The Elbert County tribune. [volume], February 08, 1918, Image 2

About The Elbert County tribune. [volume] (Elbert, Elbert County, Colo.) 18??-1920

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Beatrice Fairfax
by Beatrice Fairfax
1 si Series of Exciting Human Interest
Stones Produced by IEharton Inc. Studios
for the Internationa/ Film Service, Inc.
Ctnnfht. 1010, Sur Cimptny
SEVENTH EPISODE
A Name for a Baby.
One morning the first letter I opened
was from n girl who cried to ine from
the depths of a woman's greatest trag
edy.
Uere It Is:
“Dear Miss Fairfax:
"I must have a name for my baby.
Will you help me? Ills father, a well
known lawyer. Is to be married in a
very few days to a girl who doesn’t
know.
“Anxiously yours,
“MADGE MINTURN.
“Ravine Rond, Blue Cove, N. Y.”
The oldest tragedy In the world held
me In Its grip. Ami Just then In came
Jimmie Barton, Jaunty, debonair.
lie peered ovw my shoulder, and ns
he read the first sentence he laughed
nt the Idea of *. woman’s writing a re
quest that I name her baby.
But as he rend the next line of the
letter he became very serious.
“Why, It’s the very thing we were
talking about last night, Isn’t It? .
Say, I wonder If this story fits It. He e
It Is. The Conley-Payne wedding—
The Baby Was Not Hurt.
young lawyer marries society bud —
bridesmaids—wedding itinerary—usual
stuff. Do you suppose he could be the
man?” asked Jimmie.
“That seems to be stretching the
long arm of circumstances pretty far,"
suld L
“Well, I have a hunch, and it won’t
do any harm to find out,” remarked Mr.
Barton, und sallied forth on his voyage
of discovery.
My faith in Jimmie had grown
through a long series of episodes
where his “hunches" hnd enabled him
to act with frequency ns the “God out
of the Muchlne,” but nevertheless I
consulted a time-table for trains to
Blue Cove; and early that afternoon
I embarked on my part of a very
strauge adventure.
Blue Cove is a tuinbled-down little
village tucked away In the upper part
of Winchester county. At the station
there were two little carriages of a
bygone age, with horses in their shafts
which looked us If they were prehis
toric relics. I entered one and request
ed the stupid-looking countryman who
drove It to take me to Miss Mluturn’s
cottage.
He didn't look particularly as If he
knew’ where Miss Mlnturn’s cottuge
was, but at least he offered me a
means of locomotion and a chance of
. meeting someone of a higher order of
Intelligence than his own.
Presently we came upon a pretty,
sad-fuced girl carrying an udoruble
blue-eyed baby In her arms. I called
to her and usked If she could tell me
where Madge Mint urn lived; and, just
as 1 had expected, she turned out to
be the girl I w r as seeking.
She ushered me Into u small sitting
room w’hlch occupied most of the low
er floor of a plain, neat little cottage.
I ventured a complimentary remark
about her home, and even ns I did It
the girl enught my hand and held It to
her throbbing heart. “It’s not a home
—-It’s u prison,” she sobbed. “It£
where my baby’s father hid me away
when he got tired of me and decided
not to marry me. ... It does well
enough for me.
“Now, Ralph doesn’t care for me any
more, this Is as good a place as any to
—be burled ullve. But there’s baby—
baby. He’s got some rights—a right
to a place In the world and to live and
have a name like other boys. And
ilalph Conley will have to give him
tfcnt name.”
"Rulph Conley! The rnan who Is
going to marry Mnrgaret Payne the
day after tomorrow.”
Madge looked up and agony and
hatred distorted her pretty fVce.
“Yes,” she sobbed.
“I think you hud better tell me your
story," Mild I.
This is the story Madge Minturn
told:
“Well, Miss Fairfax, I guess It’s an
old enough story—one you have heard
a good many times before. I was six
teen when.l came to work in his fa
ther’s office. I was lonesome and I
wanted friends and happiness und u
good time like other girls.
