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

“It’s an outrage, sir! A damned outrage!” explosively exclaimed Mr. Harris, who was unable to control his indignation.

Still unperturbed, Rutley turned to Mr. Harris and said: “I quite agree with you, Sir, for the scandal is deplorable, and Corway should be punished.” Turning to Mrs. Harris, he continued:

“Indeed, Mrs. Harris, you Americans seem to excel in most everything where skill and brains are essential.”

There was not a flaw or tremor in his voice to betray an uneasy mind or prescience of a coming storm. It was then, however, he realized that something was wrong, for he noticed that they were looking coldly at him. Slowly drawing himself up with a haughty bearing, he carefully adjusted the monocle in his left eye and turned slowly about as he stared at each of them, and said in slow, sharp, biting accents:

“It’s deuced – draughty – don’t – che – know!”

“Yes, quite chilly, isn’t it, old chappie! I guess so!” declared Sam, patronizingly.

“I demand, sir, the return of ten thousand dollars that you swindled me out of yesterday,” said Mr. Harris, with indignation flushing his face.

“And I demand, in the name of the law, ten thousand dollars that you stole from – a – George Golda, while in the scow-dwelling night before last,” said Sam.

Still unperturbed, Rutley merely shifted his eyes from one to the other without moving his head or a muscle of his body, much in the manner of an automaton, and answered with a drawl:

“Aw, a money swindle! And a – a – theft of money from a scow-dwelling! Really, gentlemen, this is – a – a – a – deuced good joke!” And then he laughed, laughed in a shrill, screechy falsetto key, unnatural, and chilling as an icy breath from the Arctic.

“This is no joke, sir, as you will soon realize.”

“You have been detected. Your villainy is exposed, and your damned rascality is at an end,” said the irate Mr. Harris.

“For twenty years in the pen at Salem, eh, old chappie!” said Sam, with a grin of satisfaction.

“Curse the luck,” muttered Rutley to himself. “What a fool I was not to have vanished last night. It’s deuced ugly, don’t-che know,” he continued aloud, in the same cutting accents. “Let me warn you, gentlemen, there is a limit to one’s forbearance!”

“You are a cheat, a villain, an imposter!” fumed Mr. Harris. “And there is the proof,” and he flourished the cablegram in Rutley’s face. “You are imposing on the public under the cloak of an assumed title, and unless you immediately hand over to me ten thousand dollars I shall give you into custody.”

“Of the officers of the law, eh, Auntie?” and as Sam uttered the last words, up went his right hand extended straight with the index finger pointing aloft.

It was the signal agreed upon for the officers to appear, and forthwith they emerged with Jack Shore between them, and Smith following, from a vine inclosed arbor, partially concealed by a group of trees a few rods down the hill.

Pretending not to notice the approach of the officers and their prisoner, Sam grinned at Rutley and banteringly said:

“Come now, own up, you intentionally put me ‘out of business’ with the automobile. But it was a bungled job, wasn’t it, old chappie?”

Rutley yielded not an iota of his haughty bearing. Totally unsuspecting the near approach of the officers from behind, he directed a frigid, steady, contemptuous stare at his accusers, and with an air of puzzled understanding, said:

“What is the meaning of this insult to my honor? I again warn you, gentlemen, of your liability for libel.”

“Law is a venturesome sport, my lord,” ironically exclaimed Sam. “Let me introduce Mr. George Golda” —

Rutley leisurely turned and stared at Jack.

– “Alias, Jack Shore,” continued Sam, with a laugh.

“Well, my poor man. What is your mission?” interrogated Rutley.

Jack stared steadily at Rutley, but kept silent.

“Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha,” derisively laughed Rutley. Then turning to the group, said: “What new joke is this, gentlemen?” Again he turned toward Jack in pretense of a closer scrutiny.

That Rutley was surprised was quite evident, and he stepped forward with some object in view. Mr. Harris seemed to imagine some purpose in Rutley’s movement, and stepping in front of him, said: “Hold, your little game is up!”

“I guess so,” quickly added Sam, who stood ready to assist.

Realizing he was at bay, Rutley recovered his self-possession as quickly as he had lost it.

Again he laughed in that high-pitched, screechy key of ineffable disdain. “He, he, he, he,” and turning to Mr. Harris said, sarcastically: “The idea! You, a retired merchant, a successful business man; experienced in the qualities of keen perception, of fine discrimination, of the most perfect discernment and adroitness, to support this outrage,” and he waved his hand toward Jack. And again drawing himself up erect, haughtily fixed his cold gray eyes steadily on Mr. Harris, and continued in a drawl: “It’s deuced ugly, don’t-che know; deuced ugly, by Jove.”

