The Meridian Tribune (Meridian, Tex.), Vol. 30, No. 35, Ed. 1 Friday, February 1, 1924 Page: 3 of 8
eight pages : ill. ; page 23 x 16 in. Scanned from physical pages.View a full description of this newspaper.
Extracted Text
The following text was automatically extracted from the image on this page using optical character recognition software:
THE MERIDIAN TRIBUNE
By GEORGE BARR McCUTCHEON
Copyright by Dodd, Mead & Company, Inc.
“VIOLA GWYN, YOUR HALF-SISTER”
The two colonial candlesticks stood in the center of the table, a
foot or two apart. When Gwynne lifted his head after'“grace,” he
looked directly between them at his vis-a-vis. For a few seconds he
stared as if spellbound. . . -
Never had he looked upon a face so beautiful, never had he seen
any one so lovely as this strange young woman who shared with him
the hospitality of the humble board. He had gazed for a moment-
full into her deep, violet eyes—eyes in which there was no smile,
but rather a cool intentness not far removed from unfriendliness—
and in that moment he forgot himself, his manners and his com-
posure.
The soft light fell upon warm, smooth cheeks; a broad, white
brow; red, sensitive lips and a perfect mouth; a round, firm chin;
a delicate nose—and the faint shadows of imperishable dimples that
even her unsmiling expression failed to disturb.
Not even in his dreams had he conjured up a face so bewilder-
ingly beautiful.:■
Who was she? What was she doing here in the humble cot of
the Strikers? Certainly she was out of place here. That she was
a person of consequence, to whom the Strikers paid a rude sort of
deference, softened by the familiarity of long association but in no
way suggestive of relationship, he was in no manner of doubt.
He was not slow to remark their failure to present him to her.
The omission may have been due to ignorance or uncertainty on
their part, but that was not the. construction he put upon it. It was
deliberate.
That’s the way the hero and heroine of this early tale of Indiana
met for the first time. The hero is Kenneth Gwynne, a young- lawyer
from Kentucky, going to Lafayette to take possession of lands left him
by his father, recently deceased. When he was a small boy his father
had run away with Rachel Carter, a widow, leaving his mother to die of
a broken heart. Ken had been brought up to hate the very name of
Rachel Carter. His father’s will had divided extensive properties between
him and Rachel Carter. He stops for ‘the night at a farm house near
Lafayette, where he is known. He becomes quite interested in this
handsome, mysterious girl, who says she knew his father well, but re-
fuses to disclose her identity. By morning she is gone. His host tells
him, as he leaves, “That girl was Viola Gwyn, an* she’s your half-sister.”
Inasmuch as Ken didn’t know that he had a half-sister, the state-
ment is naturally a shock. Viola Gwyn, daughter of his own father
and the hated Rachel Carter! And he in love with her at first sight!
Well, mystery follows mystery. Ken and Rachel Carter even be-
come friendly, after a fashion. Ken and Viola quarrel and make up and
grow friendly. And when Ken learns that Viola is not his half-sister, he
is bound hand and foot by the double secret of mother and daughter. Of
course it all turns out well—as all love stories should.
The author is George Barr McCutcheon—no need to say more. He
proved that the story's the thing—not the author’s name. After making
his name famous through the “Graustark” stories, he wrote “Brewster’s
Millions” anonymously—the most popular of all his stories. Of late years
he's writing largely about his native state, Indiana, or some other part
of the Middle West.
PROLOGUE
—1—
The Beginning.
/ Kenneth Gwynne was five years old
when his father ran away with Rachel
Carter, a widow. This was in the
spring of 1812, and in the fall his
mother died. His grandparents brought
him up to hate Rachel Carter, an evil
• woman..
' She was his mother’s friend and she
had slain her with the viper’s tooth.
From the day that his questioning in-
telligence seized upon the truth that
‘had been so carefully withheld from
him by his broken-hearted mother and
those who spoke behind the hand when
'he was near—from that day he hated
Rachel Carter with all his hot and out-
traged heart. He came to think of her
as the embodiment of all that was evil.
