Hope Hathaway Part 36

"I say, Hope, it's a blasted shame we didn't get here in time to save him!" exclaimed O'Hara, with grief in his voice. "I'll just send the doctor over here at once."

While the surgeon bent over Livingston the girl stood close by, against the rocks, quiet as the stone itself.

"A bad shoulder wound," he commented at length. "A little of your flask, O'Hara, and he'll be all right. Why, he's quite conscious! How do you feel? You're all right, my boy! A shattered shoulder isn't going to bother you any, is it? Not much!"

The girl moved closer.

"Is he alive and conscious? Will he live?" she asked.

"He's all right, madam," replied the surgeon. As he spoke Livingston turned his face toward her, his eyes alight with all the love-light of his heart--answering every prayer she had breathed upon him. Her own answered his. Then she drew back, farther and farther away, until she stood outside the group of riders. O'Hara tried to detain her as she pa.s.sed him.

"Why, you're wounded yourself, girl!" he exclaimed.

She looked at her sleeve, and the wet stream of blood upon her dress, and laughed. It was true, but she had not felt the wound.

"Not at all, Larry," she replied. "The blood came from _him_," and she pointed back to the rocks. She started on, but turned back. "Tell me,"

she said, "what became of little Ned."

"I sent him home," replied Larry. "The poor little chap was about all in. We met his uncle, Long Bill, riding like blazes for the doctor. It seems that those young divils of twins shot old Harris some time during the night, which stopped that faction from joining these fellows here as they had planned. A pretty lucky shot, I'm thinking! They ought to have a gold medal for it, bless their souls, but they'll both dangle from the end of a rope before they're forty, the devils, or I'll miss my guess!"

Larry looked around to speak to an officer, and before he could realize it Hope had disappeared, climbing back toward the summit of the hill where she had left her horse.

In the gulch on the opposite side she fell exhausted into the very arms of old Jim McCullen, who had returned in time to hear the shooting, and was hastening toward the scene.

"My poor little Hopie!" he cried, carrying her to the stream, where the alarmed party from the camp found them a few minutes later.

"You will drown her, Mr. McCullen!" exclaimed Clarice Van Rensselaer, rus.h.i.+ng up quite white and breathless. "The poor darling, I just _knew_ she'd get into trouble with all those dreadful Indians! Someone give me some whisky, _quick_! That's right, Sydney, _make_ her swallow it! Here, give it to me! _There!_"

Louisa, stricken with grief, pointed to the damp, stiffened sleeve of the girl's s.h.i.+rt-waist. "See," she sobbed, "they have shot her, too, like my Fritz!"

Of them all, Mrs. Van Rensselaer was the most contained, and showed remarkable coolness and nerve in the way she ripped off the sleeve and bathed the wound, which was hardly more than a deep scratch, yet had caused considerable loss of blood.

"It's exhaustion, pure and simple," said Jim McCullen. Then he and Sydney drew away a short distance, and examined the horse.

Hope finally looked up into the anxious faces above her.

"I think, Clarice," she said, "I'll go back to New York with you."

CHAPTER x.x.x

Hope, a vision in white, leaned back resignedly in the soft embrace of the carriage cus.h.i.+ons.

"I thought," she said, "you never visited the Grandons, Clarice, particularly since Harriet made her alliance with the t.i.tleless duke."

Mrs. Van Rensselaer smiled behind the laces of her m.u.f.f. "I didn't suppose you were going there this afternoon," continued the girl, with a sweeping look along the solidly built street. "How does it happen?"

"Well, you see," replied Clarice, "_Larry_ wished it; and you know his wish is law to me--_until_ we're married. That's only right and as it should be--the _dear boy_!" Then impulsively: "I don't know how I've ever lived without him, Hope! Positively, he is the _dearest_ thing that ever lived!"

"And you'll both be tremendously happy, I know. Both of you young and gay, and in love with life and its frivolities--both the center of your set, and both rattle-brained enough to want to keep that center and throw away your lives in the whirling, rapid stream of society."

"You shouldn't ridicule this life, Hope. Don't you know we are the very pulse of the world! I had an idea you were taking to it pretty well. You are certainly making a tremendous. .h.i.t. Even mamma smiles upon you in the most affectionate manner, and is proud for once of her offspring. You are simply gorgeous, Hope--a perfect _queen_!"

The girl's eyes darkened, her face flushed. "A _queen_," she retorted.

"A queen! Clarice, did you ever sit upon a throne and feel the world slipping out from under you? A woman is never a queen, except to the _one_ man. But you are mistaken, Clarice. I simply cannot adapt myself to this life. If it wasn't for the continual monotony of it all--the never changing display of good points and fine clothes--where even one's own prayers are gilded and framed in consciousness and vanity--and these streets--the reflection of it all--these blocks and blocks always the same, like the people they cover--presenting always the same money-stamped faces--oh, it is this sameness that stifles me! It is all grand and wonderful, but it isn't _life_." She paused, then smiled at Clarice's perplexed face. "Leave me at mamma's when you return, for I've got stacks of things to do, and I want the evening all to myself--Louisa and I, you know. And we'll say, Clarice, that I perfectly love dear old New York."

