University of Virginia Library

19. CHAPTER XIX.
STANDING GUARD IN VAIN.

IT was Isabel Marlay that sought Albert again.

Her practical intellect, bothered with no visions,
dazed with no theories, embarrassed by no broad
philanthropies, was full of resource, and equally full,
if not of general, at least of a specific benevolence
that forgot mankind in its kindness to the individual.

Albert saw plainly enough that he could not keep Katy in
her present state of feeling. He saw how she would inevitably
slip through his fingers. But what to do he knew not. So, like
most men of earnest and half-visionary spirit, he did nothing.
Unbeliever in Providence that he was, he waited in the belief
that something must happen to help him out of the difficulty.
Isa, believer that she was, set herself to be her own Providence.

Albert had been spending an evening with Miss Minorkey.
He spent nearly all his evenings with Miss Minorkey. He came
home, and stood a minute, as was his wont, looking at the prairie
landscape. A rolling prairie is like a mountain, in that it perpetually
changes its appearance; it is delicately susceptible to
all manner of atmospheric effects. It lay before him in the dim
moonlight, indefinite; a succession of undulations running one
into the other, not to be counted nor measured. All accurate

notions of topography were lost; there was only landscape, dim,
undeveloped, suggestive of infinitude. Standing thus in the happiness
of loving and being loved, the soft indefiniteness of the
landscape and the incessant hum of the field-crickets and katydids,
sounds which came out of the everywhere, soothed Charlton
like the song of a troubadour.

“Mr. Charlton!”

Like one awaking from a dream, Albert saw Isa Marlay, her
hand resting against one of the posts which supported the piazza-roof,
looking even more perfect and picturesque than ever in
the haziness of the moonlight. Figure, dress, and voice were
each full of grace and sweetness, and if the face was not exactly
beautiful, it was at least charming and full of a subtle magnetism.
(Magnetism! happy word, with which we cover the
weakness of our thoughts, and make a show of comprehending
and defining qualities which are neither comprehensible nor
definable!)

“Mr. Charlton, I want to speak to you about Katy.”

It took Albert a moment or two to collect his thoughts.
When he first perceived Miss Marlay, she seemed part of the
landscape. There was about her form and motion an indefinable
gracefulness that was like the charm of this hazy, undulant,
moonlit prairie, and this blue sky seen through the lace of thin,
milk-white clouds. It was not until she spoke Katy's name
that he began to return to himself. Katy was the one jarring
string in the harmony of his hopes.

“About Katy? Certainly, Miss Marlay. Won't you sit
down?”

“No, I thank you.”

“Mr. Charlton, couldn't you get Katy away while her relations

with Westcott are broken? You don't know how soon
she'll slip back into her old love for him.”

“If—” and Albert hesitated. To go, he must leave Miss
Minorkey. And the practical difficulty presented itself to him
at the same moment. “If I could raise money enough to
get away, I should go. But Mr. Plausaby has all of my
money and all of Katy's.”

Isabel was on the point of complaining that Albert should
lend to Mr. Plausaby, but she disliked to take any liberty,
even that of reproof. Ever since she knew that the family
had thought of marrying her to Albert, she had been an iceberg
to him. He should not dare to think that she had any care for
him. For the same reason, another reply died unuttered on
her lips. She was about to offer to lend Mr. Charlton fifty dollars
of her own. But her quick pride kept her back, and, besides,
fifty dollars was not half-enough. She said she thought
there must be some way of raising the money. Then, as if
afraid she had been too cordial and had laid her motives open
to suspicion in speaking thus to Charlton, she drew herself up
and bade him good-night with stiff politeness, leaving him half-fascinated
by her presence, half-vexed with something in her
manner, and wholly vexed with himself for having any feeling
one way or the other. What did he care for Isabel Marlay?
What if she were graceful and full of a subtle fascination of
presence? Why should he value such things? What were
they worth, after all? What if she were kind one minute and
repellent the next? Isa Marlay was nothing to him!

Lying in his little unfinished chamber, he dismissed intellectual
Miss Minorkey from his mind with regret; he dismissed
graceful but practical Miss Marlay from his mind also, wondering

that he had to dismiss her at all, and gave himself to
devising ways and means of eloping with little Katy. She
must be gotten away. It was evident that Plausaby would
make no effort to raise money to help him and Katy to get
away. Plausaby would prefer to detain Katy. Clearly, to proceed
to pre-empt his claim, to persuade Plausaby to raise
money enough for him to buy a land-warrant with, and then
to raise two hundred dollars by mortgaging his land to Minorkey
or any other lover of mortgages with waiver clauses in
them, was the only course open.