While Rutley had been speaking, Virginia appeared on the scene. “Ha, Virginia,” sharply called out Mrs. Harris, and she beckoned to her to hasten. “Now we shall prove his villainy.”

“Ha, ha,” sneered Rutley. “Now you shall realize how foully you have slandered me. The lady will prove that I am Lord Beauchamp.”

As Virginia approached near, Mrs. Harris being unable to contain her impatience, again addressed her: “Virginia, dear! Can you enlighten us as to that man’s identity?”

Rutley tried to catch her eye, and at last, having succeeded, lifted his eyebrows meaningly, then nearly closed his eyes as he fixed on her a stare of glittering concentration.

“Madam,” he ejaculated significantly, “beware! These gentlemen and ladies have dared to question my right to the title of Lord Beauchamp, and I have assured them that you know me, of course you do, and will tell them so.” His manner was confident and insinuating, but he had over-rated his power of hypnotic influence over the girl.

She looked at him steadily, in which freezing haughtiness, contempt and pity were commingled. Her fear of him had passed. She did not falter now.

“Yes, I know you; and you are known to all present, but, unhappily, not as thoroughly as you are known to me.”

“Who is he?” demanded Mrs. Harris.

“Beware!” cautioned Rutley, “for what you say you must prove in a court of law.”

Defiant, the girl spoke, her enunciation clear and faultless. “His name is Philip Rutley, and he is masquerading as my Lord Beauchamp for fraudulent and unlawful purposes.”

“Ha, ha, ha,” laughed Rutley, sarcastically. “Delightfully refreshing, gentlemen.”

“Oh!” came from Hazel, and then, as if doubting the announcement, exclaimed: “But the color of Rutley’s hair is on the pumpkin order.”

“When the dye is washed out it will be on the pumpkin order again,” laughed Sam.

“He of the investment company?” questioned Mrs. Harris, with a puzzled expression of countenance.

“The very same chap, Auntie,” said Sam.

“Dear me, such ingratitude!” and Mrs. Harris looked disgusted. “Why, the rascal promised never to return if we would not prosecute him.”

“He, he, he, he, how very funny,” derisively laughed Rutley, in that high-pitched, screechy falsetto key he was so well trained in, and at times he nervously stroked his Vandyke beard.

“I shall at once bring an action at law against you for malicious libel,” upon which he started to pass Mr. Harris. His purpose was understood and frustrated by Sam, who promptly seized him by the collar. “I guess not!”

“Well done, Sam!” exclaimed Mrs. Harris.

“Take your hands off!” demanded Rutley, who began to scuffle violently with Sam.

“Hold him fast, Sam,” cheerfully encouraged Mr. Harris, who rushed to Sam’s assistance, followed by Smith.

“I guess so.”

At that moment, by a dexterous movement, Rutley slipped out of his coat, swiftly turned, and exclaimed:

“Damn your eyes, take that,” and violently struck at Sam, who adroitly dodged the blow, dropped the coat and squared up to him.

“I’m your huckleberry; I guess. Good time to square that little run-down now. Come down the hill out of the sight of the ladies.”

“I’ll go wid yees,” volunteered Smith. “Sure, an’ I’ll see fair play, an’ may the divvil take me lord.”

Mr. Harris picked up Rutley’s coat and there fell out of one of the pockets two packages of banknotes. He let the coat fall and picked up the packages. Flourishing them about his head, he laughed – “Ha, ha, ha, ha.”

The detective turned to Jack and said, quietly: “You wanted the proof: there it is,” and he pointed to the money held by Mr. Harris. “He will be pinched, but Mr. Thorpe is to secure his release.”

“Why, there are twenty thousand dollars here!” exclaimed Mr. Harris, examining the packages of money.

“Now you believe me, don’t you?” said the detective to Jack.

“Yes,” replied Jack, “you were right,” and then he stepped forward alone, close to Rutley, and with a sneer on his face, confronted him. “So, my noble partner! You gave me the kiss of ‘Judas’ for ten thousand shekels, eh?”

Rutley was amazed, but maintaining his imperturbability, exclaimed: “You propound a riddle, my poor man. I don’t know you.”

“Ha, ha, ha, ha,” laughed Jack, bitterly. “The riddle should be plain with the key in your keeping. But I know you, me Lord Beauchamp, alias Philip Rutley. Now, damn you, take the medicine your treachery awards you.”

