An Oregon Girl Part 52

At a moment when least expected, she moaned and then her chest heaved with a light breath. Quietly she opened her eyes and looked slowly around. There, before her, stood John and Dorothy. Her eyes rested on them. She recognized them and smiled faintly and said feebly, scarcely above a whisper, "Dorothy, darling, and John!"

"Safe," announced the doctor, and his face, beaming with confidence, carried joy to the little group of anxious watchers.

CHAPTER XXV.

One day, shortly after Constance had started on the road to recovery, and before she had been removed from "Rosemont" to her home, Virginia, Hazel and Sam were grouped on the piazza discussing in low tones the probable sentence of Rutley and Jack Sh.o.r.e. Sam held the morning paper in his hand, which he casually perused. Virginia was particularly happy and vivacious, and indeed, had she not reason in the reconciliation of John Thorpe and Constance; the rescue of Dorothy; the recovery by Constance of her reason, so threatening and dire in its flight, and the pa.s.sing of that awful consuming fever that had seized upon the frail mind and body of Constance--was productive of such devout and fervent gladness that she felt at peace with the world. Even that old bitterness, so virulent and overpowering toward Corway, had gone out from her heart completely, and as she pondered on his sudden disappearance, the thought that he may have come to a violent death caused tears to spring into her beautiful eyes. It was a mute but an inexpressibly sad testimony to the final closing of love's first dream.

At that moment Sam exclaimed, "Well, what do you think of this?" and then he looked over the paper and grinned at Hazel knowingly.

The girl stood his stare for a moment, then impatiently said, "Why don't you read it?"

And Sam read: "The item is headed, 'A Bottle Picked Up at Sea. As the bar tug Hercules was cruising beyond the bar, farther out than usual, last Tuesday, Captain Patterson espied a bottle bobbing about in the wash of a swell and picked it up. On being opened, it was found to contain a sealed message to a young Portland woman, with instructions for the finder please to deliver at once.

"'The bottle had been cast overboard September 15th, from the British bark Lochlobin, two days out, bound for Sydney.'"

Expressions of wonder and speculation from the young ladies were scarcely ended when a messenger boy was seen approaching. At the foot of the piazza steps he produced two letters and, tipping his cap to the group above, enquired for Miss Hazel Brooke.

Yes--a message from the deep.

He delivered one of the letters which he held in his hand to Hazel, and then said: "The other letter is for Miss Virginia Thorpe," which the housekeeper at Mr. Thorpe's home, where he had first enquired for Miss Brooke, had asked him to deliver at Rosemont, too.

The boy touched his cap respectfully and left. Sam accompanied him a short distance, and slipped a gold piece into his hand. The boy thanked him, and took his departure whistling.

Meanwhile Hazel opened the letter, and her eyes raced over the contents; then she fairly danced with joy.

"Oh, such good news, Virginia!" she exclaimed, without taking her eyes from the letter. "It's from Joe. Poor Joe! He was sandbagged or shanghaied, whatever that is, but he is well now, on a s.h.i.+p bound for Australia, and will be home in about three months."

But the glad message to one fell on the unreceptive ears of the other.

Virginia had also opened the letter addressed to her. She had noted the bold letters and familiar writing, glanced at the postmark, and noted its date; dated at Portland over two weeks past; but, undeterred save by a slight fluttering at her heart, she read:

"Dear Virginia: For some time past; in fact, since our hasty engagement, I have been searching the depths of my heart, to see if my love for you is genuine, and I am sorry to say that I have found the love I had rashly expressed is not deeply felt, and in spite of all my determination to think only of you, my heart would stray to another.

"Dear Virginia, I implore you to consider me a trifler, quite unworthy of the exalted love that is in your n.o.ble nature to bestow; and I beg of you to release me from our engagement, which, if insisted on being maintained, must result in a life of unhappiness for us both. Let us be to each other as brother and sister, and I shall ever bless you and pray for you.

"Joseph Corway."

She did not tear the letter to shreds, nor stamp it under her feet.

She stood with it in her hand, which slowly fell down by her side, while a look of sadness and of reminiscence stole into her eyes. And she commenced to experience, too, the greatest difficulty in restraining a dewy profuseness that would arise and cloud her sight.

She had thought that her heart was steeled against any expression of tenderness for him that might a.s.sail it, but she discovered that she was still a young girl with a girl's emotions, impossible of subjection.

