An Oregon Girl: A Tale of American Life in the New West

“Sure, I showed him the Garibaldi you gave me this marnin. ‘Where did yees foind that?’ says he, careless like.

“‘I didn’t foind it at all,’ says I; ‘my frint found it.’

“‘Where at?’ says he.

“‘In the City Park,’ says I. ‘Some fellow lost it last night.’

“‘Sure?’ says he, an’ he looked at me hard.

“‘Sure!’ says I. ‘Phwat wud I be lyin’ to yees fer?’

“‘An’ phwat was the owner doin’ out in the City Park last night?’ says he.

“‘Divil a bit do I know,’ says I.

“‘D’yees know him?’ says he.

“‘Faith, an’ I do not; d’yees?’ says I.

“‘Indade I do,’ says he.

“‘Yees do?’ says I.

“‘I do,’ says he, ‘fer a black-browed, black-moustached, divil-skinned dago.’

“‘Where may be his risidence?’ says I, not wan bit anxious, but with me best efforts to kape me heart from jumpin’ up in me mout’.

“‘He lives in a scow cabin up beyant there, at Ross Island,’ says he.

“‘He do, do he?’ says I.

“‘He do!’ says he. ‘Sure, ave I not talked wit him over that same bit ave bronze but yisterday?’”

“‘Will yees show me the scow cabin?’ says I.

“‘Indade I’ll do that same,’ says he, ‘and wan thing more,’ says he.

“Hist!” and Smith spoke very low and cautiously. “He heard a child cry – or maybe it was a cat. Kelly didn’t know which, not bein’ interested.”

The two stared at each other for a moment in silence, then Sam said: “How long has your friend Kelly known him?”

“I don’t knaw – sure, I didn’t ax him, but I thought it was impartant to tell yees at once. Kelly is waitin’ down be the shipyard. Will yees come?”

“I’ll meet both of you there in an hour. Sh! Aunty is coming. Mum is the word, Smith!”

“Sure, the ould divil himself cudn’t make me tell it to yees aunt.” As he was leaving, Smith said in a whisper, “We’ll wait for yees.”

“I’ll be along soon,” replied Sam, and he muttered thoughtfully, “May be something in it.”

CHAPTER XI

Suddenly Sam became all attention, for he heard the voice of Mrs. Harris, who then reappeared with an open book in her hand.

“The work is entitled ‘Chesterfieldian Deportment,’ by Garrilus Gibbs, Ph.D. D. D., Now, Sam, I desire your strict attention to this paragraph,” and she read from the book.

“‘Nothing so militates against the first impression of a gentleman as ingratitude for a special service rendered; for example’” – and she looked at Sam very significantly, as she lowered the book, “His Grace was so solicitous about your hurt that, regardless of convenience and also of prior appointments, he hastened to make a personal call, rather than use the ’phone.”

“Particularly so,” Sam added, provoked to grin, “when a right pretty and wealthy maid is in the corral. Eh, aunty?”

“That is my lord’s prerogative, but I shall permit of no digression,” she severely remarked. “To continue – ‘nothing to mind so convincingly proclaims the ignorance of an ill-bred commoner than vulgar liberty in the presence of a peer of England’s realm!’ You follow me?”

“I guess I do, aunty,” Sam replied, with his characteristic side movement of the head, and then, as he stood in an expectant attitude, carelessly fingered, with both hands, his watch chain.

“Sam, stop fidgeting with your watch chain. It is characteristic of a nervous gawk. The very reverse of good form and quite unbecoming a well-bred, polite gentleman.”

“All right, aunty, fire away.” And Sam’s eyes twinkled mischievously, as his hands fell by his side.

“In order that the house of Harris shall not be defamed through an act of discourtesy to one of its guests, I insist, first of all, that you give me an example of your expression of gratitude to his Lordship for his great humanitarian act and kindness to you in your hour of insensibility.”

“Ea – ah! Eh!” ejaculated Sam in laughing surprise, but much as he disliked to comply, he felt there was no use trying to dodge the issue.

His aunt was determined and experience had taught him that in order to retain the indulgence of the “best and fondest aunt on earth,” a discreet concurrence in her whims was imperative. So with an agreeable smile, he added, “All right, aunty, here goes.”

“For the purpose of approach, you may address me as ‘my lord,’” interjected Mrs. Harris.

“Ha! That’s easier, aunty,” and a smile of satisfaction spread over his face.

“Proceed!” exclaimed his aunt, sententiously.

