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

Jack grinned and chuckled, “Ah, ah – a Portland rose, Phil!”

“Incomparably beautiful, Jack! But, oh, such devilish thorns!”

“Good for twenty thousand simoleons at any rate? Eh, Phil?”

“Twenty thousand or bust, Jack,” grinned Rutley. “You watch me do the trick. I’ll make Thorpe wish he were dead. I shall connect his wife’s name instead of Hazel’s with Corway.”

“What!” gasped Jack, dismayed by Rutley’s daring.

“By a little juggling of facts, as it were, I’ll make Thorpe believe Corway wears the ring given him as a love token by Constance. It was Thorpe’s gift to his wife. Do you comprehend? Now, do you understand how simple a thing it will be to make Thorpe wish he were dead? Remember how he and old Harris broke up our investment company?

“Maybe I don’t,” replied Jack dolefully, rubbing his stomach in a significant manner.

“And, Jack!” and Rutley glinted at him meaningly and said very seriously, “That fellow Corway suspects me.”

“The devil he does! We must get him out of our way.”

“Tomorrow!” – and for the space of perhaps five seconds they looked meaningly at each other. Then Rutley broke the silence.

“The child is in the house,” continued Rutley seriously and in a low voice.

“Good!” responded Jack. “I was afraid your tableau scheme had failed and Dorothy remained at home.”

“Not at all. They jumped at the idea,” laughed Rutley, “and on my suggestion Mrs. Harris begged for Dorothy’s presence at the ‘Fete’.”

“Fate!” corrected Jack.

“Too pointed,” calmly remarked Rutley.

“Well, the tableau was a great success, ‘Hebe’ attended by ‘Circe’ and ‘Cupid’.”

“Dorothy as ‘Circe’ posed splendidly; she is the pet of the guests” – and, lowering his voice, Rutley continued gravely:

“I have persuaded her indulgent mother to let the child remain up and enjoy her honors a little longer; she may be out and around now at any moment.”

“She wears a white dress and with a light brown sash about her waist. Long golden hair – oh, you know her.”

“I shall keep a sharp lookout and take her the first opportunity.”

“Skip!” suddenly cautioned Rutley. “Somebody’s coming. Keep in the deep shadow.”

“Trust me.” And as Jack turned to move away he said to himself, “Tonight there’ll be things doing, for the devil is at work and hell’s a-brewing.”

Rutley watched Jack vanish in the gloom, then muttered to himself, “Why this fear? Out with it and to my purpose.”

Some readers would call it fate, others would probably have construed it as accidental, while yet again others of a more scientific turn of mind would have reasoned it a result of that strange magnetic attraction whereby two minds, simultaneously engaged in deep absorbing thought on the same subject, are mysteriously drawn toward each other.

That John Thorpe was alone at that moment descending the steps of the piazza, was proof of the phenomenon, there could be no question, and that he was deeply thinking of a subject very near and dear to him was also evident, for he paused on one of the steps and clapped his hand to his forehead as though to draw out some evil thing that lay leaden within.

Once he shivered as if shaken with a cold of the shadow of some indefinable disaster about to overwhelm him, and then he passed on down the steps muttering to himself in an abstracted manner, “Doubt; terrible, torturing doubt; I cannot endure it!”

“Welcome, Mr. Thorpe,” came from Rutley in the mild regularly moderated voice of a man content with his surroundings. “It only needs the quiet tones of a gifted conversationalist to make this beautiful spot supremely pleasant. All honor to Mrs. Harris and her companion.”

Mrs. Harris, accompanied by Virginia, had just then appeared from around the east side of the house – “Ah, my lord, your absence from the ballroom occasions much inquiry,” said Mrs. Harris.

“Mrs. Harris will confer a favor by satisfying the inquirers with the excuse that his lordship is enjoying a smoke with a friend. Does my lord approve the answer?” replied John Thorpe, eyeing Rutley furtively.

“Most decidedly!” he affirmed.

“Then Virginia and myself will be spectators of the next waltz. Your lordship will favor us with your company soon? Mr. Thorpe, you will not forget your promise to Constance for the Newport?”

“Just in time, eh, auntie, I guess so!” cut in the cheerful voice of strenuous Sam, who had bounded down the steps and stood in front of them before they could turn around.

“Oh, horrors!” gasped Virginia under her breath.

“Why, Sam!” laughed Mrs. Harris, “you want me to dance with you again and Virginia here?”

