The Golden Key
OR
A HEART’S SILENT WORSHIP
_By_ MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON
AUTHOR OF
“Thrice Wedded,” “Little Miss Whirlwind,”
“The Magic Cameo,” “A Hoiden’s
Conquest,” “Mona,” etc.
[Illustration]
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Her Faith Rewarded
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How Will It End
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Lost, A Pearle
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Two Keys
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Wedded By Fate
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A. L. BURT COMPANY, PUBLISHERS
52 Duane Street New York
Copyright 1896, 1897, 1905
BY STREET & SMITH
THE GOLDEN KEY
THE GOLDEN KEY.
PROLOGUE.
A RESPONSIVE HEART.
“Nannie, I cannot bear it!”
“Hush, Alice; you must not give way to such wild grief--the
excitement will be very bad for you.”
“But what will Adam say? It will be a terrible blow; his heart was
so set upon the fulfilment of his hopes, and now----”
A heart-broken wail completed the sentence as the pale, beautiful
woman, resting upon the snowy pillows of an old-fashioned canopied
bed, covered her face with her delicate hands and fell to sobbing
with a wild sorrow which shook her slight frame from head to foot.
“Alice! Alice! don’t! Adam will come home to find that he has lost
both wife and child if you do not try to control yourself.”
The latter speaker, a tall, muscular woman, with a kindly but
resolute face, which bespoke a strong character as well as a
tender heart, knelt beside the bed, and laid her cheek against
the colorless one upon the pillow with motherly tenderness and
sympathy. But her appealing words only seemed to increase the
violence of the invalid’s grief, and, with a look of anxiety
sweeping over her countenance, the woman arose, after a moment,
when, pouring a few drops from a bottle into a spoon, she briefly
informed her charge that it was time for her medicine.
The younger woman meekly swallowed the potion, although her bosom
continued to heave with sobs, and tears still rained over her
hueless cheeks.
Her companion sat down near her, an expression of patient endurance
on her face, and in the course of fifteen or twenty minutes she was
rewarded by seeing the invalid fall into a profound slumber.
“Thank Heaven!” she muttered at last, with a sigh of relief, “there
will be an interval of rest, but I dread the awakening.”
Miss Nancy Porter was a spinster, upward of forty, and one of those
stanch, reliable women who always seem like a bulwark of strength,
and equal to any emergency.
She was, by profession, a trained nurse, having, many years
previous, served her time in the Massachusetts General Hospital,
of Boston, after which her experience was wide and varied, winning
for herself encomiums from both surgeons and physicians, and the
unbounded confidence of those who were fortunate enough to secure
her services in the sick-room.
She had her own home in one of the suburban towns of Boston, where
she lived with her one trusty maid in a quiet, restful way, when
her services were not in demand elsewhere.
It was into this peaceful home that her only sister had come,
about a month previous, to remain until the return of her husband,
who had been called abroad upon urgent business.
Adam Brewster was a wealthy banker of New York City.
He was several years older than sweet Alice Porter, whom he had met
and fallen in love with some two years previous, and who had been
his idolized wife for little more than twelve months.
It had been a great trial that he could not take his dear one to
Europe with him; but her physician utterly prohibited such a trip
for the young wife, and thus she had gone to spend the interval
of her husband’s absence with her sister, in the home of her
childhood, and where a tiny little girl was born into the world,
only to breathe faintly for a few moments, and them slip away into
the great unknown.
For hours after the birth and death of her little one, Alice
Brewster had lain in a state of unconsciousness, which caused the
heart of her faithful nurse and sister to quake with fear.
But, when consciousness returned, and the youthful mother called
for her little one, and she was obliged to tell her that she was
childless, her heart almost failed her again, in view of the bitter
disappointment and violent sorrow which once more threatened to
snap the slender thread of life.
She could only temporarily quell these outbursts of grief by
administering powerful narcotics to induce sleep and oblivion, with
the hope that calmness and resignation would come with returning
strength.
On the afternoon of the third day the storm, which had prevented
the sending of a doctor, cleared, and about five o’clock Miss
Porter went down-stairs into the kitchen, where her servant was
quietly engaged with her domestic duties.
“Sarah, I’m going to town to see Doctor Bowman,” she remarked, in
grave, subdued tones, an anxious expression in her mild, gray eyes.
