After she began teaching the school on Stony Creek, she and Mr. Shawnessy managed to see each other secretly. He had the school at Moreland that year, and after school in the afternoons, the lovers would meet as often as possible at a deserted mill on the Shawmucky about midway between the two schools. They also left notes at the trysting place under a stone. Sometimes, too, Esther would be invited to dinner at Ivy and Carl Foster’s, their house being only a half-mile from the Root house across the fields. Mr. Shawnessy would be there too, and all four would keep the secret. Ivy was Esther’s only confidante until somehow Fernie found out about the secret trysts in the spring; but Fernie—goodhearted, homely, talkative Fernie—kept her mouth shut and never breathed a word of the affair to anyone.
In fact, Esther never did discover who it was that found out about the secret letters and meetings and told Pa.
One day in April of 1878, she went to the trysting place to leave a note for Mr. Shawnessy. She knelt and placed the note under a stone close to the door of the old mill and was just rising when she saw Pa standing in the door of the mill not ten feet away watching her. He walked over and without a word lifted the stone and took the note.
—Pa, she said in a small desperate voice, please don’t read it. He opened the note and read it through. His face, usually red and bloated at moments of anger, was pale.
—Is he coming here today? Pa said.
His voice scared her as she had never been scared before because it was so dreadfully even and controlled. For the first time, she realized that Pa was fully capable of killing Mr. Shawnessy.
—No, Pa. I don’t think so.
—How long have you been meeting him and writing to him? Pa said in the same low, quiet voice.
—Since September, Pa.
—Don’t lie to me, Esther. I know about it anyway.
—I didn’t lie to you, Pa.
—Where is he now? Pa said.
—I don’t know, Pa. Please, Pa, don’t hurt him. It isn’t his fault. It’s my fault.
Pa picked up the gun that had been leaning against the wall inside the mill and went around back of the mill where he had tied his horse. Esther looked at the long black gun with which she had often seen Pa knock a rabbit kicking.
Pa got on his horse and came around. She got on her horse. She kept running her eyes all over the fields and the paths of the countryside, praying that Mr. Shawnessy wouldn’t appear, riding along in his abstracted way, his eyes bright and pleasant.
—If you kill him, Pa, she said, I’ll kill myself.
—Why did you do it, Esther? Pa said, with a passion so terrible that it took all anger from his voice and made it break like a woman’s.
—I love him, Pa.
Pa turned his face away. He was crying. Sobs tore his big frame. Esther was appalled. She had never seen Pa cry, had never dreamed that he could cry. She began to sob with him.
—Don’t, Pa. Please don’t.
Pa fought to contain himself, his big chest heaving convulsively.
—Please, Pa, she said. I’m sorry. It was all my fault. Honest, I didn’t do anything but meet him a few times and write. I’ll never do it again, honest. I’ll stop it. Honest, I will, Pa. Please, don’t—don’t cry so, Pa.
At that moment, it seemed to her that the whole matter was irrevocably sealed and settled. There was nothing else to do but stop the whole thing. The way it was, Mr. Shawnessy would be killed or Pa would die or something dreadful would happen. This thing was bigger than she. It was Fate that she had loved as she had, and it was Fate too that she was doomed never to marry her love. It was Fate, Godappointed Fate, that she was to live forever with Pa. The pain of tearing herself away from him seemed at this moment greater than any conceivable pain of separation from Mr. Shawnessy, which would be a dull long pain, prolonged over all the years of her life until she died.
So she went home with Pa, and in sorrow, fear, and remorse remained for weeks a voluntary prisoner at the farm. As for Pa, he openly declared his intention to horsewhip John Shawnessy to death if he ever caught him around his daughter again.
Meanwhile, in the world outside, a number of remarkable things occurred that Esther didn’t know about at the time.
To begin with, Mr. Shawnessy, who had always been regarded as an easy-going person in the County, showed unexpected fight. And his position in the affair was improved by a strange development.