, He rejoiced in the belief that in good
time Rachel Carter would come to
troast in the everlasting fires of hell,
groveling and wailing at the feet of
Satan, the while his lovely mother
looked down upon her in pity—even
then he wondered if such a thing were
possible—from her seat beside God in
His Heaven. He had no doubts about
this. Hell and Heaven were real to
him, and all sinners went below. On
the other hand, his father would be
permitted to repent and would instant-
Dy go to Heaven. It was inconceivable
that his big, strong, well-beloved father
,should go to the bad place. But Mrs.
Carter would ! Nothing could save her!
God would not pay any attention to
her if she tried to repent; he would
know it was only “make-believe” if she
got down on her knees and prayed for
forgiveness. He was convinced that
Rachel Carter could not fool God.
1 At first they told him his father had
gone off as a soldier to fight against
the Indians and the British. He knew
that a war was going on. Men with
guns were drilling in the pasture up
beyond his grandfather’s house, and
there was talk of Indian “massacres,”
and Simon Girty’s warriors, and Brit-
ish redcoats. He overheard his grand-
father and the neighbors discussing a
battle on Lake Erie, and rejoiced with
them over the report of a great victory
for “our side.” Vaguely he bad grasped
the news of a horrible battle on the
Tippecanoe river, far away in the wil-
derness to the north and west, in
which millions of Indians were slain,
and he wondered how many of them
his father-had killed with his rifle—
a weapon so big and long that he came
less than half way up the barrel when
be stood beside it.
And then, in the fall, his mother
went away and left him. They did not
• tell him she had gone to the war. He
would not have believed them if they
had, for she was too sick to go. She
had been in bed for a long, long time;
the doctor came to see her every day,
and finally the preacher. He hated
both of them, especially the latter, who
prayed so loudly and so vehemently
that his mother must have been torri-
bly disturbed. Why should every one
caution him to be quiet and not make
a noise because it disturbed mother,
and yet say nothing when that old
preacher went right into her room and
yelled same as he always did in
church ?
He went to the "burying," and was
more impressed by the fact that nearly
all of the men who rode or drove to
the graveyard down in the “hollow"
carried rifles and pistols than he was
by the strange solemnity of the occa-
sion, for, while he realized in a vague, *
mistrustful way that his mother was to
be put under the ground, his trust
clung resolutely to God’s promise, ac-
cepted in its most literal sense, that
the dead shall rise again and that “ye
shall be born again.”
He was very lonely after that. His
"granny" tucked him in his big feather
bed every night, and listened to his lit-
tle prayer, but she was not the same as
his mother. She did not kiss him in
the same way, nor did her hand feel
like mother’s when she smoothed his
rumpled hair or buttoned his flannel
nightgown about his neck or closed his
eyes playfully with her fingers before
she went away with the candle.
His grandfather lived in the biggest
house in town. It had an "upstairs"-
a real "upstairs"—not just an attic.
And his grandfather was a very im-
portant person. Everybody called him
“Squire”; sometimes they said “your
honor”; most people touched their hats
to him. When his father went off to
the war, he and his mother came to
live at “grandpa’s house.”
His father was the biggest man in
all the world, there could be no doubt
about that. Why, he was bigger even
than grandpa, or Doctor Flint, or the
parson, or Mr. Carter, who lived in the
cabin next door and was Minda’s fa-
ther. For the matter of that, he was,
himself, a great deal bigger than Min-
da, who was only two years old and
could not say anywhere, near as many
words as he could say—and didi not
know her A B C’s, or the Golden Rule,
or who George Washington was.
He was very fond of Minda’s moth-
er, “Auntie” Rachel. She was good to
him. She gave him cakes and crullers
and spread maple sugar on many a sur-
reptitious piece of bread and butter,
and she had a jolly way of laughing,
and she never told him to wash his
hands or face, no matter how dirty they
were. In that one respect, at least,
she was much nicer than his mother.
He was four when they brought Mr.
Carter home, in a wagon one day. Some
men carried him into the house, and
Aunt Rachel cried, and his mother
went over and stayed a long, long time
with her, and his father got on his
horse and rode off as fast as he could
go for Doctor Flint, and he was not al-
lowed to go outside the house all day
—or old Boose would get him.
His father did the “chores" for
"Auptie" Rachel for a long time be-
cause Mr. Carter was not there to at-
tend to them.