“I beg to express to your lordship” —

“Sam!” said Mrs. Harris, interrupting him, “you have omitted the very pith and essence of initiatory greeting.”

“Ea – ha! How?” exclaimed Sam, surprised.

“By neglecting to make obeisance.”

“To you, aunty?”

“To me. Now, Sam, beware of shyness. Bow naturally and with unaffected ease.”

“All ready?” inquired Sam.

“Proceed!”

With that he bowed – bowed with a charm of grace that brought a look of pleased surprise from Mrs. Harris. It was evident she was already mollified.

“I beg your lordship will permit me the honor personally to express my appreciation, and to tender to you my heartfelt thanks for your kind services to me last night.”

The smile of unaffected pleasure that brightened his face, at the knowledge that his aunt was pleased, assisted him wonderfully through the ordeal, for such he considered it.

“My compliments, Sam!” exclaimed Mrs. Harris, who appeared immensely pleased.

“Aw – deuced well delivered, don’t che know!”

They turned and beheld Rutley and Hazel standing in the doorway.

Sam’s chagrin was very great, and conscious of his inability to conceal his disgusted facial expression, turned aside and muttered, “Wouldn’t that fizz you?”

Mrs. Harris was evidently much gratified, for she pointedly remarked, “Your lordship must now concede that our boy was not intentionally rude.”

As for Sam, his vexation was great, and though he discreetly kept silence, the hot blood reddened his face perceptibly. He had unwittingly humbled himself to a man, who, he felt instinctively, was his enemy.

Just what brought Rutley and Hazel to the doorway in time to hear Sam’s expression of thanks was never explained. But it may be presumed he had some announcement to make which the unexpected apology from Sam had made unnecessary.

Its effect on Rutley was instantaneous, for his frigidity melted as snow beneath a summer sun. The monocle came down from his eye and a gracious, condescending smile overspread his face.

“I am very sorry the accident happened, and I beg you to believe I have been deeply concerned about your hurt.”

“We are sure your lordship has suffered great mental anguish over the unfortunate affair,” responded Mrs. Harris, relieved by Rutley’s condescension.

“Late yesterday evening,” he went on, “I received information that a child resembling Dorothy, and accompanied by a lady whose face was veiled, were seen entering a certain residence out near the park,” explained Rutley, continuing. “I beg you to understand that I entertain a deep interest in the fate of the child, and since the river has not yielded up its secret, and the voice of scandal is rife in innuendoes, I immediately set out to investigate.

“Unsuccessful, I had passed along the road and was returning, no doubt at higher speed than justified by the darkness of the night. Absorbed in meditation, I must have temporarily been negligent of proper vigilance, when to my horror, the form of a man suddenly loomed up a few paces directly ahead.”

“Dear me, how unfortunate!” exclaimed Mrs. Harris, shivering.

“Impossible to stop the swift moving machine, in the short space that separated us, I swerved to the right.

“At that moment the man must have discovered me, for he, too, sprang to the right. The impact was inevitable. I hastened to the unfortunate one’s assistance, and you may appreciate my amazement when I recognized my friend, your own relative. Of course, I conveyed him home at once.”

“How very good of you,” said Hazel, with admiring eyes.

“We shall never be able sufficiently to thank your lordship,” added Mrs. Harris, “and we hope that our dear boy will not expose himself to so great a danger again.”

As to what Sam thought of the explanation, he kept silent; nevertheless he turned half around and would have whistled significantly had he not at that moment checked himself, for fear of again embarrassing his aunt.

It was at this moment Virginia entered the room, insistently ushered in by Mr. Harris, who, profuse in politeness, said:

“Please do me the honor to be seated, for I know you must be fatigued.”

But Virginia, on discovering Rutley, seemed to be suddenly overcome with a timidity quite foreign to her usual self-possession, and shrank away as if to leave the room. Observing her evident embarrassment and, of course, ignorant of the true cause, Mr. Harris concluded she had conceived him as declining her request, and he at once, in a confidential whisper, attempted to reassure her.

“I can accommodate you with a check for five thousand today, and more in a week.”

“Oh, I – I thank you very much,” she replied, and though her nervousness was apparent, she managed to control herself. Mr. Harris gently led her to a seat, remarking in a whisper, “I’ll write the check for you at once.”

She turned upon him very grateful eyes, but almost instantly a shadow crept across her face as she said, “The security I have to offer – ”

Mr. Harris looked pained, and lifting his hand, he interrupted her with, “Don’t, please don’t let the security trouble you.”