An overpowering desire to be alone until she could master her emotion and clear away the mist from her eyes caused her to descend the steps.

The sense of motion steadied her, and it enabled her to think and to say unconsciously, half aloud to herself, "If father had burst his cerements and arisen from his grave to tell me this, I should have refused to believe him," and with the thought of what Constance had suffered, a moan unconsciously escaped her.

Here, then, was the key to Virginia's transformation. This delayed letter--cruel, it was true--was addressed to her at the farm three days before her sudden return home, and had as slowly followed her, for rural postal facilities were at that time dependent on the farmer going to town for his mail.

Hazel heard the moan, and looked up from the note which she had read and re-read, and kissed time and again. She saw Virginia in apparent pain, and at once flew down the steps, crying, "Oh, Virginia, dear!

What has caused you so much grief?" and she sought to caress her.

But Virginia, with an effort subduing her emotions, drew away, answering, "Nothing, dear, nothing; it's all past, all gone now!"

Sam came up just then. He cast a swift glance at her distressed face, and then to the letter which she held in her hand, and surmised that it had to do with her trouble. His first thought was, "d.a.m.n that messenger boy!" He, however, made no attempt to break in on her mood.

Virginia returned his look almost defiantly at first, as though his questioning glance was rude, but the little cloud quickly vanished, when Hazel said, "Something serious, dear? Won't you let me share your trouble?"

"Oh, no! It's all past, all gone," she answered firmly. "I'm quite strong now, and to prove it, we will have a little bonfire. Sam, have you a light?"

Quietly Sam produced a match-box from his pocket, took a match, lighted it and handed it over.

Virginia applied the fire to the letter. As it burned down to the last bit, which she dropped from her hand, and disappeared in smoke, she looked up and as her eyes fell on the transcendently beautiful autumn vista, and then rested on Sam's strong and at that moment deeply apprehensive face, there gradually came into them a steadfast look of admiration and loyalty.

Sam caught the wondrous expression. He stepped forward, his arms opened, and she fell on his shoulder, her arms about his neck.

"Will it ever return, darling?" he said soothingly.

"Never again, Sam," and as she turned her face up to him their lips met in a seal of absolute trust and affection.

CHAPTER XXVI.

Philip Rutley and Jack Sh.o.r.e were duly arraigned for abduction and felony, tried and convicted on both counts, and each was sentenced to a maximum penalty of twenty years in the state penitentiary at Salem.

Even then Rutley's penchant for conspiracy a.s.serted itself. One afternoon, just four months after the prison doors closed on them, the inner corridor guard was killed, a second overpowered and knocked unconscious. So swiftly and silently was the work done that before discovery six convicts had escaped to the outer court. There, however, on a general alarm being sounded, three of them were shot down from the walls. The others surrendered.

One of the convicts who was shot and died almost instantly was Philip Rutley.

When last heard of, Jack Sh.o.r.e was still serving his time in an industrial department, devoting his talents to the manufacture of stoves, and reducing his sentence by good behavior.

The first act of Mr. Thorpe after his happiness had been restored was to recognize substantially Smith's invaluable service to the family.

Sufficient to say that Smith was presented with a ticket good for one first-cla.s.s pa.s.sage to the "Emerald Isle" and return, and in addition to his four months' vacation on full pay, a goodly sum in cash for incidental expenses.

That Smith appreciated Mr. Thorpe's generosity, is begging the question. On arrival in the old country, he found conditions had changed since he left there thirty years ago. The old haunts of his boyhood days had been transformed. The old folks had long since departed this life--"G.o.d rest their souls!" His friends and acquaintances had disappeared from the county or were no more--strange faces everywhere--all had changed save the old parish church; that alone remained undefined by the ravages of time.

"And now, my duty done, Oi'll go back to America." On taking his farewell, sad and impressive thoughts occupied his mind. "Shall I niver see the ould sod again, the dear ould land that gave me birth, the grain ave its hills, and the dear little shamrock--long life to it." And as a mist gathered in his eyes, he reverently knelt, lower he bent, till his lips touched the gra.s.sy ground, which he lovingly kissed.

"Farewell, an' may it plaise G.o.d to bring yees from the gloom ave tribulation into the suns.h.i.+ne ave happiness and prosperity. Farewell, dear ould Erin, my heart'll be wid ye always."

The End.