The Price of the Prairie: A Story of Kansas

  CHAPTER XX

  THE CLEFT IN THE ROCK

  And yet I know past all doubting truly, A knowledge greater than grief can dim, I know as he loved, he will love me duly, Yea, better, e'en better, than I love him.

  --JEAN INGELOW.

  While O'mie and Lettie were acting out their little drama in the storethat afternoon, Judson was up in Mrs. Whately's parlor driving homematters of business with a hasty and masterful hand. Marjie had slippedaway at his coming, and for the second time since I had left Springvaleshe took the steep way up to our "Rockport." Had she known what wasgoing on at home she might have stayed there in spite of her prejudices.

  "It's just this way, Mrs. Whately," Judson declared, when he hadformally opened the conference, "it's just this way. With all my effortsin your behalf, your business interest in the store has been eaten up byyour expenditures. Of course I know you have always lived up to acertain kind of style whether you had the money or not; and I canunderstand, bein' a commercialist, how easy those things go. But thatdon't alter the fact that you'll have no more income from the store in avery few months. I'm planning extensive changes in the Winter for nextSpring, and it'll take all the income. Do you see now?"

  "Partly," Mrs. Whately replied faintly.

  She was a sweet-spirited, gentle woman. She had been reared in a home ofluxury. Her own home had been guarded by a noble, loving husband, andher powers of resource had never been called out. Of all the women Ihave ever known, she was least fitted to match her sense of honor, herfaith in mankind, and her inexperience and lack of business knowledgeagainst such an unprincipled, avaricious man as the one who domineeredover her affairs.

  Judson had been tricky and grasping in the day of his straightenedcircumstances, but he might never have developed into the scoundrel hebecame, had prosperity not fallen upon him by chance. Sometimes it ispoverty, and sometimes it is wealth that plays havoc with a man'scharacter and leads an erring nature into consummate villainy.

  "Well, now, if you can see what I'm tellin' you, that you are just aboutpenniless (you will be in a few months; that's it, you will be soon),then you can see how magnanimous a man can be, even a busy merchant,a--a commercialist, if I must use the word again. You'll not only bepoor with nobody to support you, but you'll be worse, my dear woman,you'll be disgraced. That's it, just disgraced. I've kept stavin' it offfor you, but it's comin'--ugly disgrace for you and Marjory."

  Mrs. Whately looked steadily at him with a face so blanched with griefonly a hard-hearted wretch like Judson could have gone on.

  "I've been gettin' you ready for this for months, have laid my planscarefully, and I've been gradually puttin' the warnin' of it in yourmind."

  This was true. Judson had been most skilfully paving the way, else Mrs.Whately would not have had that troubled face and burdened spirit aftereach conference. The intimation of disaster had grown gradually todreaded expectation with her.

  "Do tell me what it is, Amos. Anything is better than this suspense.I'll do anything to save Marjie from disgrace."

  "Now, that's what I've been a-waitin' for. Just a-waitin' till you wasready to say you'd do what's got to be done anyhow. Well, it's this.Whately, your deceased first husband"--Judson always used the numeralwhen speaking of a married man or woman who had passed away--"Whately,he made a will before he went to the war. Judge Baronet drawed it up,and I witnessed it. Now that will listed and disposed of an amount ofproperty, enough to keep you and Marjie in finery long as you lived.That will and some other valuable papers was lost durin' the war (somesays just when they was taken, but they don't know), and can't nowherebe found. Havin' entire care of the business in his absence, and bein'obliged to assoom control on his said demise at Chattanoogy, I naturallyfound out all about his affairs. To be short, Mrs. Whately, he never hadthe property he said he had. Nobody could find the money. There was anawful shortage. You can't understand, but in a word, he was a disgraced,dishonest man--a thief--that's it."

  Mrs. Whately buried her face in her hands and groaned aloud.