Rutley straightened up, his mortification was very great. Naturally astute, shrewd and alert, for once he had been caught napping. With distended, staring eyes, he whispered, aghast: “Jack, Jack,” and then, recovering himself, composedly said: “A – my poor fellow, you are mistaken; I don’t know you,” and then he swung himself about and laughed in that peculiar, high-pitched key – “He, he, he, he; he must be crazy.”

“Crazy, eh!” and Jack laughed low, hoarsely and derisively. “Ha, ha, ha, ha. The detective told me you had sold me for the reward offered for recovery of the child, but I would not believe him. Now! I know he told the truth. For the proof is there,” and he pointed to the money in the hands of Mr. Harris. “The proof that you betrayed your partner” —

“You lie! You lie! Damn you, you lie!” exclaimed Rutley bitterly, as he swiftly turned to Jack, and then muttered to himself: “Ye Gods, I have been trapped by a fluke.” Then, with marvellous nerve, declared: “Oh, this is preposterous; I will immediately bring some friends and prove that you malign me,” and so saying he turned to move off.

“Detective Simms, he is your man; arrest him!” said Mrs. Harris.

On seeing his chance of escape lessening every moment Rutley abandoned all idea of further defense, and made a grab for his coat.

Quick as was his action, he could not outmaneuver Sam, who promptly threw himself upon Rutley’s back, and locked his arms about him, pinioning him as in a vice. And while in that position the detective slipped on the handcuffs.

On releasing him, Sam turned with a broad grin of satisfaction to his aunt – “How is that for the Texas brand, eh, Auntie?”

He got for his answer a smile, and an exclamation that pleased him immensely. “Splendid, Sam.”

“The neatest bit of work done since his partner tried to find a soft spot on Carbit strait pavement,” added Smith, with a look of admiration.

In the meantime Mr. Harris had been examining the packages of money, turning them over and over, looking first at one and then at another. Of a sudden his face lit up with a smile, as he exclaimed: “Why, this is mine; the identical package that he obtained from the bank on my indorsement. I can swear to it. But this?” And he looked meaningly at Virginia.

“It looks like the package of notes I gave the Italian for Dorothy’s ransom,” she replied.

“He never sold me after all,” muttered Jack, who became painfully astonished on hearing Mr. Harris declare that Rutley had obtained one of the packages of money from the bank on his indorsement. And as the plan by which he was tricked into betrayal of his accomplice became evident, his chagrin deepened to grief. He turned to Rutley and said, brokenly: “Phil, I take it all back,” and then he muttered absently as he realized the futility of regret. “But it is too late – I have been tricked into a confession.”

“The jig is up,” replied Rutley. “I shall take my medicine like a man.”

“That money must remain in the custody of the police until the court decides for the owner,” said the detective.

“Certainly,” affirmed Mr. Harris, who handed him the two packages.

“This one is mine, and contains ten thousand dollars. And this contains a like amount and belongs to Miss Thorpe. I shall apply to the court for restitution tomorrow,” remarked Mr. Harris.

“Very well, sir. Now please hand me that coat and we will go,” said the detective.

Mr. Harris picked up the coat and handed it to the detective.

“Keep it, old man,” advised Rutley, with lofty disdain. “Keep it as a memento of how you were once charmed by one of England’s nobility,” he laughed derisively.

“I will have no gift from a thief,” indignantly exclaimed Mr. Harris, as he handed over the coat. “Officers, away with them.”

“Good-bye Charles, Reginald, De Coursy, West-ma-coate Cosmos, me Lord Beauchamp. Fare thee well,” said Sam, with a grin.

It was at that time that the little Scotch terrier began to sniff at Jack’s trouser legs inquisitively. The dog had wandered near him, attracted by the sound of his familiar voice, and though it evidently scented something intimate, could not recognize his former master in the changed appearance resultant on his enforced bath. And so the dog sniffed and sniffed while the glint of its upward turned eyes ominously resented any friendly overture.

Jack had noticed the dog about, and now that it was sniffing at his leg, he softly spoke to it, saying: “Good-bye, Snooks,” whereupon to his surprise the dog growled at him. Again he said, soothingly: “Good bye Snooks,” putting out his hand to fondle it, but the dog, in one of those singularly unsympathetic moods rare to its nature, would have none of him, and barked at him furiously.

It was the finishing stroke to his shame and degradation. “An outcast, a stranger, so low I have fallen that my own dog barks at me.”