“Mrs. Brewster is sleeping, but I want you to go up and sit by her
until I return, which won’t be very long, and if she wakes, give
her two teaspoonfuls of the medicine in the glass that is on the
mantel.”
“Yes, marm,” responded Sarah, as she changed her calico apron for a
white one, preparatory to going up-stairs.
“And--if any one comes in,” pursued Miss Porter thoughtfully,
“tell them nothing! you can simply say I am out, and Mrs. Brewster
is lying down. I don’t want any gossip started. I’ll tell my own
story.”
“Yes, marm,” said Sarah again, and her mistress hurried away.
She was just in time to catch the five-twenty express for town,
where she arrived just on the stroke of six, when she proceeded
directly to the waiting-room to leave her waterproof and umbrella
with the woman in charge, while she made a visit to her physician.
She did not find her in the outer room, and so went on into the
ladies’ private siting-room, which she found to be empty, quite an
unusual occurrence, although doubtless the recent tempest was the
reason why so few people were abroad.
At least Miss Porter thought the place was empty, until a faint
sound greeted her ear, when she started forward and peeped around
a corner, to find only an animated bundle wrapped in a gray shawl
lying upon the great square table standing there.
“It’s a baby!” muttered Miss Porter in astonishment, “but where on
earth is the mother?”
Prompted by both curiosity and interest, she went to the child,
and, parting the shawl, which was closely wrapped about it,
discovered an infant, which her practised eye told her could not be
over a week old, if, indeed, it had seen as many days as that.
Her first thought was that the mother, or whoever had the child in
charge, had left it just for the moment sleeping upon the table;
then, suddenly, a terrible shock, which set every nerve in her body
quivering with a painful thrill, went through her as she caught
sight of a note that had been pinned to the fine flannel blanket
that was wrapped about the infant under the shawl.
“Good heavens! it is an abandoned baby!” she breathed, as she
mechanically but tenderly gathered it into her strong arms and
tried to hush it upon her breast.
Evidently, the child had been drugged, for it dropped off to sleep
almost immediately, and then Miss Porter, with trembling fingers
and two scarlet spots upon her cheeks, denoting great mental
excitement, detached the note from the blanket, and, opening it,
read:
“Will some kind woman take this child, or see that it finds
a good home where it will be well reared? Nothing but direst
necessity compels her abandonment. She is well and honorably
born, and yet relentless fate makes her an outcast from her own
kindred. A peculiar-shaped golden key, in the form of a pin, is
fastened to her clothing--it is her only heritage. Will whoever
responds to this appeal insert in an early issue of the Boston
_Transcript_ under the head of personals, the following: ‘X. Y.
Z.--The golden key has unlocked a responsive heart,’ and relieve
the writer of this of a heavy burden?”
“H’m!” ejaculated Miss Porter, as she refolded the note, and began
to look for the golden key.
She found it pinned to the yoke of the child’s dainty dress--an
oddly fashioned trinket, the thumb-piece ornamented with a small
pansy, in the heart of which there flashed a tiny but flawless
diamond.
“Well! for once I have had a genuine adventure in my plodding,
practical life!” the woman muttered to herself. “Everything about
this child shows that she was born of a wealthy mother--some rich
girl, maybe, whose good name was more to her than the life and
welfare of her own flesh and blood. Oh, dear, what a world it is!
Those who yearn for these little ones are deprived of them, while
there is no place, no love for others. It is a beautiful babe,
too,” she continued, bending over the little sleeper and noting
the soft, curling rings of glossy brown hair on the small head,
the delicate, regular features of the little face, and the dainty,
perfect hands that were folded on the gently heaving breast. “Poor
little waif! what shall I do with you?” she concluded, with a
long-drawn, regretful sigh.
Then she sat suddenly erect, her face becoming almost as rigid as
that of a statue, while she scarcely seemed to breathe, so absorbed
had she become in her own startled reflections.
“Nancy Porter, I wonder if you could manage it?--I wonder if you
dare do it?” she breathed at last, with lips in which there was not
an atom of color. “Alice would never survive another such tax upon
her delicate constitution; Adam Brewster would never be content
without an heir to his great fortune. Well, I’m going to try it,
and save her heart from breaking.”