“For two years I just worked and
ate and slept und got up and dressed
and went through the sume old rounds
again. Then Ralph came home from
college and down to the office, and I
met him . . . and he suld he loved
me-—and that's all. Here I am. I was
Just lonesome. I couldn’t stand It.
“I wanted to believe him when he
said he loved me and was going to
marry me; I wanted to believe him—
and so I did. I couldn’t stund the lone
liness any more. But God knows It was
better than this. You’ll help me, won’t
you? My boy must have a name. I’ll
stay burled In this lonely little corner
of the world forever, never ask to see
Ralph again or be hnppy or anything.
I don’t care how lonely I am—l only
want a nnme for ray baby.
“Ralph brought me down here —
after baby came—and got Mrs. Woods
to take care of me. I have not seen
Ralph from the time he brought me
here, six months ago. I haven’t even
spoken to him until this morning. He
wrote once In a while and I had mouey
and good care—but that wasn’t what
I wanted.
“Then this morning I got desperate.
I telephoned down to the office and
asked for Ralph. I told him I didn't
want to hold him. I just wanted u
name for the baby. If only he’d marry
me he could divorce me right after
ward and accuse me of anything he
liked. I’d stand nnything If I could
only get u name for baby. It ought to
be ‘Rulph Conley, Jr.’ It’s just ‘baby’
now’.
“Ralph sounded nervous and wor
ried, but he said he’d do the right
thing. I could Just feel his father In
back of him. I always thought he
would huve married me as soon as he
knew he ought to—except that his fa
ther was so ambitious for him. He’s
young, and he couldn’t get along with
out his father yet—and I guess he was
afraid to try. That’s all.”
“No, it Isn’t quite all, Madge. You
have a friend now. I am going to help
you. I wuut you to give me a picture
of the baby—that will be my greutest
ally In helping you.” •
And when I left a moment later the
girl who escorted me to the door was
no longer sullen and bitter, but back
of all her sobbing she bore an uir of
hopeful strength.
My country Jehu, dozing over the
reins, roused himself as we came out
to the dusty roadway. As I clambered
Into my ramshackle equipage I got a
queer glimpse of a tatterdemalion hu
man. A man emerged from the woods
which flanked Madge’s little cottage
and peered toward the house, with a
certain sinister air.
For a second I was tempted to go
back and tell Madge—but I decided
that I could best serve her by hurry
ing to the city und tending to her real
i need instead of rousing her to fearful
, consciousness of a passing tramp. If
1 could enlist the sympathies of Mar
garet Payne I would be doing far more
' for Madge Minturn than merely dower
ing with my own Interest.
Just before we reached the station
the other ramshackle, “one-hoss-shuy”
i passed us. One passenger was bouu
■ clng around with the same ill-at-ease
■ ness I was forced to betray. I glimpsed
' a good-looking, well-groomed young fel
i low who suggested some of the furtive
weakness I hud seen on the fuce of the
• tramp.
• I told myself I didn’t like the natives
i of Blue Cove —nor yet Its visitors —
but a moment later I passed the visitor
• I did like. It wus Jimmie.
Mr. Barton was riding a ramshackle
. bicycle which seemed to belong to ex
- uctly the same vintage from which
1 came the city’s carriages.
• “All aboard the wreck 1” cried Jlm
: mle, hailing me with joy as he pedaled
> ills miserable two-wheeled monstrosity
up the hill.
: “You’re much more friendly than the
■ other city chap I Just passed,” said I.
. “He pulled his hat over his eyes and
: didn’t give a fellow traveler any ‘hail
und farewell!’ ”
• Jimmie laughed. “No, I guess not—
; ‘seeing as lmouw’ he probably sur
\ mlsed that you hnd Just come from
’ visiting the ludy toward whom he is
1 now bound .. . You see, the gentle
-1 man you just met happens to be Ralph
Conley.”