“Come along,” urged the detective to Rutley and Jack. But Rutley halted and turned to Hazel, with the same marvellous air that had won for him confidence in critical moments of “my lord’s” career.

“Ta, ta, pet,” said he, in his softest blandishment to Hazel. “That was a ravishing kiss you gave me in the conservatory awhile ago. Ta, ta,” and he threw her a kiss with his free hand and followed it with a tragic scowl at Sam.

“The horrid man,” indignantly exclaimed Hazel.

“Good-bye, Virginia,” and he smiled patronizingly at her. “You ‘peached’ on your pal, but rogues do that sometimes. Tra-la.”

“Officer, away with them,” ordered Mr. Harris, with disgust.

“Get a move on, old chappie,” said Sam.

“Come along,” urged the detective.

But Rutley balked, and looking at Mrs. Harris, laughed, the same high-pitched, uncanny laugh he had used previously.

“I had almost forgotten you, Auntie,” he drawled in his most suave and engaging manner. “You know that it is bad form to take one’s leave without saying ‘adieu,’ and believe me,” and he again laughed, “I thank you for your lavish reception in honor of the fake lord.”

“Officer, away with them,” stormed Mr. Harris.

Though Rutley was forced away a step or two he still kept his eyes fixed on Mrs. Harris, and managed to hold his ground long enough to add, ironically: “Adieu, Auntie! Ta, ta!”

“March yees blackguards, march,” said Smith, pushing the men along.

“How very rude! I have never had anything so scurrilous said to me before in my life.”

“He wasn’t a real lord, Auntie. Only tried to act like one, eh, I guess so,” and Sam inwardly chuckled at the balm he offered for her discomfiture.

“Sam, you had better assist the officers to the railway station,” suggested Mr. Harris.

“Oh, quite to my fancy, Uncle!” and Sam immediately proceeded after the detectives and their prisoners.

The silence that fell on the group as they watched the prisoners move down the hill was broken by Hazel, who, turning to Mr. Harris, said: “It was clever of Sam. Indeed, Uncle, it seems to him is due the honor of breaking the spell of a pretender.”

“I am satisfied now that my lord will serve a ‘spell’ with his partner in the state penitentiary,” replied Mr. Harris.

“A fate that deservedly overtakes adventurers and imposters,” remarked Mrs. Harris.

“And a most pungent warning to the frantic race society runs to entertain titled swindlers!” added Mr. Harris, gravely.

At that moment Sam hurriedly reappeared and approached Mr. Harris, who hastened to meet him. “What is wrong, Sam?” “Has he got away?” was the anxious inquiry.

“I guess not, Uncle,” replied Sam, who seemed excited, and then nodding his head toward the river, said, in an undertone. “Something out of gear down there. A boy just told me a woman was wading in the water trying to find her drowned baby – and – and I thought” —

“What! Who do you think she can be, eh? It cannot be” – And they exchanged significant glances.

Sam tapped his head impressively. “The boy said she plunged her hands in the water, talked queer, and heard her call ‘Dorothy.’”

“If it should be her! Good God! And John must be hereabouts, too. Let us go to her at once. Quietly, make no fuss. Come along,” and Mr. Harris turned hastily.

“What is the trouble now, James?” called out Mrs. Harris.

“No time,” was all the satisfaction she got, and the two hastened down to the shingle.

“Dear me! Something serious has happened, I am sure!” and seeing a boy standing irresolute on the walk, addressed him:

“Here boy, do you know what is going on down there?”

“A crazy woman,” the boy answered, drawing near. “She’s wading in the river.”

“Poor thing!” sympathetically exclaimed Mrs. Harris. “What is she wading in the river for? Did you hear her speak?”

“Yes’m, a little; but I was afraid and didn’t stay but a minute. I came up to phone the police.”

“Dear me! What did the poor creature say?”

“She said her baby was drowned. I’m pretty sure she called it Dorothy.”

An agonizing shriek of “Constance!” broke from the three women simultaneously, and horror and consternation was depicted on every countenance.

“Almighty Heaven!” exclaimed Virginia, whose face had blanched at the news. “She has followed me here. I’ll get some wraps, for poor Constance must be chilled through and through,” and with that she hastened into the house.

“Virginia, dear!” Mrs. Harris called after her, “you will find wraps in my room.”

Hazel had already started toward the river, and noting the girl’s impatience, she went on: “Hazel and I will not wait for you.”

As Mrs. Harris followed after Hazel, she kept muttering: “Dear me! What a shock! What a shock to one’s nerves!”

