An Oregon Girl Part 42

John listened to her with ever increasing amazement, and when she had concluded, his cold, austere demeanor had perceptibly softened. Yet Thorpe breathed hard.

"You vilified Corway's character and I have heard recently of his--of her mad infatuation for him and of his frequent visits to our home while I was away in China."

"The source of your information was a lie. You received it gratuitously from Beauchamp, did you not?"

"I have not mentioned the source of my information. Why do you think he was my informant?"

"Because he hated Corway."

"And you conspired with him to ruin my home," quickly interrupted Thorpe, and again coldly turned from her.

"You shall hear me!" and Virginia insistently gripped his coat sleeve and turned him toward her. "I have sought you too long to explain this unhappy affair, and now that I have found you, you must hear me out."

Smothering his impatience, Thorpe said: "Well!"

"I loved Corway, oh, so fondly!--but, alas, too well, and I allowed myself to cherish the belief that in his endearing manifestations he reciprocated my love. But on my premature return from the farm, I unexpectedly heard him declare his pa.s.sion for Hazel. Then an all absorbing desire for revenge possessed me.

"I resolved to break their engagement and first endeavor to estrange him--from your friendship. To accomplish that end I traduced his character and created a suspicion that his attention to Hazel was insincere and mercenary, expecting that after Corway was denied access to your home, I could smooth over the unpleasantness between you and Hazel and eventually annul his betrothal to her. But your informant juggled the names, made Constance the subject of Corway's affection instead of Hazel, and led you to believe the ring was a love token from her to him."

"He insisted and repeated that Constance was the guilty one and not Hazel," dubiously commented Thorpe.

"I understand now, it was out of revenge," she laconically replied.

"Revenge! What wrong have I done Lord Beauchamp?" questioned Thorpe, amazed at Virginia's disclosures.

"You will understand when I disclose, as I have recently learned that he is Philip Rutley, masquerading as Lord Beauchamp."

"G.o.d of our fathers!" exclaimed Thorpe, clapping his hand to his white forehead, to still the pain of sudden doubt of his wife's inconstancy, that had seized him.

"What punishment is this inflicted on me?"

Then turning to Virginia with fierce light in his eyes, he sprang at her. In one bound he clutched her by the wrist, glared in her eyes, and said:

"And you, my only sister, have known all this and permitted him to wreak his vengeance upon my innocent wife, who never bore him malice, or did him wrong by thought, word or deed."

"I did not think that harm would fall on Constance." Yet even before she had finished speaking, a change came over Thorpe, and his grip on her wrist loosened. A victim of doubt and suspicion, his moods were as changing and variable as the coloring of a chameleon. Apparently he was not yet satisfied of the complete innocence of his wife or of the truthfulness of his sister, for he said, in a voice saddened by reflection: "That does not explain your connection with the abduction of Dorothy."

"I have them with me," she muttered, appreciating the importance of clearing herself. "Yes, they are here," and she hastily produced from her corsage an envelope having had the foresight to preserve them as most precious testimony in case of need.

The moment had come and found her prepared. Handing him the two notes, with a winsome expression of thankfulness, she said:

"Read them, John, this one first, and you will know why I was in the cabin."

She had handed to him the two notes received from George Golda, though in reality they had been penned by his colleague, Rutley. The first note asked for a meeting in the City park. The second demanded the amount of ransom that night on penalty of removal of Dorothy.

"The time was urgent in the extreme," she continued. "Unable to secure the amount of ransom demanded, I resolved to go alone to the cabin, determined to rescue Dorothy."

"You entered then."

"But you were not alone; Constance was with you," he corrected.

"When I told her my purpose, she pleaded so hard. Oh, so hard to go with me, that I could not deny her. I have told you all."

John Thorpe was not the only listener to Virginia's pleading.

Intensely interested, neither of them noticed Sam Harris approach, and with him the little Scotch terrier, which had completely recovered from its painful experience on the launch at Ross Island. When he first caught sight of them confronting each other, he gave a low whistle of surprise, and then, as he drew near to address them, involuntarily he heard her last words. His eyelids twitched with pleasure as he listened to the idol of his heart vindicate Constance.

