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

“Dear heart!” exclaimed Constance, at once proceeding to examine the girl’s eye. “Let me try to relieve you!”

As Virginia felt the touch of loving fingers on her eyelids, she felt powerless to restrain her emotion, and great tears welled up. Her weary head fell forward upon her friend’s shoulder, and she sobbed: “Oh, Constance, dear, the world to me is one black charnel house.”

The gentle nature of Constance leaped out in sympathy which, for the moment, smothered her surprise. She threw her arms around Virginia and kissed her on the temple.

That Virginia suffered was enough, she felt instinctively that such an outburst of grief was from a far deeper source than that produced by the mote in her eye.

Virginia always had confided in Constance. That desire to communicate, so natural in youth, was strong in the girl. In Hazel, she had been met with a sort of pity, till she ceased to touch upon girlish secrets with her altogether, but in Constance she found one who would not chide even folly, and so these two were, by the nature of things, very close friends.

“There, dear heart,” soothingly said Constance, “rest awhile, for I know the pain must be severe.”

Rutley was an involuntary witness to this bit of feminine sympathy, and, no doubt, recalled it to memory in the events that were to come. His immediate concern, however, expressed itself in a cold, matter-of-fact manner. “Oftentimes,” he said, “the protection supplied by nature to the human eye seems insufficient, and consequent suffering must be endured. I trust Miss Thorpe will soon find relief.”

“Oh! I am sure the pain is only temporary,” half rebelliously replied Virginia, drawing away from Constance, and rapidly recovering her self-possession, as she brushed the tears from her eyes. “There,” she said, “it is passing away now, and I can see quite distinctly already. Why, how like your lordship resembles a past acquaintance,” she remarked, as she eyed him critically.

“Indeed, if the acquaintance you mention was not consigned to the gallows, it might be no sin to resemble him,” responded Rutley, stroking his Vandyke beard.

“Oh! his offense was quite serious, poor fellow! Some shady bond transaction with an investment association, in which he, and one Jack Shore, were the officers. I have heard that the directors agreed not to prosecute them on condition that they left the city and never returned.”

“In England, were it not for the color of my hair, I should have been taken often for the Marquis of Revelstoke,” and to the girl’s dismay, he stiffened up and directed on her a most austere and frigid look, then deliberately fixed the monocle to his eye, and remarked, as his frame faintly quivered, as with a slight chill – “It’s deuced draughty, don’t-che-know!”

He then removed the monocle, and suddenly resumed his habitually suave manner. Picking up a binocle, which lay on the table, he turned to look toward Mt. Hood – “Sublime!” he exclaimed.

“It is very beautiful and white today,” remarked Constance.

“Indeed,” assured Rutley, “it seems close enough to touch with my outstretched hand.”

“My lord’s arm would need to be thirty miles long,” smiled Mrs. Thorpe, who was then ascending the steps.

“A long reach,” responded Rutley, lowering the glass.

“The illusion is due to our clear atmosphere,” replied Mrs. Thorpe.

“I presume so,” agreed Rutley.

“At times the air is phenomenally clear. One day this past Summer I fancied I could make out the ‘Mazamas,’ who were then ascending the mountain,” quietly remarked Virginia.

“Aw, indeed, very likely; quite so,” continued Rutley, handing the glass to Constance, and then turning to Virginia with an alluring smile, added: “And then, the ladies – are so bewitchingly entertaining.”

“Presumably your idea of American girls has suggested the art of flattery.”

“No, no!” he replied. “It’s no flattery, I assure you.”

Just then Hazel and Mr. Corway approached the group standing on the piazza.

Virginia saw them, and with an affected sigh, she turned to John Thorpe, who was standing at the head of the piazza steps, and who also was looking at the approaching couple, and taking him aside, said in a low voice: “John, has it occurred to you that Corway is a handsome man?”

“He certainly is good looking and well proportioned, too,” replied Thorpe, with a quizzical stare at his sister, and his stare developed a smile, as he added, pleasantly: “But why? – are you, too, becoming enamored of this handsome man?”