“Oh, no, not you! I mean her, auntie. If you please,” and he bowed to Virginia as he offered her his arm.

Without an instant’s hesitation she accepted his arm and at the same time so artfully masked her real feelings that the hot blood raced with joyous glee to the very roots of his hair and caused him to say proudly, “Ha, ha! at last, eh, auntie!”

“I shall be a witness, Sam,” replied his aunt in a tone which conveyed a warning.

On ascending the steps Virginia paused to gather up her skirt, turned half around and looked very significantly at Rutley.

He met her glance and bowed. The action brought Mrs. Harris also to a stop.

Observing the halt, Mr. Thorpe exclaimed, “His Grace and myself will be along presently. Au revoir.”

And as the party moved on, Sam rejoined under his breath, “I guess so, but not with his fair party, not if Sam knows it.”

In the silence that followed for both men, now being alone, were alert, instinctively apprehending danger, John Thorpe drew from the inside pocket of his coat a small cigar case and tendered it to Rutley.

Silently and with studied poise, Rutley took therefrom a cigar and returned the case.

Thorpe then took from the case a match, lighted and offered it to Rutley, who, having meanwhile clipped the end of the cigar with a penknife, accepted the light and then broke the silence with, “Are you not going to smoke, Thorpe?”

“Not at present. A stroll through the grounds is more to my fancy.”

“Agreed!” promptly responded Rutley, who added, “and may the exercise lighten your spirits, which appear heavy tonight.”

“Yes, unfortunately I have never been able to conceal my emotions, hence the correctness of your conjecture. My spirits are heavy tonight,” replied Thorpe in a low voice and with a deep, long drawn sigh.

It was plain to Rutley that Thorpe was evading an abrupt approach to some potent question in his mind, feverishly eager, yet dreading the kind of information it might elicit.

“Bad digestion, Thorpe. Headaches, troubled dreams and the like fellow,” suggested Rutley in his jerky manner.

“Deeper!” added Thorpe in a low voice.

“Ha!” exclaimed Rutley significantly, as he eyed his companion askance. “Family!”

“Oh, God! what shall I do?” suddenly broke from Thorpe in a stifled cry of anguish. “I cannot carry the load!” And then he did that which some readers might term a cowardly thing. No doubt he was actuated by motives irresistibly impelling in a man of his peculiarly sensitive nature.

With head bent low, much as a culprit condoning his infamy, humbled as was his pride, to thus confide his misgivings to a stranger, he began in a low voice:

“My Lord, a few moments since I casually heard you drop a remark suggesting a knowledge of my domestic affairs. I speak to you in confidence, and I am sure Your Grace will spare me the humiliation of feeling that confidence is misplaced. Your position gives you at times the advantage of hearing – a – things said of others that is of no moment or concern to you.”

Rutley’s first thought was, “My opportunity to strike at Corway has come,” and if Thorpe at that moment could have seen the cunning leer play about the corners of Rutley’s mouth and the flash of exultation that sprang into his eyes, he might have hesitated, nay, ceased to have conversed with him further on such a grave subject.

But the fleeting smile went unseen, the exultant flash as quickly disappeared, and in its place a very serious look came over Rutley’s face, as in a low voice he replied, slowly but very distinctly. “Really, Thorpe, I am at a loss to understand your motives in questioning me on matters relative to your domestic affairs, and though I may possess information in which I am not particularly interested, still to asperse the character of any person on mere rumor is not compatible with the dignity or honor of my house; however, if you will be explicit on the subject of your singular request, I shall, through sympathy, communicate all I have heard to relieve or confirm your mind of a – I fancy – a terrible suspicion.”

For a few moments Thorpe could not control his agitation. Overpowered by a sense of shame, his imagination at once conjured up dreadful thoughts.

“Sympathy! a – a – to relieve or confirm a terrible suspicion! My God! what does he mean?” And he placed his left hand tightly over his breast as if something hurt him there, while a cold sweat stood out on his brow. Then with a forced calmness, said:

“A – a – have you heard any disparaging remarks about – a – Mr. Corway?”

“Well, Thorpe, you know ’tis not honorable to repeat the ‘chic’ scandals one hears, though to satisfy you I will say that if you will look at the little finger of Corway’s left hand, you will see a gold ring with a single diamond set in a double heart, which he at times – a – carelessly displays.”

“A ring with a single diamond! What of it?” impatiently questioned Thorpe.

“Oh!” replied Rutley, with an imperturbable stare, “it was a love token from Mrs. John Thorpe.”