Again Virginia’s eyes unconsciously fastened upon Rutley, who at the same time was regarding her with a keen inquiring gaze. It was the first time they had met since the night of Thorpe’s quarrel with Corway, and although Virginia had resolved to cast off all fear of his threat of incriminating disclosures, she nevertheless, while in his presence, felt a subtle influence change her rebellious disposition into a timorous apprehension. The sensation was so strange, so creepy, and at the same time so convincing, that she arose from the seat and muttered in broken accents, “I – I’ll await you outside, Mr. Harris. The air in this room is – is so close.”

She had turned half around toward the door, when Mrs. Harris addressed her.

“Virginia, dear! Don’t go! Most interesting. My lord has just related how last night he accidentally knocked Sam down near the City Park.”

Virginia unconsciously repeated, “Last night, he accidentally knocked Sam down, near the City Park.”

The information was so startling and her curiosity so keen that she stared at Rutley and Sam alternately, while they in turn stared at each other and at her most significantly.

Mrs. Harris observed the wonderment her information had created, but without troubling her easy brains to penetrate the meaning, added, after due pause, “Yes, dear – a bandaged head, as you see, was the result.”

“It was very dark, near midnight, and his lordship was driving an automobile fast.”

Heedless of Mrs. Harris’ further remarks and so absorbed in an effort to solve the puzzle that Virginia thought:

“What business had he out there at that time of night? Did he know I was there? And Sam there, too! It must have been he who followed me,” – and she shot such a swift meaning glance at him that had he caught it the effect must have been disconcerting.

“Queer, how late at night young men carry on their larks nowadays,” broke in Mr. Harris with fine humor.

Mrs. Harris was quick to correct him. “Dear me! James, it was on urgent business, no less than a search for Dorothy, but unfortunately unsuccessful.”

“I myself am also inclined to the belief Dorothy was stolen. No doubt a demand will soon be made for her ransom,” said Mr. Harris.

“Such a notion seems to me as far-fetched, as it is unlikely, for I do not believe the family has an enemy in the world,” promptly rejoined Mrs. Harris.

“Vague insinuations of kidnapping find credence through the estrangement of the parents being given publicity,” suggested Rutley, in a soft, serious, yet bland manner, which brought from Hazel an explosive reply, “I am sure Constance had no knowledge of it.”

“Impossible for Constance to plot at an abduction of her own child, and as for John Thorpe, his grief is too great to permit the faintest suspicion to rest on him,” suavely admonished Mrs. Harris warmly.

“John!” gasped Virginia. She was the first to see Thorpe standing in the vestibule, the doors of which had been left open. John Thorpe had entered so quietly that none in the room saw him approach, and their conversation at the moment was so concentrated upon the mystery of Dorothy’s disappearance that none of them heard his weary footfalls draw near. He was careworn and haggard.

If John Thorpe felt any emotion on seeing Virginia and hearing her startled voice, he gave no sign. Unmoved, he coldly let his aching eyes rest on her, and then he lifted them to Mr. Harris. In that brief space of time, Rutley saw in Virginia’s abashed eagerness to address her brother, a shadow of peril threaten him. The situation called for immediate action. He had previously noted his magnetic power over her and at once brought into requisition the wonderful “nerve” distinctly his heritage, and which had so often befriended him in moments of danger. Under cover of the fresh interest manifested in Mr. Thorpe’s appearance, he coolly, quietly, and without the least hesitation, quickly placed himself beside her, and whispered in her ear: “Beware!”

His tone was so menacing, though concealed by an unctious personality, that Virginia shrank from him, yet with the low, rebellious exclamation: “Scoundrel!”

Nevertheless, she timidly deemed it discreet to arrange a meeting with John alone.

Mr. Harris silently grasped Mr. Thorpe by the hand. They had been close friends, socially and in business affairs for many years, and the hopeless, haggard, careless appearance of his long time friend touched Mr. Harris deeply.

“Poor fellow,” he said, sympathetically. “You look all in.”

“Sleepless nights and wearisome days have doubtless produced results,” languidly replied Mr. Thorpe. “Mr. Harris, I have come to beg your hospitality for an hour’s rest.”

“Welcome to ‘Rosemont,’ thrice welcome, my dear friend. I shall have a quiet room prepared at once. Make yourself comfortable for a few moments until I return,” and the energetic Mr. Harris immediately set out on his mission.

