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

“All a mistake?” he angrily repeated. “You concealed nothing from me! When her notoriety was of such common gossip that strangers were familiar with details!”

“If you had not degraded Constance by so meanly believing the palpable artifice of a – a stranger,” quietly and gravely replied Virginia – “if you had but given her an opportunity to defend herself, you would have found no cause for divorce; no cause even to fear the tainted breath of scandal could ever attach to Constance. Oh, John, it is all wrong! Constance is innocent! She has never been untrue to you!”

Excitedly he turned to her, his face ablaze with the fervor of his amazement, as he repeated:

“Innocent – Constance! Constance innocent!”

“Yes,” promptly responded Virginia. “I who know it, swear it is true – swear it is the truth in the sight of that high throne before which we shall all stand in the Judgment Day.

“It was I who originated the dreadful insinuations against Mr. Corway.”

“Yes, yes! That may be true – but – ” and Thorpe’s manner again relapsed to a heart-aching resignation, as he sadly added: “He wore my wife’s ring!”

“Yes, that is true, John, but unknown to her and most assuredly without her consent,” eagerly asserted Virginia, and she related the manner Corway obtained the ring, and how she subsequently had indiscreetly informed Beauchamp it was “your gift to Constance.”

Those of poor wayward humanity who, in moments of great passion have done a great wrong, know what torture is silently endured as day and night, in moments awake and in dreams asleep, the crime haunts them, and knocks, knocks, knocks, without ceasing, upon the soul’s door for release of the secret.

Such were Virginia’s feelings, and the sweet happiness experienced when she confessed her sin shone in her face with convincing truthfulness.

John listened to her with ever increasing amazement, and when she had concluded, his cold, austere demeanor had perceptibly softened. Yet Thorpe breathed hard.

“You vilified Corway’s character and I have heard recently of his – of her mad infatuation for him and of his frequent visits to our home while I was away in China.”

“The source of your information was a lie. You received it gratuitously from Beauchamp, did you not?”

“I have not mentioned the source of my information. Why do you think he was my informant?”

“Because he hated Corway.”

“And you conspired with him to ruin my home,” quickly interrupted Thorpe, and again coldly turned from her.

“You shall hear me!” and Virginia insistently gripped his coat sleeve and turned him toward her. “I have sought you too long to explain this unhappy affair, and now that I have found you, you must hear me out.”

Smothering his impatience, Thorpe said: “Well!”

“I loved Corway, oh, so fondly! – but, alas, too well, and I allowed myself to cherish the belief that in his endearing manifestations he reciprocated my love. But on my premature return from the farm, I unexpectedly heard him declare his passion for Hazel. Then an all absorbing desire for revenge possessed me.

“I resolved to break their engagement and first endeavor to estrange him – from your friendship. To accomplish that end I traduced his character and created a suspicion that his attention to Hazel was insincere and mercenary, expecting that after Corway was denied access to your home, I could smooth over the unpleasantness between you and Hazel and eventually annul his betrothal to her. But your informant juggled the names, made Constance the subject of Corway’s affection instead of Hazel, and led you to believe the ring was a love token from her to him.”

“He insisted and repeated that Constance was the guilty one and not Hazel,” dubiously commented Thorpe.

“I understand now, it was out of revenge,” she laconically replied.

“Revenge! What wrong have I done Lord Beauchamp?” questioned Thorpe, amazed at Virginia’s disclosures.

“You will understand when I disclose, as I have recently learned that he is Philip Rutley, masquerading as Lord Beauchamp.”

“God of our fathers!” exclaimed Thorpe, clapping his hand to his white forehead, to still the pain of sudden doubt of his wife’s inconstancy, that had seized him.

“What punishment is this inflicted on me?”

Then turning to Virginia with fierce light in his eyes, he sprang at her. In one bound he clutched her by the wrist, glared in her eyes, and said:

“And you, my only sister, have known all this and permitted him to wreak his vengeance upon my innocent wife, who never bore him malice, or did him wrong by thought, word or deed.”

“I did not think that harm would fall on Constance.” Yet even before she had finished speaking, a change came over Thorpe, and his grip on her wrist loosened. A victim of doubt and suspicion, his moods were as changing and variable as the coloring of a chameleon. Apparently he was not yet satisfied of the complete innocence of his wife or of the truthfulness of his sister, for he said, in a voice saddened by reflection: “That does not explain your connection with the abduction of Dorothy.”

