CHAPTER XXIV
THE CRY OF WOMANHOOD
The women have no voice to speak, but none can check your pen-- Turn for a moment from your strife and plead their cause, O men!
--KIPLING.
After all, it was not Tillhurst, but Jim Conlow, who had a Topeka storyto tell when he went back to Springvale; and it was Lettie who editedand published her brother's story. Lettie had taken on a new degree ofsocial importance with her elevation to a clerkship in Judson's store,and she was quick to take advantage of it.
Tillhurst, when he found his case, like my own, was hopeless withMarjie, preferred that Rachel's name and mine should not be linkedtogether. Also a degree of intimacy had developed suddenly between TellMapleson and the young teacher. The latter had nothing to add whenLettie enlarged on Rachel's preference for me and my devotion to herwhile the Nineteenth Kansas was mobilizing in Topeka.
"And everybody knows," Lettie would declare, "that she's got the money,and Phil will never marry a poor girl. No, sir! No Baronet's going to dothat."
Although it was only Lettie who said it, yet the impression went aboutand fixed itself somehow, that I had given myself over to a life ofluxury. I, who at this very time was starving of hunger and almostperishing of cold in a bleak wind-swept land. And to me for all this,there were neither riches nor glory, nor love.
Springvale was very gay that winter. Two young lawyers from Michigan,fresh from the universities, set up a new firm over Judson's store wheremy father's office had been before "we planted him in the courthouse,where he belongs," as Cam Gentry used to declare. A real-estate andmoney-loaning firm brought three more young men to our town, while halfa dozen families moved out to Kansas from Indiana and made a "Hoosiers'Nest" in our midst. And then Fingal's Creek and Red Range and all thefertile Neosho lands were being taken by settlers. The countrypopulation augmented that of the town, nor was the social plane ofSpringvale lowered by these farmers' sons and daughters, who also wereof the salt of the earth.
"For an engaged girl, Marjory Whately's about the most popular I eversee," Dollie Gentry said to Cam one evening, when the Cambridge Housewas all aglow with light and full of gay company.
Marjie, in a dainty white wool gown with a pink sash about her waist,and pink ribbons in her hair, had just gone from the kitchen with threeor four admiring young fellows dancing attendance upon her.
"How can anybody help lovin' her?" Dollie went on.
Cam sighed, "O Lordy! A girl like her to marry that there pole cat! Howcan the Good Bein' permit it?"
"'Tain't between her and her Maker; it's all between Mrs. Whately andAmos," Dollie asserted. "Now, Cam, has anybody ever heard her say shewas engaged? She goes with one and another. Cris Mead's wife says shealways has more company'n she can make use of any ways. It's like toomuch canned fruit a'most. Mis' Mead loves Marjie, and she's so proud ofher. Marjie don't wear no ring, neither, not a one, sence she took offPhil Baronet's."
Springvale had sharp eyes; and the best-hearted among us could tell justhow many rings any girl did or didn't wear.
"Well, by hen!" Cam declared, "I'm just goin' to ask herself myself."
"No, you ain't, Cam Gentry," Dollie said decisively.
"Now, Dollie, don't you dictate to your lord and master no more. I won'tstand it." Cam squinted up at her from his chair in a ludicrous attemptto frown. "Worst hen-pecked man in town, by golly."
"I ain't goin' to dictate to no fool, Cam. If you want to be one, Ican't help it. I must go and set bread now." And Dollie pattered offsinging "Come Thou Fount," in a soft little old-fashioned tune.
* * * * *
"Marjie, girl, I knowed you when you was in bib aperns, and I knowedyour father long ago. Best man ever went out to fight and never gotback. They's as good a one comin' back, though, some day," he addedsoftly, and smiled as the pink bloom on Marjie's cheeks deepened."Marjie, don't git mad at an old man like your Uncle Cam. I mean noharm."
It was the morning after the party. Marjie, who had been helping MaryGentry "straighten up," was resting now by the cosy fireplace, whileDollie and Mary prepared lunch.
"Go ahead, Uncle Cam," the girl said, smiling. "I couldn't get mad atyou, because you never would do anything unkind."
"Well, little sweetheart, honest now, and I won't tell, and it's none ofmy doggoned business neither; but be you goin' to marry Amos Judson?"
There was no resentment in the girl's face when she heard his haltingquestion, but the pink color left it, and her white cheeks and big browneyes gave her a stateliness Cam had never seen in her before.
"No, Uncle Cam. It makes no difference what comes to me, I could notmarry such a man. I never will."