With downcast eyes, and sudden flushed cheeks, that betrayed the shame she felt at the part she had elected to assume, her answer was given in a low, serious voice: “I have reason to warn you as my cousin’s guardian, that his intentions are not of the best.”

Thorpe felt a strange gripping sensation creep into his heart, and then he, too, looked serious, but his seriousness quickly passed, as he thoughtfully muttered: “No, no, ’tis impossible!” and then, in a more unperturbed manner, said slowly: “His reputation for honor and rectitude is above reproach.”

Though his muttering was scarcely audible, Virginia heard him. “Are you sure?” she replied, in a voice equally subdued, and with a flash of anger in her meaning glance. “You may find that he will bear watching. And you also may find that his attention to Hazel is an insult to our family honor.”

The possibility of Hazel, his guileless orphan niece, of whom he was so proud, could be the victim of a base deception, had never entered his mind, and so it happened that the first shadow that had darkened the serenity of his trust, was, strangely enough, projected by his sister.

As his eyes again fell upon Hazel’s sweet, sensible face, then lifted to the manly, honest countenance of her companion, he at once banished the fear from his mind, and impatiently exclaimed: “Oh, this is nonsense!” Then he turned on his heel, hesitated, and again turned, and looked furtively at Corway, muttering: “Yet I cannot banish the thought. I wonder what causes Virginia – no, I have never suspected him of vice.” Then he slowly disappeared through the vestibule.

As Corway and Hazel approached the steps, Virginia seemed to stiffen and slightly shudder. She felt like ice, and disdained the slightest recognition which he made to her. She turned away with a look of ineffable contempt, and moved slowly over to Rutley and Constance.

Corway instinctively felt that she had been a witness to his scene with Hazel, but he affected unconcern, and allowed the incident to pass without comment.

During the brief time this significant episode was being enacted, Hazel’s attention was attracted to Sam and Dorothy approaching on the drive, so she was unaware of the change that had come over her cousin.

“You must come in, Sam, ’cause I like you, and you haven’t been to see us for a long time – Oh, mamma, we have had such fine fun, Sam and I” – and there appeared from around the corner of the piazza Dorothy Thorpe pulling Sam Harris along by the sleeve.

“Well, Sam,” said Mrs. Thorpe, overlooking him from the piazza, “we thought you had forgotten us.”

“No, indeed,” replied Sam, and as he discovered Virginia, he added under his breath: “At least not while that fair party is around.”

“Of course, you have acted as Mrs. Harris’ escort?”

“My aunt is on the lawn,” he answered, and then as he ascended the steps, greeted Virginia. “Miss Thorpe will permit me to congratulate her upon her safe return.”

“I have had quite a journey,” replied Virginia coldly.

“Well, you have enjoyed it?” ventured Sam, and then he noted a swift questioning glance of anger.

In his dilemma, he felt an awkwardness creeping over him and grinned broadly, and then stupidly faltered: “That is, I guess so!”

“You guess wide of the mark.”

“Aha,” replied Sam, with a roguish twinkle of the eye, “my eyes do not deceive me, eh?”

“Flattery is embarrassing to me. I beg of you to avoid it.” And she thereupon, with a look of weariness, turned and disappeared through the vestibule.

“I guess so! I guess so!” exclaimed Sam, abashed, and a flush of mortification overspread his face.

“Do you like auntie, Sam?” abruptly questioned the child.

She had softly stolen to his side, unperceived, and her voice sounded so close as to startle him.

“Ea, ah! – well, I should think so,” he unconsciously muttered.

“Mercy!” exclaimed Mrs. Thorpe, who could ill repress a smile – “Dorothy, dear! I think the robins are calling for you out in the sunshine.”

“Come, little one,” said Sam, glad of an opportunity to escape from an awkward position. “And while you are listening to the feathered songsters, I’ll keep a sharp lookout for the fair party you call auntie. Come,” and he took the child’s hand and the two ran down the steps. Darting around the corner, they almost collided with John Thorpe and Mrs. Harris, who were approaching to join the company on the piazza.