There came a day when the buds
were fresh on the twigs, and the grass
was very green, and the birds that had
been gone for a long time were sing-
ing again in the trees, and it was not
raining. So he went down the road to
play in Minda’s yard. He called to her,
but she did not appear. No one ap-
peared, The house was silent. “Aun-
tie” Rachel was not there. Even the
dogs were gone, and Mr. Carter’s
horses and his wagon. He could not
understand. Only yesterday he had
played in the barn with Minda.
Then his grandma came hurrying
through the trees from his own home,
where she had been with grandpa and
Uncle Fred and Uncle Dan since break-
fast time. She took him up in her
arms and told him that Minda was
gone. He had never seen his grandma
look so stern and angry.
His mother was in the bedroom with
grandpa and Aunt Hettie, and he was
not allowed to go in to see her. Uncle
Fred and Uncle Dan were very solemn
and scowling so terribly that he was
afraid to go near them.
After a while all of the men went
out to the barn-lot, where their horses
were tethered. Uncle Fred and Uncle
Dan had their rifles. He stood at the
kitchen window and watched them
with wide, excited eyes. They all
talked at once, especially his uncles—
and they swore, too. Then his grand-
pa stood in front of them and spoke
very loudly, pointing his finger at them.
He heard him say,
again:
“Let them go, I say
them go!”
over and over
I tell you, let
He wondered why his father was not
there, if there was any fighting to be
done. .
The next day he went up to grand-
pa’s with his mother to stay, and Uncle
Fred told him that his pa had gone off
to the war. He believed this, for were
not the rifle, the powder horn and tne
shot flask missing from the pegs over
the fireplace, and was not Bob, the
very fastest horse in all the world,
gone from the barn? He was vastly
thrilled.
But he was troubled about Minda.
Uncle Fred, driven to corner by per-
sistent inquiry, finally confessed that
Minda also had gone to the war, and
at last report had killed several ex-
tremely ferocious redskins.
It was not until some time after his
mother went away—after the long-to-
be-remembered "fooneral," with its
hymns, and weeping, and praying—
that he heard the grownups talking
about the war being over. The red-
coats were thrashed and there was
much boasting and bragging among the
men of the settlement.
“Do you s’pose pa will know how to
find me, grandma?” he would inquire.
" 'Cause, you see, I don’t live where I
used to."
And his grandmother, beset with this
and similar questions from one day’s
end to the other, would become very
busy over what she was doing at the
time and tell him not to pester her.
Then one day he saw his grand-
parents talking together on the porch.
He distinctly heard his grandma say:
“I think he ought to be told, Richard.
It's • win to let him go on thinking—”
His Granny Tucked Him in His
Big Feather Bed.
The rest of the sentence, was lost to
him when she suddenly lowered her
voice. They were all looking at him.
Presently his grandfather called to
him, and beckoned with his finger. His
grandfather took him on his knee, and
then and there told him the truth
about his father.
“Now, pay strict attention, Kenneth.
You must understand everything I say
to you. Do you hear? Your father is
never coming home. We told you he
had gone to the war. We thought it
was best to let you think so. It is
time for you to knoy the truth. You
are nearly six years old. Quite a man,
my lad." He paused to look search-
ingly into the child’s face, his bushy
eyebrows meeting in a frown.
“The devil of it is,” he burst out,
"you are the living image of your fa-
ther. You are going to grow up to
look like him." He groaned audibly,
and went on in a strange, hard voice:
“Do you know what it is to steal? It
means taking something that belongs
to somebody else."
“Yes, sir. ‘Thou shalt not steal.’ It’s
in the Bible.”
“Well, you know that Indians and
gypsies steal little boys, don’t you? It
is the very worst kind of stealing, be-
cause it breaks the boy’s mother’s
heart. It sometimes kills them. Now,
suppose that somebody stole a hus-
band. Your father was a husband. He
was your dear mother’s husband. You
loved your mother very, very much,
didn’t you? Don’t cry, lad—there,
there, now! Be a little man. Now,
listen. .Somebody stole your mother’s
husband. She loved him better than
anything in the world. She loved him,
I guess, even better than she loved you,
Kenneth,
out him.
She just couldn’t live with-
Do you see? That is why
she died and went away. She is in
Heaven now. Now, let me hear you
say this after me: My mother died .be-
cause somebody stole her husband
away from her.”