“Dear me!” commented Mrs. Harris, “If we could but unravel the mystery of Dorothy’s disappearance, what a relief it would be. Do you think it possible the child was abducted, Mr. Thorpe?”

“Would to God I could believe it true,” he gravely replied.

“I am loath to believe that the mother was aware of it,” interposed Rutley, in his soft, lazy, drawling voice, “but” —

Surprised, Mrs. Harris promptly interrupted him with: “Dear me, have you heard that Constance had intrigued for her child’s disappearance?”

Rutley fixed his gaze on Virginia, then transferred it to John Thorpe as he falteringly replied to Mrs. Harris’ question: “Circumstances of a – a suspicious character tend to – a – implicate her.”

A dead silence followed. So silent, that Sam suddenly cast an alarmed look at Virginia, as though he feared she had heard him hiss – “The contemptible sissy!” – and was surprised that no response met his silent thought, either by look or word.

Virginia was speechless. Yet she was bursting to tell them Dorothy was alive, but in captivity. She remembered the terrible threat made by the Italian in the park. It burned into her brain and made her tremble with anxiety lest the secret should get out and the child’s life jeopardized thereby.

But, how to deny the vile lie that Constance was a party to the kidnapping? It was a question that baffled completely all the ingenuity that had aided her in other situations.

While she was racking her brains for some guiding thought, to silence slanderous tongues, she heard John Thorpe very gravely say: “My lord must be mistaken.”

It was such sweet relief to know that he did not believe Constance was guilty of the crime that Virginia unconsciously exclaimed: “Thank Heaven!”

After John Thorpe had expressed his disbelief in his wife’s guilt, he slowly turned on his heel, intending to leave the room, for the conversation was painful to him and the company too closely associated with his unhappiness, for the quiet rest he so much needed. He had scarcely turned toward the door when he was halted by Mr. Harris, who had just entered from the hall, and announced a restful room in readiness for his immediate use.

To his surprise, John Thorpe turned and wearisomely said: “I thank you, Mr. Harris, but an important matter that I have neglected has just come to my mind. I beg to apologize for the needless trouble I have caused you.” And he turned slowly and went toward the door.

Virginia perceived that unless immediate steps were taken, her opportunity to arrange a meeting with John would be lost. It was, therefore, with a startled cry of disappointment that she addressed him: “John! I have something” – she hesitated.

Thorpe halted on the threshold and half turned around. Aghast, Virginia arose from her seat, when Rutley drawled out in his most suave accents:

“Miss Thorpe is manifestly fatigued from over-exertion,” and instantly taking her by the arm, led her reluctantly, and in timidity, to a seat on a divan, the end of which he wheeled forward, ostensibly to give her a better view of the lawn, then inundated with sunshine, but in reality to avert her eyes from the face of her brother.

John Thorpe gazed inquiringly for a second and then, with head bent, slowly and gravely left the house.

Mr. Harris started to accompany Thorpe, to press him to rest awhile, but on recalling his obligation to Virginia, checked himself and turned into the library.

Sam’s indignation at the vile, unkind thrust made on the character of a bereaved woman, spoke eloquently in his blazing eyes, nevertheless out of regard for his aunt’s wishes he closed his teeth tightly in silence, but on seeing the pseudo lord’s insistent familiarity with Virginia, and noting her strange hesitant submission as he rather more than familiarly escorted her to the divan, Sam’s rage burst through his discretion and his manly, straight-forwardness asserted itself, in utter disregard of his aunt’s warnings.

Rutley had evidently thrown out the base insinuation as a feeler, but the manner in which Sam met it – met it squarely in the “Wild West way,” quickly disabused his mind of any idea he may have had that Constance was friendless.

“Sir!” Sam said; “I know but one little word that fitly characterizes your insinuation concerning Mrs. Thorpe,” and unwilling to resist the natural gravity of his feet toward Rutley, sidled up close to him, and, with a quiver of contempt in his voice, finished: “And down in Texas they taught me to brand it ‘a damned lie’!”

Sam was rewarded in a manner he little anticipated, and by the woman who had heretofore despised him, for with eyes that sparkled with admiration and lips that parted in a smile of glad surprise, she involuntarily murmured: “Splendid, Sam!” His silly, boyish side had vanished, and in its place his true, strong, sterling character stood revealed. In that one moment he knew that he had won from her a tribute of esteem, but he did not at that time realize that it was a long step toward the consummation of his devout desire – to win her heart.

