T H E TORCH OF REASON, S IL V E R T O N , OREGON, TH U R SD A Y , MAY 27, 1891
GOLDEN THRONE.
[ a
ROMANCE BY SAMUEL P. PUTNAM.]
C hapter x v iii .
“ Mr. Morton, I believe?” said
Blanche, with piquant grace.
“ Yes,” said Charlie. “ I’m su r
prised. I didn’t expect to se e y o u .”
“ I suppose you are anxious to
see little Pete?”
“ Yes, I called for this purpose.
I hope he has the good fortune to
be Jiving here.”
“ Yes, and as happy as a lark .”
“ I should think he would be. I
should call it p aradise.”
“ A little better than Golden
Throne for him , isn ’t it?”
“ I should say so. It wasn’t good
for his health to stay there, was
it? ”
“ He has told me about it. W hat
a queer place Golden Throne m ust
he! I feel quite well acquainted,
Pete has told me so much
T here’s
G rubbins and Prince Hal and S »1
Jones and P ilkins and Paddie Jo h n
and Bill and Big Diek and Jennie
an d Tim. I’m curious to know all
ab o u t th em .”
“ T hey’re scattered. Bill and I
have left Golden Throne to m ake
o ur fo rtn n e.”
“ W hat, in this big city! Are
you not afraid of being swallowed
up?”
“ We’ll take our chances. If we
go to the wall, we’ll take to digging
again. Our arm s are strong, and
fortune ca n ’t crush us.”
“ And the rest?”
“ Paddie is in the city. He’s
Jon McConnel now, in civilized
parlance. H e’s on the press, and
I suppose you read some of his d a sh
ing ariicles every day. Big Dig is
in the tire departm ent.
Mr.
R ichard Cole is his name on the
books. Sol Jones is running for
office, and G rubbins is in the legis
lature, and Pilkins is any where be
tween two hundred and fifty and
three hundred pounds. Prince H al,
I suppose, is asleep. Like Rip
Van W inkle, he will wake up some
tine m orning an d find himself rich;
for Golden T hrone is bound to
grow, and all one has to do is to
stay and grow with it, like Jack on
th e bean-stalk, .Jennie and Tim
are one and the same. The gray
m are is the better horse.”
“ I forgot about Gooch. Pete
used to describe him and his p ray
ing and singing Psalm s and read
ing the B ible.”
“ Gooch is pursuing his only e a rth
ly or heavenly desire, to m ake
money:
* and he knows how to do it
in a quiet way. He buys a n d sells
always on the nick of time, and
prays witn one eye open.”
“ Pm quite interested in all these
doings,” said Blanche. “ I ’m so
glad to see you. Shall I go for
little Pete? He will be delighted
to see you ”
“ Of course, I w ant to see the lit
tle cuss; but, really, I ’ve lost my
interest in him since seeing you ”
“ Oh, th at isn’t fair! If it h ad n ’t
been for little Pete, I should never
h av e seen you.’’
“ I did like little Pete.” said C h ar
lie. “ There was som ething about
him so strange and showy, as if he
wasn’t fit for this world, and ought
to be an angel. I presum e he’s
changed, though.”
“ Indeed, he is. You w ouldn’t
know him. I assure you he’s quite
stylish, and learned, too. Do you
know he can play on the piano and
paint? He has some notion of be
ing an a rtis t.”
“ I shouldn’t wonder if he was a
genius.
He looked
half-crazy.
Bring him. I do want to see how
he looks now.”
“ You would know him , if you
saw h im ?” said Blanche, looking
at him with a bewildering glance
and dazzling smile. Again, the
strange fam iliarity swept over her
features.
“ W here have I m et you?” he
cried.
“ Met me! How you talk, sir!”
“ But I have met you,” said C har
lie. “ I saw you at the Opera
House on the evening of Ingersoll’s
lecture, ami thought then th a t I
ha<l seen you somewhere. Your
face has haunted me, an d —yes, I
must confess it now’ th a t I have
found you—I have longed to see
your face ever since.”
“ Is th a t so?” said Blanche,
delightedly; “ and now I m ay con
fess th a t 1 saw’ you too, hut you
looked so abstracted that I thought
it no use to speak and claim old
acquaintance.”
“ Old acquaintance?” said C har
lie “ W hat do you m ean? W here
could vve have known each other?
C ertainly never, unless it was in
some fairy kingdom before we were
born.”
“ Oh, we have met since then, and
I rem em ber it well.”
“ Tell me if you are not really a
fa'ry, where it was.”
“ Let me see. It was a dim ,
weird place, about m idnight. The
moon was shining over the rocks
and trees. On the one side is the
Buried Castle, and not far off the
T hrone R jom , and around, darkly
glooming, Conscience Pw s. There
are two horses, a solitary figure—
and th it I b.diev , is C harlie—an<l
there is a sudden report, and then
another figure, ami th a t”— said
Blanche, with blazing eyes and
trem bling lips, with a boyish tone
in her voice and a sudden flinging
back of her bead.
“ Was little Pete,” said C harlie,
“ a n d ”—
“ And Blanche, too,” hurst forth
the girl, im petuously.
“ Is it possible?’’ said Charlie.
“ You th a t little cuss— I m ean th a t
little —lady!” “ I ’m thunderstruck.