  "Now, Mrs. Whately, you mustn't take on and you must forget the past.It's the present day we're livin' in, and the future that's a-comin'.Nobody can control what's comin', but me." He rose up to his five feetand three inches, and swelled to the extent of his power. "Me." Hetapped his small chest. "I'll come straight to the end of this thing.Phil Baronet's been quite a friend here, quite a friend. I've explainedto you all about him. Now you know he's left town to keep from bein'mixed up in some things. They's some business of his father's he wasrunnin' crooked. You know they say, I heard it out at Fingal's Creek,that he left here on account of a girl he wanted to get rid of. And ifthey'd talk that way about one girl, they'll say Marjie was doin' wrongto go with him. You've all been friends of the Baronets. I never couldsee why; but now--well, you know Phil left. Now, it rests with me"--moretapping on that little quart-measure chest--"with me to keep thingsquiet and save his name from further talk, and save Marjie, too. Many aman, a business man, now, wouldn't have done as I'm doin'. I'll marryMarjie. That saves you from poverty. It saves Irving Whately's name fromlastin' disgrace, and it saves Baronet's boy. I can control the menthat's against Baronet, in the business matter--some land case--and Iknow the girl that the talk's all about; and it saves Marjory's namebein' mixed up with this boy of Judge Baronet's."

  Had Judson been before Aunt Candace, she would have thrust him from thedoor with one lifting of her strong, shapely hand. Dollie Gentry wouldhave cracked his head with her rolling pin before she let him go. CrisMead's wife would have chased him clear to the Neosho; she was BillMead's own mother when it came to whooping things; but poor, gentle Mrs.Whately sat dumb and dazed in a grief-stricken silence.

  "Give me your consent, and the thing's done. Marjie's only twenty.She'll come to me for safety soon as she knows what you do. She'll haveto, to save them that's dearest to her. You and her father and herfriendship for the Baronets ought to do somethin'; besides, Marjie needssomebody to look after her. She's a pretty girl and everybody runs afterher. She'd be spoiled. And she's fond of me, always was fond of me. Idon't know what it is about some men makes girls act so; but now,there's Lettie Conlow, she's just real fond of me." (Oh, the popinjay!)"You'll say yes, and say it now." There was a ring of authority in hislast words, to which Mrs. Whately had insensibly come to yield.

  She sat for a long time trying to see a way out of all this tangled webof her days. At last, she said slowly: "Marjie isn't twenty-one, butshe's old for her years. I won't command her. If she will consent, sowill I, and I'll do all I can."

  Judson was jubilant. He clapped his hands and giggled hysterically.

  "Good enough, good enough! I'll let it be quietly understood we areengaged, and I'll manage the rest. You must use all the influence youcan with her. Leave nothing undid that you can do. Oh, joy! You'llexcuse my pleasure, Mrs. Whately. The prize is as good as mine rightnow, though it may take a few months even to get it all completelysettled. I'll go slow and quiet and careful. But I've won."

  Could Mrs. Whately have seen clear into the man's cruel, cunning littlemind, she would have been unutterably shocked at the ugly motivescontending there. But she couldn't see. She was made for sunshine andquiet ways. She could never fathom the gloom. It was from her fatherthat Marjie inherited all that strong will and courage and power to walkas bravely in the shadows as in the light, trusting and surefootedalways.

  Judson waited only until some minor affairs had been considered, andthen he rose to go.

  "I'm so sure of the outcome now," he said gleefully, "I'll put a crimpin some stories right away; and I'll just let it be known quietly atonce that the matter's settled, then Marjie can't change it," he addedmentally. "And you're to use all your influence. Good-evening, my dearMrs. W. It'll soon be another name I may have for you."

  Meanwhile, Marjie sat up on "Rockport," looking out over the landscape,wrapped in the autumn peace. Every inch of the cliff-side was sacred toher. The remembrance of happy childhood and the sweet an
d tendermemories of love's young dream had hallowed all the ground and made theview of the whole valley a part of the life of the days gone by. Thewoodland along the Neosho was yellow and bronze and purple in theafternoon sunshine, the waters swept along by verdant banks, for thefall rains had given life to the brown grasses of August. Far up theriver, the shapely old cottonwood stood in the pride of its autumn gold,outlined against a clear blue sky, while all the prairie lay in seas ofgolden haze about it. On the gray, jagged rocks of the cliff, theblood-red leaves of the vines made a rich warmth of color.