If an electric bolt had at that moment descended from the clear, ethereal blue, and wrecked the house, Mrs. Harris’ consternation could not have been greater.

“Oh!” she faintly gasped. “Dear me! Oh, Sam, how could you!” and then she staggered almost to collapse in his arms.

For a moment Rutley was astounded, then drawing himself up in a pose of statuesque haughtiness, again most studiously adjusted his monocle to his eye and directed at alert Sam a stony stare of ineffable disdain. Then he languidly drawled, without a muscle of his white, bloodless face moving:

“Aw, it’s deuced draughty, don’t-che know!”

A few minutes later Mr. Harris beckoned Virginia into the library. After delivering her the check he had promised, they together went out in search for John Thorpe, but he had disappeared.

Had they looked more closely and further up the hillside, they might have seen a haggard man sitting in the shadow of a fir, apparently weary of the world, and pondering on the vicissitudes of life.

CHAPTER XII

In the meantime Virginia had been doing her utmost, in a quiet way, to obtain the necessary amount of Dorothy’s ransom.

Conscious of an imperative demand likely to be made upon her at any moment, she had partially prepared for it by secretly borrowing some five thousand dollars upon her jewelry and income, and she had obtained five thousand more from Mr. Harris, who was eager to favor her, because of the obligations it would place her under to his family, particularly Sam.

It was useless to approach Hazel for assistance, as John Thorpe was administrator of her estate. However, she was in a fair way to get more on a trust deed for some real estate that was in her name – when the summons came, peremptory and threatening.

She pondered over the situation long and profoundly, and having at length thoroughly made up her mind on a line of procedure, she prepared for the meeting.

Of delicate mould, carefully educated, and accustomed to vivacious and accomplished companions, Virginia was little intended for the desperate enterprise she had determined to undertake, in the dead hour of the coming night. More than once she shuddered at the thought, but that vision of Constance in the shadow of the “grim sickle,” nerved her on to the rescue, and it also afforded her a sense of relief from the distress her mind endured. Overwhelmed at the magnitude of the misfortune so suddenly overtaken Constance, she hesitated not for an instant to risk her life in its undoing.

Personality, social position, beauty, youth, refinement – all were cast aside, unconsidered and unthought of in the execution of the one perilous act that confronted her.

The intention to rescue Dorothy may be construed under the conditions surrounding her as commendable, but in one so young and fair, it would appear hair-brained, impracticable and, worst of all, dangerously indiscreet. Virginia had not been in any manner contributory to the disappearance of Dorothy, and yet be it remembered, only a heroine pure and simple would dare brave the act. Moreover, she had permitted Constance to accompany her, thus immensely increasing her hazard and responsibility.

That afternoon, thinking to cheer the mother, who was plunged in silent grief, Virginia had intimated a suspicion that Dorothy was a captive. Instantly an unnatural calm possessed Constance, and changed her sweet and tractable nature into a determined and obstinate resolution to accompany Virginia. It was useless for the girl to plead additional peril. No excuse, no matter how artfully conceived or ingeniously framed, could turn Constance from her purpose, to share in the danger. And what danger would not the mother brave to rescue her darling?

So insistent, yet so strangely calm, as to cause a fear that the fevered excitement that burned so fiercely beneath the forced tranquility, would in a measure break out and jeopardize all – that Virginia only at last reluctantly consented. But not before she had exacted a promise from Constance to maintain the strictest silence.

On their arrival at the foot of Ellsworth street, they made their way cautiously along to a little cove above Bundy’s boathouse, where they discovered a small skiff with oars in row-locks. Virginia had been informed that a boat would be provided for her at a certain spot, and therefore did not hesitate to avail herself of its use. Whether anybody was watching her mattered little in her suppressed, excited state of mind. Quietly she slipped the line and was in the act of drawing the skiff in position for Constance to get in, when from afar, across the water, seemingly from the depth of the island woods, the cry of a crow penetrated the silent air.

They stood still and listened – listened intently – with a vague, terrified notion that it was meant as a signal of danger.

Again she heard the cry, as distinct as before. Constance gripped Virginia’s arm for support.

“What does it portend?” Virginia asked herself. “Why should it come from the woods if it was a signal of her starting to cross the water. It may have been an answer to a flash from some one concealed nearby.” She looked above, about, but the same darkness, the same quietness prevailed. Not a leaf stirred to disturb the deep repose of night. Afar off, down the river, a steamer whistled for the steel bridge draw.