“I have them with me,” she muttered, appreciating the importance of clearing herself. “Yes, they are here,” and she hastily produced from her corsage an envelope having had the foresight to preserve them as most precious testimony in case of need.

The moment had come and found her prepared. Handing him the two notes, with a winsome expression of thankfulness, she said:

“Read them, John, this one first, and you will know why I was in the cabin.”

She had handed to him the two notes received from George Golda, though in reality they had been penned by his colleague, Rutley. The first note asked for a meeting in the City park. The second demanded the amount of ransom that night on penalty of removal of Dorothy.

“The time was urgent in the extreme,” she continued. “Unable to secure the amount of ransom demanded, I resolved to go alone to the cabin, determined to rescue Dorothy.”

“You entered then.”

“But you were not alone; Constance was with you,” he corrected.

“When I told her my purpose, she pleaded so hard. Oh, so hard to go with me, that I could not deny her. I have told you all.”

John Thorpe was not the only listener to Virginia’s pleading. Intensely interested, neither of them noticed Sam Harris approach, and with him the little Scotch terrier, which had completely recovered from its painful experience on the launch at Ross Island. When he first caught sight of them confronting each other, he gave a low whistle of surprise, and then, as he drew near to address them, involuntarily he heard her last words. His eyelids twitched with pleasure as he listened to the idol of his heart vindicate Constance. Smothering a cry of joy, he turned and at once withdrew, muttering to himself: “Lord, how light my heart feels! Virginia is doing the right thing now, I guess. Come, Doctor” – the name he had given to the dog – “we’ll leave them for awhile, eh?” And the brown eyes of the grateful canine looked up at him with almost human intelligence and affection.

John Thorpe’s demeanor had undergone a great change in the few minutes he had listened to Virginia. His frigid haughtiness had softened, through successive stages, to a gentleness bordering on compassion.

“I will take care of these,” said he, in a voice of tenderness, as he placed the notes in his pocket. “But, oh, God in Heaven! What shall I say to my beloved wife?”

“You believe me, John?” Virginia cried, in a tone of heartfelt thankfulness – her eager gaze fastened on his face. Her pleading touched him deeply. He took her in his arms, gently kissed her fair brow, and in a broken voice, said:

“Virginia, we are only human, with human failings; but in your honor and truthfulness of this dreadful affair, God bear witness to my faith!”

A devout joy flushed the pallor of her beautiful face, as she responded with a thankful heart, purified as gold with fire: “My prayers are answered, and my brother is himself again.”

“Yes, Virginia,” he continued, with the fervor of family pride, as he thought of the part she had taken in Dorothy’s rescue – “And in that book which shall be opened in the last great day, there will be pointed out by the Recording Angel – my sister’s atonement.” Then, without releasing her, he went on in an altered, anxious voice: “And my darling wife! Where is Constance? Tell me, Virginia, that I may go to her at once and plead her forgiveness.”

“What shall I say?” she whispered, awestruck, caught in a moment of forgetfulness of the woman who suffered for it all. “I must not tell him where she is. No, no, no! Not yet!” and she battled to subdue her agitation that she might invent some plea to postpone the meeting with his wife. “Not now; not now, John,” and drawing away from him, unconsciously put out her hand as though to ward off some impending evil.

“Why not?” he asked in surprised tones. “I must see her. I must know where my darling wife is at once!”

A flash of pain shot athwart the girl’s features as she muttered under her breath: “Oh, dear! What shall I tell him, what shall I say? What shall I do now?”

Thorpe hastily stepped forward to her assistance, and with concern in his voice, said: “Virginia, you are ill!”

“Let me rest for a moment or two” – trying her utmost to appear unperturbed, and as she sank on a bench, continued brokenly: “I shall be all right presently. The long walk – the terrible strain” —

“My dear sister, you need assistance,” interrupted Thorpe. “You must let me help you to the house and obtain proper care for you,” and he tenderly attempted to lift her to her feet.

“No, no, no!” she quickly responded; “I – shall be better in a few moments. Just a little – quiet rest, John, and alone, please. I shall soon be well again.”

“As you desire, Virginia; but I shall tell Mrs. Harris.”

“No, no, John! Don’t tell her! I wish to be alone for awhile.”

“Very well, dear; as I have a message for Mr. Harris, shall seek him at the house; but I will return in a few moments,” and then, considerate for her wish to be alone, he left her.