“Ha – democratic Hazel in the role of ‘noblesse oblige,’ is something new – congratulations, my lord, on the conquest!” said Mrs. Harris.

“I am proud of the acquaintance of so fair a a democrat,” and confronting Mrs. Harris, he continued: “England’s nobility lays homage at the feet of your fair democrats, for they are the golden links in the chain of conquest.”

“And it is my hope that soon one of the golden links will bear the distinguished title, Lady Beauchamp,” replied Mrs. Harris, while her eyes flashed a merry twinkle in the direction of Hazel.

“Of course,” remarked Mr. Corway, who, flushed with jealousy resented the allusion. “His lordship doubtless since his arrival in the country has been overwhelmed with offerings of the youth and beauty of America.”

“It seems to me that you are talking in mysteries,” remarked Hazel.

Mr. Corway moved toward her. “I appeal to the shrine of beauteous Hebe for vindication.”

“Ha! ha! ha! ha!” laughed the girl. “Wouldn’t it be a surprise if the appeal should be negative?”

“But the shrine of Hebe is not often invincible,” rejoined Constance. “You must remember there is hope and there is perseverence – but this is irrelevant,” and, turning to Mrs. Harris, continued: “Have you left Mr. Harris at Rosemont?”

“Oh, no! James is out in the flower garden, discussing rose culture with Virginia.”

“Then I propose that we join them,” said Mrs. Thorpe.

“And I suggest a stroll through the lovely lawn, under the glory of Autumn foliage,” added Rutley, who immediately turned and offered Constance his arm, and the two passed down the steps.

Hazel and Corway were following Rutley, when John Thorpe attracted the girl’s attention by quietly exclaiming: “Hazel!”

She at once turned to Corway: “I shall be with you directly – uncle has something to say to me.”

As Mr. Corway and Mrs. Harris passed down the steps, John Thorpe and Hazel entered the house.

“You have something to say to me, Uncle?”

“Yes, Hazel,” and as they passed into the drawing room he bit his lip in an endeavor to appear unperturbed.

With a girl’s intuition, she scented something unpleasant, and with a timid and startled look, she faltered: “What – is it Uncle?”

“Hazel,” he began, and his eyes rested on his beautiful niece – very beautiful just then, her eyes bright and clear and “peach-bloom” of health, the famed Oregon coloring so becoming to the sex, and as he looked at her he became suddenly conscious of a struggle raging in his breast. A struggle between doubt and confidence – but he stumbled on slowly – “I think – you show more – concern for – a – the company of Mr. Corway than prudence – I mean – Hazel!”

At that moment Virginia pushed aside the portiere and silently stepped into the room.

John Thorpe paused, for he saw the girl’s face whiten, and her eyes look into his with an expression of wonderment, and then his heart seemed to leap to his throat, and choke him with a sense of shame at his implication.

He put his arm gently about her, looked into the depths of her blue eyes, and said, kindly: “As you love the memory of your father and your mother, Hazel, beware that you do not make too free in the society of Corway. Let your conduct be hedged about with propriety” —

“Uncle!” she interrupted, drawing away from him like a startled fawn hit from ambush.

Virginia saw her opportunity to sever the friendship between her brother and Corway.

Before her transformation she would have been shocked beyond measure at so wicked a falsehood, as she then decided to launch. Impelled by a consuming desire for revenge, no blush of shame checked her mad course, and “no still small voice” warned her of her sin.

She said: “John, if our family honor is to be protected from scandal, you will prevent your niece from having further to do with Mr. Corway.”

Both John and Hazel turned toward her. A deep silence ensued.

Implicit trust and confidence, the confidence begotten in perfect domestic peace and contentment, had followed John Thorpe – but now, for the first time, he found a tinge of shame and indignation had crept into his heart – and he could not banish it.

At last he gravely broke the silence – “Have you no answer to this, Hazel?”