"Oh, Lord bless you, Marjie!" Cam closed his eyes a moment. "They's along happy road ahead of you. I can see it with my good inside eyes thatsees further'n these things I use to run the Cambridge House with.'Tain't my business, I'm a gossipin' inquisitive old pokeyer-nose, butI've always been so proud of you, little blossom. Yes, we're comin',Dollie, if you've got a thing a dyspeptic can eat."
He held the door for Marjie to pass before him to the dining-room. Camwas not one of the too-familiar men. There was a gentleman's heart underthe old spotted velvet "weskit," as he called his vest, and with all hisbad grammar, a quaint dignity and purity of manner and speech to women.
But for all this declaration of Marjie's, Judson was planning each dayfor the great event with an assurance that was remarkable.
"She'll be so tangled up in this, she'll have to come to terms. Thereain't no way out, if she wants to save old Whately's name from dishonorand keep herself out of the hired-girl class," he said to Tell Mapleson."And besides, there's the durned Baronet tribe that all the Whatelyshave been so devoted to. That's it, just devoted to 'em. Now they'llcome in for a full share of disgrace, too."
The little man had made a god of money so long he could not understandhow poverty and freedom may bring infinitely more of blessing thanwealth and bonds. So many years, too, he had won his way by trickeryand deception, he felt himself a man of Destiny in all he under-took.But one thing he never could know--I wonder if men ever do know--awoman's heart. He had not counted on having to reckon with Marjie,having made sure of her mother. It was not in his character tounderstand an abiding love.
There was another type of woman whom he misjudged--that of LettieConlow. In his dictatorial little spirit, he did not give a secondthought beyond the use he could make of her in his greedy swooping in ofmoney.
"O'mie knows too much," Judson informed his friend. "He's better out ofthis town. And Lettie, now, I can just do anything with Lettie. Youknow, Mapleson, a widower's really more attractive to a girl than ayoung man; and as for me, well, it's just in me, that's all. Lettielikes me."
Whatever Tell thought, he counselled care.
"You can't be too careful, Judson. Girls are the unsafest cattle on thisgreen earth. My boy fancied Conlow's girl once. I sent him away. He'smarried now, and doing well. Runs on a steamboat from St. Louis to NewOrleans. I'd go a little slow about gettin' a girl like Lettie in here."
"Oh, I can manage any girl on earth. Old maids and young things'll comeflockin' round a man with money. Beats all."
This much O'mie had overheard as the two talked together in tones nonetoo low, in Judson's little cage of an office, forgetting the clerkarranging the goods for the night.
They came slowly toward us, the two captive women forwhom we waited]
When Judson had found out how Mrs. Whately had tried to help his causeby appealing to my father, his anger was a fury. Poor Mrs. Whately, whohad meant only for the best, beset with the terror of disgrace toMarjie through the dishonorable acts of her father, tried helplessly topacify him. Between her daughter and herself a great gulf openedwhenever Judson's name was mentioned; but in everything else the bondbetween them was stronger than ever.
"She is such a loving, kind daughter, Amos," Mrs. Whately said to theanxious suitor. "She fills the house with sunshin
e, and she is so strongand self-reliant. When I spoke to her about our coming poverty, she onlylaughed and held up her little hands, and said, 'They 're equal to it.'The very day I spoke to her she began to do something. She found threemusic pupils right away. She's been giving lessons all this Fall, andhas all she can give the time to. And when I hinted about her father'sname being disgraced, she kissed his picture and put it on the Bible andsaid, 'He was true as truth. I won't disgrace myself by ever thinkinganything else.' And last of all, because she did so love Phil once"(poor Mrs. Whately was the worst of strategists here), "when I tried toput his case she said indifferently, 'If he did wrong, let him right it.But he didn't.' Now, Amos, you must talk to her yourself. I don't knowwhat John Baronet advised her to do."
Talking to Marjie was the thing Amos could not do, and the mention ofJohn Baronet was worse than the recollection of that callow stripling,Phil. The widower stormed and scolded and threatened, until Mrs. Whatelyturned to him at last and said quietly:
"Amos, I think we will drop the matter now. Go home and think it over."
He knew he had gone too far, and angry as he was, he had the prudence tohold his tongue. But his purpose was undaunted. His temper was notsettled, however, when Mapleson called on him later in the day. Lettiewas busy marking down prices on a counter full of small articles and thetwo men did not know how easily they could be overheard. Judson had noreason to control himself with Tell, and his wrath exploded then andthere. Neither did Mapleson have need for temperance, and their angrytones rose to a pitch they did not note at the time.
