CHAPTER XXVIII. – “THY WILL BE DONE”
A FEW days after the country had been devastated by the hot winds, Hugh met Major Hampton on the street.
“Come on,” said the major, “I am going over to the Patriot office, and I want to have a talk with you.”
“All right,” replied Hugh; “financially, I am ruined; and I now have more time on my hands than anything else.”
On reaching the major’s den at the Patriot office, he turned to Hugh and said, “I can distinctly see, Mr. Stanton, that there’s something on your mind. Perhaps you’d like to ask my advice. If so, you need not be backward.”
Hugh laughed good-naturedly, as he puffed a ring of cigar smoke toward the ceiling. “Well,” he replied, “bankruptcy stares us in the face. Our bank, in all probability, will have to close its doors. Is not that quite enough to have on one’s mind?”
“Quite enough,” replied the major, “but there is something else that is worrying you. Come, what is it?”
“I almost believe, Major, that you are a mind-reader,” replied Hugh.
“Oh, I am a student,” replied the major, “and it would be strange, indeed, if I had not made some progress in all my years of study.”
“Well, I will ask you a question,” said Hugh. “If something you coveted very much were within your grasp, and you should awaken to find that it really belonged to another – some one whom you believed unworthy of the prize – what would you do?”
The major lay back on the lounge, and, after deliberating fora moment, replied: “From a selfish standpoint, I would secure for myself that which I coveted; but from an altruistic standpoint, it would be mean, low, and contemptible to take an unfair advantage of one’s equals, and much worse to take advantage of one’s inferiors. Again, the prize coveted should not be made a football, to toss about for transitory pleasure. One becomes a social outcast when he loves himself better than he loves his neighbor.”
The major’s reply struck home, and Hugh was noticeably ill at ease. Presently he said, “Major, what is going to become of the Southwest? The crops are all burned up, – our bank securities are worthless. Financially, I am a ruined man.”
“Help the poor,” replied the major. “Personally I have laid something away that will help me to accomplish charitable purposes toward the ever increasing army of unfortunates. Next year the crops may be better. I believe it is in my power to put you in a way to retrieve some of your lost fortune, and at the same time enable you to benefit mankind.”
“In what way?” asked Hugh, eagerly.
The major hesitated for a few moments, and then said: “I do not feel at liberty to explain just now, but I will think it over for a day or two, and if I can be of service to you, Stanton, you will find me a true friend. My keenest pleasure is in befriending those in need of help, and wreathing the face of pain and sorrow with smiles of gladness.”
“Thank you, Major,” replied Hugh, “It’s very kind of you, I am sure, and I shall wait with impatience for any suggestions that you may have to offer.”
That evening Hugh called at the major’s house. He quite forgot his losses and the ruined condition of the country in the pleasant conversation with the major and his daughter. The music, which formed a feature of the evening, was concluded by Marie singing a selection from Tannhbuser.
As Hugh was getting ready to bid his host good night, the major said: “Stanton, I am exceedingly glad you came to-night; I feel ennobled, – feel that it is good to live and that my days have been lengthened. The true epicurean of rationalism teaches us that the good and bad in man are engaged in a constant combat, and even the bad can better enjoy occasional indulgence by permitting the good to rule most of the time.” It struck Hugh as being an odd remark for the major to make.
After bidding them good night, he walked hurriedly along the street toward the hotel in a thoughtful mood. When he reached his room, he sat down by the open window, determined to reach a decision in regard to Ethel Horton.
He had now been in Meade a little over a year. His inheritance of fifty thousand dollars from his father’s estate had been swept away by the hot winds, and the securities which he held, bearing a high rate of interest, were practically worthless. The cattlemen were the only people who had not suffered by the cancerous breath that had swept over the country.
Ethel had trusted him to decide a momentous question. If he decided one way, Ethel Horton would become his wife. A voice whispered to him from the night wind, “Do this, and you need not care for the fortune you have lost. Ethel is the only child and heiress to millions.”
“No,” shouted Hugh, vehemently, starting up as if combating with the tempter, “no, that is a contemptible, cowardly thought. It is true that to-day poverty with her sable robe envelops me, and that a fortune is mine if I will only reach out and take it – a fortune that will make me a Croesus, while a resigned and heart-broken woman is ready to lift up her fair white arms to me as her savior, if I – I, Hugh Stanton – am willing to place upon her lips the kiss of a Judas. Shall I do it?” Conscience pricked him to a decision, and he fairly shouted, “Never, never, so long as my soul is in partnership with God Almighty.” His clenched fist struck the table. His victory was complete.