The girl’s eyes flashed resentment, but she refrained from angry expression, for to her uncle she always showed the greatest deference, yet her voice trembled a little as she said, with girlish dignity: “I decline to reply to such an absurdity.”

“Hazel!” warned Virginia, “you are dangerously near ruin when in the company of that man, for his reputation is anything but clean.”

Again a painful silence followed, Hazel, appearing incapable of clearly understanding just what it was all about, stood dumb with astonishment, while John’s varied emotions were seen plainly through the thin veneer of tranquility he tried to maintain.

John Thorpe was jealous of the honor of his house. The mere thought of its possible violation bruised and lacerated him.

Proud of his high position in society; proud of his high rectitude; proud of his father’s untarnished life; proud of the fact that not the faintest shadow of scandal could ever attach to his house or name – the hinted criminations of his his orphan niece, maintained in his home as one of the family, beat upon him with much the same effect as the horrifying wings of a bat upon the face of a frightened child.

Virginia saw and felt that the crisis of her ruse was near. Again a flush of daring sprang into her eyes, ominous of deeper sin, but John unconsciously spared her from further commitment. Doubt was master at last, for he chose to lean toward Virginia.

“Hazel!” he exclaimed, his white, grave face betraying a keen sense of his shame. “Your rash fondness for that man is a sacrifice of affection, and I shall forbid him visiting our house.”

“A wise precaution,” commented Virginia.

At last Hazel’s indignation broke through all restraint.

“I am astonished at your implications,” she retorted, her voice becoming pathetic with the sense of her wounded honor. “My ‘rash fondness’! Uncle!” and she drew her slight form up erect, her eyes flashing defiance: “If to believe in Mr. Corway’s preferment is a sacrifice of affection, then that sacrifice is to me an exalted honor, for I have consented to become his wife!”

“Hazel!” gasped John Thorpe, amazed and dismayed at her declaration.

“I have suspected such a calamity would happen – but even now it is not too late to prevent it!” exclaimed Virginia, sharply.

“Why, Virginia,” reproached Hazel, with a stamp of her foot. “You insult me!” and she turned away to conceal the tears that arose.

During a short, impressive silence, Mrs. Harris abruptly entered the room, followed by Corway and Sam. “Dear me!” she exclaimed, as she smilingly surveyed the trio, “James has often gone into raptures over the domestic cooing of the Thorpes, but I was quite unaware that it made them careless of the wishes of their guests.

“Thorpe, your arm” – and she swept down the room and seized his arm. “Hazel, I have brought you an escort,” and with a smile at Virginia, “I don’t think that Sam is far away. You cannot refuse to come now.”

Hazel proudly accepted Corway’s arm. Then they turned to leave the room. As they neared the door, Virginia exclaimed, with low but startling irony: “Il. cavalier is careful to make it appear he is delighted with the society of his affianced. No doubt feeling an honorable justification for his mercenary felicity. Ho, ho,” Virginia laughed, her lips quivering with scorn. “The situation is charming. Ha, ha, ha, ha.”

The principals to this little drama understood its meaning perfectly, but while Mrs. Harris paused for an instant in wonderment, her easy nature forbade worry – and so the incident quickly passed out of her memory, and Sam was too shrewd to show that he heard it, and with his round face beaming with unquenchable admiration, bowed and offered his arm to her, accompanied by the characteristic side movement of his head – “Ea, ha, I guess so – eh, Auntie?”

The joyous manner of utterance was like a shaft of sunshine bursting through the dark, tragic clouds of impending storm.

Virginia’s first attack fell short of accomplishing the purpose intended, yet the seed of doubt, of suspicion and fear of family disgrace had been grounded in her brother’s mind, and it would be strange, indeed, if Corway’s position proved invulnerable to more carefully-planned attacks.

It must be remembered that an opportunity had come at an unexpected moment, and she impulsively seized upon it. Through it all, however, Virginia must be credited with a sincere belief that Corway’s intentions toward Hazel were as insincere and mercenary as they had been to her.