Helpless to resist the impetus of her consuming desire to reunite John and his wife, Constance, she yet dreaded the aftermath of the shock his discovery must surely produce. Virginia knew not which way to turn or what course to pursue.

“Oh, Auntie! Auntie! I’m so glad you’ve come. Mamma is coming to see me, too. Isn’t she?” and Dorothy, having caught sight of Virginia, ran to her, and then, not to be denied, in her childish way climbed up on the bench beside her and affectionately clasped her little arms about her neck.

“Papa doesn’t like her,” she proceeded, in a low, serious, confidential manner, “and wants me not to like her, too. But I shall like her. I shall always love-dear mamma-as-long-as-I-live!” The last few words were uttered in a quivering voice, but with a decision that appeared marvelous in one so young.

Folding her arms about the child, Virginia fondly looked into her eyes. “God bless you, sweet, winsome soul!” And then they kissed.

“Aunty, won’t you take me to mamma?” pleaded the child. A ray of light had at last unexpectedly illumined a path for Virginia to pursue. Suddenly releasing the child, she arose to her feet and said, with animation: “Some good may come of it. I will seek Mrs. Harris and have her detain John while I bring Constance – and Dorothy together – before he meets her. Yes, darling,” she said, taking Dorothy’s hand; “you shall see your mother.”

CHAPTER XX

On a low point of land formed by a bend in the Willamette, a couple of boys were playing at what is termed “skipping.” The exercise consisted in throwing a stone so as to make it skim along the surface of the water in a series of long skips, the greater number of skips attesting the skill of the thrower. The surface of the river was very smooth and placid, which was a factor in tempting the boys to the exercise. They had been at it for some time and, boy-like, in their enthusiasm, had overdone it, and consequently were beginning to fag, when one of them suddenly spied an exceptionally smooth, round flat stone, suitable for the purpose, and stooped to pick it up. The other boy, a short distance behind him, seeing his opportunity, cried out in a frolicksome spirit:

“Hi! Gene! Hold, there.” And he immediately ran and, placing his two hands on the stooping boy’s back, lightly leaped over him, straddle fashion, and then himself took a stooping position further on, subject to a like performance.

At once the sport known as “leap-frog” was entered into with zest by the boys. It carried them some distance along the river shore, and they were so engrossed with the new exercise, which sustained in their case, at all events, the old adage that, “A change of occupation is a good recreation,” as to be entirely oblivious of approaching a solitary woman dressed in sober gray, sitting on a stump of driftwood near the water’s edge and gazing vacantly on the river.

One of the boys, named Gene, big-limbed, loose-jointed and clumsy, in doing his turn, and while astraddle the “frog,” lost his balance and tumbled sideways, dragging the under boy over with him. The smaller boy, named Spike, got to his feet first, and with a fire in his eye, angrily said: “Youse do it again and I’ll smash you one.”

“I couldn’t help it. It was your fault, anyway, Why didn’t you hold steady,” replied Gene.

“You big lubber; youse done it on purpose.” said Spike, rubbing his shin. “I’m not going to play any more,” and as he turned away, muttered to himself: “I’ve a notion to soak him one.”

“Oh, look!” cried Gene. “A woman’s agoing in swimming with her clothes on!” The boys at once forgot their differences, drew close together and watched her with much curiosity.

“Say, but the water is cold. I was in yesterday and couldn’t stay a minute,” said Gene. “Gee, but I got my clothes on quick! I was near froze.”

“She’s skeart already; see how she’s looking about – must-a lost somethin’.”

“Let’s ask her,” said Gene.

“Youse shut up, won’t you.”

“She’s saying something. Hear?”

“Sounds like ‘Dorothy,’” said Spike. “Look at her dig them hands in the water.”

“Say, she’s crazy, sure!” whispered Gene.

At which they drew back awe-struck, yet fascinated by the grotesque buffoonery inseparable from the insane.

“Somebody’d better go and phone the cops,” whispered Spike, excitedly. “She’ll get drowned, and then we’ll get in a bar’l of trubble.”

“I’ll go,” said Gene, half frightened, and glad of an excuse to get away from the uncanny spectacle. “Who’s got a phone near here?” he asked.

“Up at the big house, yonder. Harris’. They’s got one, but youse don’t want to leave me here alone with that crazy woman. She’s coming ashore. Kin youse hear what she’s saying?” They listened intently.

“I’m sure I saw her,” she said in tones strangely pitiful. “Her golden hair floated on the surface like a silken mesh – then sank down, down – ah, there it is again.” And she outstretched her hand and tried to grasp something.