Plausaby, Esq., was ever prompt in dealing with those to
whom he was indebted, so far as promises went. He would
always give the most solemn assurance of his readiness to do
anything one wished to have done; and so, when Albert explained
to him that it was necessary for him to pre-empt because
he wished to go East, Plausaby told him to go on and
establish his residence on his claim, and when he got ready
to prove up and pre-empt, to come to him. To come and let
him know. To let him know at once. He made the promise
so frankly and so repetitiously, and with such evident consciousness
of his own ability and readiness to meet his debt to Albert
on demand, that the latter went away to his claim in
quietness and hopefulness, relying on Miss Marlay to stand
guard over his sister's love affairs in his absence.

But standing guard was not of much avail. All of the currents
that flowed about Katy's life were undermining her resolution
not to see Smith Westcott. Katy, loving, sweet, tender-hearted,
was far from being a martyr, in stubbornness at best;
her resolutions were not worth much against her sympathies.
And now that Albert's scratched face was out of sight, and

there was no visible object to keep alive her indignation, she
felt her heart full of ruth for poor, dear Mr. Westcott. How
lonesome he must be without her! She could only measure
his lonesomeness by her own. Her heart, ever eager to love,
could not let go when once it had attached itself, and she
longed for other evenings in which she could hear Smith's rattling
talk, and in which he would tell her how happy she had
made him. How lonesome he must be! What if he should
drown himself in the lake?

Mr. Plausaby, at tea, would tell in the most incidental way
of something that had happened during the day, and then, in
his sliding, slipping, repetitious, back-stitching fashion, would
move round from one indifferent topic to another until he
managed at last to stumble over Smith Westcott's name.

By the way,” he would say, “poor Smith looks heart-broken.
Absolutely heart-broken. I didn't know the fellow
cared so much for Katy. Didn't think he had so much heart.
So much faithfulness. But he looks down. Very much downcast.
Never saw a fellow look so chopfallen. And, by the
way, Albert did punish him awfully. He looks black and
blue. Well, he deserved it. He did so. I suppose he didn't
mean to say anything against Katy. But he had no business
to let old friends coax him to drink. Still, Albert was pretty
severe. Too severe, in fact. I'm sorry for Westcott. I am,
indeed.”

After some such talk as this, Cousin Isa would generally
find Katy crying before bed-time.

“What is the matter, Katy, dear?” she would say in a
voice so full of natural melody and genuine sympathy, that it
never failed to move Katy to the depths of her heart. Then

Katy would cry more than ever, and fling her arms about the
neck of dear, dear, dear Cousin Isa, and lavish on her the tenderness
of which her heart was full.

“O Cousin Isa! what must I do? I'm breaking poor
Smith's heart. You don't know how much he loves me, and
I'm afraid something dreadful will happen to him, you know.
What shall I do?”

“I don't think he cares much, Katy. He's a bad man, I'm
afraid, and doesn't love you really. Don't think any more of
him.” For Isabel couldn't find it in her heart to say to Katy
just what she thought of Westcott.

“Oh! but you don't know him,” Katy cries. “You don't
know him. He says that he does naughty things sometimes,
but then he's got such a tender heart. He made me promise
I wouldn't throw him over, as he called it, for his faults. He
said he'd come to be good if I'd only keep on loving him.
And I said I would. And I haven't. Here's more than a
week now that he hasn't been here, and I haven't been to the
store. And he said he'd go to sleep in the lake some night
if I ever, ever proved false to him. And I lie awake nearly
all night thinking how hard and cruel I've been to him. And
oh!”—here Katy cried awhile—“and oh! I think such awful
things sometimes,” she continued in a whisper broken by sobs.
“You don't know, Cousin Isa. I think how cold, how dreadful
cold the lake must be!. Oo-oo!” And a shudder shook her
frame. “If poor, dear Smith were to throw himself in! What
if he is there now?” And she looked up at Isa with staring
eyes. “Do you know what an awful thing I heard about
that lake once?” She stopped and shivered. “There are
leeches in it—nasty, black worms—and one of them bit my

hand once. And they told me that if a person should be
drowned in Diamond Lake the leeches would—oo!—take all
their blood, and their faces would be white, and not-black
like other drowned people's faces. Oh! I can't bear to think
about poor Smith. If I could only write him a note, and tell
him I love him just a little! But I told Albert I wouldn't
see him nor write to him. What shall I do? He mayn't live
till morning. They say he looks broken-hearted. He'll throw
himself into that cold lake to-night, maybe—and the leeches—
the black worms—oo!—or else he'll kill himself with that ugly
pistol.”