CHAPTER II

The night of the Harris reception at “Rosemont,” in honor of Lord Beauchamp, was beautiful. Dark, yet serene and tranquil as the illimitable void through which the myriad of glittering stars swept along on their steady course.

The long, gentle, sloping, velvety lawn, stretching away from the broad steps of the great columned piazza, down to the placid waters of the Willamette, was artistically beautified by clusters of magnolias and chestnut trees and native oaks and firs, while the soft sway of advanced Autumn was disclosed in the mellow, gorgeous tints of the oak and maple leaf projected against the dark evergreen of the stately fir; and afar off, to the north, through vistas in the foliage, gleamed the steady electric arc lights of the city.

Marble statuary glistened in white repose, and groups of majestic palms and ferns and holly stood illumined in the soft light of frosted electric globes and quaint Oriental lanterns.

Out from the deep shadow of a wide-spreading oak, and remote from the range of illumination, an old, decrepit and poorly clad man emerged, peering cautiously about, as if afraid of discovery. As he approached near the house and came under the gleams of light, it could be seen that he was gray-haired and a cripple, for he hobbled slowly with the aid of a stout stick. He proceeded to a clump of ferns and close to a high-back, rustic seat, behind which he stood partially concealed.

Feeling satisfied that he had not been seen, and that he was alone, that part of the grounds being temporarily deserted, he muttered impatiently: “Where the devil does Rutley keep himself? I’ve been dodging about these grounds for an hour trying to locate him, and to get posted.”

The words had scarcely escaped his lips when down behind the seat he ducked.

Simultaneously, Virginia Thorpe and William Harris appeared, descending the piazza steps.

“Congratulations, Mr. Harris, on your reception. It is a brilliant affair, and the grounds are simply beautiful.”

“I am delighted at receiving congratulations from a lady whose taste is acknowledged without a peer.”

“Now, Mr. Harris, you know I object to flattery,” responded Virginia, in a deprecating tone of voice. “Why, I have lost my fan. How unfortunate! I fear I have dropped it in the ball-room.”

“I shall try to find it immediately. No, no; no trouble whatever.”

“Thanks, Mr. Harris. I shall await your return here.”

As Mr. Harris hastened up the steps, Virginia leisurely moved a few yards, and then sat down on a seat, quite unconscious of the figure crouched in hiding behind it.

The proximity of Virginia did not suit the fellow, and he forthwith endeavored to sneak away unseen, but the noise, faint as he made, attracted her attention.

She sprang to her feet with a slight, terrified shriek, but quickly recovering her self-possession, as she noted his aged and bent condition, gently said: “Poor old man, your intrusion on these premises may be unwelcome.” After a pause, evidently for an answer, she went on kindly: “Do you seek alms?”

Leaning on his stick he humbly removed his hat, and said in abject tones: “Pitty da sorrar dees old-a da gray hairs. Eesa mak-a da bolda to come a da here, so much-a da rich-a kind-a people to da poor old-a men lik-a da me. Ten-a years eesa black-a da boot; saw da-ood, sella da ba-nan, turnoppsis, carrotsis, ca-babbages; do any-ting for mak-a-da mon, go back-a da sunny Italy. Look-a da lame! Canna da work – mussa da beg, sweet-a da lady – kind-a charity.”

“Dear me!” replied Virginia, regretfully. “I haven’t a coin with me, but let me advise you to begone, for you must know that if you are discovered here your age will not protect you.”

The old man bowed low. “Essa many tanks, kind-a lady. Essa da go.”

“And mark me, sir,” added Mr. Harris, who had quickly returned with the fan. “Should I find you loitering around these grounds again tonight, officers will take care of you.”

“Oh, Signor! Dona tell a da po-lis. Da poor a da old a man essa much da hunger. Begga do mon to buy a da bread. Eesa da all-a Signor. Eesa da all.”

“Oh, Mr. Harris, please lend me a coin for him. I fear he really is in need,” broke in Virginia.

“There!” responded Mr. Harris, throwing him a coin. “You can thank this benevolent lady, whose presence affords you liberty. Not a word. Off with you from these grounds. Begone.”

