An Oregon Girl: A Tale of American Life in the New West. Rice Alfred Ernest

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