  For a long time Marjie sat looking out over the valley. Its beautyappealed to her now as it had done in the gladsome days, only the appealtouched other depths of her nature and fitted her sadder mood. At lastthe thought of what might have been filled her eyes with tears.

  "I'll go down to our post-office, as O'mie suggested," she declared toherself. "Oh, anything to break away from this hungry longing for whatcan never be!"

  The little hidden cleft was vine-covered now, and the scarlet leavesclung in a lacework about the gray stone under which the crevice ranback clean and dry for an arm's length. It was a reflex action, and nota choice of will, that led Marjie to thrust her hand in as she had doneso often before. Only cold stone received her touch. She recalledO'mie's picture of Lettie, short-necked, stubby Lettie, down there inthe dark trying to stretch her fat arm to the limit of the crevice, andas she thought, Marjie slipped her own arm to its full length, down thecleft. Something touched her hand. She turned it in her fingers. It waspaper--a letter--and she drew it out. A letter--my letter--the long,loving message I had penned to her on the night of the party atAnderson's. Clear and white, as when I put it there that moonlitmidsummer night, when I thrust it in too far for my little girl to findwithout an effort.

  Marjie carried it up to "Rockport" and sat down. She had no notion ofwhen it was put there. She only knew it was from my pen.

  "It's his good-bye for old times' sake," she mused.

  And then she read it, slowly at first, as one would drink a last cup ofwater on the edge of a desert, for this was a voice from the old happylife she had put all away now. I had done better than I dreamed of doingin that writing. Here was Rachel Melrose set in her true light, thepossibility of a visit, and the possibility of her words and actions,just as direct as a prophecy of what had really happened. Oh! it clearedaway every reason for doubt. Even the Rockport of Rachel's rapturousmemory, I declared I detested because only our "Rockport" meant anythingto me. And then she read of her father's dying message. It was the firsttime she had known of that, and the letter in her trembling hands pulsedvisibly with her strong heart-throbs. Then came the closing words:

  "Good-night, my dear, dear girl, my wife that is to be, and know now andalways there is for me only one love. In sunny ways or shadow-checkeredpaths, whatever may come, I cannot think other than as I do now. You arelife of my life; and so again, good-night."

  The sun was getting low in the west when Marjie with shining face cameslowly down Cliff Street toward her home. Near the gate she met myfather. His keen eyes caught something of the Marjie he had loved tosee. Something must have happened, he knew, and his heartbeats quickenedat the thought. Down the street he had met Judson with head erectwalking with a cocksure step.

  The next day the word was brought directly to him that Amos Judson andMarjory Whately were engaged to be married.

  * * * * *

  In George Eliot's story of "The Mill on the Floss," the author gives toone chapter the title, "How a Hen Takes to Stratagem." The two cases arenot parallel; and yet I always think of this chapter-heading when Irecall what followed Amos Judson's admonition to Mrs. Whately, to useher influence in his behalf. When Marjie's mother had had time tothink over what had come about, her conscience upbraided her. Awayfrom the little widower and with Marjie innocent of all thetrouble--free-spirited, self-dependent Marjie--the question of influencedid not seem so easy. And yet, she knew Amos Judson well enough to knowthat he was already far along in fulfilling his plans for the future.For once in her life Mrs. Whately resolved to act on her own judgment,and to show that she had been true to her promise to use all herinfluence.

  "Daughter, Judge Baronet wants to see you this afternoon. I'm going downto his office now on a little matter of business. Will you go over andsee how Mary Gentry's arm is, and come up to the courthouse in abouthalf an hour?"

  Mrs. Whately's face was beaming, for she felt somehow that my fathercould help her out of any tangle, and if he should advise Marjie tothis step, it would surely be the right thing for her to do.