Seating himself at his desk, he hastily wrote the following letter:
“My dear Jack: – About a year ago I called on you and said good-bye. Forgive me for not writing before. Jack, this letter must determine whether I ever again address you as a friend. I have met Ethel Horton, and have learned – God knows the price of the wisdom – that her heart is wholly yours. Why have you trampled upon it? If you are an honorable man, as I have ever believed you to be, answer her letter, or, better still, come to me at once. I regard her as one of the noblest girls in the wide, wide world. If the love which you whispered to her at Lake Geneva was not sincere, then I am no longer your friend, but shall ever remain your enemy.
“Awaiting an answer, I am“Your friend,“Hugh Stanton.”
He enclosed this letter in an envelope and addressed it to Jack Redfield. He then wrote the following:
“My dear Ethel: – Only God knows how earnestly I have deliberated and prayed over the question which you commissioned me to decide. Since I saw you last, my thoughts have been given to this one subject. I feel exalted to-night. My soul has arisen from the mists of doubt and uncertainty, – and, I hope, selfishness, – and the way seems clearer to me. My regard for you remains unchanged, but I will not insist on your becoming my wife. To do this would prove me cowardly, selfish, and unjust. To pursue the course I have marked out, will, I trust, demonstrate ere long, – not only that I am unselfish where you are concerned, but also that I am securing a greater happiness for you than you could possibly know if our lives were more closely linked together. Do not think that I have arrived at this conclusion hastily, – far from it. It has cost me much suffering and many heartaches. You spoke of a calamity, – be patient and wait; an avenue of escape, bordered with fairest flowers, awaits you.
“Affectionately your friend,“Hugh,”
After this letter was written, sealed, and addressed to Ethel Horton, Hugh paced the room, weighing the justice of his conclusion. Yes, he believed he had acted honorably.
Notwithstanding the lateness of the hour, he went out and posted his letter to Jack Redfield; then, mounting his horse, he galloped away across the prairie toward Horton’s Grove. As he neared the place, he met Mrs. Osborn’s turnout, and he noticed, as it passed him, that Lord Avondale accompanied her. Dismounting and hitching his horse, he walked along the winding path, and was fortunate in meeting one of the servants. After securing her promise that the letter would be delivered at once to Miss Ethel, he dropped a coin into her hand and, turning back, was soon riding homeward.
When Ethel had broken the seal and read Hugh’s letter, no tears came to her eyes, but, as she put it from her, a stony expression was on her face. “He has no use for the worm-eaten rose,” said she to herself, “that’s what his letter means. A girl’s artificiality is forced upon her in this cold, scheming world. I long to get away from it all. Oh, Hugh, my fancied tower of strength, – you, too, are crumbling. The environments are closing around me. I presume resistance is almost useless. Nothing will satisfy them but a human sacrifice on the altar of a questionable nobility, and a repetition of the old fable of the earthen and iron pots drifting down the stream together.”
Mrs. J. Bruce-Horton was looking out of her window and recognized Hugh Stanton as he came up the path. She surmised that he had brought some communication for Ethel, and she determined to make sure before retiring. She rapped at Ethel’s door, and, without further announcement, made her appearance in her daughter’s room.
“Why are n’t you in bed, Ethel?” she asked, stroking the girl’s heavy tresses affectionately. “I fear you are not getting sufficient sleep. You look pale, and there are dark circles under your eyes.”
Ethel was indeed far from the rosy-cheeked girl of a few months before. She seemed listless and indifferent, as her mother went on. She spoke, in an incidental way at first and then with feverish enthusiasm, of Lord Avondale, and told Ethel how madly in love with her he was.
“Mamma, mamma, please don’t!” cried Ethel, burying her face in her hands.
“Why, child, you must not take on so,” said her mother, drawing near and attempting to take her in her arms. “Come, Ethel, you must be sensible about this. You should have confidence in my judgment. It is for your good, – really it is.”