“Gone again! Oh! I wish someone would help me get her. I am so tired and the river is so deep and cold,” and as she stepped out from the water onto the shingle, her frame shivered as with a chill. She sat on the stump of driftwood, fatigued by exertion.

“Let’s go and talk to her,” whispered Gene.

“Youse better not. Youse can’t tell what them crazy people will do sometimes. They ack queer mighty sudden.”

“Say! She wouldn’t hurt anything. Ain’t she nice looking! I’ll bet she was kind when she was all right,” said Gene.

“Talks of golden hair. Must be her baby drowned has made her crazy,” said Spike.

“I’m going to speak to her, anyway,” and so saying, Gene boldly approached her.

“Say, lady! What are you looking for?” he asked, as he timidly stood in front of her.

“Dorothy,” she softly answered, and then slowly shifted her wistful eyes from the water to the boys.

“Whose Dorothy?” asked Spike, with an air of quiet respect, as he joined Gene and stood in front of her.

“The sweetest babe in all the world. See, in this – her likeness,” and she drew from the bosom of her dress a medallion and held it for the boys to look at.

“Sure! She’s a beaut!” exclaimed Spike, admiringly.

“Say, that picture is just like you,” remarked Gene, looking over the medallion at the face before him.

“Yous dress is wet, Missus,” said Spike.

“Were you looking for your baby there?” queried Gene, nodding toward the river.

She suddenly arose to her feet and listened, meanwhile tenderly replacing the medallion in her corsage.

“I must not rest longer. The storm will soon be on us. The boat rocks.”

She paused in a listening attitude: “Her voice! I hear it again. She is calling, ‘Mamma, papa, help! Save me!’ There! There!” – and she pointed over the water. “See that golden web glistening in the sunshine. It’s her hair. She’s beckoning me! Give me the paddles! – the paddles, quick!” And then she cried out with a gasp that sounded very much like a sob: “Save Dorothy!”

CHAPTER XXI

When John Thorpe left Virginia in search of Mr. Harris, he found him in conversation with Sam, at the foot of the piazza steps. Above them, on the piazza, was seated Mrs. Harris.

“I understand,” remarked Mr. Harris to Sam, “that there was another man in the cabin, but somehow he escaped.”

“There was another man there,” replied Sam, “but he went down through a trap door in the floor, Uncle.”

“Did he drown,” questioned Mr. Harris.

“Oh, no! The logs raised the floor of the cabin about a foot above the water. He got away between them and swam ashore. We didn’t find it out until he had made good his escape.”

It was then Mr. Thorpe addressed Mr. and Mrs. Harris. It being the first opportunity presented to perform a duty, that was clearly incumbent on him, and without further hesitation, he said: “Mr. and Mrs. Harris and Sam, who heard me abuse Mr. Corway on this ground last Wednesday night, I wish now to recall what I then said. If an entire misapprehension of facts can be an excuse for the animosity with which I then spoke, I am anxious to apologize for my behavior, as circumstances have made me aware how unjust were my aspersions. I regret that Mr. Corway is not present to receive my apology and to shake hands with him, for there is not a man in Oregon for whom I have greater respect.”

Mr. Harris was unable to conceal his gratification at the sudden ending of an unpleasant dilemma, and exclaimed: “John, I heartily congratulate you on the agreeable termination of an ugly affair.”

“Dear me! I am really delighted,” added Mrs. Harris, who, having gotten up from her chair at the first few words uttered by John Thorpe, and leaning forward on the piazza railing, stared at the men below in rapt attention. And Sam joined in the general joy by exclaiming, with a broad grin and a whirl of his hat: “Whoop! Let’s celebrate the burial of the hatchet, eh, Auntie.”

“How vulgar,” quietly remarked Mrs. Harris, as she straightened up, and with severity plainly graven on her face, said: “Sam, I desire a word with you after dinner.”

“Ya-ah! May good digestion wait on appetite, eh Auntie! I guess so,” replied Sam, with a roguish twinkle of his eye and the inimitable side movement of his head.

“Dear me,” continued Mrs. Harris, “I may as well be resigned to the inevitable, for I fear the ‘Texas brand’ will never groom out.”

“I must go home,” exclaimed Mr. Thorpe. “My impatience to meet Constance is consuming me. Mrs. Harris and gentlemen, pray pardon my haste,” and, lifting his hat, he withdrew.

