LOUIE AND FRED
Louie was very tired, and after telling her mother what had taken place
at the bank, she went to bed, for her head was aching slightly and she
wished, if possible, to forget the exciting scene through which she had
passed. A quiet sleep, followed by a bath, refreshed her, and in a
pretty white wrapper she was sitting at the end of the piazza, covered
with woodbine, which sheltered it from the sun. Her eyes were closed,
and she was nearly asleep again when Fred’s step, coming rapidly up the
walk and on to the piazza, roused her. Before he touched the bell he saw
her and went toward her, offering his hand and hoping she was not
suffering any bad effects from her efforts of the morning.
“Only tired, that’s all,” she said, feeling chagrined at being caught by
Fred Lansing _en deshabille_, as she fancied her loose wrapper to be.
She did not guess how the young man was admiring her in it, and thinking
it the most becoming dress she could have worn, with its flowing
sleeves, which showed her arms every time she moved them.
Bringing a chair to her side, he told her why he had come, giving her
the judge’s note, and drawing a good deal upon his imagination as he
dwelt upon the pleasure it would give them all to have her present. Mrs.
White, he said, was very busy; and the judge had written for her—a
little formal, to be sure, but she knew the judge and would make
allowance. He was very grateful, very, for what she had done, or been
the means of doing. They were all very grateful and wanted to see her
and thank her personally. The party would not be a success unless she
were present. They would send the carriage for her, and send her home.
This last was said as he fancied he saw in her signs of declining, and
it did not occur to him that it sounded as if she alone were expected to
go. She understood it, however, and believed the P. S. an afterthought,
and resented it. Her father and mother were not wanted, and for a moment
she resolved not to go. But something in Fred Lansing’s eyes and the
tone of his voice, as he talked to her, won upon her and made her change
her mind.
“I must ask mother,” she said at last; and just then her mother
appeared, a good deal surprised at the sight of this elegant young man
sitting close to her daughter, with his hand on the arm of her chair.
She had seen Fred in the morning, when Louie was brought home, and bowed
pleasantly to him now, while wondering what his errand could be. Louie
told her and gave her the judge’s note, while Fred again began to
apologize and explain why his aunt did not write it, and said he hoped
Mrs. Grey would waive every consideration and accept. They must have
Louie. The party without her would be like a play with the star actor
left out.
Mrs. Grey was very polite, but very firm in declining for herself, but
said at last, that Louie could go if she liked and her father approved,
and that probably Mr. Grey might accompany her. She couldn’t tell until
she saw him.
The brightening of Fred’s face and the assurance with which he assumed
that Louie would go, and asked what time the carriage should call for
her, was conclusive proof that it was Louie alone who was specially
wanted. Mrs. Grey understood, and smiled at the enthusiasm of the young
man whose magnetism she felt, as did everyone with whom he came in
contact.
For half an hour or more he stayed, talking to Louie of the events of
the morning, which she would have liked to forget. It seemed to her like
some horrid dream rather than a reality, and she would gladly have shut
from her mind, the memory of some of the faces of which she had a
glimpse, and to have forgotten the hum of angry, excited voices which
she had heard as she passed from one bank to the other.
“What if it had happened to father?” she had often asked herself, with a
feeling that it would have been ruin to him, for the National Bank would
never have helped him out.
As it was, he had profited by the run, for thousands of dollars were
deposited with him which had been drawn from the other bank. She did not
understand the business very well, but she had fancied a certain
exultation in her father’s manner after all was over which she did not
quite like, and which she knew he was trying to conceal. There was no
trace of it when he came home, an hour or so after Fred’s departure. On
the contrary, he seemed rather depressed, and when told of the second
invitation for the evening, answered quickly:
“Nothing could tempt me to go. I have had all of Judge White’s society I
care to have. I wonder how many times he will tell his guests that his
bank could have stood the pressure without help. Stood! It would have
gone down in a crash. Couldn’t have helped it. No small bank could have
stood against that mob. It nearly took the life out of me. I feel more
like going to bed than to a party.”
He did not, however, object to Louie’s going, if she liked; but
regretted that he had not a carriage of his own in which to send her.
“I mean to have one very soon,” he said; his spirits beginning to rise
as he talked of the handsome turn-out which had been offered him, and
which now, with the increase of funds in his bank, was made possible for
his means.
“But, father,” Louie said, “you can’t take that money—Mr. Sheldon’s, for
instance—and use it for yourself, can you? I supposed it was given you
in trust.”
“Certainly,” Mr. Grey replied, his usually pale face flushing a little.
“It is in trust, but I can loan it out on good interest, which will be
mine. You don’t suppose, do you, as some of those loggerheads seemed to
think, that their money lies in the vault untouched and ready to be
called for at any moment, even to the identical bills or silver, like
Nancy Sharp’s?”