In late April a letter came from Louisiana, saying that his wife had disappeared several months before from the private home where she was being kept and that although a diligent search had been conducted for her, she had not reappeared. There was some evidence that in her demented state, she had committed suicide, and cannons were fired over the Mississippi River in an effort to raise the body. News of this development had been unpardonably delayed in reaching Mr. Shawnessy, as his wife’s family had kept expecting her to be found alive or dead. An action was instituted in a Louisiana court to get the woman declared legally dead, but the affair was pending and promised to go on for a long time. Mr. Shawnessy then boldly claimed the legal death of his wife on the basis of her disappearance. His case wasn’t a strong one, but it was better than nothing. The way was as clear as perhaps it ever would be.
Mr. Shawnessy managed to get these facts to Esther by way of Ivy Foster. He said that he was ready to stand up before the world and claim Esther for his wife.
Meanwhile, Esther was being subjected to a different kind of pressure. Pa and other older people whom she respected had talked with her gently but firmly about the matter. They told her that no matter how strong it seemed to her now, her feeling toward Mr. Shawnessy was after all only a girlish infatuation. They said that from no point of view was Mr. Shawnessy a fit man for her. They said that he was an atheist and a no-account, ambitionless drifter. They said that he had had other shady affairs with young girls in schools where he had taught; and though the names of the girls were not named, some details of the affairs were given. They said that Mr. Shawnessy’s own father had forced him to marry his first wife. They said that there was a bad streak in the Shawnessy family. It was no secret in the County that old T. D. Shawnessy was the child of an illegitimate union and had come to America to escape the shame of his bastard birth. Everyone loved the old gentleman—true enough—but there was that stain. Mrs. Shawnessy had been, as everyone knew, a wonderful woman, and no one had been more broken up than she by the failures and foibles of her brilliant but erratic son. They said that John Wickliff Shawnessy was an unstable, undependable philanderer, approaching middle age, almost old enough to be Esther Root’s father, and once she got over the crazy infatuation she now felt, she would thank her lucky stars forever that she hadn’t let herself get caught with him. They said that besides all that, her pa, who had loved and looked after her all her life, was alone in the world, now that his wife had died and the other girls were getting married and the sons had left, and she would break her pa’s heart by making such a bad marriage. They said that anyway there were legal impediments in the way of such a marriage. They said that it was better to break off the whole thing clean, or at any rate to wait and get more tangible evidence of Mr. Shawnessy’s honesty than an annulment based on a mysterious disappearance.
Meanwhile, Esther was watched and attended by various energetic maiden ladies of mature years who rose staunchly to the defense of outraged fatherhood and threatened chastity. One of them even slept with Esther at night. It became almost impossible to get any word at all to or from Mr. Shawnessy, even through Ivy Foster, who was forbidden to see Esther any longer.
In spite of herself, Esther was shocked and disturbed by what she heard. She hadn’t seen Mr. Shawnessy for a long time. It began to appear that she might have been all wrong in her infatuation for him. At any rate there was nothing that she could or would do about it. The gods of Family Virtue, Conventional Morality, and Orthodox Religion seemed to be winning a decisive victory.
These Raintree County deities did not, however, reckon
with a certain masterpiece of romantic strategy on the part of Mr. Shawnessy.
In early June of 1878, there appeared in the Free Enquirer, in the space usually reserved for the Sage of the Upper Shawmucky, Will Westward, an open letter to Mr. Gideon Root, under which appeared in bold capitals the name JOHN WICKLIFF SHAWNESSY. The letter made a clear, honest, and dispassionate statement of the legal facts of the case, and it concluded with a courteous demand that the writer be permitted to visit the Root home and ask the hand of Esther Root in marriage, as the young lady was now twenty-one years old and the suitor was a man not without friends and prestige in Raintree County—and, to the best of his knowledge, legally single and eligible. A note of passion crept into the letter in the last sentence, in which the writer did not hesitate to appeal to justice and the power of immortal love.
It was the last sentence that threatened to cook Mr. Gideon Root’s goose.