Then Sam related in detail the bath and discovery of Jack Shore at the jail.

“Fact, Uncle,” he continued, “a regular fiend.”

“What! Jack Shore, of the Securities Investment Association!” exclaimed Mr. Harris, with surprise.

“The same identical chap, Uncle.”

“Dear me; who was his confederate?” questioned Mrs. Harris.

“We have yet to discover, but suspect a certain person well known to you.”

“Whom do you suspect?” sharply demanded Mrs. Harris.

“A much-honored member of society,” replied Sam, with fine sarcasm.

“But we must have his name,” insisted Mrs. Harris. She was promptly supported by Mr. Harris, who said: “By all means, we must know who he is.”

“My Lord Beauchamp!” Sam answered, with emphasis.

“Dear me,” gasped Mrs. Harris. “What a shock!” and then, recovering herself, she repeated doubtfully: “Lord Beauchamp an imposter?”

“He’s a villain anyhow, Auntie!” exclaimed Sam. “The same ‘gent’ who ran me down when I was tracking the Dago up there near the City park – thought he put me out of business.”

“What proof have you that he is an imposter?” demanded Mrs. Harris, sternly.

“Yes, proof, proof! That is what we want!” exclaimed James Harris, visibly agitated.

“To satisfy himself the detective cabled our Ambassador at London to make inquiry. This morning he received a reply.” And so saying, Sam took from his pocket an envelop containing a cablegram and handed it to Mr. Harris, with the remark: “Uncle, the detective turned it over to me at noon.”

Mr. Harris took from the envelop the cablegram, and adjusting his eyeglasses, read aloud:

“There’s only one Lord Beauchamp in England’s peerage, and he, with whom I am personally acquainted, was at the embassy yesterday.”

It was signed “White.”

Then Mr. Harris looked over the paper in his hand – over the eyeglasses into nothingness, with an expression on his face of deep chagrin, and in a low voice, as though muttering to himself, indiscreetly said:

“Damn the luck! The fellow is into me for ten thousand dollars.”

The words had scarcely escaped from his lips when Mrs. Harris, her eyes staring with astonishment, sharply exclaimed:

“Ten thousand dollars! Why, James Henry, you must have been hypnotized!”

It caused Sam to smile, and remark with a look of reproach: “Auntie!”

“He came to me with a plausible story and many regrets, unexpectedly ran short of funds; produced a cablegram purporting to come from his brother, the Duke Villier, only yesterday, authorizing him to draw for two thousand pounds. To oblige him I indorsed the draft, went with him to the bank, and it was immediately honored. I will phone for a policeman at once,” and Mr. Harris turned away to put his purpose into effect, when Sam intercepted him.

“Stay, Uncle; I have taken upon myself the duty of swearing out a warrant for his arrest, and in order there shall be no possibility of his escape, I have arranged with detectives, having Jack Shore in charge, to identify and arrest him.”

“James, do not wait a moment!” impatiently exclaimed Mrs. Harris. “Have him arrested at once.”

“Auntie, he cannot escape the officers, who are concealed, waiting signal,” Sam assured her.

And then, as if fate had so ordered, the object of their anathemas – in the company of Hazel, complacently sauntered from the tennis lawn, and, rounding the angle of the house, suddenly appeared close to the group.

“It was so stupid of me. I am sure your lordship did not enjoy the game at all,” said the girl. It was at that game of tennis that Rutley found opportunity to propose marriage to Hazel, for he believed that she was so disappointed at Corway’s disappearance, and which he took care to insinuate was through cowardice, and that she was so impressed with his rank, wealth and manners, that it would be easy to persuade her; but he found the girl repelled his advances so firmly and decisively that he at once abandoned the idea of attempting to entice her to elope, and abruptly ended the game. And so, because of his love for this girl, he had delayed his purpose to escape from the city, and jeopardized his chances accordingly.

When Rutley’s eyes first rested on James Harris, he involuntarily started at the change in his looks, but though seemingly perturbed for an instant, his self-possession never really deserted him. Straight on to the broad steps he strode with a suavity of manner quite in keeping with his usual phlegmatic bearing. Whatever distrust or apprehension may have troubled his thoughts, no exterior indication was visible. His face was impassive and inscrutable as the “Sphinx.” His nerves were steel, his acting superb.

“I find in Miss Brooke an expert tennis player,” he said, addressing Mrs. Harris, who was leaning forward, her hands resting on the rail, staring at him.