The old fellow picked up the half-dollar piece, and hobbling away, soon disappeared into the shadow.

“It is a pleasure to return your fan. I found it in the vestibule uninjured.”

“Thanks, Mr. Harris,” said Virginia, receiving the fan. “I shall be more careful of it hereafter.”

“Ea-ah, I guess so, eh, Uncle!” broke in Sam, striding toward them.

“Oh, oh, Sam! Really!” laughed Mr. Harris, as he looked meaningly at him. “Ah! You seem delighted.”

“I think so, eh, Uncle,” accompanied by the habitual side movement of his head. “Congratulate me on having found Miss Thorpe after a long search,” and turning to Virginia, he added, with a smile broadening his face – “you have promised to dance with me. May I indulge in the pleasure now?”

“Yes, Sam,” she replied, with an air of fatigue, “but I would rather you defer the pleasure.”

“Miss Thorpe is fatigued and Sam is too much of a gallant to deny her a little rest,” appealed Mr. Harris.

“Cert!” answered Sam, as a shade of disappointment flitted across his face. “Anything I can do to serve Miss Thorpe shall be done.”

“Thank you, Sam,” replied Virginia, relieved.

“I will call upon Miss Thorpe to favor me with her company later, eh, Uncle?” and Sam bowed and quickly disappeared.

“Sam is a noble-hearted fellow! Ranged the Texas plains a few years, didn’t he?”

“Yes,” replied Mr. Harris. “When a lad he was threatened with consumption, and physicians recommended a few years of out-door life in Texas. It cured him, but he became a little fixed in the customs. Sterling fellow, though – great heart – all heart. Be seated,” pointing to the seat which she had previously occupied.

At that moment there appeared descending the piazza steps Mr. Corway, with Hazel and Constance on either side of him.

“Your reason, Corway, for doubting his title of lord?” interrogated Constance.

“I possess no proofs,” replied Corway. “I but express an opinion,” and he discreetly refrained from further utterance on the subject, though his thoughts were insistent on his identity of Lord Beauchamp as Philip Rutley.

“But you must have some grounds even for an opinion,” persisted Constance.

“Well, if he is not a lord,” hazarded Hazel, who, purposely or otherwise, by her joining the discussion, released Mr. Corway from an embarrassing reply, which at that time he was loath to make, “he certainly should be one, for he is such a dear, sweet man, so eminently exact and proper.”

“And so distinguished, don’t-che-know,” finished Mr. Corway, with such peculiarly keen mimicry and smiling abandon as to draw from Hazel a flash of admiration, and from Mrs. Thorpe a ripple of laughter with the remark, “Satire unmasked by Cupid.”

Further conversation was interrupted by Beauchamp himself, who appeared alone, descending the broad piazza steps. “It’s so warm in there I decided to refresh a little in the cool air.”

He halted a moment on one of the steps, fixed the monocle to his left eye, and lordly surveyed the two groups.

After evidently satisfying himself as to their personnel, he deliberately removed the monocle from his eye and resumed his passage down the steps. “Miss Thorpe here, and Mr. Harris, and Mrs. Thorpe, and the fair Hazel” – and ignoring Corway, he went on – “then I shall have no need to commune alone with my thoughts.”

“I am sure my Lord Beauchamp is too much of a devotee to the ‘tripping muse’ to absent himself very long from the ball-room?” volunteered Constance.

“Indeed it would be difficult for me to enjoy myself for any length of time away from the place where, as Byron puts it, ‘Youth and Beauty meet, to chase the glowing hours with flying feet.’” And moving over to Hazel, he said: “By the way, you have promised me the pleasure of dancing with you the next waltz.”

“Indeed!” replied the maid, eyeing him archly, “the honor of a waltz with my lord is too rare a favor to be neglected.”

The gracious and suave smile with which Rutley answered her was not at all appreciated by Mr. Corway.