“ ‘My mother died because somebody
stoled her husband away from her.' ”
repeated the boy, slowly.
‘Say this: My mother’s heart was
broken and so she died." , -
“ ‘My mother’s heart was broken and
she—and so she died.’” .
“You will never forget that, will you,
Kenneth?"
“No, sir.”
“Now, I am going to tell you who
stole your mother’s husband away
from her. You know who your moth-
er’s husband was, don’t you?”
“Yes. sir. My pa.”
. “One night—the night before you
came up here to Jive—your Auntie Ra-
chel—that is what you called her, isn’t
it? Well, she was not your real aunt.
She was your neighbor—just as Mr.
Collins over there is my neighbor—and
she was your mother’s friend. Well, that
night she stole your pa from your ma,
and took him away with her—far, far
away, and she never let him come back
again. She—"
1 “But pa was bigger’n she was,” in-
terrupted Kenneth, frowning. “Why
didn’t he kill her and get away?”
The old squire was silent for a mo-
ment. “It is not fair for me to put all
the blame on Rachel Carter. Your fa-
ther was willing to go. He did not kill
Rachel Carter. Together he and Ra-
chel Carter killed your mother. But
Rachel Carter was more guilty than he
was. She was a woman and she stole
what belonged in the sight of God to
another woman. So now you know
that your pa did not go to the war.
He went away with Rachel Carter and
left your mother to die of a broken
heart. He went off into the wilderness
with that bad, evil woman. Your
mother was unhappy. She died. She
is under the ground up in the grave-
yard, all alone. Rachel Carter put her
there, Kenneth. I cannot ask you to
hate your father. It would not be
right. He is your father in spite of
everything. You know what the Good
Book says? ‘Honor thy father and—’
how does the rest of it go, my lad?”
“‘Honor thy father and thy mother
that thou days may be long upon thou
earth,’ ” murmured Kenneth, bravely.
“When you are a little older you will
realize that your father did not honor
his father and mother, and then you
may understand more than you do now.
But you may hate Rachel Carter. You
must hate her. She killed your mother.
She stole your father. She made an or-
phan of you. She destroyed the home
where you used to live. You mast not
be unhappy over what 1 have told you.
Everything will be all right with you.
You will be safe here with granny and
me. But you must no longer believe
that your father went to the war like
other men in the village. If he were
my son, I would—”
“Don’t say it, Richard,” cried Ken-
neth’s grandma, from the door-way be-
hind them. “Don’t ever say that to
him.”
CHAPTER
Shelter for the Night.
Night was falling as two horsemen
drew rein in front of a cabin at the
edge of a clearing in the far-reaching
somber forest. A man stood partially
revealed in the doorway. His left arm
and shoulder were screened from view
by the jamb, his head was bent for-
ward as he peered , intently through
narrowed eyes at the strangers in the
road.
“Who are you, and what do you
want?” he called out.
"Friends. How far is it to the tav-
ern at Clark’s Point?”
"Clark's Point is three miles back,”
replied the settler. “Where you bound
fer?”
“Lafayette. I guess we’re off the
right road. We took the left turn four
or five miles back."
“What’s takin' you to Clark’s Point?
There ain’t no tavern there.”
"My name is Gwynne. I left Craw-
fordsville this morning, hoping to reach
Lafayette before night But the road
is so heavy we couldn't—", . -
“Been rainin’ steady for nearly two
weeks,” interrupted the settler. “Hub-
deep everywhere. I guess mebby’we
c’n find a place fer you to sleep tonight,
and we c’n give you somethin’ fer man
an’ beast. If you’ll jest ride around
here to the barn we’ll put the hosses
up an’ feed’' em, and—Eliza, set out a
couple more plates, an’ double the ra-
tions all around. Where do you come
from?” he inquired, after a moment’s
hesitation.
“My home is in Kentucky. I live
at—”
“Kentucky, eh? Well, that’s a good
place to come from. I guess you’re all
right, stranger.”
The gaunt settler conducted the un-
expected guests to the barn, where,
after they had dismounted, he assisted
in the removal of the well-filled saddle-
bags and rolls from the backs of their
jaded horses. \
“Water?" he inquired briefly.
