Alfred Rice - An Oregon Girl - A Tale of American Life in the New West

In the year 19 – a legend adorned with gold and bearing the significant words, “The Securities Investment Association, Mr. Philip Rutley, President, Mr. Jack Shore, Secretary-Treasurer,” appeared on the glass panel of a certain office door on Third street, in the city of Portland, Oregon.

These two men were middle-aged bachelors, and moved in select society. Through their social standing they had persuaded two wealthy men of the city to lend their names as stockholders and directors in the company; but the Investment Company’s business failed to meet the expenses which the social living of the two promoters felt were demanded of them, and the inevitable happened, viz., a resort to dishonest manipulations of sundry bond transactions by which the two wealthy directors had to “make good.”

It resulted, on discovery, in the immediate closing of the office and prosecution of the offenders was ordered; but because of their social standing and promise to leave the city at once, criminal proceedings were suspended.

Three years elapsed. In the medium-sized room of a plainly furnished flat, in a genteel suburb of the “Bay City,” a man sat brooding over the ill luck which had pursued him for the past few years. This man, as he sat with elbows on his knees and chin resting on his hands, was looking through the open window and out over the bay, out over that far off rugged ridge of purple and gray and white that projected up in the clear ethereal blue, northward, gazing with eyes fixed into nothingness, for he was deeply absorbed in a review of his past career and of the sunny time he had enjoyed while living in Portland.

His straw colored hair, verging to a sandy hue, framed a smooth shaven face of marked strength and intelligence. His eyes of a bluish gray, were bright when shielded by spectacles, worn more from fashion than necessity, glittered with keenness and energy.

Jack Shore rarely allowed his naturally aggressive and buoyant spirits to remain for long depressed by a gloomy retrospect; but the purpose of his prolonged stare at vacancy on this occasion was attributable to the necessity of another visit to Mr. Loan-on-personal-property.

His reverie was ended by the abrupt entry of his companion, Philip Rutley, who drawled out in quiet tones: “Jack – Aw – I beg pardon. I see you are engaged.”

Jack looked at his visitor, noted his dignified bearing and unwonted coolness as he removed his gloves; noted the smile of cunning pleasure that played about his mouth and, from experience, concluded that some deep scheme had been thought out and a line of action forming.

“Well, Phil,” he replied, “what game is on now?”

“A well dressed lady and gentleman, strangers,” began Phil, “halted me on Market Street and addressed me as ‘My Lord Beauchamp.’ They warmly shook my hand and gushingly insisted that I promise them the pleasure of presenting our very dear friends, – Mr. and Mrs. Orthodox – to Lord Beauchamp at the Palace tonight.”

“Of course, you consented!” quietly laughed Jack.

“Ahem! Unfortunately I had instructed my secretary to ‘clear’ the yacht for the north this evening, and as all arrangements were complete, must beg, with profound regrets” (and he bent low with courtly grace) “to decline the pleasure. Should you be visiting England next summer, my cordial invitation to rest a month or so at – a – Beauchamp, Isle of Wight.”

“And you – ”

“Beckoned a passing cab; bade them ‘adieu’ and drove on a few blocks.”

“I congratulate you on your iron-clad nerve,” laughingly remarked Jack. “And you withdrew with your new title, – a – me Lord Beauchamp, sitting jauntily, like a chip on your shoulder, – undisturbed.”

“How could I do otherwise? You know I am opposed to shocks, but seriously, Jack, the incident has suggested a way out of our embarrassment.”

“How?”

“By carrying the thing on and be a lord in fact, with you as my secretary.”

Jack laughed, low and yet with a heartiness that was rollicking in its abandon, and then added by way of parenthesis:

“I shall announce ‘Your Grace’s’ intention to visit Portland.”

“Precisely! You are well aware of the great esteem in which Me Lord Beauchamp is likely to be held there, particularly by our friends, The Thorpes, Harrises, et al.”

“A proper entry will create quite a stir among the fashionable set,” remarked Jack reflectively.

“And give us opportunities to ‘work’ them some.”

“Are you agreed?”

“Yes,” responded Jack. “It will be a damn good joke, anyway,” and again he laughed, for as the horn of plenty flitted before his vision his spirits soared once more, above the measly depths of want and anxiety. “As an American,” he continued, “you have as much right to play the role of Lord, General or Judge as any other name by which your friends may be pleased to ‘dub’ you.”

Within the perimeter of a great semi-circle window in a large luxuriously furnished room of a fashionable residence not far from 6666 Hill, in the city of Portland, two women sat reading.

It was an autumn afternoon, just after a light shower, a little warm but rarely matched for the unusual splendor of its soft, dreamy atmosphere – calm and clear as infinite space.

The incessant roar of the city’s commerce floated up and through the screened windows in muffled echoes, but the readers being accustomed to the sound, were undisturbed.

At length one of the readers, a girl who had not seen more than twenty summers, closed the book she had just finished reading and broke the silence with the remark: “Most interesting! A great story!”

“Yes,” exclaimed her companion, looking up, “particularly in its treatment of the bogus Count. Indeed, it is realistic enough to be true.”

“So it appears!” replied the maid, “but just imagine such a thing to happen – as for instance a tramp to impersonate successfully Lord Beauchamp!”

“My Lord is a gentleman ‘to the manor born,’ and impossible of counterfeit.”

“I understand the reception by Mrs. Harris is to be given in his honor?”

“Yes,” replied Mrs. Thorpe, and smiling she went on: “He has promised to take tea with us today.”

“And do you know,” said Hazel in an awed tone, “he’s a Knight of the Order of the Garter? It is reported that he is to be married to a beautiful San Francisco girl.”

“I have heard it mentioned, but I hardly think his Lordship seeks a wife in America, because he is very wealthy.”

“But, Constance, – love is sometimes eccentric!”

“Quite true, when its underlying motive is mercenary. You remember Philip Rutley.”

“Constance!” exclaimed the girl, with a stamp of her foot. “You know the wise proverb, ‘Let sleeping dogs lie.’”

It was then that Philip Rutley, impersonating Lord Beauchamp, was ushered in, accompanied by Mr. Joseph Corway.

“Ah! My Lord,” greeted Constance arising from her seat. “This delightful corner has lured us to forget to welcome you at the portal of our home. Allow me the pleasure of introducing Miss Hazel Brooke, and you, Mr. Corway, – well you know we are always ‘at home’ to you.”

As Rutley deliberately placed a monocle to his eye, he said, “A corner with such an entrancing vista,” carelessly waving his hand toward the open, “is a pardonable lure to dreamy forgetfulness.”

Then he stared at the girl and, as he supposed, conveyed the desired impression, muttered: “Charming!” and that word, uttered with quiet and apparently involuntary emphasis, at once made Hazel Brooke his friend, and, to add to the favorable impression which Rutley perceived he had created, he bowed low and said suavely: “Miss Brooke will permit me to say, I rejoice in her acquaintance.”