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Updated: June 17, 2025
So much the worse for the women if they happened to be tied to men they could not "hold." Isabelle, remembering on one occasion the flashing eyes of the Kentuckian, his passionate denunciation of mere commercialism in public life, felt that there might be some defence for poor Tom Darnell, even in his flirtation with the "common" Mrs. Adams.
There were Darnell and Wood, of New Mexico, who could literally ride any horses alive. There were Goodwin, and Buck Taylor, and Armstrong the ranger, crack shots with rifle or revolver. There was many a skilled packer who had led and guarded his trains of laden mules through the Indian-haunted country surrounding some out-post of civilization.
If some one had discharged assafoetida over the table, there could not have been a more unpleasant sensation. "You don't mean quite that, Darnell," Lane began; but the Kentuckian brushed him to one side. "Just that; and some day you will see what Americans will do with their anarchists.
Alice, by her very presence, her calm acceptance of life as it shaped itself, soothed Isabelle's restlessness, suggested trust and confidence. "You are a dear," she whispered to her cousin. "I am so glad you are to be near me in St. Louis!" Isabelle saw the fat headlines in the Pittsburg paper that the porter brought her, "Congressman Darnell and his wife killed!"
Isabelle had distributed her Torsonians skilfully: Bessie was adorable and kept three men hanging on her stories. Mrs. Adams, on the other side of Stanton, was furtively eying Darnell, who was talking rather loudly, trying to capture the Senator's attention from Bessie. Across the table Mrs.
"How could it have happened, he was such a good driver? He must have been drunk." "Tom Darnell could have driven all right, even if he had been drunk. I am afraid it's worse than that." "Tell me!" "There are all sorts of rumors. He came up from Washington unexpectedly, and his wife met him at the station with their team.
Elizabeth rapped sharply on the window, and the shutter was opened, but, all being dark inside, she could not see by whom. "Prithee, let me through the gate. I've a message of import for Master Ewring, at the mill." "Gate's shut," said the gruff voice of the gatekeeper. "Can't let any through while morning." "Darnell, you'll let me through!" pleaded Elizabeth.
There was a long stretch of fertile fields in front of the house, dotted by the huge barns and steel windmills of surrounding farms. One Sunday in early May the Lanes were riding in the direction of the Darnell place, and Isabelle persuaded her husband to call there. "I promised to ride out here and show him the horses," she explained.
The bodies had been found at the bottom of an abandoned quarry. It was supposed that during a thunder-storm the night before, as he was driving from Torso to his farm in company with his wife, the horses had become uncontrollable and had dashed into the pit before Darnell could pull them up. He had just taken his seat in Congress.
She could not dismiss poor Tom Darnell as summarily as John did, "a bad lot, I'm afraid!" "You mustn't think anything more about it," her husband said anxiously, as she sat staring before her, trying to comprehend the tragedy. "I have arranged to take you on to-morrow. The Colonel writes that your brother Ezra is seedy, touch of malaria, he thinks.
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