  "All right, mother, I'll be there," Marjie answered.

  The hours since she found that precious letter had been alternately fullof joy and sadness. There was no question in her mind about the messagein the letter. But now that she was the wrong-doer in her ownestimation, she did not spare herself. She had driven me away. She hadrefused to hear any explanation from me, she had returned my last noteunopened. Oh, she deserved all that had come to her. And bitterest ofall was the thought that her own letter that should have rightedeverything with me, I must have taken from the rock. How could I evercare for a girl so mean-spirited and cruel as she had been to me? Lettiecouldn't get letters out, O'mie had said; and in the face of what shehad written, she had still refused to see me, had shown howjealous-hearted and narrow-minded she could be. What could I do butleave town? So ran the little girl's sad thoughts; and then hope had itsway again, for hers was always a sunny spirit.

  "I can only wait and see what will come. Phil is proud and strong, andeverybody loves him. He will make new friends and forget me."

  And then the words of my letter, "In sunny ways, or shadow-checkeredpaths, I cannot think of you other than as I do now. You are life of mylife," she read over and over. And so with shining eyes and a buoyantstep, she went to do her mother's bidding that afternoon.

  Judge Baronet had had a hard day. Coupled with unusual business careswas the story being quietly circulated regarding Judson's engagement. Hehad not thought how much his son's happiness could mean to him.

  "And yet, I let him go to discipline him. Oh, we are never wise enoughto be fathers. It is only a mother who can understand," and the memoryof the woman glorified to him now, the one love of all his years, cameback to him.

  It was in this mood that Mrs. Whately found him.

  "Judge Baronet, I've come to get you to help me." She went straight toher errand as soon as she was seated in the private office. "Marjie willbe here soon, and I want you to counsel her to do what I've promised tohelp to bring about. She loves you next to her own father, and you canhave great influence with her."

  And then directly and frankly came the whole story of Judson's plan.Mrs. Whately did not try to keep anything back, not even the effort toshield my reputation, and she ended with the assurance that it must bebest for everybody for this wedding to take place, and Amos Judson hopedit might be soon to save Irving's name.

  "I've not seen Marjie so happy in weeks as she was last night," sheadded. "You know Mr. Tillhurst has been paying her so much attentionthis Fall, and so has Clayton Anderson. And Amos has been going toConlow's to see Lettie quite frequently lately. I guess maybe that hashelped to bring Marjie around a little, when she found he could go withothers. It's the way with a girl, you know. You'll do what you can tomake Marjie see the right if she seems unwilling to do what I've agreedshe may do. For after all," Mrs. Whately said thoughtfully, "I can'tfeel sure she's willing, because she never did encourage Amos any. Butyou'll promise, won't you, for the sake of my husband? Oh, could he dowrong! I don't believe he did, but he can't defend himself now, and Imust protect Marjie's name from any dishonor."

  It was a hard moment for the man before her, the keen discriminatingintelligent master of human nature. The picture of the battle field atMissionary Ridge came before his eyes, the rush and roar of the conflictwas in his ears, and Irving Whately was dying there. "I hope they willlove each other. If they do,
give them my blessing." Clearly came thewords again as they sounded on that day. And here was Irving Whately'swife, Marjie's mother, in the innocence of her soul, asking that heshould help to give his friend's daughter to a man whom he was about tocall to judgment for heinous offences. And maybe,--oh, God forbidit,--maybe the girl herself was not unwilling, since it was meant forthe family's welfare. What else could that look on her face last nighthave meant? Oh, he had been a foolish father, over-fond, maybe, of afoolish boy; but somehow he had hoped that sweet smile and the light inMarjie's eyes might have meant word from Fort Wallace. What he mighthave said to the mother, he never knew, for Marjie herself came in atthat moment, and Mrs. Whately took her leave at once.

  Marjie was never so fair and womanly as now. The brisk walk in theOctober air had put a pink bloom on her cheeks. Her hair lay in softfluffy little waves about her head, and her big brown eyes, clear honesteyes, were full of a radiant light. My father brought my face and formback to her as he always did, and the last hand-clasp in that very room,the last glance from eyes full of love; and the memory was sweet to her.