So Ralph Conley had come to sec
> his baby I 1 wondered If father-love
- would impel him to give the child a
l name.
! A little while later a maid admitted
I me to a wonderful library of the Ita
i llun renaissance period. At the side
of u stone fireplace sat a young flower
I or the aristocracy. She greeted me with
well-bred indifference which was not
particularly propitious for Madge Min
• turn.
“Miss Payne, I have come on a mis
sion that is as hideously unpleasant
for me ns It must be cruel for you.
Try to be patient with me—you owe
it to yourself as well as to me to give
me a hearing,” said I.
And then I showed her the photo
graph of Madge Mlnturn’s baby—the
baby whose immature face bore so
strange a likeness to Ralph Conley’s.
Alias Payne looked at it coldly; there
was no encouragement in her man
ner.
And when I began to talk, to tell
her Madge Mlnturn’s pathetic little
story, she did what she felt loynlty
to Ralph Conley demnnded of her—
she fairly ordered me from the hous?.
“You know this Isn’t a particularly
comfortable situation for me. I huve
a little pride, too, Miss Payne; I’m
used to being welcomed to houses—not
ordered from them,” said I. "But I
urn going to appeal to the splendid
womunliness I feel you possess. Won’t
you be fair —won’t you give me a hear
ing?”
And then as I told my story Mar
garet Payne listened —nt first with an
air of sneering superiority, then with
a certain breathless, growing horror,
and finally with the munner of one
who is too stunned to realize her own
misery. Suddenly the girl rallied; her
pride, her breeding and her lnnute
fineness rose to meet the needs of this
supreme moment.
“It seems Impossible thut I should
bo believing evil of Ralph—and for him
to be so weuk Is the most terrible evil
I can think of. . . . How could he
huve suld he loved me while—while
this was going on? Rulph isn’t
worthy—and yet both of us care. But
I’ll never murry him now.”
I Interrupted, eagerly: “Miss Payne,
you’ve taken this like the thorough
bred I knew you were. Rulph Conley
Isn’t fine enough for you—perhaps he
Isn’t even good enough for weak little
Madge Minturn—lonely little Mudge
Minturn, I should say. But she loves
him—and there’s the baby. She wants
u nnme {or the baby. That’s the only
justice nnyone cun do anyone else in
this* whole sad tangle of weak human
nuiure at Its weakest. We can get a
name for that buby.” J
: ‘I don’t think he’ll marry her, Miss
Falrfnx. I think he Is over caring—
and, besides, he can’t act independently
of his father.”
“I have a plan. Will you help me?”
“Yes,” said Marguret, quietly. “I’ll
help you—tell me.”
And so I told her my plan. She lis
tened to me with self-control, which
won me to a friendship for Marguret
I’nyne which the years have never
diminished, and ut lust she suld, quiet
ly:
“I’m tired now —too tired to think.
A little stunned, too, perhaps. You
don’t want me to Just let you Impose
your will on mine, do you, Aliss Fair
fax? I thought not. Well, suppose I
telephone you this evening?”
We left It that way and I started
back to the office. I felt I might be
needed there.
When I arrived I telephoned Madge.
Mrs. Woods answered the phone, and
in a voice which shook with genuine
anxiety she said to me: “Madge? She’s
been gone some time. I never knew
her to stiy out so long. She went
right after you cume —and she isn’t
buck yet. She was carrying that heavy
baby, too. I’m getting kind of wor
ried.”
Disquieting thoughts of the tramp
and of Rulph Conley fluttered across
my brain.
i Just then Jimmie returned, but
when I told him of my conversation
with Mrs. Woods my debonair and
cheerful young friend wore an un
wonted expression of anxlqty.
“I am going back," said he. “I don’t
like this one bit.”
“Yes—l think you’d getter go back,”
said I, “but not alone. I’m going, too.”