"No, suh,” replied Zachariah, blink-
ing as the other held the lantern up
the,better to look into bis face. Zach-
ariah was a young negro—as black as
night, with gleaming white teeth which
he revealed in a broad and friendly
grin. “Had all dey could drink, mars-
ter, back yander at de crick.”
“We can’t offer you much in the way
of entertainment, Mr. Gwynne, but
what we’ve got you’re welcome to.”
i “I shall be greatly indebted to you.
sir. The time will surely come when I
may repay you—'not in money, but in
friendship. Pray do not let us discom-
mode you or your household. I will be
satisfied to sleep on the floor or in the
barn, and as for Zachariah, he—”
“The barn is forthe hosses to sleep
in,” interrupted the host, “and the floor
is for the cat./ ’Tain’t my idee of fair-
ness to allow human bein's to- squat on
proppety that rightfully 'belongs to
hosses an’- cats—so I guess you’ll have
to sleep in a bed, Mr. Gwynne.” He
spoke with a drawl. “Zachariah c’n
spread his blankets on the kitchen floor
an’ make out somehow. Now, if you’ll
jist step over to the well yander, you’ll
find a wash pan. Eliza—I mean Mrs.
Striker—will give you a towel when
you’re ready. Jest sing but to her.
Here, you, Zachariah, carry this plun-
der over an’ put it in the kitchen. Mrs.
Striker will show you. Be careful of
them rifles of your’n. They go off
mighty sudden if you stub your toe.
You’ll find a comb and lookin’ glass in
the settin’ room, Mr. Gwynne. You’ll
probably want to put a few extry
touches on yourself when I tell you
there’s an all-fired party girl spendin’
the night with us. Go along, now. I’ll
put the feed down for your hosses an’
be with you in less’n no time."
“I am prepared and amply able to
pay for lodging and food, Mr. Striker,
so do not hesitate to—”
“Save your breath, stranger. I’m as
deef as a post.”
With that he entered the barn door,
leading the horses. Gwynne and his
servant hurried through the darkness
toward the light in the kitchen window.
The former rapped politely on the door.
It was opened by Mrs. Striker, a tall,
comely woman well under thirty. He
removed his tall,- sorry-looking beaver.
“Madam, your husband has instruct-
ed my servant to leave our belongings
in your kitchen. I fear they are not
overly clean. Your kitchen is as clean
as a pin. Shall I instruct him to return
with them to the barn and—”
“Bring them in,” she said, melting in
spite of herself as she looked down from
the doorstep into his dark,‘smiling eyes.
His strong, tanned face was beardless,
his teeth were white, his abundant
brown hair tousled and boyishly awry
—and there were mud splashes on his
cheek and chin. He was tall and
straight and his figure was shapely,
despite the thick blue cape that hung
from his shoulders. “I guess they
ain’t any dirtier than Phin Striker’s
boots are by this time o’ the year. Sup-
per’ll be ready in ten or fiteen minutes,
Mr. Gwynne."
His smile broadened.- He sniffed
gratefully. A far more exacting wom-
an than Eliza Striker would have for-
given this lack of dignity, on his part.
Zachariah deposited the saddlebags
and rolls in the corner and then re-
turned to the door, where he received
instructions which sent him back to
4 open a bulging saddlebag and remove
therefrom a pair of soft, almost satiny
calfskin boots. As he hurried past Mrs.
Striker he held them up for her inspec-
tion, grinning from ear to ear. She
gazed in astohishment at the white and
silver ornamented tops, such as were
affected by only the most fastidious
dandies of the day.
“Well, I never!” she exclaimed, and
then went to the sitting room to whis-
per excitedly to the solitary occupant,
who, it so chanced, was at the mo-
ment busily and hastily employed in
rearranging her brown, wind-blown
hair before the round-topped little
looking-glass over the fireplace.
“I thought you said you wasn’t coin’
to see him,” observed Mrs. Striker,
after imparting her information. “If
you ain’t, what are you fixin’ yourself
up fer?" ,
"I have changed my mind, Eliza,”
said the young, lady, loftily. How does
my hair look ?"
“You’ve got the purtlest hair in all
the—”
“Don’t be silly, . It’s terrible, most
1 of the time." -----------
- “Well, it’s spick an’ span now, if
that’s what you want to know," grum-
bled Eliza, and vanished, fingering her
straight, straw-colored hair somewhat
resentfully.
