CHAPTER VII.
Shortly after the insult forced upon him by John Thorpe at the Harrisreception, and finding it impossible to enjoy the spirit of the gaythrong, Mr. Corway took his departure.
Disappointed in his endeavor to communicate with Hazel, who deemed itdiscreet to avoid his presence until after the affair had been clearedup--and actuated by the purest motives, he could not but feel that hewas the mistaken victim of some foul play with which fate hadstrangely connected him.
He recalled the profound respect he had always entertained for and onevery occasion he had shown Mrs. Thorpe. And as his thoughts of theaffair deepened, his natural fire of resentment softened and died outas effectually as though he had been summoned to stand beside thedeathbed of some very dear friend. And the more he thought of it, themore disagreeable and repugnant a quarrel with John Thorpe appeared tohim; yet his honor as a gentleman grossly insulted, forbade any otherway out of it.
Finally he decided to consult Mr. Harris on the best course to pursue,and for that purpose determined to visit Rosemont the next day.
It was well on in the afternoon that he left his hotel for theJefferson street depot, and while walking along First street henoticed a closed "hack," drawn by a pair of black horses, rapidlyproceeding in the same direction.
As it passed him, he felt sure that he had caught a glimpse of LordBeauchamp's profile, through the small, glazed lookout at the back ofthe vehicle.
It was late when Corway returned from Rosemont, and strangelycoincident, as he stepped down off the car he saw that same "hack"move off, and that same face inside, made plain by a chance gleam oflight from a street lamp, that quivered athwart the casement of thedoor. But except for a thought of "devilish queer, unless 'me lord'was expecting some one," he attached no further importance to it, anddismissed it from his mind.
He proceeded up Jefferson street with head bent low, engrossed in deepmeditation, for Mr. Harris was unable to give him any concrete adviceon the matter, and he was recalling to memory every conceivable act hehad committed, or words he had uttered that could have been possiblymisconstrued by Mr. Thorpe to urge the latter to a frenzy and soviolent an outburst, when he was abruptly halted by a peremptoryorder: "Hands up!"
Simultaneously two masked men stepped out from the shadow of a gloomyrecess of a building between Second and Third streets, and one of thempoked the muzzle of an ugly-looking revolver in his face.
At that moment Mr. Corway had his hands thrust deep in his lightovercoat pockets, and the suddenness of the demand made at a time whenhis mind was in a perturbed, chaotic state, evidently was not clearlycomprehended. At any rate, he failed to comply instantly, with theresult that he received a heavy blow on the back of his head with someblunt instrument, which felled him like a log. His unquestionedpersonal courage, and his reputation of being a dead shot at twentypaces availed him nothing. He was not permitted time, short as wasneeded, to wrest his mind from its pre-occupied business to grasp amode of defense, before he was struck down. He thought he had metwith, what many others before him have met on the streets of Portlandafter dark, a "holdup."
An Oregon Girl: A Tale of American Life in the New West Page 10