With a resolute gleam in her gray eyes, a settled purpose in every
line of her strong, honest face, she began to wrap the child in
the soft, warm shawl which she had partially removed, paying no
attention to the woman in charge--who at that moment came into the
room and began to busily brandish a great feather duster--although
she was uncomfortably conscious that she was being regarded with a
curious, questioning glance.
But Miss Nancy Porter had run many a difficult gauntlet, and faced
many emergencies, during her checkered life, and her stanch heart
and brave front did not fail her now.
Having arranged everything about her charge to her satisfaction,
she arose and deliberately walked from the room, passed out of the
nearest door of the one beyond, and, joining the hurrying crowd
that surging toward the outward-bound trains, without giving
another thought to the errand which had brought her to town, found
herself just in season to board a return local.
She did not see in the car a person whom she knew; yet, knowing
that there might be acquaintances on the train, she decided to
leave it at a station two miles below her own town, and about a
mile and a half from her home, which was located between the two
villages.
It was dark when she alighted, and it was with a deep sigh of
satisfaction that she slipped away in the gloom.
She did not meet a single person on the way--it was a lonely road,
with only a few scattered farmhouses to be passed--and arrived
at her own door just as the old-fashioned clock of a previous
generation standing in the hall solemnly tolled off the hour of
eight.
A glance in at the kitchen window as she passed had told her that
Sarah was still upstairs with her patient, and, passing softly
around to the front door, which she noiselessly opened with a
latchkey, she walked through the “best room” to the “parlor
bedroom,” where she laid her charge upon the bed, thankful for the
potency of the drug which still held its senses locked in slumber,
and glad to have her aching arms relieved of their burden.
Then, closing both doors after her, she passed up-stairs to the
sick-room, removing her bonnet and wrap as she went, when she
dismissed Sarah to her interrupted work in the kitchen below, and
then sat down to rest and await the awakening of the frail sleeper
upon the bed.
An hour later, Miss Porter suddenly appeared in her bright,
cheerful kitchen, bearing a beautiful babe in her arms, while a
tender expression seemed to have softened and illumined her usually
grave, almost austere face.
“Goodness sakes, alive!” exclaimed Sarah, springing to her feet,
with a startled air, her wild eyes fastened upon the infant.
“Hush!” said Miss Porter authoritatively. “Has any one been here
since I left home?”
“Not a soul,” said the girl, but with still gaping eyes and mouth.
“Good!” returned the mistress in a satisfied tone; “and now, Sarah,
you are to remember that a baby girl was born here on Monday night,
October 2. No one save you and I and Mrs. Brewster know of the fact
as yet; but I shall have it recorded to-morrow morning, when a
letter will also be mailed to Mr. Brewster, announcing that he has
a fine little daughter.”
“But----” began Sarah, looking dazed and troubled.
“There are no ‘buts,’ Sarah,” curtly interposed Miss Porter;
“the last forty-eight hours must become a blank; you are to know
nothing, except that on the second of this month my sister gave
birth to a beautiful little girl, and that both mother and child
are doing well. I am sure I can trust you,” concluded the woman,
looking the girl squarely in the eyes.
“Yes, marm,” was the meek response, and Miss Porter knew that
torture would never elicit the wilful betrayal of her secret after
that promise was given.
“That is right,” she said briskly, the stern lines of her face
relaxing again; “and now you may take the baby while I prepare some
milk for her.”
The next day but one there appeared in the Boston _Transcript_ the
following paragraph:
“X. Y. Z.--The golden key has unlocked a responsive heart.”
Three weeks later a fair, sweet woman might have been seen driving
through the street of F---- in an elegant carriage, which, with
coachman and footman, had been ordered from New York, while by her
side there sat a buxom, good-natured nurse, with a thriving baby on
her lap.
“What a lovely child!” was the tribute of every one who saw the
dainty, blue-eyed little girl, who now bore the name of Allison
Porter Brewster, and then wondered to see the grave, yearning look
that involuntarily came into the young mother’s eyes, even while
her lips smiled at the praise bestowed upon her darling.
Meantime, messages of love and gratitude, together with costly
gifts, had come across the ocean from the happy father, who was all
impatience to return to his treasures.
Another month passed, and the Brewsters were once more settled in
their elegant city home, where each succeeding week only served to
develop the charms of the little heiress and to endear her to the
hearts of her parents.