On receipt of his personal copy of this letter, Mr. Root went out and got into his buggy, selecting his longest and heaviest leather whip as a suitable accessory. He drove over to the Shawnessy Home and walked into the yard, carrying the whip. What followed was variously reported, but most accounts agreed on the following conversation.
Mr. Shawnessy, upon answering the door and seeing Mr. Root standing there fingering a big black whip, carefully kept the door between himself and his visitor.
—What may I do for you, sir? he said.
—I want a word with you in private, Mr. Root said.
—Just a second, sir, Mr. Shawnessy had said.
He reappeared in a moment with an immense rawhide horsewhip, newly purchased, which he kept twisting between his strong, nervous hands.
He and Mr. Root then walked out into the yard.
—Shawnessy, Mr. Root said, I have come over here to tell you to leave my daughter Esther alone. We want no part of you, and we don’t aim to have you botherin’ around her any more.
—Are these her words or your words, Mr. Root?
—They’re my words and her sentiments.
—What guarantee have I got of that? You’ve had her jailed up for weeks. I haven’t even been able to talk with her.
—Older and wiser people have talked with her and brought her to her senses, Mr. Root said. She knows now that you’re a goddam, blackhearted scoundrel, and she don’t want no more of your lyin’ words. If you try any more tricks to git her, I’m warnin’ you, by God Almighty, that you will have more than a poor, defenseless, and foolish girl to reckon with.
Mr. Root’s broad hand bulged on the handle of his whip.
—Meaning? Mr. Shawnessy said, shaking out his whip along the ground and absently making the end of it flick at some flowerheads on the fringe of the lawn.
—Meanin’, Mr. Root said, that I’m that girl’s pa and I intend to take care of her, any way I know how. There are laws to prevent the seduction of girls and to punish their seducers. And if the law don’t help, I’ll find means of my own.
—Sir, Mr. Shawnessy said, there are also laws to prevent a man from keeping his daughter brutally locked up so that she can’t marry the man of her choice.
There was then some violent discussion of whether Mr. Shawnessy was a fit man to marry any woman. Mr. Shawnessy’s antecedents, both paternal and maternal, were stigmatized in no uncertain terms. Both men watched each other’s whiphands and turned white and red several times. Mr. Shawnessy attempted to keep the discussion on a temperate level and drew several legal distinctions, to make his position perfectly clear.
Finally, Mr. Root said,
—Look here, Shawnessy. Much as you may think so, I have no personal interest in hurtin’ you. All I want is my daughter safe out of your hands. Now, I’m not a rich man, but I’m willin’ to pay something for that. I’ll give you a thousand dollars, my note of hand, to stay away from my daughter. You’ll have five hundred dollars down and the rest as soon as I can git it, and I give you my word no one will ever know of it. I’m a practical man. I’m willin’ to pay this money and strike a bargain, and no hard feelin’s.
—Mr. Root, Mr. Shawnessy said, if you’re so sure your daughter cares nothing for me, why are you offering me this bribe?
—I’ve made the offer, Mr. Root said. Take it or leave it.
—I don’t want your money, Mr. Shawnessy said. Esther and I love each other. We want to be married and live as man and wife.
At these words, Mr. Root stared wildly about as if he were hunting for something that he should have brought. He looked at Mr. Shawnessy’s whip. He put his hand to his throat as if to squeeze his heart back into his breast.
—John Shawnessy, he said slowly, I ought to thrash you to death.
—Mr. Root, Mr. Shawnessy said, I’ve lived too long and seen too much to be afraid of a man with a whip. I’ve been cheated out of a lot of things in my time, but I don’t intend to be cheated out of your daughter, if she’ll have me. I might as well make perfectly clear to you that I intend to take her away from you and marry her. That’s all I have to say to you, sir. Good day.
Mr. Shawnessy turned his back on Mr. Root and walked into the house, and Mr. Root went down and got into his buggy and raised a long ugly welt on the side of his horse.
After Mr. Shawnessy’s famous letter to the newspapers, the affair broke wide open. Gideon Root found that he had a hard fight on his hands. He wasn’t simply bucking the power of love, but also the power of the press, which is perhaps even greater.