After a time, Ethel looked up at her mother. Her hot cheeks had dried the tears. Her voice sounded strangely harsh, as she said, “Very well, mamma, make yourself easy; I will do as you wish.” There was a sad smile of resignation on the face of the girl as she spoke. She permitted her mother to take her in her arms, and she listened to her expressions of gratitude.
Ethel had surrendered to the wishes of an ambitious mother, whose respect for titled aristocracy exceeded her admiration for independent American womanhood.
The next morning a thin, misty rain began falling. A prayer of thanksgiving was in the hearts of the people. The rain gradually increased and continued a steady downpour all that day and night, and all of the following day. The earth was saturated with refreshing moisture. Then the sun came out, wreathed in smiling gladness. The browned landscape took on a new life. The buffalo-grass, within a few days, was a carpet of living green. The cacti put forth new shoots and spines, and their buds opened into beautiful flowers, as fragrant as the Cape jasmine. The sunflowers lifted their drooping leaves, and bulbs of promise swelled in triumph under the caressing rays of the wooing sun.
No wonder hope sprang up anew in the hearts of the farmers. True their crops were gone, – the country devastated, – but here was nature smiling with promise. To them it was the rainbow of hope, and they began making ready for another seed-time.
CHAPTER XXIX. – JACK REDFIELD ARRIVES
CATTLE Thieving and Its Punishment,” was the headline of an editorial written by Maj. Buell Hampton for the Patriot. This editorial, perhaps, brought its writer more subscribers from the cattlemen than any other one editorial ever published in southwestern Kansas.
Notwithstanding this article and the wide notice it received, cattle thieving continued. John Horton estimated that he had lost, during the year, fully one hundred thousand dollars worth of beeves, while other cattlemen of less pretensions had also lost heavily.
With a view to popularizing the Barley Hullers, Major Hampton announced through the columns of his paper that he was preparing to issue a general order to all lodges of Barley Hullers bordering on No-Man’s-Land, to resolve themselves into committees, and, by a concert of action, annihilate, root and branch, the cattle-thieving cancer that had fastened itself upon the frontier of the Southwest.
Since the country had been devastated by hot winds, cattle thieving had noticeably increased. Major Hampton’s duties as district organizer of the Farmers’ Alliance, also as a general lecturer of the Barley Hullers’ organization, called him away from his home much of the time.
He was perhaps the most resourceful citizen of Meade, and, when not engaged in work that called him away from home, he was actively and energetically endeavoring to advance the interests of his town by advocating policies that he believed to be for the good of the people, and by secretly giving help to the needy. It was a noticeable feet that the farmers in their straitened circumstances, surrounded by ruin and want, became more active than ever in organizing Alliances. Overtaken by a great calamity, they seemed to believe that the laws of both state and nation were seriously at fault. They denounced the money-lender and the coupon-clipper in scathing terms. Day after day they brooded over their misfortunes, nursed their wrath, and swore vengeance against the loan companies and the capitalists to whom they had mortgaged their farms. They forgot that the merchant and the banker who had given them credit were also bankrupts.
In the meantime, the announcement of the betrothal of Ethel Horton to Lord Avondale was heralded throughout the country. Mrs. Osborn may have been responsible for its wide publicity. Hugh was greatly depressed by the turn affairs had taken.
One morning he received a letter from Jack Redfield, which briefly stated that his letter had been received and that he would leave Chicago for Meade the next day. Hugh wondered whether Jack’s presence in the Southwest might not now complicate matters more than ever, but he concluded that its possible beneficial results were well worth the trial. “Ethel must be saved,” said he; and conscience applauded the declaration. He knew her to be a proud and spirited girl, and, now that her betrothal to Lord Avondale had been announced, he feared she would be actuated by some fancied sense of duty.
That same evening, by invitation, Hugh called at the Osborns. The old captain was not a man easily discouraged. He told Hugh that they must keep the bank doors open at all hazards, and, if possible, never permit the word “failure” to cloud their name.
“We may lose our private fortunes, Hugh, my boy,” said he, “but if you have the blood in your veins that your father had, you will care more about protecting your name, and having it said by the world that every depositor was paid in full, than you will for the fortune you have lost.”