As we made our return trip to Blue
Cove, Jimmy told me his part of the
story: Directly we suspected that Con
ley was the man In the cuse, Jimmy
had gone down to the law ofllces of
1 — " -i—
--r It Took All of Jimmy’s Science to Master Him.
ELBERT COUNTY TRIBUNE.
Conley A Conley and hnd sent In his
; card requesting an interview.
“The Interview” was readily grant
ed, but surprise swung to instant dis
may when Jimmy fairly hurled a ques
tion at the younger man. “Do you
know Madge Minturn?”
Of course young Conley swore he
hnd never heard of the girl—but as
tute Jimmy noticed that the match
with which the lawyer was lighting his
cigarette had flickered out very sud
denly—but not before It burned the
trembling fingers which were holding
* it.
A tiny bit of evidence that—but Jim
my, the sleuth, knew It was worth fol- j
lowing up, and when half an hour la- j
ter Richnrd Conley hurried into the j
Grand Central and embarked on a train
for Blue Cove, Jimmy was close on Ills
tracks.
Conley took the second of the town’s
supply of rnmshackle cabs, and Jimmy
had to purchase an even more ram
shackle bicycle. As you know, he
passed me on my return to the station
—but as you do* not know, he turned
to wave n farewell and blow me an
audacious kiss.
“That kiss didn’t get me much. Miss
Beatrice,” laughed Jimmy. “Nothing
but an encounter with a stone and a
tumble which smashed none of my ribs
but all of the bicycle’s vital organs. I
hud to go on foot after that and by the
time I caught up with my quarry he
wus coming out of the woods, and I
concluded that he had finished his in
terview with the girl—hut I was In
time to see nnother interview begin.
“Conley bumped Into u queer look
ing chap. I found out later that he’s
the village character—some of them
call him looney nnd some of them say
he's a hermit, but all the brave inhabi
tants of Blue Cove seem a little afruld
of him."
Jimmy had discovered this much and
that the chap’s nume was Harry Wil
kins.
“And I have a hunch. Miss Beatrice,
that Harry Wilkins and Richard Con
ley went through some transaction
that boded .very little good for your
friend, Madge Minturn!”
“Do you remember Just where Con
ley and Wilkins went?” I asked.
“Yes, and that’s where we’re bound.
You’re going to see a tumble-down
little cabin which houses an absolute
renegade. And I think there’ll be a
rather startling denouement and a
crusher for the plans of Wilkins,
Conley and Company.” And more thun
that Jimmy refused to say.
In a lonely nook of the woods we
came upon the cabin. Jimmy hid me
behind a clump of bushes and hurried
forward nlone.
Suddenly a sound came to my enrs.
It was a woman’s shriek —a call, for
help in a voice which sounded definite
ly fumilinr.
Automatically I rushed out from
hiding and hurried toward the cabin.
As Jimmy turned the knob of the door
there was one wild, agonized scream
which became suddenly muffled nnd
wus followed by a thick pall of silence.
A second more and I was the wit
ness of a wild struggle. Wilkins was
fighting with the physical strength a
man whose mental ability Is far below
par often displays. It took all Jimmy’s
science to muster him. But at last he
conquered.
In a corner of the cabin crouched
Mudge, sobbing violently that we had
come Just In time, and that If we hnd
been a minute later there would have
been a tragic story for the journalist
to tell the world.
“But my buby, Miss Falrfnx —make
him find my baby. If anything’s hap
pened to little Richard I’m going to
kill mjself.”
“Wilkins,” said Jimmy, sternly, “It
will be Just as well for you If nothing
unpleasant has happened to little
Richard. First, we'll find him, and
then you’ll give a little explanation of
your performance this afternoon. I
think I can guess Just about what It
has been, but I won’t do any guessing.
You’ll talk and I’ll take down in writ
ing a very word you say. Now march,
nnd be quick about It.”