At first, the County split up into factions, and both sides found voice in the newspapers. The Republican sheet, the old Clarion, which had long ago done a political turntail along with Garwood B. Jones, its absent owner, and which had in its time taken many a wallop at John Wickliff Shawnessy, at first leaned a little toward Mr. Root’s side of the argument.
Then a wonderful thing happened. A letter came from the Nation’s Capital, Washington, D.C., signed by a certain eminent young statesman who had won his first seat in the Senate of the United States in 1875 and had already gained national attention by his golden voice and commanding presence. This letter was received by one of Garwood’s old political henchmen in the County, and it was shown widely about. It was not couched in the Senator’s sacred style.
Dear Skinny,
It has just come to my attention that my good young friend John Shawnessy has got himself into another big mess back there in the old County. The way I hear it, he’s fallen in love with a girl about half his age. No doubt John put his usual hex on the kid, and she’s crazy about him. According to my advices, her old man is trying to break it up and hold back the force of young love.
Now it just so happens that John Shawnessy is one of the best friends I ever had, and if cutting off any part of my anatomy (with one exception) would do the sprout any good, I’d submit to the knife.
Skinny, I want it understood that I want the boy to have that girl legal and proper if that’s the way he wants it. If I still have a little prestige and influence left in the old County, Skinny, I want it used to bring this thing about. Just let it be known that Garwood B. Jones would be personally gratified to see young love have its course.
You can even show part of this letter to the right people, Skinny, and get the boys behind it. Don’t spare money or anything else that will do any good. My personal fund will take care of the thing.
The G.A.R. may be able to help, as everyone knows John Shawnessy fought like hell from Chattanooga to the Sea and got an honorable wound in the gut when we took Atlanta.
Now, Skinny, I trust that’s all I need to say, and let me know how the thing turns out.
GARWOOD B. JONES
P.S. By the way, it won’t hurt to have my name mentioned favorably in the right places and with a touch of humor as reacting to this situation with characteristic humanity. ‘No detail, however minute, back in the home state, fails to arouse the Senator’s instant, personal attention, etc., etc.’ Some of that old crap might do me some good right now after the stink stirred up among the labor
ing classes by my reaction to that damn strike last year. Skinny, get busy in there. I’m counting on you personally.
Garwood’s signature on this document was so big that it could be read without spectacles.
After this letter, the tide of Public Opinion, already turning strongly to the side of young love as against filial piety, became a raging torrent. The Clarion instantly reversed its stand, declaring the issue to be above narrow partisanship and to concern the universal human heart. The Jones machine got busy and went to town. In no time at all the columns of both newspapers were full of letters, suggesting a hundred solutions to the affair, among which the most straightforward was a proposal that old Gideon Root be horsewhipped and hanged on a hickory limb.
The affair attracted attention even beyond the borders of Raintree County, receiving some notice in a widely read column in New York’s leading newspaper. Letters came to the local papers from surprisingly remote places. Not wholly characteristic was one to the Clarion from a Miss Geranium Warbler Stiles, a resident of Oshkosh (though, curiously, the envelope was postmarked New York). Miss Stiles (who was obviously a very gifted old woman) said that her entire sympathies had been aroused by reports that she had read of the case. She then proceeded to record at great length the tribulations of her own enforced maidenhood which she said had been caused by the determination of a tyrant father to prevent her marriage to the young man of her choice. The upshot of the thing had been that
. . . my father at last, in a fit of insane rage, discharged a shotgun at my intended, which though it did not mortally wound him resulted in such highly localized damage to his person that marriage was, alas! out of the question.
This letter was at once so touchingly frank and so convincingly eloquent that it had no little weight in turning Public Opinion in Raintree County in favor of the lovers.
It got so that Gideon Root hardly dared go out of his house. One day when he was riding down the road in his buggy, a very muscular man on a bay horse rode up beside him, grabbed him by the shirt at the neck, pulled him half out of the buggy, shook him, and said with deadly seriousness,