Mrs. Osborn seemed but little distressed by the captain’s financial embarrassment. She was as animated and bewitching as ever in her conversation. Little Harry nestled in his father’s arms, and seemed to realize, far more keenly than his mother, that the old captain was engulfed in a perilous position. Hugh wondered, as the conversation went on, if the captain knew what the daring tongue of gossip was saying about his wife and Lord Avondale; but he could not penetrate the calm exterior of his old friend, for nothing was to be read in his bronzed face.
“It may be that we shall have to call upon Lucy for a little money to help us out,” said the captain, winking at Hugh.
“Captain,” replied his wife, determinedly, “you have hinted several times about appropriating my private fortune to save yourself from bankruptcy, and I want you to understand distinctly that I object. You know I am going to England soon, and do not want to be bothered by having my private means interfered with.”
“All right, Lucy, all right,” replied the captain, but there was a look of genuine disappointment on his face as he spoke. “We will try to get along without calling on you. You see, Hugh, when Mrs. Osborn and I were married, I made her a present of a hundred thousand dollars in government bonds. I collect the interest and place it in her private account, and keep the bonds securely locked in a strong box in our vault.”
“That reminds me, Captain,” observed his wife, rather frigidly, “I wish to take my bonds with me when I start for England. I have concluded to deposit them in a New York bank.” The captain made no reply.
“When do you expect to start on your European trip?” inquired Hugh.
“In six weeks,” replied Mrs. Osborn. “You know Ethel is to be married on the first of September, and we shall start immediately after that notable event. You really must not ask me when I am going to return,” she said, laughing coquettishly. “Lord Avondale has extended such a pressing invitation that I have at last yielded. Mrs. Horton says we may not return for a year.”
The next day Doctor Redfield came. His meeting with Hugh was at first a little strained, but soon mellowed into the old-time comradeship.
“Why the deuce, Hugh, didn’t you tell me before leaving Chicago, that you were coming to this out-of-the-way frontier town of Meade?” asked Redfield, when they were comfortably seated in Hugh’s room at the hotel.
“It certainly was very careless of me not to,” replied Hugh, “and I was likewise very neglectful in not writing to you long before I did. You see, Jack, the frontier was like a new world to me – foil of excitement and money-getting. Why, at one time, before the hot winds came, I supposed that I had at least doubled my fortune, and now, – well, let us not talk about it, – it is practically all gone. I shall not care for the lost fortune, however, if I can only in some small way help to bring you and Ethel together. Ah, Jack, she is indeed a fine character.”
Doctor Redfield paced the floor in silence for a few minutes. “I never knew the meaning of the word love, until I met Ethel Horton at Lake Geneva,” he finally said. “My whole heart was, then and there, given to her. I have been waiting the longest year of my life for the letter that never came – a letter that would tell me to come. The destiny marked out for her by her ambitious mother, I fear, has proved stronger than her love. Really, Hugh, did you ever read a more cruel letter than the one Mrs. Horton wrote me?”
“Let me see it again,” said Hugh. “I have a suspicion that Mrs. Horton never wrote that letter.”
“What do you mean?” asked Jack, in astonishment, as he handed it to Hugh.
“Just this,” replied Hugh, “I have an impression that it was written by Mrs. Osborn. I should like to show this handwriting to Captain Osborn.”
“As you like,” replied Jack. “But what am I to do? Here I am, within a half-hour’s ride of Ethel; have come without her permission, only to learn of her approaching marriage to Lord Avondale. Was ever a man placed in such a trying position?”
“Cheer up, old fellow,” said Hugh, good-naturedly. “Come, faint heart ne’er won fair lady – or anything else. We must prevent this widely-published marriage if possible.”
“Easily enough said,” replied Jack, dejectedly. “Of course,” he went on, half jestingly, “we might raid her home some dark night and carry her off into captivity, and then take our chances on a reconciliation.”
“Not a bad idea, after all,” said Hugh, elevating his eyebrows, “and if we are pushed too closely by the enemy, we may consider the plan seriously. You see, Jack, I would not be quite frank with you did I not confess that at one time I asked Ethel Horton to become my wife.” Jack looked at his friend in utter astonishment. “Yes,” Hugh went on, “and that is the way I learned of her love for you – a love that you never need doubt. I was dumfounded, for how should I be expected to know that you had ever met her. I finally pulled myself together, however, and sent for you.”
Jack took his friend’s hand in both his own, and pressed it warmly. “Hugh,” said he, “you are a good fellow. The fight is now on, and, with your help, I must and shall win.”