The frightened creature obeyed al
most automatically. Sheer terror had
“Have You Thought of the Other GM? M
gripped his brutish mind nnd body.
“I left the kid in the barn,” said fee.
“I guess he’s all right.”
We found the baby lying In the
straw crying with a lusty vigor which
gave evideuce of the fact that he hud
not been very budly injured.
“And now my man we’ll have your
story,” said Jimmy. “I’ll take it down
and Miss Fairfax will sign as a wit
ness, and you can be glad that I let
you off with u thrashing and a talking
to —for what you’ve done would land
you In prison all right—if I thought
you were responsible for It.”
“I seen this here girl coinin’ out of
the woods this mornin* carryin’ the
kid. She looked kinder good to me—
an’ I ain’t so cruzy about women
neither.
“I liked her kinder, and then when
I seen a good-lookin’ chap drive up this
afternoon and her a-greetin’ him so
lovin’ I got awful mad—kinder jeal
ous.
“Him nnd her went a walkin’ in the
woods, takin’ the kid along, an’ I fol
lowed and listened to what they was
a-sayln*.
“I wanted her for my girl—and I
didn’t like the idea of no city chap
cornin’ to see her and likin’ her him
self.
“Then all of n sudden I kinder got
wise to the fact that he didn’t like her
none too well—that he was kinder
afraid of her. She was holdin' up the
klcl an’ pleadin’ with him, and he was
fidgetin’ around kinder uneasy and like
he wished he was anywhere else. I
got wise to the sort of a girl she was
then —”
Mudge Interrupted suddenly. “Oh,
Miss Fairfax, don’t let him talk about
me like that. I can’t bear to think
what he’s going to say übout me next
to you and Mr. Burton.”
“Never mind whut he says about
you next to us,” said Jimmy, in his
very.friendliest tone. “I’ve got your
number, little girl. What I want is
somebody else’s —now, do you remem
bor just what Conley said when you
showed him—his boy?”
“Oh, yes, sir; Indeed I do. These
were his words: ‘l’ll do the right
thing, Mndge, but let me break the
news to Margaret In my own way.’ ”
"Did you hear that?” asked Jimmy,
turning suddenly on Wilkins.
“I sure did. And I seen him kiss her
and swear to It —but I knew he meant
money,” added the fellow.
Then the story went on, Wilkins and
Aladge corroborating each other.
Jimmy had arrived just in time to
see Conley step out of the w’oo.ls and
then return hastily, as if he had for
gotten something. As a matter of fact,
he had forgotten a check for five hun
dred dollars —with which he had ex
pected to buy off the girl to whom he
owed love, loyalty and protection.
The other in the meantime, seeing
his path clear to reach the girl, wus
about to confront Madge. Then his
acute sense of hearing warned him of
his rival’s return, and Instead he
turned and faced the city man.
Each of them expected an attack.
Finally Conley asked Wilkins if he had
been following the girl, and, if so,
why.
Having decided that he was a match
for his rival, Wilkins Insolently an
swered: “Well, what If I was?”
“What I want to know Is, are you
interested in her—are you in love wltji
her? Would you like to marry her?”
Wilkins’ reply was an evil grin.
“Well, you can have her and a thou
sand dollars in cash—but you’ll have
to marry her—and be good to her and
the baby—mighty good. Do you un
derstand?” asked Conley.
And so it was arranged. Richard
Conley and Wilkins hatched their
plot.
Madge was wandering through the
woods toward her own home, crooning
to her baby, almost cheerfully.
Baby glimpsed a patch of red flow
ers ut tlie top of a bank by the road
side and began screaming lustily for
them. To quiet him Madge laid him
in the grass and climbed after the
bright objects which had attracted the
little lad. A minute later she returned
triumphantly bringing the flowers.
Baby was gone!
Then the mother heard Its cries nnd
followed the sound. Straight to the
cabin those cries led her. And when
the mother reached the door of the
dilapidated cottage she plunged in to
rescue her baby. The man flung the
door shut after her and bolted it.
