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Emerson

      Buell Hampton

DEDICATED TO MY OLD SWEETHEART

      My sweetheart of the long ago —

      With rosy cheeks and raven hair —

      Sang lullabies so soft and low,

      All joyous was the rhythmic air.

      Though other links with luckless fate

      Have brought me bruises bathed in tears,

      From childhood up to man’s estate

      Her love has held me all the years.

      Our ties grow fonder, day by day,

      While graces, all, in her combine.

      Oh, love! make good and glad the way

      Where walks this sweetheart – Mother mine.

      THEME

      Once an American mother, with the wealth of a Croesus and a lovely daughter, longed for titled distinction.

      In her net she caught an adventurer, clothed in a frayed-out remnant of a former nobility – and an eyeglass.

      They bartered and came to terms, – dollars, title, – while an innocent girl was thrown in as an incident.

      “And what is writ is writ, —

      Would it were worthier.”

Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage.

      Every author who, early or late, finds it his delightful, yet dangerous, privilege to “get under cover” owes something to Pliny the Younger for recording the fact that Pliny the Elder used to say that “no book was so bad but that some good might be got out of it.”

      With this delightful assurance as an incentive, the author of “Buell Hampton” began, some twelve years ago, to construct the story herewith presented.

      There is so much in the following tale of the great Southwest that is based upon facts and actual happenings that I hardly know where history ceases and fiction begins.

      I know the grain-bags of promise were torn open and found to be filled with the tare seeds of disappointment, which were blown carelessly about by the wind-puffs of adversity.

      The Osborns, the Hortons, queenly Ethel, and Marie, – the singing girl, – Lord Avondale, Jack Redfield, and Hugh Stanton are still in the land of the living, and will doubtless peruse these pages with varying degrees of approval. Judge Lynn died about one year ago, but will long be remembered in the Southwest for his oddities and grotesque sayings. I was present when a shadow fell between the old banker and his beautiful young wife, and, with the days, it deepened, until it was obliterated by the clods of Graceland Cemetery.

      The prairie-fire, the foot-race, and the pitiless hot winds were actual occurrences, while the fields of sunflowers are, in season, still to be seen in all their gorgeous splendor.

      Major Buell Hampton is a flesh and blood personality, with whom I spent many an enjoyable evening, and whom I learned to love for his wealth of wisdom and kindness of heart. His rise and fall, the tragedy on the red banks of the Cimarron River, and his strange disappearance, are a part of the tragic history of the cattle-range of the Great Southwest. The music of the old violin still lingers with me, and is inseparable from the strange character and complex destiny of this wonderful man.

W. G. E

      CHAPTER I. – AT LAKE GENEVA

      IT was only a game of tennis that brought on this affair of love’s entanglement.

      Ethel Horton, with rich, maidenly flushes on her soft cheeks, played as she had never played before – played and won.

      Athletic suppleness and vivacious buoyancy were emphasized in every movement of this intense American girl.

      With heightened color, she contested the game, point by point.

      It was thrilling sport, and her clever opponent was Lenox Avondale, an Englishman.

      And while this exciting neck and neck game was in progress, her mother, Mrs. J. Bruce-Horton, was idly conversing with Mrs. Lyman Osborn on a wide veranda of the hotel that overlooked the blue waters of the lake.

      “Really,” she observed, leaning back in her easy chair, “Lake Geneva is not such a bad place, after all. One can get on here very well for a few days.”

      “Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Lyman Osborn, as she seated herself languidly, and gazed across the blue waters, “yet I fancy that in time it would become quite dull for us, it is so thoroughly American. Let me push the cushions under your shoulder a little farther, dear.”

      “Thank you,” replied Mrs. Horton, “that is more comfortable. What does Doctor Redfield say of my illness?”

      “That in a week’s time we can continue our journey to the Southwest.”

      “My dear husband,” murmured Mrs. Horton, reflectively, “how glad he will be to see Ethel! It has been four years since the child was placed in that fashionable London school; she was then only fifteen. Her dear father will hardly know her.”

      “The thanks of all are due to you, my dear Mrs. Horton, for the educational advantages that Ethel has enjoyed.”

      “Yes, my husband is so determined in his ideas; but I manage to spend as little of my time on the frontier, you know, as possible, and I certainly shall see to it that Ethel does not deteriorate under the influence of our stupid American ways. She is certainly a girl of rare gifts, and I could never have forgiven myself had she been educated in the States.”

      “Quite right,” assented Mrs. Osborn, “your husband may stay with his herds of cattle, and my husband may stand at his bank counter, year in and year out, if it pleases them to do so, but you and I will take our annual trip to merry England,” and Mrs. Osborn laughed a ripple of indifference at the crude taste of their respective husbands.

      Mrs. J. Bruce-Horton was a woman in her early forties. Her features were regular, and her complexion had a youthfulness not in keeping with her age. Her heavy brown hair was most becomingly arranged. Her neatly fitting suit of tweed, – a production of Redfern, – in keeping with the latest London style, admirably set off her rather stately figure. Her companion, Mrs. Lyman Osborn, was probably thirty-five, although in appearance she seemed much younger. A pink and white skin, fair hair, and blue eyes combined in giving her a bewitching appearance.

      They were returning from a trip to England, whither they had gone to bring home with them Ethel Horton, who had recently finished her education in a London school. At Chicago Mrs. J. Bruce-Horton had been taken suddenly ill; and Doctor Redfield had been recommended and summoned. On his advice they had come to Lake Geneva until Mrs. Horton sufficiently recovered to continue their journey to southwestern Kansas.

      Mr. John B. Horton was known in the West as a great cattle baron. Soon after the war he married in Baltimore, and moved West to engage in the cattle business. His lonely dugout of frontier days had given way to one of the most palatial residences in the West. This beautiful home had been erected on the site of the dugout, near the line between Kansas and No-Man’s-Land, and not far from the Cimarron River. Horton’s Grove was known far and wide. Indeed, it was practically the only timber in that section of the country. In this grove two mammoth springs burst forth from the hillside, and formed a beautiful stream named Manaroya. Here, near the edge of the grove, and on the banks of the gurgling brook, less than three miles from Meade, Kansas, John Horton had erected his home.

      With their accumulation of wealth had come an ambition on the part of Mrs. J. Bruce-Horton – as she inscribed her cards – to give her daughter Ethel all the advantages of a thorough education. Vassar had been thought of; but the banker’s wife, Mrs. Lyman Osborn, had suggested that foreign travel was indispensable in reaching a correct decision.

      Captain Lyman Osborn was a veteran of the Union army, and was many years his wife’s senior. He was engaged in the banking business at Meade, and divided his time between his duties at the bank, and his son, Harry, who was not more than five years of age. The father fairly idolized the boy, and, while he was with him, was quite content that his young wife should travel abroad – if that were her pleasure.

      Against

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