"I tell you, Amos," Lettie heard Tell saying, "you've got to get rid ofthis Conlow girl, or you're done for. Phil's lost that Melrose caseentirely; and he's out where a certain Kiowa brave we know is creepin'on his trail night and day. He'll never come back. If his disappearanceis ever checked up to Jean, I'll clear the Injun. You can't do a thingto the Baronets. If this thing gets up to Judge John, you're done for.I'll never stand by it a minute. You can't depend on me. Now, let hergo."
"I tell you I'm going to marry Marjie, Lettie or no Lettie. Good Lord,man! I 've got to, or be ruined. It's too late now. I can get rid ofthis girl when I want to, but I'll keep her a while."
Lettie dropped her pencil and crept nearer to the glass partition overthe top of which the angry words were coming to her ears. Her black eyesdilated and her heart beat fast, as she listened to the two men in angrywrangle.
"He's going to marry Marjie. He'll be ruined if he doesn't. And he saysthat after all he has promised me all this Fall and Winter! Oh!" Shewrung her hands in bitterness of soul. Judson had not counted on havingto reckon with Lettie, any more than with Marjie.
That night at prayer meeting, a few more prominent people were quietlylet into the secret of the coming event, and the assurance with whichthe matter was put left little room for doubt.
* * * * *
John Baronet sat in his office looking out on the leafless trees of thecourthouse yard and down the street to where the Neosho was glitteringcoldly. It was a gray day, and the sharp chill in the air gave hint ofcoming rough weather.
Down the street came Cris Mead on his way to the bank, silent Cris,whose business sense and moral worth helped to make Springvale. He sawmy father at the window, and each waved the other a military salute.Presently Father Le Claire, almost a stranger to Springvale now, came upthe street with Dr. Hemingway, but neither of them looked toward thecourthouse. Other folks went up and down unnoted, until Marjie passed bywith her music roll under her arm. Her dark blue coat and scarlet capmade a rich bit of color on the gray street, and her fair face with thebloom of health on her cheek, her springing step, and her quiet grace,made her a picture good to see. John Baronet rose and stood at thewindow watching her. She lifted her eyes and smiled a pleasantgood-morning greeting and went on her way. Some one entered the room,and with the picture of Marjie still in his eyes, he turned to seeLettie Conlow. She was flashily dressed, and a handsome new fur cape wasclasped about her shoulders. Self-possession, the lifetime habit of thelawyer and judge, kept his countenance impassive. He bade her acourteous good-morning and gave her a chair, but the story he hadalready read in her face made him sick at heart. He knew the ways of theworld, of civil courts, of men, and of some women; so he waited to seewhat turn affairs would take. His manner, however, had that habitualdignified kindliness that bound people to him, and made them trust himeven when he was pitted with all his strength against their cause.
Lettie had boasted much of what she could do. She had refused all ofO'mie's well-meant counsel, and she had been friends with envy andhatred so long that they had become her masters.
It must have been a strange combination of events that could take hernow to the man upon whom she would so willingly have brought sorrow anddisgrace. But a passionate, wilful nature such as hers knows little ofconsistency or control.
"Judge Baronet," Lettie began in a voice not like the bold belligerentLettie of other days, "I've come to you for help."
He sat down opposite her, with his back to the window.
"What can I do for you, Lettie?"
"I don't know," the girl answered confusedly. "I don't know--how much totell you."
John Baronet looked steadily at her a moment. Then he drew a deep breathof relief. He was a shrewd student of human nature, and he couldsometimes read the minds of men and women better than they readthemselves. "She has not come to accuse, but to get my help," was hisconclusion.
"Tell me the truth, Lettie, and as much of it as I need to know," hesaid kindly. "Otherwise, I cannot help you at all."
Lettie sat silent a little while. A struggle was going on within her,the strife of ill-will against submission and penitent humiliation. Somemen might not have been able to turn the struggle, but my fatherunderstood. The girl looked up at length with a pleading glance. She hadhelped to put misery in two lives dear to the man before her. She hadeven tried to drag down to disgrace the son on whom his being centred.In no way could she interest him, for his ideals of life were all atvariance with hers. Small wonder, if distrust and an unforgiving spiritshould be his that day. But as this man of wide experience and largeideals of right and justice looked at this poor erring girl, he put awayeverything but the determination to help her.
"Lettie," he said in that deep strong voice that carried a magneticpower, "I know some things you do not want to tell. It is not what youhave done, but what you are to do that you must consider now."