Then he seized her and fastened her
securely. A second later be hurried
out, carrying the baby away under her
tortured eyes.
“I hid the kid In the barn, an*
then I went back and told the girl
she’s got to marry me or else I’d leave
the kid to starve. It wus lots of fun
seein’ her cry and beg for mercy—
more than I knew when Conley thought
of the plun an' I made the bargain with
him.”
Mother love prevailed—nothing mat
tered but the life of the baby. Madge
knew she was going to degrada
tion. But she was ready; she must
brave all for the sake of her baby.
But wave on wave of horror went .
over her when Wilkins seized her and
crushed her in his arms. She felt her
self helpless to cope with the force of
ills brutality; she thought herself nlone
in these gloomy w’oods, but normal in
stincts of self-preservation had made
her shriek for help, and her cries had
led Jimmy and me straight to the cab
in door.
And that was the story Wilkins
told and I witnessed.
Jimmy and I had been sent special
invitations to the “Coriley-Payne” wed
ding. When we entered the Payne
drawing room and I beheld the floral
altar of mnrveious roses bunked across
one end of the room, my heart gave a
sudden contraction, half fear and half
pity.
And then Richard Conley entered
the room and crossed to the floral al
tar back of which stood the surpliced
minister. His face was chalk white.
In the front row of spectators stood
Richard’s futher —dominant, arrogant,
Winchester Payne, banker and dip
; lomat, entered his drawing room, and
i on his arm leaned the veiled figure of
■ the bride.
; And then the ceremony beguu—the
■ ceremony which guve Murgmet to*
i Richard as wife.
Presently it was finished and the
• minister pronounced the benediction.
Then the groom leaned forward and
; threw back the bride’s veil. I clutched
Jimmy’s arm and watched the guests.
, A stir went through the assemblage
of guests. Richard Conley, Sr., leuped
• forward with a shout of rage.
For when the bride’s veil svas thrown
back the 'race framed in the folds of
[ white tulle was not thut of Margarel
Payne, but of a starry-eyed, tremulous
> Upped girl whom Jimmy and I had sub
l stituted for the Lride.
“It isn’t legal. I’ll have it annulled !"
, shrieked Conley, senior.
But Richard Conley said nothing. A
- little muscle across his jaw was twitch
? ing and his eyes Lad grown very dark
and were shining with a clear steadi
; ness. Some purpose seemed to be set
; ting his weak mouth into a mold —was
s it stubbornness or strength?
- “Oh, I guess it’s legal all right,” said
? Jimmy, stepping forward and holdiug
out a paper—the signed confession of
. ilkins. “You see this is a license
l m aking it legal. Mrs. Richard Couley,
, Jr*, got It today.”
And then another actor came upon
i the scene. In the doorway stood the
. butler leading Harry Wilkins—the evil
man of the Blue Cove. Jimmy pointed
i to him and spoke in a low voice to
i Richard.
“If it isn’t legal, you will make it
so or go to the penitentiary.”
At Jimmy’s words, Richard Conley’s
; lips twisted into a snarl. “Go to the
l penitentiary on the jyord of the village
- idiot!” said he. “Well, I guess not—
how dare you folks interfere? What
1 do you mean by playing providence
r like this? Have you thought of the
other girl, of Margaret?"
? But before we could answer. Mar
> gnret Payne appenred In the doorway
of her home. In her arras was the lit
- tie nameless blue-eyed baby which
- looked so much like the father who
r had never owned it. ' And then a sud
i den change came across Richard Con
j ley’s face. There is an instinct of fa
i therhood, too. Be walked over to the
1 side of the girl he had meant to marry
and from her arms he took his baby.
“Corae. Madge—we’ll go home,” said
1 he. Perhaps there was not love and
i longing in his voice--but I think Cher*
» was tenderness even th**n.
4 (END OF SEY’RNTH UJPISODW.)