Meanwhile, Kenneth Gwynne, hav-
ing' divested himself of his dark blue
“swallow-tail,” was washing his face
and hands at the well. The settler ap-
proached with the lantern.
“Storm’s comin’,” he shouted above
the howling wind. “I guess you’d bet-
ter dry yourself in the kitchen. Hear
her whizzin’ through the trees? Gosh
all hemlock! She’s goin‘ to be a
snorter, stranger. Hurry inside!”
They bolted for the door and dashed
into the kitchen just as the deluge
came. Phineas Striker, leaning his
weight against the door, closed it and
dropped the bolt.
The sitting-room door opened sud-
denly and the other guest of the
house glided into the kitchen. /
Kenneth Gwynne bowed very low
to the newcomer. The dim candle
light afforded him a most unsatisfac- I
The Other Guest of the House Glided
Into the Kitchen.
tory glimpse of her features. He took
in at a glance her tall, trim figure, the
burnished crown of hair, and the sur-
prisingly modish frock she wore. He
had seen no other like it since leaving
the older, more advanced towns along
the Ohio. He* was startled. In all
his journeylngs through the land he
had seen no one arrayed like this. It
was with difficulty that he overcame
a quite natural impulse to stare at her
as if she were some fantastic curi-
osity.
The contrast between this surpris-
ing creature and the gingham aproned
Eliza was unbelievable. There was
but one explanation; She was the
mistress of the house, Eliza the serv-
ant. ,
“Now’s your chance to get at the
lookin’-glass, Mr. Gwynne,” said
Striker. “Right there in the sittin’
room. Go ahead; 'I’ll manage this.”
Seated in a big wooden rocker be-
fore the fireplace, Gwynne stretched
out his long legs one after the other;
Zachariah tugged at the heavy, mud-
caked riding-boots.
“Dere won’t never be any mo’nin’,"
gulped the unhappy Zachariah, bend-
ing lower to his task, which now had
to do with the boot-straps at the bot-
toms of his master’s trouser-legs. Then
he pulled the trouser-legs down over
the boots, obscuring their upper glory;
after which he smoothed out the
wrinkles and fastened the instep '
straps. Whereupon, Kenneth arose,
stamped severely on the hearth sev-
eral times to settle his feet in the
snug-fitting boots, and turned to the
looking-glass. He was wielding the
comb with extreme care and precision
when his host turned from the win-
dow and approaches.
“’Pears to. me the worst is over,
don’t you reckon,so?” said he.
Kenneth, having adjusted his stock
and white roll-over collar to suit his
most exacting eye, slipped his .arms
into the coat Zachariah was holding
for him, settled the shoulders with a
shrug or two and a pull at the flaring,
lapels,, smoothed his yellow brocaded
waistcoat carefully, and then, spread-,
ing his long, shapely legs and at the
same time the tails of his coat, took
a commanding position with his back!
to the blazing logs.
“Are you referring to my toilet, Mr.
Striker?” he inquired amiably.
“I was talkin’ about the storm,” ex-
plained Phineas hastily. “Are you
plannin’ to work the farm yourself,
Mr. Gwynne, or are you goin’ to sell!
er rent on shares?”
Gwynne looked at him in surprise.
“You appear to know who I am, after
all,’ Mr. Striker.”
Kenneth meets a handsome
and mysterious young woman.
_ _ (TO BAL CONTINUED
Upcoming Pages
Here’s what’s next.
Search Inside
This issue can be searched. Note: Results may vary based on the legibility of text within the document.
Tools / Downloads
Get a copy of this page or view the extracted text.
Citing and Sharing
Basic information for referencing this web page. We also provide extended guidance on usage rights, references, copying or embedding.
Reference the current page of this Newspaper.
Dunlap, Levi A. & Dunlap, Teel W. The Meridian Tribune (Meridian, Tex.), Vol. 30, No. 35, Ed. 1 Friday, February 1, 1924, newspaper, February 1, 1924; Meridian, Texas. (https://texashistory.unt.edu/ark:/67531/metapth1630708/m1/3/: accessed July 17, 2024), University of North Texas Libraries, The Portal to Texas History, https://texashistory.unt.edu; crediting Meridian Public Library.