"Oh, I don't mind, dear, not at all! I know you are no more fitted in your heart for this life than I am for the life out there with those _dreadful_ Indians. But you've certainly been acting superb these last two months!"

"You are such a _dear_, Clarice," said Hope impulsively, stroking her gloved hand. "I have you and Louisa, and, of course, I am perfectly happy! I tell myself so a thousand times a day. My poor little Louisa!

_She's_ about the happiest girl I ever saw in all my life, but she doesn't know it. Here she is worrying her head off because Sydney is pressing his suit too strongly and won't take 'no' for an answer, and she thinks she ought to be faithful to poor Fritz, her cousin, who is really only a sweet, sad memory to her now, while all the time she is crazy in love with Syd. Isn't it a fright? But Sydney is way out in Montana, and his letters serve only as little p.r.i.c.ks to her poor conscience. Her replies are left mostly to me, so that is what I must do to-night."

"But your mother entertains this evening. Had you forgotten?" reminded Mrs. Van Rensselaer. "So how are you going to get away?"

"I suppose I will have to come down for awhile, but I simply will not remain long."

"Well, I will see you then. Larry and I are going to drop in for a little while in the early evening."

When they drove away from the Grandons' a half hour later Clarice searched the girl's quiet face for some expression of her thoughts, but found none.

"So you have seen the Lady Livingston at last, Hope! What do you think of her?"

The girl shrugged her shoulders and looked into the street. "Your description tallied very well," she replied.

That evening Hope met the blond Lady Helene at her mother's musicale.

This time it was Clarice, again, who brought the meeting about.

Mrs. Van Rensselaer was in her gayest, most voluble mood.

"I'm _so_ anxious to have you two get acquainted," she said. "Dear Lady Helene, this is _Hope_--Miss Hathaway, and she can tell you everything you want to know about the West. Do, Hope, entertain her for a few moments until I find Larry." This the girl did in her gracious way, but adroitly kept the conversation away from the West.

After a few moments Clarice returned without Larry. A shadow of disappointment crossed her face as she joined the conversation.

"I thought you were going to talk about the West, Hope," she laughed, "and here you are talking _New York_--nothing but New York!"

"New York is always an entertaining topic," said Lady Helene. "I do not seem to fancy the West particularly. You know Lord Livingston has recently been hurt out there, and so I do not enjoy a very kindly feeling toward that country. The poor boy! I have been so worried about him! Really, don't you know, I haven't had a good night's sleep since I heard of his injury! Yes, you know, it's a wonder he wasn't _scalped_!

It's just fearful, really! He is so much to me, you know. Ever since my poor husband died and the t.i.tle and estates fell to Edward, I have felt a _great_ responsibility for him. He is so much younger than my husband, Lord Henry, and so, well, really, sort of wild, don't you know." Here Lady Helene smiled and wiped one eye with a filmy bit of lace. Perhaps she was saddened by thoughts of the havoc she had wrought in the life of the late lord, and his fortunes.

Hope sat motionless, suddenly paralyzed. "Do you mean," she asked, in short gasps, "that Edward--Lord Livingston is not your _husband_?"

"Mercy, no," replied Lady Helene, "my husband's brother! Indeed, Edward is not married! I doubt very much if he ever will be. I hope if he does, that it will be to someone at home, in his own cla.s.s, don't you know!

Really, he is a great responsibility to me, Mrs. Van Rensselaer! Why, where did Miss Hathaway go? She seems to be such a bright, das.h.i.+ng young woman. Really, one meets few American girls so royally beautiful! Yes, as I was saying, Edward is a terrible responsibility to me. Even now I am obliged to hurry away because he has just arrived here in town, and I must meet him at his hotel. That is the worst of not having a house of your own! To think of poor, dear Edward stopping at a _hotel_!"

"Which one?" gasped Clarice. Receiving the information, she abruptly excused herself from Lady Helene, who immediately decided that some Americans had very poor manners.

While Clarice drove rapidly toward Livingston's hotel, Hope, in eager haste, was literally throwing things in a trunk that had been pulled into the center of the room. Little Louisa, no less excited and eager, a.s.sisted.

"To think, my Louisa," laughed the girl, "that we are going back to our West--_home_--again, away from all this fuss and foolishness! Oh, don't be so particular, dear. Throw them in any way, just so they get in! Our train leaves at twelve, and I have telephoned for tickets, state-room and everything. Isn't it _grand_? Mamma will be furious! But dear old Dad, won't he be glad! He's so lonesome for me, Louisa. He says he can hardly exist there without me! And Jim, and Sydney, and--everyone! Oh, I am wild for my horses and the prairie again! And you've got to be nice to Syd! Yes, dear, it's your _duty_. Can't you see it? If you don't, the poor boy will go to the bad _altogether_, and something _dreadful_ will happen to him! And it will be all your fault!" Which statement sent Louisa into a paroxysm of tears, not altogether sorrowful.