Louie confessed herself rather hazy with regard to banking affairs, and
only answered that she hoped there would never be a run on her father’s
bank.
“It will be teetotal failure when it comes, and not a run,” her father
answered, while a shadow passed over his face and he seemed to be
thinking of something far away from his surroundings.
Meanwhile Louie was wondering what she should wear.
“If I had accepted in the first place I could have had a new dress. Now,
I must go in an old one,” she thought; her choice falling at last upon a
simple white muslin, with knots of crimson ribbon, very becoming to her
style of beauty. At least Fred Lansing thought so when about half-past
eight he came himself, faultlessly attired in his evening dress and
bringing a cluster of hot-house roses for Louie.
“Oh, awfully sorry you are not going,” he said to Mr. Grey, while
waiting for Louie, “and—er—well, you see, I was not quite sure about
your going, and so I came myself as a chaperone. I did suggest to Miss
Percy that she come—that is my father’s ward, you know—Blanche Percy—but
she couldn’t, and so I came,” he added in an explanatory way, as he saw
an expression, he could not understand, pass over Mr. Grey’s face at the
mention of Miss Percy.
In the excitement at the bank, after the run was over, Fred had not
observed Mr. Grey particularly, but now, as he sat talking with him, he
began at once to feel the charm of his manner and personality.
“He may have been a gambler or a highwayman for aught I know, but he is
every whit a gentleman,” he thought, and involuntarily contrasted him
with the pompous judge, of whom he felt a little ashamed, and for whom
he felt he must apologize. “My uncle is greatly upset by the humility
put upon him,” he said, “and is not himself at all. He is, of course,
deeply grateful to you, although his manner is rather unfortunate. But
you know him well and can understand how terribly he was hurt.”
With a wave of his hand Mr. Grey silenced Fred, and replied, “Don’t
speak of it, please. I have lived by the side of the judge four years. I
know him and his peculiarities, which only amuse me. I was glad to help
him, but should not have thought of that way except for Louie. Oh, here
she comes,” and he turned towards the door where Louie stood with her
white evening cloak on her arm.
“Ready, I see,” Fred said, springing up and putting her cloak around her
and pulling the hood over her head, for the night had set in a little
chilly.
“You are looking charming,” he said, as she lifted her eyes and thanked
him.
“Oh, no,” she answered gayly. “I have only my old gown to wear; but it
does not matter. Nobody will look at me, among all those young ladies
from Worcester and Springfield. They say the hotel is filled with them.
Cynthia, our maid, saw several carriage loads coming from the station.”
Fred gave a little shrug as he replied: “I have not seen them yet, but
you need have no fears of eclipse.”
It was strange, how he, who was usually so grave and dignified, unbent
to this little girl, whose fan and flowers he held as he escorted her to
the carriage, which was driven rapidly away.
The White house stood at a little distance from the street, and the
avenue leading to it was lined with lanterns suspended from the trees,
whose branches met in graceful arches here and there across the road.
Overhead the summer moon was sailing through a rift of feathery clouds,
which broke occasionally and left the grounds flooded with light. Nearer
the house there was a soft plash of water falling into the deep basins
of the fountains, and the odors of many flowers—roses, hundreds of
them—trained on trellises and twining around the Corinthian pillars of
the handsome, stately house. From every window lights were gleaming, and
before some of them in the upper rooms, airy forms were flitting,
showing where the guests were laying aside their wraps before descending
to the drawingroom, where the judge stood, in all the pride and dignity
befitting a man, with a William the Conqueror pedigree behind him.
He had felt a little abashed when he met the first of his city friends,
but their congratulations upon the solidity of his bank and the firmness
with which it had withstood the attack, reassured him, until he began to
look upon himself as a man of more consequence than he had been before,
inasmuch as he had been a kind of martyr and had passed unscathed
through the fire. The scowling faces of the crowds, the jeers of the
boys, calling him old Money Bags, and Nancy Sharp’s sympathy for the
poor old man, were for the time forgotten. He was himself again—proud,
conceited, arrogant and showing it in every expression of his face as he
received his guests.
Louie’s story had somehow been circulated among the strangers who had
arrived, and great was the curiosity to see her. Herbert had, with his
father, heard with some surprise Fred’s assertion that he was going for
her in the brougham, taking it for granted that every carriage in the
White stable was at her disposal. Such heroic conduct as hers could not
be too highly appreciated, Fred thought, and was a little disgusted with
his uncle’s reply:
“Why, yes; take the carriage if she isn’t able to walk. I wonder her
father hasn’t set up a turn-out by this time. He will soon, you’ll see.