“You lie!” exclaimed Thorpe, the nails of his fingers imprinting deeply in the flesh of his tightly clenched fists, with the fierceness of the passion that had flamed within him.

“I do not lie!” Rutley calmly and slowly replied, as he looked steadily into Thorpe’s eyes.

“You confound my wife with Hazel,” hoarsely accused Thorpe.

“I reiterate,” responded Rutley, in the same even tone of voice, “the particular ring in question was a gift from Constance, John Thorpe’s wife, and not from Hazel.”

Gasping for breath, Thorpe turned his head aside and groaned as he remembered it was his gift to Constance before they were married.

Suddenly he gripped Rutley by the sleeve. They halted and confronted each other. And the dark formless shadow that had followed them also halted.

“From whom have you your information?” queried Thorpe, looking into Rutley’s eyes.

“I do not feel at liberty to mention, but it can be substantiated.”

“By whom?” demanded Thorpe.

“Well, I don’t know of any person more capable than a – a – Mr. Thorpe’s wife!” replied Rutley in a most nonchalant and matter-of-fact manner.

And even through the depth of the gloom that surrounded them he saw the scarlet flush of rage and shame flame across Thorpe’s white brow as he bowed his head, humbled to the dust.

For a moment not a word was spoken by either of the men. Suddenly Thorpe looked up and hoarsely said:

“My wife! Give me two or three, one which she can substantiate.”

“My dear Thorpe,” deprecatingly pleaded Rutley. “You have called upon me to undertake a very unpleasant task.”

“Your Lordship has gone too far to recede. I must know all” – and there was imminent danger in Thorpe’s quivering voice, which Rutley felt was not to be trifled with.

“Well – one thing – Corway’s close and steady attention to her during your absence in China.”

“You mean to Hazel?” said Thorpe, with a look so deeply concentrated that the movement of a single hair of Rutley’s eyelash would have meant an instant blow on the mouth.

“No, I mean – to your wife,” accentuated Rutley. “Their secret and protracted wanderings offended your sister. Reproofs, reproaches and warnings were unavailing and ended in Corway being refused admittance to your house, which resulted in frequent quarrels between your wife and your sister.”

Thorpe here recalled Virginia’s warning, “Corway will bear watching,” and he moaned, “Oh, God!”

“He tried many pretenses to regain communication with your wife,” resumed Rutley, “one being to visit Hazel Brooke, for whom, except for her money, he has no regard whatever. At length on the discovery of secret correspondence, Virginia became aghast at his boldness and contemplated seeking legal aid when you returned. Of course, she retired and left the matter in your hands and she was unwilling at that time to shock your home-coming with a knowledge of the truth.”

“Enough! Enough! Oh, God, what a vile thing has nestled here!” And John Thorpe pressed both hands tightly over his heart in a vain endeavor to suppress the emotion that filled his throat and choked his utterances, and tears of shame gathered in his eyes as he continued slowly:

“When – I – wedded Constance – I took to myself the purest angel out of heaven. But now – ! Farewell happiness – farewell peace – forever! Oh, Corway, I want to clutch you by the throat!”

Turning to Rutley, he added tensely, “Follow me.”

“Now for satisfaction,” muttered Rutley exultantly, and with a sinister smile on his lips he followed John Thorpe up the broad steps and into the blaze of the brilliantly lighted ballroom.

A shadow straightened itself up behind a bed of massed asters, deepened, grew thicker and resolved itself into the solid form of a man. It was Jack Shore. He had dodged them unseen and overheard their conversation.

Perhaps it was through hearing the conspiracy and its masterly execution that shocked him into moralizing on man’s inhumanity to man.

At any rate, he exclaimed half aloud, “As cold-blooded a bit of villainy as possible to conceive. I didn’t think Phil had it in him.” Suddenly he shrugged his shoulders.

“I say, old man,” cut in Sam, appearing from the east side of the piazza, “you want to look alive there. You are getting too near the front. First thing you know uncle will have you sent up as a vag.”

Though taken by surprise, Jack, having just turned to move off into the deeper shadow, halted and, removing his hat, faced Sam in an assumed most humble and abject terror, “Signor, I don-a mean to come-a da close. Jess-a tried to get-a da peep ov-a da grand-a fete of-a much-a da rich people. Eesa da all, Signor.”

“It’s all right, old man, but take my advice and keep off the grounds. ’Twill be better for your health.”

In the meantime Dorothy had fluttered down the great steps and ran toward Sam.