  "Mother said you wanted to see me," she said, "so I came in."

  My father put her in his big easy-chair and sat down near her. His backwas toward the window, and his face was shadowed, while his visitor'sface was full in the light.

  "Yes, Marjie, your mother has asked me to talk with you." I wonder atthe man's self-control. "She is planning, or consenting to plans foryour future, and she wants me to tell you I approve them. You seem veryhappy to-day."

  A blush swept over the girl's face, and then the blood ebbed backleaving it white as marble. Men may abound in wisdom, but the wisest ofthem may not always interpret the swift bloom that lights the face of agirl and fades away as swiftly as it comes.

  "She is consenting," my father assumed.

  "If you are satisfied with the present arrangement, I do not need to sayanything. I do not want to, anyhow. I only do it for the sake of yourmother, for the sake of the wife of my best friend. For his sake too,God bless his memory!"

  Marjie's confusion deepened. The words of my letter telling of herfather's wishes were burning in her brain. With the thought of them,this hesitancy on the part of Judge Baronet brought a chill that madeher shiver. Could it be that her mother was trying to influence myfather in her favor? Her good judgment and the knowledge of her mother'ssense of propriety forbade that. So she only murmured,

  "I don't understand. I have no plans. I would do anything for my father,I don't know why I should be called to say anything," and then she brokedown entirely and sat white and still with downcast eyes, her twoshapely little hands clenched together.

  "Marjie, this is very embarrassing for me," my father said kindly, "andas I say, it is only for Irving's sake I speak at all. If you feel youcan manage your own affairs, it is not right for anybody to interfere,"how tender his tones were, "but, my dear girl, maybe years andexperience can give me the right to say a word or two for the sake ofthe friendship that has always been between us, a friendship futurerelations will of necessity limit to a degree. But if you have yourplans all settled, I wish to know it. It will change the whole course ofsome proceedings I have been preparing ever since the war; and I want toknow, too, this much for the sake of the man who died in my arms. I wantto know if you are perfectly satisfied to accept the life now opening toyou."

  Marjie had seen my father every day since I left home. Every day he hadspoken to her, and a silent sort of parental and filial love had grownup between the two. The sudden break in it had come to both now.

  Women also may abound in wisdom but the wisest of them may not alwaysinterpret correctly.

  "He had planned for Phil to marry Rachel, had sent him East on purpose.He was so polite to her when she was here. I have broken up his plansand his friendship is to be limited." So ran the girl's thoughts. "But Ihave no plans. I don't know what he means. Nothing new is opening tome."

  A new phase of womanhood began suddenly for her, a call forself-dependence, for a judgment of her own, not the acceptance ofevents. When she spoke again, her sweet voice had a clear ring in itthat startled the man before her.

  "Judge Baronet, I do not know what you are talking about. I do not knowof any plans for the future. I do not know what mother said to you. If Iam concerned in the plans you speak of, I have a right to know what theyare. If you are asked to approve of my doing, I certainly ought to knowof what you mean to approve."

  She had risen from her chair and was standing before him. Oh, she waspretty, and with this grace of womanly self-control, her beauty and herdignity combined into a new charm.

  "Sit down, Marjie," my father said in kind command. "You know thepurpose of Amos Judson's visit with your mother yesterday?"

  "Business, I suppose," Marjie answered carelessly, "I am not admitted tothese conferences." She smiled. "You know I wanted to talk with youabout some business affairs some time ago, but--"

  "Yes, I know, I understand," my father assured her. They both rememberedonly too well what had happened in that room on her last visit. For shehad not been inside of the courthouse since the day of Rachel's suddenappearance there.

  "Judge Baronet thinks I have nothing to bring Phil. I've heardeverywhere how Phil wants a rich wife, and yet the Baronets have moreproperty than anybody else here." So Marjie concluded mentally and thenshe asked innocently:

  "How can Amos Judson's visit make this call here necessary?"