And as Rutley glanced his way, their eyes met. Virginia saw it. She instantly grasped the full meaning of that glance – the deadly hatred of rivals.

Rutley, with familiarity begotten of mutual esteem, as he fondly hoped, linked Hazel’s yielding arm in his and led her toward the piazza. “By the way,” and he spoke very confidently, “Mr. Corway seems to have a warm attachment for Mrs. Thorpe” —

The girl halted and looked questioningly at him.

“I mean,” continued Rutley, in a sort of apologetic tone, “he is apparently quite the lion with her.”

Passing a few feet near them were John Thorpe and Mrs. Harris, who had appeared unnoticed from another part of the grounds.

John Thorpe plainly heard Rutley’s allusion to Corway and his wife, and became profoundly sensible of that same strange feeling infolding him, as he experienced when Virginia first intimated Corway’s questionable character. “Is it possible that, after all, Constance, and not Hazel, is the real object of his attention?”

He was conscious of a sense of jealousy arising within him, and so strong and virulent as to be beyond control, and compelled him to turn aside, to conceal the anger that must be depicted on his face. He halted while Mrs. Harris joined Virginia and Mr. Harris.

“Mrs. Thorpe is most attractive,” Hazel at length replied.

“I have heard that not long ago he was attached to Miss Thorpe, but lately has transferred his affection to another,” continued Rutley.

“Virginia was fond of his society, yet ’tis not always, you may remember, that those who have won our love return it.”

The strains of dreamy music drifted out upon the air.

“Well, at present, Corway seems persistent in his attentions to Mrs. Thorpe.”

Again John Thorpe winced at the connection of his wife’s name with Corway.

And then Rutley felt himself pushed aside, while Corway offered his arm to Hazel.

“Will you accompany me to the ball-room?”

Hazel drew a step aside and exclaimed, half angrily, yet seemingly rather pleased at Corway’s audacity.

“Joe!”

“Hazel!” he responded with just the faintest suggestion of command in his voice.

It was his first assumption of authority over his affianced, and he won – for unlike the “feminine forwards” of the new school, she appreciated his strong character and showed it by clinging to his arm.

Neither of these two men could be considered handsome, though Corway had the advantage of being more youthful and taller of stature, with large, bright eyes and dark curly hair, which with clear-cut, manly features, seemed to charm the fancy and captivate the maiden’s eye.

While Rutley’s graceful and pliant frame carried more elegance, an assumed superb superiority, a cold, ironical disdain and lofty ease, bespoke an imperious nature, indifferent to that soft, beguilement so charming to women.

Corway turned to Rutley, and, bowing low, exclaimed, with studied politeness: “I beg my lord’s pardon,” and so saying, he passed up the piazza steps with Hazel and disappeared within.

They were closely followed by Mr. Harris and Mrs. Thorpe.

Rutley fixed the monocle to his eye and stared at the retreating Corway in blank amazement.

Meanwhile, John Thorpe was absorbed in profound thought, and oblivious of his surroundings, said to himself: “What can his lordship mean? Corway’s persistent attention to my wife! Was that mere accidental gossip? He shall explain!” And he looked fixedly at Rutley.

It was at that moment that Mrs. Harris, having reached his side, said: “Your arm, Thorpe. Dear me!” And she started back at seeing his gloomy face. “Why, I declare, the frowning ‘Ajax’ could not look more unsociable.”

For a moment Thorpe displayed confusion, but by a strong effort subdued his agitation and offered his arm. “Of late,” he explained, “my nervous system has been subject to momentary shocks.” Leading her toward the piazza, “I beg your pardon.”

“I am afraid that unless you provide yourself with a mask for such occasions the shock is likely to become contagious,” she remarked, as they passed up the steps.

Meanwhile Rutley, having removed the monocle from his eye, allowed his frigidity to dissolve, and, slowly stepping a few paces toward the east end of the house, paused under the shadow of a magnolia, and at once seemed to plunge in deep reflection, to be startled a few moments later by hearing Virginia close to him, in a low tone, saying: “How does my lord propose to resent that insult?”