“Hello, little one! Having lots of fun, eh!”

And with the same, he caught Dorothy’s hands and he commenced to dance her about as he sang the words, “Little Bo-peep had lost her sheep and couldn’t tell where to find them.”

“Oh, don’t Sam; I want to find papa!” replied the child, impatiently.

“You do, eh? Now, don’t you want me to be your escort?”

“Come, I’ll tell you how to find him. You shall sit on my shoulder and be the tallest queen of the party, while I be the horse to ’lope about in search of your papa.”

“Thank you, Sam, but I can’t stay for a ride now. I’m in such a hurry; some other time,” and the child turned from him and ran toward the slowly retreating form of Jack.

“You are, eh? All right, and while you are looking for papa, I’m going to look for the fair party you call auntie. I guess so!” Whereupon Sam quickly sprang up the steps. Arriving on the piazza he halted, turned around and looked toward the child as though the premonition of something wrong – something associated with the child’s insecurity, being alone – had suddenly darted into his brain; but seeing others of the guests at that moment emerging from the east front of the house on the well lighted grounds, he dismissed the “still small voice” of warning from his mind and passed in among the dancers.

“Papa, papa! Where is my papa?” called Dorothy.

Jack, while pretending to leave the grounds, had kept a sly eye on Sam, and upon that individual’s disappearance, at once turned and answered the child in a voice soft and gentle, and soothing as that of dreamy Italy.

“Yous-a tink-a your-a papa was-a da here-a. What eesa da name?”

“Thorpe!” replied Dorothy, without the faintest fear or hesitation. “That is my name, too. I want to find him right away. Can you tell me where he is? Mama sent me to ask him to come and dance.”

“Yes-a da child-a. Eesa da know where eesa papa be. Eef-a youse-a be note-a fraid and will-a come wid-a me, Eesa take-a youse-a da papa,” and the sly old man looked into her eyes with such beaming kindness that at once won her confidence.

“I’m not afraid of you. I like old men. Mama says we should respect old men. But I’m in such a hurry, you know. Mama is waiting for me.”

“Well, geeve-a me youse-a da hand and Eesa take-a you straight-a da heem.”

Without the least suspicion or timidity, she instantly placed her little hand in his and the two proceeded toward the river, much faster than his supposed crippled condition would lead an older person to expect.

“Youse-a love-a da papa and da mama much-a, donn-a youse?” he continued.

“Oh, yes! Ever so much.”

“Eesa good-a girl. We’ll soon-a da fine eem,” and he added to himself, “when the horn of plenty pours its golden stream into Jack’s pocket.”

While they were crossing a depression, or rather a long hollow formation in the contour of the grassy slope, and close to some locust trees, the thick foliage of which threw a deep shadow on the spot, Jack thrust his free hand into his pocket and removed the stopper from a bottle of chloroform which he had provided for this occasion, and saturated a colored handkerchief with it. Some of it passed through the lining of his pocket and immediately impregnated the air with its odor.

Dorothy got a whiff of it and drew away with the remark, “Dear me, what a funny smell!”

“Naw, eesa – nicey da smell, jes like-a da poppy, so beautiful-a da flower,” replied Jack, reassuringly.

“Well, I don’t like it, anyway,” she said.

At that moment she was standing a couple of yards from him, they had come to a halt, and it was necessary for him to act adroitly and with promptness, to reassure her and avoid arousing her suspicion, so he pretended to stumble and then fell to the ground.

Arising to his knees, he groaned as though in seeming pain, and gripped his right wrist with his left hand.

“Oh, oh! Eesa da hurt-a bad. Break-a da arm; oh, oh!” And in order to get her close to him, he said, “Get-a da bot’ in-a da pock’.”

The cunning fellow knew well how to touch the chord of sympathy that is ever present in the guileless heart of innocent childhood.

The response came in a wondering look of infinite tenderness and compassion, for the child did not clearly comprehend Jack’s request and she asked:

“Did you break your arm?”

“Eesa da hurt-a bad. Oh, oh!” he groaned, “get-a da bot’, da bot’-a, child; get-a da bot’.”

“Poor man! Shall I run for the doctor?”

“No, no, no, note-a da dock! Help-a me get-a da bot’ in-a da pock! Quick-a, deeze-a side. Put in-a da hand. Take eem out – oh, oh!”

Perceiving that he meant her to take something out of his pocket, on the right side of his coat, and not understanding the significance of the word “bot,” she drew near to thrust in her hand.