  At last the light broke in. "She doesn't know anything yet, that'scertain. But, by heavens, she must know. It's her right to know," myfather thought.

  "Marjie, your mother, in the goodness of her heart, and because of somesad and bitter circumstances, came here to-day to ask me to talk withyou. I do this for her sake. You must not misunderstand me." He laid hishand a moment on her arm, lying on the table.

  And then he told her all that her mother had told to him. Told itwithout comment or coloring, sparing neither Phil, nor himself nor herfather in the recital. If ever a story was correctly reported in wordand spirit, this one was.

  "She shall have Judson's side straight from me first, and we'll dependon events for further statement," he declared to himself.

  "Now, little girl, I'm asked to urge you for your own good name, foryour mother's maintenance, and your own, for the sake of that boy ofmine, and for my own good, as well, and most of all for the sake of yourfather's memory, revered here as no other man who ever lived inSpringvale--for all these reasons, I'm asked to urge you to take thisman for your husband."

  He was standing before her now, strong, dignified, handsome, courteous.Nature's moulds hold not many such as he. Before him rose up Marjie. Hercloak had fallen from her shoulders, and lay over the arm of her chair.Looking steadily into his face with eyes that never wavered in theirgaze, she replied:

  "I may be poor, but I can work for mother and myself. I'm not afraid towork. You and your son may have done wrong. If you have, I cannot coverit by any act of mine, not even if I died for you. I don't believe youhave done wrong. I do not believe one word of the stories about Phil. Hemay want to marry a rich girl," her voice wavered here, "but that is hischoice; it is no sin. And as to protecting my father's name, JudgeBaronet, it needs no protection. Before Heaven, he never did a dishonestthing in all his life. There has been a tangling of his affairs bysomebody, but that does not change the truth. The surest way to bringdishonor to his name is for me to marry a man I do not and could notlove; a man I believe to be dishonest in money matters, and false toeverybody. It is no disgrace to work for a living here in Kansas. Bettergirls than I am do it. But it is a disgrace here and through alleternity to sell my soul. As I hope to see my father again, I believe hewould not welcome me to him if I did. Good and just as you are, you areusing your influence all in vain on me."

  Judge Baronet felt his soul expand with every word she uttered. Passinground the table, he took both her cold hands in his strong, warm palms.

  "My daughter," neither he nor the girl misunders
tood the use of the wordhere, "my dear, dear girl, you are worthy of the man who gave up hislife on Missionary Ridge to save his country. God bless you for thetrue-hearted, noble woman that you are." He gently stroked the curlybrown locks away from her forehead, and stooping kissed it, softly, ashe would kiss the brow of a saint.

  Marjie sank down in her seat, and as she did so my letter fell from thepocket of the cloak she had thrown aside. As Judge Baronet stooped topick it up, he caught sight of my well-known handwriting on theenvelope. He looked up quickly and their eyes met. The wild roses werein her cheeks now, and the dew of teardrops on her downcast lashes. Hesaid not a word, but laid the letter face downward in her lap. She putit in her pocket and rose to go.

  "If you need me, Marjie, I have a force to turn loose against yourenemies, and ours. And you will need me. As a man in this community Ican assure you of that. You never needed friends as you will in the daysbefore you now. I am ready at your call. And let me assure you also,that in the final outcome, there is nothing to fear. Good-bye."

  He looked down into her upturned face. Something neither would have putinto words came to both, and the same picture came before each mind. Itwas the picture of a young soldier out at Fort Wallace, gathering backthe strength the crucial test of a Plains campaign had cost him.

  "There'll be the devil to pay," my father said to himself, as he watchedMarjie passing down the leaf-strewn walk, "but not a hair of her headshall suffer. When the time comes, I'll send for Judson, as I promisedto do."

  And Marjie, holding the letter in her hand thrust deep in her cloakpocket, felt strength and hope and courage pulsing in her veins, and apeace that she had not known for many days came with its blessing to hertroubled soul.