He has a lot of fresh depositors in his bank. Five thousand from Godfrey
Sheldon, who very likely will come sneaking back, but I shall tell him
better stay where he is. Yes, sir! I don’t ask no odds of him.”
This answer would have decided Fred to go for Louie himself, if he had
not already made up his mind to do so. If attention from him could repay
her in part, she should have it. It was not difficult, either, to be
attentive to her. She was so pretty, with the white hood on her head and
the eager light of expected enjoyment in her bright eyes, that he found
himself wishing the drive from the Greys’ to the Whites’ longer than it
was, and was not sorry when they found the avenue blocked with
carriages. With the exception of the Greys, not many had sent regrets,
either from Springfield or Worcester, or the adjoining towns, or
Merivale. Of those invited in the latter place, a few had been so
fearful of losing their money that they had demanded it with the rest,
and now were repenting their haste. To face Judge White so soon was not
to be thought of, and they stayed at home, but were scarcely missed in
the crowd which, as early as eight, began filling the house. From
Springfield a private car had been chartered, bringing fifty or more,
and it was the carriages taking these from the station which were
keeping the White carriage back.
“There will be a great crush; here’s a regular block, such as is
sometimes seen at the White House in Washington,” Fred said. “I hope you
do not mind the waiting?”
“Not in the least. Do you?” Louie replied.
“Indeed, I don’t. I’d rather be here, where it is cool, than in rooms as
hot as those must be, with all the people, to say nothing of the gas,”
Fred answered, leaning back in the carriage, with a feeling that he
could stay there for hours watching Louie’s face, on which the lights of
the lanterns and the moonbeams fell, bringing out every point of beauty
and making it very fair and sweet.
Fred Lansing, as a rule, did not care particularly for women—that is, he
did not care for any particular woman. He knew that if he chose he could
have his choice among the best of his acquaintances, and possibly this
was a reason why he had no choice. He did not like to feel that every
girl he talked with was thinking of him as a possible husband, and that
every mother to whom he was polite was hoping he might be her
son-in-law. As Fred Lansing, with a large fortune already at his
disposal, and a larger one when his mother died, and as the scion of one
of the oldest and best families in the South on his father’s side, to
say nothing of the White pedigree on his mother’s side, he was not
insensible to his value as a desirable _parti_, but he never presumed
upon it. To be a man whom every one could respect, independent of his
money or position, was his object, and if he at times seemed cold and
reserved, it was not from pride or a sense of his superiority, but
rather from indifference, if not from contempt for the deference
amounting sometimes to toadyism, paid to him because he was Fred
Lansing. Louie had not seemed at all overawed or impressed, even when
she found herself in his arms on her return to consciousness in the
bank. She had only turned her face away with a flush, as a timid child
might have done if caught in some questionable act, and had said: “Oh, I
didn’t mean it! I am sorry.”
Some girls whom he knew would have affected a vast amount of modesty and
self-consciousness, but Louie was sensible, and he didn’t believe she
thought half as much of lying in his arms as he had of having her there.
He could feel the pressure of her small head yet, with its mass of
crumpled hair, and see the death-white face, which had looked so
pathetic in its unconsciousness, and which, had he been of a different
temperament, he might have wanted to kiss. As it was, he had had no
thought of it. In her helplessness she was sacred in his eyes; and even
now, when she sat beside him in the moonlight, her eyes as bright as the
stars overhead and her face glowing with excitement, he did not know
that there was any thought of love in his mind. He only felt that she
attracted him as no other girl had ever done. She was so natural and
innocent, and so filled with anticipation of what was in store for her
if they ever reached the house. Near it a large platform had been
erected for the band, which, when the White carriage came up, had just
struck up a lively strain, to which Louie kept time with her head and
feet and hands.
“Oh, I could dance till morning and not feel tired a bit,” she said. “I
like it so much, and I hope somebody will ask me.”
Fred was not very fond of dancing; it was too hard work, he thought, and
he was prudish enough not to fancy the way some girls had of “making a
pillow out of a fellow’s arm or bosom,” as he had expressed it to some
of his acquaintances who had rallied him for refusing to join in a
waltz, and who enjoyed being made pillows for the heads of their fair
partners. Now, however, he suddenly changed his mind. He wanted to
dance, and be not only a pillow, but bolster, too, if necessary; and to
what seemed like a challenge, although he knew it was not meant for
that, he responded at once.
“I will ask you now. What shall it be—round or square, or both?”
“Oh, the two-step, if you know it,” she answered, with a laugh. “I could
dance that forever. If you don’t like that, the lancers.”
“We’ll have both,” Fred said, with a shiver, as he knew he might not be
able to acquit himself creditably in the two-step, which he had never
tried but once, and had then failed miserably. “But she will keep me
going,” he thought, as he lifted her from the carriage and led her into
the house.