is not deeply felt, and in spite of all my determination to think only of you, my heart would stray to another.

“Dear Virginia, I implore you to consider me a trifler, quite unworthy of the exalted love that is in your noble nature to bestow; and I beg of you to release me from our engagement, which, if insisted on being maintained, must result in a life of unhappiness for us both. Let us be to each other as brother and sister, and I shall ever bless you and pray for you.

“Joseph Corway.”

She did not tear the letter to shreds, nor stamp it under her feet. She stood with it in her hand, which slowly fell down by her side, while a look of sadness and of reminiscence stole into her eyes. And she commenced to experience, too, the greatest difficulty in restraining a dewy profuseness that would arise and cloud her sight. She had thought that her heart was steeled against any expression of tenderness for him that might assail it, but she discovered that she was still a young girl with a girl’s emotions, impossible of subjection.

An overpowering desire to be alone until she could master her emotion and clear away the mist from her eyes caused her to descend the steps. The sense of motion steadied her, and it enabled her to think and to say unconsciously, half aloud to herself, “If father had burst his cerements and arisen from his grave to tell me this, I should have refused to believe him,” and with the thought of what Constance had suffered, a moan unconsciously escaped her.

Here, then, was the key to Virginia’s transformation. This delayed letter – cruel, it was true – was addressed to her at the farm three days before her sudden return home, and had as slowly followed her, for rural postal facilities were at that time dependent on the farmer going to town for his mail.

Hazel heard the moan, and looked up from the note which she had read and re-read, and kissed time and again. She saw Virginia in apparent pain, and at once flew down the steps, crying, “Oh, Virginia, dear! What has caused you so much grief?” and she sought to caress her.

But Virginia, with an effort subduing her emotions, drew away, answering, “Nothing, dear, nothing; it’s all past, all gone now!”

Sam came up just then. He cast a swift glance at her distressed face, and then to the letter which she held in her hand, and surmised that it had to do with her trouble. His first thought was, “Damn that messenger boy!” He, however, made no attempt to break in on her mood.

Virginia returned his look almost defiantly at first, as though his questioning glance was rude, but the little cloud quickly vanished, when Hazel said, “Something serious, dear? Won’t you let me share your trouble?”

“Oh, no! It’s all past, all gone,” she answered firmly. “I’m quite strong now, and to prove it, we will have a little bonfire. Sam, have you a light?”

Quietly Sam produced a match-box from his pocket, took a match, lighted it and handed it over.

Virginia applied the fire to the letter. As it burned down to the last bit, which she dropped from her hand, and disappeared in smoke, she looked up and as her eyes fell on the transcendently beautiful autumn vista, and then rested on Sam’s strong and at that moment deeply apprehensive face, there gradually came into them a steadfast look of admiration and loyalty.

Sam caught the wondrous expression. He stepped forward, his arms opened, and she fell on his shoulder, her arms about his neck.

“Will it ever return, darling?” he said soothingly.

“Never again, Sam,” and as she turned her face up to him their lips met in a seal of absolute trust and affection.