"That's just it, Mr. Baronet," Lettie cried. "I've done wrong, I know,but so have other people. I can't help some things I've done to somefolks now. It's too late. And I hated 'em."
The old sullen look was coming back, and her black brows were drawn in afrown. My father was quick to note the change.
"Never mind what can't be helped, Lettie," he said gravely. "A good manythings right themselves in spite of our misdoing. But let's keep now towhat you can do, to what I can do for you." His voice was full of astern kindness, the same voice that had made me walk the straight lineof truth and honor many a time in my boyhood.
"You can summon Amos Judson here and make him do as he has promised todo." Lettie cried, the hot tears filling her eyes.
"Tell me his promise first," her counsel said. And Lettie told him herstory. As she went on from point to point, she threw reserve to thewinds, and gave word to many thoughts she had meant to keep from him.When she had finished, John Baronet sat with his eyes on the floor alittle while.
"Lettie, you want help, and you need it; and you deserve it on onecondition only," he said slowly.
"What's that?" she asked eagerly.
"That you also be just to others. That's fair, isn't it?"
"Yes, it is," she agreed. Her soul was possessed with a selfish longingfor her own welfare, but she was before a just and honorable judge now,in an atmosphere of right thinking.
"You know my son Phil, have known him many years. Although he is my boy,I cannot shield him if he does wrong. Sin carries i
ts own penalty sooneror later. Tell me the truth now, as you must answer for yourselfsometime before the almighty and ever-living God, has Philip Baronetever wronged you?"
How deep and solemn his tones were. They drove the frivolous triflingspirit out of Lettie, and a sense of awe and fear of lying suddenlypossessed her. She dropped her eyes. The old trickery and evil plottingwere of no avail here. She durst do nothing but tell the truth.
"He never did mistreat me," she murmured, hardly above a whisper.
"He took you home from the Andersons' party the night Dave Mead was atRed Range?" queried my father.
Lettie nodded.
"Of his own choice?"
She shook her head. "Amos asked him to," she said.
"And you told him good-bye at your own door?"
Another nod.
"Did you see him again that night?"
"Yes." Lettie's cheeks were scarlet.
"Who took you home the second time?"
A confusion of face, and then Lettie put her head on the table beforeher.
"Tell me, Lettie. It will open the way for me to help you. Don't spareanybody except yourself. You need not be too hard on yourself. Those whoshould befriend you can lay all the blame you can bear on yourshoulders." He smiled kindly on her.
"Judge Baronet, I was a bad girl. It was Amos promising me jewelry andribbons if I'd do what he wanted, making me think he would marry me ifhe could. I hated a girl because--" She stopped, and her cheeks flameddeeply.
"Never mind about the girl. Tell me where you were, and with whom."
"I was out on the West Prairie, just a little way, not very far. I wascoming home."
"With Phil?" My father did not comment on the imprudence of a girl outon the West Prairie at this improper hour.
"No, no. I--I came home with Bud Anderson." Then, seeing only the kindstrong pitying face of the man before her, she told him all he wanted toknow. Would have told him more, but he gently prevented her, sparing herall he could. When she had finished, he spoke, and his tones were fullof feeling.
"In no way, then, has Philip ever done you any wrong? Have you everknown him to deceive anybody? Has he been a young man of double dealing,coarse and rude with some company and refined with others? A fathercannot know all that his children do. James Conlow has little notion ofwhat you have told me of yourself. Now don't spare my boy if you knowanything."
"Oh, Judge Baronet, Phil never did a thing but be a gentleman all hislife. It made me mad to see how everybody liked him, and yet I don'tknow how they could help it." The tears were streaming down her cheeksnow.
And then the thought of her own troubles swept other things away, andshe would again have begged my father to befriend her, but his kind facegave her comfort.
"Lettie, go back to the store now. I'll send a note to Judson and callhim here. If I need you, I will let you know. If I can do it, I willhelp you. I think I can. But most of all, you must help yourself. Whenyou are free of this tangle, you must keep your heart with alldiligence. Good-bye, and take care, take care of every step. Be a goodwoman, Lettie, and the mistakes and wrong-doing of your girlhood will beforgotten."
As Lettie went slowly down the walk, to the street, my father lookedsteadily after her. "Wronged, deceived, neglected, undisciplined," hemurmured. "If I set her on her feet, she may only drop again. She's aConlow, but I'll do my best. I can't do otherwise. Thank God for a sonfree from her net."