Early the following spring Miss Nancy Porter’s faithful Sarah was
stricken with fever, which proved to be a long and tedious illness,
during which she raved continually about stolen children and some
dreadful secret which oppressed her.
Miss Porter was unremitting in her care of the trusty girl; she
allowed no one to share her care of her, and when she died, in
spite of the best of nursing and medical attendance, the woman shed
sincere, regretful tears over her.
“I suppose it had to be,” she said sorrowfully, on her return to
her lonely home after the burial. “Sarah was a good girl, and I’m
sorry to lose her; but”--with suddenly whitening lips--“there’s one
less in the world who knows that secret.”
The number was again reduced when, a few months later, Nancy Porter
herself was laid to rest in the “Porter lot,” and the wife of Adam
Brewster was left to bear her burden alone.
That it was an insupportable burden was revealed some three years
afterward, when, following a gradual decline, she laid it down,
after having written out a full confession of the deception of
which she had been guilty, and humbly begged her husband’s pardon
for having yielded to a temptation that had proved stronger than
her principles.
This revelation Adam Brewster did not find until after she had
been in her grave many weeks, when he finally gathered courage to
examine a box which she had told him, with almost her last breath,
contained something of great importance.
It came upon him with the force of a thunderbolt--he was almost
paralyzed with grief and dismay when he read his wife’s letter,
and found the proof of its contents in the articles of infant’s
clothing which she had preserved--in the note which she had pinned
upon the dress of the abandoned child, and the golden key, which
was her only heritage.
It was a terrible blow! His darling--his idol, in whom all his
fondest hopes were centered--not his own child! It could not be
possible, for no father could so worship the offspring of another.
The struggle between love, grief, disappointment, and indignation
was long and bitter; but love finally triumphed over all.
“No one need ever know it,” he told himself, but with a twinge of
keenest pain in view of his own knowledge. “She is mine--I claim
her as my very own by the love I bear her; no one shall ever
suspect the truth--she shall never learn it, and thus I shall never
be in danger of losing her. I will destroy every evidence of the
fact, and then the secret will be buried in my own heart. And, ah,
me! forgive my dear lost wife for her deception I must, in view of
that other secret which I have withheld from her.”
The man fully intended to destroy all evidence that Allison Porter
was not his own child, but, thinking that he might wish to examine
the contents of the box more carefully in a few days--after he had
recovered somewhat from the shock he had received--he put it away,
with some jewels belonging to his wife, in a secret compartment in
the vault in his bank, where, amid the press of business and of
many cares, it was forgotten; or, if not forgotten, neglected for
many years.
CHAPTER I.
SIXTEEN YEARS AFTER.
“Papa! papa! Where is my father?”
The speaker was a charming young girl, of about sixteen years, who
came one morning tripping into the cool, private office of Adam
Brewster.
Without, the day was hot and sultry, but Miss Allison Brewster
might have just emerged from some shady sylvan retreat, to judge
from her fresh, dainty appearance as she paused in an exquisite
pose, upon the threshold of the doorway, which made her seem, for
the moment, a beautiful picture painted by a master hand.
She was clad in a fine, crisp lawn, sprigged with forget-me-nots,
and trimmed with delicate lace and fetching knots of blue ribbon,
all of which was just suited to her flawless pink-and-white
complexion, her sapphire eyes, and the gleaming gold of her
abundant hair. Her pretty head was crowned with a broad-brimmed
hat of white chip, whereon nodded and swayed, with every graceful
movement of the little lady, three costly white ostrich-plumes,
which were fastened in place by the same number of pale, pink roses
and a broad band of rich satin ribbon.
But Adam Brewster was not in. The only occupant of the place was
the office boy--Gerald Winchester--who was seated behind a tall
desk, engaged in copying some letters for his employer.
He was, perhaps, nineteen years of age, and rather boyish in
appearance, but with a face “to swear by,” with its clear,
steadfast, honest eyes, its clean-cut features, its frank, genial
smile, and yet possessing certain lines and characteristics which
bespoke high moral principles and great strength of purpose.
He sprang to his feet at the sound of that eager voice calling
“papa,” a quick flush leaping into his cheeks, an intense, peculiar
light into his eyes, and, approaching the young girl, with a
courteous bow, observed in a quiet tone of respect:
“Mr. Brewster went out a few moments ago. Can I do anything for
you, Al--Miss Brewster?”