It was in vain that Isabel talked to her, in vain that she
tried to argue with a cataract of feeling. It was rowing
against Niagara with a canoe-paddle. It was not wonderful,
therefore, that before Albert got back, Isa Marlay found Katy
reading little notes from Westcott, notes that he had intrusted
to one of his clerks, who was sent to the post-office three or
four times a day on various pretexts, until he should happen
to find Katy in the office. Then he would hand her the notes.
Katy did not reply. She had promised Albert she wouldn't.
But there was no harm in her reading them, just to keep
Smith from drowning himself among those black leeches in
Diamond Lake.

Isabel Marlay, in her distressful sense of responsibility to
Albert, could yet find no means of breaking up this renewed
communication. In sheer desperation, she appealed to Mrs.
Plausaby.

“Well, now,” said that lady, sitting in state with the complacent
consciousness of a new and more stunning head-dress
than usual, “I'll tell you what it is, Isabel, I think Albert

makes altogether too much fuss over Katy's affairs. He'll
break the girl's heart. He's got notions. His father had. Deliver
me from notions! Just let Katy take her own course.
Marryin's a thing everybody must attend to personally for
themselves. You don't like to be meddled with, and neither
does Albert. You won't either of you marry to suit me. I
have had my plans about you and Albert. Now, Isabel, Mr.
Westcott's a nice-looking man. With all his faults he's a nice
man. Cheerful and good-natured in his talk, and a good provider.
He's a store-keeper, too. It's nice to have a store-keeper
for a husband. I want Plausaby to keep store, so that
I can get dresses and such things without having to pay for
them. I felt mad at Mr. Westcott about his taking out his
pistol so at Albert. But if Albert had let Mr. Westcott alone,
I'm sure Smith wouldn't a-touched him. But your folks with
notions are always troubling somebody else. For my part, I
shan't meddle with Katy. Do you think this bow's nice?
Too low down, isn't it?” and Mrs. Plausaby went to the glass
to adjust it.

And so it happened that all Isa Marlay's watching could
not keep Westcott away. For the land-office regulations at
that time required that Albert should live on his claim thirty
days. This gave him the right to buy it at a dollar and a
quarter an acre, or to exchange a land-warrant for it. The
land was already worth two or three times the government
price. But that thirty days of absence, broken only by one
or two visits to his home, was enough to overturn all that
Charlton had done in breaking up his-sister's engagement with
Westcott. The latter knew how long Albert's absence must
be, and arranged his approaches to correspond. He gave her

fifteen days to get over her resentment, and to begin to pity
him on account of the stories of his incurable melancholy she
would hear. After he had thus suffered her to dream of his
probable suicide for a fortnight, he contrived to send her one
little lugubrious note, confessing that he had been intoxicated
and begging her pardon. Then he waited three days, days of
great anxiety to her. For Katy feared lest her neglect to
return an answer should precipitate Westcott's suicide. But
he did not need an answer. Her looks when she received the
note had been reported to him. What could he need more?
On the very evening after he had sent that contrite note to
Katy, announcing that he would never drink again, he felt so
delighted with what he had heard of its reception, that he
treated a crony out of his private bottle as they played cards
together in his room, and treated himself quite as liberally
as he did his friend, got up in the middle of the floor, and
assured his friend that he would be all right with his sweet
little girl before the brother got back. By George! If folks
thought he was going to commit suicide, they were fooled.
Never broke his heart about a woman yet. Not much, by
George! But when he set his heart on a thing, he generally
got it. He! he! And he had set his heart on that little girl.
As for jumping into the lake, any man was a fool to jump
into the drink on account of a woman. When there were
plenty of them. Large assortment constantly on hand. Pays
yer money and takes yer ch'ice! Suicide? Not much, by
George! he! he!
Wondered what tune Charlton would sing when he found himself
beat? Guess 'twould be:
Goin' to pre-empt my claim, too. I've got a month's leave,
and I'll follow him and marry that girl before he gets far.
Bruddern and sistern, sing de ole six hundredth toon. Ahem!
I got a organ stop in my throat. Can't sing below my
breath to save my life. He! he!

After three days had elapsed, Westcott sent a still more
melancholy note to Katy. It made her weep from the first
line to the last. It was full of heartbreak, and Katy was too
unobserving to notice how round and steady and commercial
the penmanship was, and how large and fine were the flourishes.
Westcott himself considered it his masterpiece. He punched
his crony with his elbow as he deposited it in the office, and
assured him that it was the techin'est note ever written. It
would come the sympathies over her. There was nothing like
the sympathies to fetch a woman to terms. He knew. Had
lots of experience. By George! You could turn a woman
round yer finger if you could only keep on the tender side.
Tears was what done it. Love wouldn' keep sweet without
it was pickled in brine. He! he! he! By George!