L ittle Pete not himself after all,
and you— W ell, I don’t know
myself any more. Please stick a
pin into me, so th at I can find out
w hether I am dream ing or—wak-
• M
Illg .
“ You d id n ’t think you w erecary-
ing a woman in your arm s on th a t
lovely night, and th a t you m ight
have made a runaw ay m atch of it,”
carolled Blanche. “ Isn ’t it ro m an
tic? W hy, how you stare! You
look as if you d id n ’t like it. Do
you wish I were a boy again?”
“ Yes, for then I sh o u ld n ’t be
breaking my heart. But come, tell
me all about it.
I ’m burning
with curiosity. I ’m like a woman,
and must have the whole story.”
“ I t ’s along one and a sad o n e ,”
said Blanche.
“ I fear it is, hut what a beautiful
ending! You have nothing to fear
now.”
“ I suppose not, ouly th a t m an.
I do so dread to think of him. If
he should find me o u t”—
“ Don’t fear him, whoever he is.
He’s dead.”
“ Dead9 Are you sure?”
“ I saw his body with my own
eyes.”
Blanche buried her face in her
hands. For a moment, she could
say nothing.
“ Oh, I am th a n k fu ll” she m ur
mured at length softly. “ H e was
the horror of my life.”
“ W ho was he?” asked Charlie.
“ Mv husband. I fled from him
as from a serpent.”
“ Your husband! l a m amazed!
W hat is behind all th is? ”
“ Listen. I will tell you. My
lather, as near as I can rem em ber
and learn, was a m an of literary
genius, but indolent and shiftless,
floating from place to place. My
m other was a bright New England
girl, whose parents lived com fort
ably on a farm. F allin g in love
with my father, R alph K enneday,
she m arried him , and they came to
New York. He earned a pr* carious
living by w riting songs, etc., and
sometimes playing in the theatres.
My m other soon died, overcome by
hardship, when I was a little girl
My father growing desperate, m ar
ried a woman who kept a saloon on
the Bowery. Oh, the horror of
those years! My father died, and
I was left in the hands of this ter
rible step-m other. She treated me
cruelly. I was compelled to sell
papers on the street, to sing songs,
to beg at times. F inally, I was
put into a variety theatre. Then,
this m an came along. I suppose
he gave money to my step-m other.
She whipped me, and compelled
me to m arry him ; but, somehow,
after the ceremony, while they
were in the m idst of th eir drunken
revels, I escaped. I got on board
the cars, and begged my way West.
I feared th at he was on my track,
pursuing me like a relentle-s hound.
I went farther and farther.
I
crossed the plains. I crept up
am ong the m ountains. I cam e at
length to Golden Throne as little
Pete. I saw him th at night when I
tied. You know the rest. W ell, I
cam e to this city. I had heard
from my father of an elder brother,
living here somewhere. H is name
was W illiam K ennedy He was
m uch older, and had come to Cali
fornia when my father was a little
boy; and so for years they were
separated, and alm ost forgot each
other. I presum e, on some ac
counts, there was little sym pathy
between them ; for Uncle W illiam
was a thorough-going business man,
and would have no regard for the
vagrant genius of my father. I
tried to find this uncle on mv
arrival in the city. Thanks he to
the gold you gave me, I was enabl
ed to do so with com parative ease.
I found him living in this elegant
house. He was a bachelor, and
quite aged. H e had no one to care
for, and greeted me as if I were his
daughter. My identity was soon
established, and he m ade me his
heir. A few m onths ago, he died;
and now I am m istress of this
mansion and of wealth that I really
cannot c >unt.”
“ This is indeed a fairy tale,” said
Charlie. “ And this is little Pete—
th a t little devil, as we used to call
him. You did look funny, no mis
take, with that scared expression
and silent ways. W ell, it’s lucky
I d id n ’t let ’em hang you. I don’t
know w hat m ade me interfere >o
desperately— a mere whim, I sup
pose. A nother time, perhaps, I'd
let things g ». You see we get
awful rough and cruel in this coun
try .”
“ I see th a t, yet th ere’s much
good th a t shines out. Even Big
Dick has s »¡ne genuine good feel
ing. H e has a spite agaii.-t me
though; but I guess, if lie shoubl
see me now, he’d soften a little,
w ouldn’t he?” said Blanche, with
a ringing laugh.
“ I think he would. But he’s
m arried, and it w ouldn’t do any
good for you to cap tu re him. You
look high now, of course—a lord or
a duke or a m illionnaire, at least.”
“ W hy shouldn’t I? I have had
all I w ant of poverty and disgrace,
and now I am going to look high
and keep high. I ’m going to take
the best m an th a t comes alo g.”
“ You can have your pick.” said
C harlie, disconsolately. “ 1 came
to seek my fortune. I have lost it
already, for a thousand are ahead
of me.”
• “ I told you little Pete could play.
Listen and hear if he can ’t,” said
Blanche.
She ran to the piano as graceful
ly as a faw n, and sat down, and
the music sparkled forth like a
fountain. The swift notes glided on
in perfect harm ony. Then she
sang, and her rich voice expressed
the very spirit of the song. There
was nothing formal about her,
though she was so elegantly attired
She was anim ated by a beautiful
and, in some respect-», extrao rd in ary
genius. She inherited her fath er’s
literary and poetic faculty, with
much more steadiness of character,
which came from her n u th e r’s side.