CHAPTER XXII

The officers, with their prisoners, had reached the railway track, and were leisurely walking toward the little station when a commotion in a group of people on the shingle, a couple of hundred yards ahead, attracted their attention. Smith, who had accompanied the officers, started to investigate. He had proceeded but a short distance when his movement was accelerated by seeing Mr. Harris and Sam hastening down the slope toward the little group before mentioned.

Upon arrival at the station, one of the officers, Simms, hurried forward to ascertain the cause of the trouble, for evidently something serious had happened. The two prisoners were thus left, handcuffed, it is true, but under guard of only one officer, whose attention was also attracted by the excitement ahead. The officer gave his prisoners little attention, for he believed they were perfectly secure, as Jack’s right wrist was handcuffed to the officer and Rutley was linked to Jack.

Rutley soon found that he could “slip the bracelet” and, nudging Jack, displayed his free hand. Jack gave him a significant wink, at the same time gently nodded his head for him to “break.” For an instant Rutley was tempted to strike down the unsuspecting officer, and attempt to release Jack, but the chance of detection in the act, and inviting instant pursuit was so great, that he decided to try to escape alone. Silently he stepped apart; farther, then he slipped behind the station.

A swift, noiseless dash to a culvert, through it and up along a small ravine, soon put him out of sight of the officers. His last view of them convinced him that they were still unmindful of his escape.

Arriving at a considerable elevation, to where a clump of brush concealed him from the view of those below, he paused and took a hasty glance around. The sweep of the slope was too clear and unobstructed for any possibility of escape to the woods that covered the hill a couple of hundred yards distant, without him being seen. His determination was daring and instant.

He would enter “Rosemont house,” seek a hiding place, secure some sort of disguise, and in the night effect his escape.

Following the depression he soon appeared on a level with the house. Taking advantage of such cover as was afforded by shrubbery and hedges, and cowering close to earth, he quickly traversed the space that had separated him from the house. Throwing himself prostrate among some ivy that grew in thick profusion along the basement of the south side as a protection from the Winter rain, he lay there effectually concealed and listened with tense nerves for sounds of pursuit.

The silence was unbroken save for the spasmodic whirr of a lawn mower on a distant part of the grounds. Having recovered his wind, he looked up. Above him was an open window, but screened. If he could enter by that window he might gain the loft without discovery, and once there he felt satisfied that a good hiding place could be found. The front entrance would be easier, but the risk of being seen crossing the piazza was too great. He decided to try the window. Arising from his concealment, and refreshed by his short rest, enthusiasm bounded through his veins.

“I will get away yet,” he muttered between his clenched teeth. “I saw the women following Harris down to the shore and the house must be deserted by all save the servants, and they are likely in the kitchen.”

Another swift glance at the window, and mentally estimating its height from the ground, he felt certain that an entrance through it was practicable. There was no time to be lost.

The “water table” afforded a footing, and by the aid of an iron trellis erected to support a climbing vine, he reached the window. There an obstacle was encountered. He tried to raise the screen, but it would not budge. In his exasperation he nearly tore his finger nails off trying to raise it from the bottom. Realizing that he was becoming excited he at once forced a calmness which he deemed highly essential, if he was to succeed. Every moment, too, was fraught with danger of discovery.

Pushing his hand against one side of the screen edgewise in an attempt to loosen it, the thing suddenly fell in. The thick carpet smothered the noise. He had unwittingly pressed against the edge that inclosed the springs, and in so doing released the other edge of the screen from the groove. Noiselessly he sprang inside. It was the library. He turned and cautiously scanned the hillside. No persons were in sight. Then he quietly replaced the screen.

His daring coolness and nerve were now under full control. He stole out of the room, into the hall, with every sense alert to avoid discovery. His goal was the attic. He knew that the only way to reach it was by the service stairs, which he could use from the second floor. Before him was the main stairs. Without a moment of hesitation he leaped up the soft, thick, velvet-covered steps, his footfalls as silent as the tread of a cat.

A door was ajar on his left; he cautiously pushed it open and entered. He saw at once that it was Sam’s room. He glanced about, then opened a dresser drawer. “Ha, a revolver!” It was the work of a moment to examine the magazine.

“Empty!” he exclaimed, with disgust, and was about to replace it when, on second thought: “It may do for a bluff.” Another hasty look and he picked up a hunting knife, which he also appropriated. A slight noise at that moment startled him and caused him to look around alarmed. He slipped behind a door for concealment. After a moment of tense suspense, and the quietness continuing unbroken, he stole out of the room.