



Produced by Darleen Dove, Roger Frank, Mary Meehan and the
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                          THE RECLAIMERS

                     BY MARGARET HILL McCARTER

               _Author of_ "VANGUARDS OF THE PLAINS"


    HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
    NEW YORK AND LONDON

    The Reclaimers

    Copyright, 1918, by Harper & Brothers

    Printed in the United States of America

    Published October, 1918


                  TO
         MAY BELLEVILLE BROWN
    CRITIC, COUNSELLOR, COMFORTER


[Illustration]




CONTENTS


PART I

JERRY

I. THE HEIR APPARENT

II. UNCLE CORNIE'S THROW

III. HITCHING THE WAGON TO A STAR

IV. BETWEEN EDENS

V. NEW EDEN'S PROBLEM

VI. PARADISE LOST


PART II

JERRY AND JOE

VII. UNHITCHING THE WAGON FROM A STAR

VIII. IF A MAN WENT RIGHT WITH HIMSELF

IX. IF A WOMAN WENT RIGHT WITH HERSELF

X. THE SNARE OF THE FOWLER

XI. AN INTERLUDE IN "EDEN"

XII. THIS SIDE OF THE RUBICON


PART III

JERRY AND EUGENE--AND JOE

XIII. HOW A GOOD MOTHER LIVES ON

XIV. JIM SWAIM'S WISH

XV. DRAWING OUT LEVIATHAN WITH A HOOK

XVI. A POSTLUDE IN "EDEN"

XVII. THE FLESH-POTS OF THE WINNWOC

XVIII. THE LORD HATH HIS WAY IN THE STORM

XIX. RECLAIMED




THE RECLAIMERS




I

JERRY




I

THE HEIR APPARENT


Only the good little snakes were permitted to enter the "Eden" that
belonged to Aunt Jerry and Uncle Cornie Darby. "Eden," it should be
explained, was the country estate of Mrs. Jerusha Darby--a wealthy
Philadelphian--and her husband, Cornelius Darby, a relative by marriage,
so to speak, whose sole business on earth was to guard his wife's wealth
for six hours of the day in the city, and to practise discus-throwing
out at "Eden" for two hours every evening.

Of course these two were never familiarly "Aunt" and "Uncle" to this
country neighborhood, nor to any other community. Far, oh, far from
that! They were Aunt and Uncle only to Jerry Swaim, the orphaned and
only child of Mrs. Darby's brother Jim, whose charming girlish presence
made the whole community, wherever she might chance to be. They were
cousin, however, to Eugene Wellington, a young artist of more than
ordinary merit, also orphaned and alone, except for a sort of cousinship
with Uncle Cornelius.

"Eden" was a beautifully located and handsomely appointed estate of two
hundred acres, offering large facilities to any photographer seeking
magazine illustrations of country life in America. Indeed, the place
was, as Aunt Jerry Darby declared, "summer and winter, all shot up by
camera-toters and dabbed over with canvas-stretchers' paints," much to
the owner's disgust, to whom all camera-toters and artists, except
Cousin Eugene Wellington, were useless idlers. The rustic little railway
station, hidden by maple-trees, was only three or four good
discus-throws from the house. But the railroad itself very properly
dropped from view into a wooded valley on either side of the station.
There was nothing of cindery ugliness to mar the spot where the dwellers
in "Eden" could take the early morning train for the city, or drop off
in the cool of the afternoon into a delightful pastoral retreat. Beyond
the lawns and buildings, gardens and orchards, the land billowed away
into meadow and pasture and grain-field, with an insert of leafy grove
where song-birds builded an Eden all their own. The entire freehold of
Aunt Jerry Darby and Uncle Cornie, set down in the middle of a Western
ranch, would have been a day's journey from its borders. And yet in it
country life was done into poetry, combining city luxuries and
conveniences with the dehorned, dethorned comfort and freedom of idyllic
nature. What more need be said for this "Eden" into which only the good
little snakes were permitted to enter?

In the late afternoon Aunt Jerry sat in the rose-arbor with her Japanese
work-basket beside her, and a pearl tatting-shuttle between her thumb
and fingers. One could read in a thoughtful glance all there was to know
of Mrs. Darby. Her alert air and busy hands bespoke the habit of
everlasting industry fastened down upon her, no doubt, in a far-off
childhood. She was luxurious in her tastes. The satin gown, the diamond
fastening the little cap to her gray hair, the elegant lace at her
throat and wrists, the flashing jewels on her thin fingers, all
proclaimed a desire for display and the means wherewith to pamper it.
The rest of her story was written on her wrinkled face, where the strong
traits of a self-willed youth were deeply graven. Something in the
narrow, restless eyes suggested the discontented lover of wealth. The
lines of the mouth hinted at selfishness and prejudice. The square chin
told of a stubborn will, and the stern cast of features indicated no
sense of humor whereby the hardest face is softened. That Jerusha Darby
was rich, intolerant, determined, unimaginative, self-centered,
unforgiving, and unhappy the student of character might gather at a
glance. Where these traits abide a second glance is unnecessary.

Outside, the arbor was aglow with early June roses; within, the
cushioned willow seats invite to restful enjoyment. But Jerusha Darby
was not there for pleasure. While her pearl shuttle darted in and out
among her fingers like a tiny, iridescent bird, her mind and tongue were
busy with important matters.

Opposite to her was her husband, Cornelius. It was only important
matters that called him away from his business in the city at so early
an hour in the afternoon. And it was only on business matters that he
and his wife ever really conferred, either in the rose-arbor or
elsewhere. The appealing beauty of the place indirectly meant nothing to
these two owners of all this beauty.

The most to be said of Cornelius Darby was that he was born the son of a
rich man and he died the husband of a rich woman. His life, like his
face, was colorless. He fitted into the landscape and his presence was
never detected. He had no opinions of his own. His father had given him
all that he needed to think about until he was married. "Was married" is
well said. He never courted nor married anybody. He was never courted,
but he was married by Jerusha Swaim. But that is all dried stuff now.
Let it be said, however, that not all the mummies are in Egyptian tombs
and Smithsonian Institutions. Some of them sit in banking-houses all day
long, and go discus-throwing in lovely "Edens" on soft June evenings.
And one of them once, just once, broke the ancient linen wrappings from
his glazed jaws and spoke. For half an hour his voice was heard; and
then the bandages slipped back, and the mummy was all mummy again. It
was Jerry Swaim who wrought that miracle. But then there is little in
the earth, or the waters under the earth, that a pretty girl cannot work
upon.

"You say you have the report on the Swaim estate that the Macpherson
Mortgage Company of New Eden, Kansas, is taking care of for us?" Mrs.
Darby asked.

"The complete report. York Macpherson hasn't left out a detail. Shall I
read you his description?" her husband replied.

"No, no; don't tell me a thing about it, not a thing. I don't want to
know any more about Kansas than I know already. I hate the very name of
Kansas. You can understand why, when you remember my brother. I've known
York Macpherson all his life, him and his sister Laura, too. And I never
could understand why he went so far West, nor why he dragged that lame
sister of his out with him to that Sage Brush country."

"That's because you won't let me tell you anything about the West. But
as a matter of business you ought