They talked far into the night, but this did not deter them from arising early next morning and making ready for a horseback ride. Immediately after breakfast they set out for Martilla, a little village some fifteen miles to the northwest.
“I want to show you Kansas,” said Hugh, “and there is no better way for you to meet the people and familiarize yourself with their customs. The recent heavy rain has made the country look habitable again. If the rains had only come before the hot winds, why – we would have had no hot winds, and plenty instead of poverty would now be the farmer’s lot, to say nothing of my own condition.”
The morning was an ideal one. There was an exhilarating tonic in the soft west winds. Vast herds dotted the prairie. The catde, in their lazy, contented way, went on biting shorter the short, green buffalo-grass.
A little way on, at the side of the road, lay a cowboy reading, while his bronco was near him, munching and browsing. As they drew near, Hugh exclaimed, “Why, it’s Seaton Cornwall, my English friend!” They reined their horses and dismounted.
Seaton Cornwall arose from where he had been lying, laid aside his book and came toward them. After an introduction, Doctor Redfield observed: “I see you pass some of your time reading. An interesting novel, I suppose?”
“No, I was reading ‘Plutarch’s Lives,’ replied Cornwall. Since leaving Oxford I have never been able to give up entirely my admiration for some of the old masters, and, notwithstanding my home is on a catde range, I still find great pleasure in keeping up my studies.”
“Mr. Cornwall,” interposed Hugh, “is one of my earliest acquaintances in Kansas, and, while he is of English birth and a lover of his native land, still, he admires America and American institutions.”
“Yes,” said Cornwall, “instead of hearing the music of ‘God Save the Queen’ out here, or even my ‘My Country, ‘T is of Thee,’ I listen to the lowing of herds, the bawl of mavericks, the yelp of coyotes, and the howl of wolves. However, I am not lonely, for I have quite a number of books with me.”
“I hope you like America?” Doctor Redfield interrogated.
“Very much, indeed,” replied Cornwall. “There are opportunities here which England can never give to her people. I love the land of my birth, I love Englishmen and English ways, – I none the less, however, love democratic America and the opportunities that it affords. We are one race, anyway, speaking a common language and closely allied on all international subjects.”
“England,” he continued, “is seriously misunderstood by many in America. This misunderstanding is occasioned by adventurers with titles, questionable or otherwise, who do not represent the true sentiment of the mother country. Personally, I believe that a country which affords me a home and protection, and which I have adopted for my own, merits my loyalty and unswerving devotion; therefore, although not an American born, I am in sentiment American, in all that the term implies. Indeed, I have no patience with that class of my countrymen who omit no opportunity to impress upon the people of this country the superiority of England and her people. It is a cockney trait at the best, and does not represent the true sentiments of England toward her American cousins.”
“I am delighted at your expressions,” said Doctor Redfield.
“That which prejudices Americans against the English,” continued Seaton Cornwall, “more than any other thing, is the delegation of adventurers who come to this country to barter their titles for American wealth. Fortunately, they deal with a class of Americans as foolish as they are themselves. Efforts in this direction, both on the part of my countrymen and on the part of Americans, are to be lamented. Indeed, in my opinion, this class of intermarriages engenders more criticism on the part of the masses than any other one thing in this generation, and if this selfish and ambitious, ‘barter and sale’ custom were abrogated, America and England would entertain still more friendly relations than they do to-day.”
When Hugh and Doctor Redfield had taken their leave of Cornwall, the latter returned to his Plutarch. Hugh and Jack, as they rode on, mutually agreed that Cornwall entertained a most sensible view of the existing conditions, and both deplored the Anglomania of the age.
At midday Hugh drew rein and dismounted in front of a dugout home. It was a sample of hundreds in the Southwest, and from the outside had more the appearance of a cyclone cellar than a dwelling.
The owner came out and greeted them warmly, and, with usual western hospitality, insisted that they feed their jaded animals, and share with his family their noonday meal.
“I assure you,” said Mr. Redner, “that such as we have you are most welcome to.”
The Redner family consisted of Mr. Redner, his wife, a lovely daughter, Miss Lena, and a son whom they called Dick. Their dugout home was furnished with fragments of eastern elegance. A Chickering upright stood in one corner, strangely contrasting with the rude sideboard-table, which was supported by pins fastened in the wall.