That instant Jack’s left arm encircled her form and his right hand clapped the saturated handkerchief over her mouth and nostrils and held her to him.

She struggled in his arms to free herself, but without avail.

As a feeling of stupor stole over her senses, Jack, still on his knees, watched her with the keenest of eyes, and muttered soothingly, “Eesa nice-a da girl. Nice-a da smell lak-a da dreamy Italy.”

Some rascals would have made short work of the matter, but Jack was by nature very tender and considerate of children, which accounted for his slow application of the powerful drug. It soon had her under its influence, and when she became limp and nerveless he laid her on the grass. Again he saturated the handkerchief and held it to her nostrils, and with distended, tragic eyes watched her doze into unconsciousness.

Feeling satisfied that she would not speedily recover, he let the handkerchief lie loose on her nostrils and mouth, then he arose to his feet and with the stealthy, catlike tread of an Indian, skulked from shadow to shadow until he had made a complete circuit of the spot.

Having assured himself that no one was in the vicinity, he swiftly turned and again fell on his knees beside the child.

He looked intently in her face and noted the sweet expression of childish innocence and trust in the repose. “She sleeps, beautiful child! As sweetly innocent and confiding as God ever inspired with the breath of life.”

Then from under his coat, where a hump appeared in the back, he drew out a grey woolen cloth about four feet square and folded it about the child, gathered her in his arms and arose to his feet.

“Mine, mine, though no harm shall come to you, pretty one! Twenty thousand dollars shall be the price of your liberty.”

And, keeping in the shadows and away from the lights as much as possible, he wended his way toward the river and soon became obscured in the distant gloom.

When John Thorpe, closely followed by Rutley, entered the great ballroom in search of Corway, the guests who saw him were struck with the pallor of his face and the strangely piercing yet lustreless dark eyes that shone out from beneath his shaggy, frowning eyebrows. His cold, stony look repelled all smiles and discouraged all questions. Through the room he strode, regardless alike of the timid whisperings of women and offended stare of men. He cared not what they thought, for every sentiment of rudeness or discourtesy, every tender feeling of grief or pain, was drowned by his one great mad, overpowering passion to wreak summary vengeance on the author of his bitter shame.

Not for a moment had he suspected “My Lord’s” integrity and utter disinterestedness, and the maddening fire of his disgrace kindled within him and fanned to a crucible heat by Rutley burned with unquenchable fury.

Men of the temperament of John Thorpe are not blessed with a stoical mind in moments of great excitement, nor are they apt to pause and tranquilly reason out the pros and cons of this most prolific source of human tragedies.

He had loved his wife too fondly and too well to go and openly charge her with unfaithfulness.

His life heretofore had been very happy, but now the first “damned spot” in the clear blue of his domestic horizon would not out, the feeling of suspicion would not smother. And it grew and enlarged with amazing rapidity, and haunted him till the very thought of Corway aroused his latent jealousy to a pitch that became unbearable. Rutley had developed the demon within him.

The love that had become a fixed part of his being, flooding him with its radiance, had been violently wrenched from his heart, and his only, all-absorbing, insatiable desire was to confront the man who was responsible for it.

Oh, for the frailty of human happiness!

Out near the steps of the east piazza a group of ladies and gentlemen, composed of Mr. and Mrs. Harris, Mr. Corway and Hazel were chatting merrily about the new waltz and incidentally they had referred to the prolonged absence of “My Lord” and John Thorpe from the ballroom. Mrs. Harris discovered them on the piazza approaching the steps and exclaimed, “Ah, here come the truants.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, John Thorpe descended the steps alone, Rutley remaining on the piazza.

“Mr. Harris,” said John Thorpe in a husky voice, “in the name of the society whom he contaminates, I demand that you eject that man from this place.”

This peremptory and extraordinary demand, coupled with its insinuation, stunned the hearers, who looked from one to the other in startled amazement.

The dead silence that followed was broken by Mr. Harris, who answered in a grave, dazed way, as thoughts of Thorpe’s sanity flitted through his brain, “But, Thorpe! I – what – I don’t think – my hearing is not exactly right of late. I did not understand – ”

Without removing his steady gaze from Corway, Mr. Thorpe reiterated his words slowly and with stinging accentuation, “I demand that you eject that man from this place,” and he pointed his finger dramatically at Corway, while glints of merciless intent shot from his eyes.

The red flushed into Mr. Harris’s face as he realized the indignity his guests and himself were being subjected to.