Smothering a cry of joy, he turned and at once withdrew, muttering to himself: "Lord, how light my heart feels! Virginia is doing the right thing now, I guess. Come, Doctor"--the name he had given to the dog--"we'll leave them for awhile, eh?" And the brown eyes of the grateful canine looked up at him with almost human intelligence and affection.

John Thorpe's demeanor had undergone a great change in the few minutes he had listened to Virginia. His frigid haughtiness had softened, through successive stages, to a gentleness bordering on compa.s.sion.

"I will take care of these," said he, in a voice of tenderness, as he placed the notes in his pocket. "But, oh, G.o.d in Heaven! What shall I say to my beloved wife?"

"You believe me, John?" Virginia cried, in a tone of heartfelt thankfulness--her eager gaze fastened on his face. Her pleading touched him deeply. He took her in his arms, gently kissed her fair brow, and in a broken voice, said:

"Virginia, we are only human, with human failings; but in your honor and truthfulness of this dreadful affair, G.o.d bear witness to my faith!"

A devout joy flushed the pallor of her beautiful face, as she responded with a thankful heart, purified as gold with fire: "My prayers are answered, and my brother is himself again."

"Yes, Virginia," he continued, with the fervor of family pride, as he thought of the part she had taken in Dorothy's rescue--"And in that book which shall be opened in the last great day, there will be pointed out by the Recording Angel--my sister's atonement." Then, without releasing her, he went on in an altered, anxious voice: "And my darling wife! Where is Constance? Tell me, Virginia, that I may go to her at once and plead her forgiveness."

"What shall I say?" she whispered, awestruck, caught in a moment of forgetfulness of the woman who suffered for it all. "I must not tell him where she is. No, no, no! Not yet!" and she battled to subdue her agitation that she might invent some plea to postpone the meeting with his wife. "Not now; not now, John," and drawing away from him, unconsciously put out her hand as though to ward off some impending evil.

"Why not?" he asked in surprised tones. "I must see her. I must know where my darling wife is at once!"

A flash of pain shot athwart the girl's features as she muttered under her breath: "Oh, dear! What shall I tell him, what shall I say? What shall I do now?"

Thorpe hastily stepped forward to her a.s.sistance, and with concern in his voice, said: "Virginia, you are ill!"

"Let me rest for a moment or two"--trying her utmost to appear unperturbed, and as she sank on a bench, continued brokenly: "I shall be all right presently. The long walk--the terrible strain"--

"My dear sister, you need a.s.sistance," interrupted Thorpe. "You must let me help you to the house and obtain proper care for you," and he tenderly attempted to lift her to her feet.

"No, no, no!" she quickly responded; "I--shall be better in a few moments. Just a little--quiet rest, John, and alone, please. I shall soon be well again."

"As you desire, Virginia; but I shall tell Mrs. Harris."

"No, no, John! Don't tell her! I wish to be alone for awhile."

"Very well, dear; as I have a message for Mr. Harris, shall seek him at the house; but I will return in a few moments," and then, considerate for her wish to be alone, he left her.

Helpless to resist the impetus of her consuming desire to reunite John and his wife, Constance, she yet dreaded the aftermath of the shock his discovery must surely produce. Virginia knew not which way to turn or what course to pursue.

"Oh, Auntie! Auntie! I'm so glad you've come. Mamma is coming to see me, too. Isn't she?" and Dorothy, having caught sight of Virginia, ran to her, and then, not to be denied, in her childish way climbed up on the bench beside her and affectionately clasped her little arms about her neck.

"Papa doesn't like her," she proceeded, in a low, serious, confidential manner, "and wants me not to like her, too. But I shall like her. I shall always love-dear mamma-as-long-as-I-live!" The last few words were uttered in a quivering voice, but with a decision that appeared marvelous in one so young.

Folding her arms about the child, Virginia fondly looked into her eyes. "G.o.d bless you, sweet, winsome soul!" And then they kissed.

"Aunty, won't you take me to mamma?" pleaded the child. A ray of light had at last unexpectedly illumined a path for Virginia to pursue.

Suddenly releasing the child, she arose to her feet and said, with animation: "Some good may come of it. I will seek Mrs. Harris and have her detain John while I bring Constance--and Dorothy together--before he meets her. Yes, darling," she said, taking Dorothy's hand; "you shall see your mother."