The luncheon consisted of corn bread, potatoes, bacon, and coffee. No apology was offered for the meagre fare. It was the best they had.
The Redner family was a representative one. They had emigrated from the East to better their condition, if possible, in the great Southwest. The devastation of the hot winds had reduced them to direst want. Even the absolute necessities became luxuries. This frugality and scant provender was but a link in the great chain of experiences on the frontier. In all their suffering, these people were still happy in anticipation that after awhile the rain belt would creep westward, and that their homestead of 160 acres would yet bless them in their old age.
After luncheon, Hugh and Doctor Redfield bade adieu to the Redner family, and turned their ponies homeward by a circuitous route.
“We will return by a different route,” said Hugh, “for it just occurs to me that I want you to see the flowing wells in the Crooked Valley north of Meade.”
“This is a new life to me,” said Jack, – “the frontier. It has a new meaning to me.”
“Yes,” replied Hugh, “and, strange as it may seem, I love the frontier. It is true the hot winds have swept away my fortune, and I am penniless. Still, on the frontier one is surrounded by friends different from those one makes in cities, – the great congested centres of our population.”
“I deeply regret,” replied Jack, “your having come into this inhospitable place. However, old fellow, your coming may be the means of my succeeding in restoring relations with Ethel.”
“It must be the means,” said Hugh, decidedly. “Really, Jack, I hardly believe you understand the depth and nobleness of Ethel’s character.”
“Well, Hugh,” replied Jack, thoughtfully, “I know she appealed to me as no other woman ever has or ever will. You assure me that she still loves me. This fills me with a determination at least to let her know that my love is the one strong fiber of the fabric in my existence.”
“You will not fail, Jack, but if you should – ?”
“Ah! if I should,” said Jack, energetically, as he looked far away across the prairie, “yes, that is a question to be considered. If Ethel, for any reason, objects to marrying me, excepting for the one reason that she does not love me, I will overcome every obstacle, and carry her away. If, contrary to your belief, her love has been given to another, or she no longer cares for me, I will return to Chicago and devote my life to my profession. True, my sad heart may be reflected in my countenance; but then, you know, a physician’s life leads him into scenes of suffering, and it is not strange if sometimes one’s surroundings are depicted in one’s face, and my patients will interpret my sadness as sympathy rather than a broken heart. After all,” mused Jack, “an elastic falsehood by inference is often more impressive than a cumbersome truth indifferently spoken.”
For awhile they rode on in silence, when suddenly Jack, in some surprise, exclaimed, “Why, what is that over yonder?” pointing to an agile prairie-dog, and then another, and still another.
“They are prairie-dogs,” laughingly replied Hugh. “There may be ten thousand dogs within a radius of half a mile.”
“Well, what a novel sight!” exclaimed Doctor Redfield. “I should say there were rather more than ten thousand, than less, and every one of the little fellows sitting up on his haunches in such an observant way.” With this, Jack put spurs to his horse, and made a dash toward the nearest prairie-dog, uttering a great whoop as he did so, when, instantly, this army of prairie-dogs disappeared as if by magic into their burrowed homes.
“Well, did you ever!” he ejaculated in wonder at the activity of these little animals.
“Yes,” replied Hugh, “they really possess great caution. It is said they migrate in companies from one locality to another, and live principally on roots.”
While they were yet talking, a myriad of heads protruded from the doorways of the underground ones, as if sentinels on the lookout for danger, with petite faces turned toward Jack and Hugh.
“Just look at the little fellows,” cried Jack, enthusiastically, “hundreds of little heads, and double that number of spying eyes peeping at us in intense wonderment. How I should like to carry some of them back to Chicago with me.”
“And deprive them of their liberty?” asked Hugh.
“I forgot,” replied Jack, “that you are a sympathizer with the Humane Society.”
“I certainly am,” replied Hugh. “I would not purposely take the life of a worm. To me the freedom these little prairie-dogs enjoy in the companionship of their mates is very beautiful, and I should be grieved to see even one of them deprived of liberty. Then, too, they are the most hospitable creatures in the world. It is said that a prairie-dog town is the home of as many rattlesnakes and owls as of dogs, all occupying the same underground apartments. Whether they do so willingly or not, I am unable to say. I only know that such a condition prevails, and it is said that they live in perfect harmony.”