A look of astonishment swept over the fair maiden’s face, and for
an instant she made no reply. Then her ruby lips parted and a peal
of silvery laughter rang through the room, while her vivacious face
dimpled and gleamed with irrepressible merriment.
“‘Miss Brewster!’” she repeated, with a saucy toss of her head,
that set every spotless plume upon her hat nodding a playful
reproof at her companion for his unprecedented formality; for they
had known each other for years, and, hitherto, had always addressed
each other by their Christian names. “Why, Gerald; how formal!
Since when have you become so strictly ceremonious?”
“Since Mr. Brewster announced a day or two ago, when some one spoke
of you by your given name, that hereafter you were to be addressed
as Miss Brewster,” the young man responded, flushing slightly,
although a smile of sympathetic amusement curled his own expressive
lips.
“Did papa say that?” questioned Allison, with a shrug of her
graceful shoulders. “What nonsense! Why, I have been running in and
out of the bank ever since I was able to walk, and it seems absurd
putting on such airs, when everybody knows me so well.”
“Still, you are a young lady now, and it does seem a trifle
familiar to address you as if you were only a child,” Gerald
thoughtfully observed.
Allison stood considering the matter for a moment; then she gravely
remarked:
“I say, Gerald, I shall not mind the change very much from the
others; but,” with an independent toss of her pretty head, “I won’t
be ‘Miss Brewster’ to you.”
Gerald shot a quick, bright glance at the speaker.
“Thank you--I am sure I appreciate this mark of your esteem,” he
said, in tones that were a trifle tremulous, “but,” a roguish
twinkle in his fine, dark eyes, “how about obeying orders from
one’s chief?”
“Well, perhaps you’ll have to do as papa wishes, when you are
here with the other clerks; but, Gerald”--appealingly, yet
half-defiantly--“when--when we are by ourselves, I--just won’t
stand it; it will spoil all our nice times, and make us too stiff
and prim for anything. Do you want me to call you Mr. Winchester?”
“I am sure I do not,” he answered, laughing at her injured air.
“Well, but I shall--if you go to playing at formality with
me”--this with a charming little pout as she threw herself into a
chair, seized a fan from the desk near her, and began to sway it
back and forth with piquant grace, while her companion watched her
with admiring interest.
“I am sorry papa is out,” she resumed, after a minute, and
apparently regarding the other topic as settled, “for I want some
money. I suppose I can have everything charged, but I do so enjoy
having a lot of nice, fresh, crisp bills in my own hands to pay for
what I buy. Will he be in soon, do you think?”
“I am sure I cannot tell,” replied the young man, glancing at the
clock, then back, with an expression of yearning tenderness, to the
graceful figure in the chair opposite him.
His color came and went, and his heart was beating heavily with an
emotion which he was striving to conceal, for he feared that it
would never do to betray to his proud employer’s daughter that he
had dared to love her with all the strength of his intensely strong
nature.
At least, he would not presume to betray his secret for a long
while yet; perhaps, if fortune’s wheel should some time turn in
his favor, he might dare to confess his affection for the lovely
heiress, provided she remained the sweet and unaffected girl she
had always hitherto been.
Gerald Winchester was no ordinary young man.
Confided to the care of an aunt, Miss Honor Winchester--almost from
the hour of his birth, shortly after which his mother had died--he
had been reared in very limited circumstances, although Miss
Winchester was a well-educated and cultivated woman, and had given
him careful training, both morally and intellectually.
She had a small annuity, which, as the boy grew older, she found
insufficient for their mutual needs, and, desirous of doing her
utmost for her charge, she resolved to leave the small town in
Rhode Island, which for many years had been her home, and go to
New York, where she hoped to get something to do to increase her
slender income.
The move was made, and Miss Winchester, being an attractive,
sensible woman, found plenty of work as seamstress in wealthy
families; thus she was enabled to send Gerald to school until he
was fourteen years of age, and had entered the second year of the
high-school course.
But, one morning, the lad had found his best, and almost only
friend, lying cold and still in her bed. She had died of
heart-disease during the night, and thus he was left alone and
destitute in the world, for the woman’s annuity ceased with her
life.
The boy broke up their home, where they had been so quietly happy
and comfortable for several years, selling off all their furniture,
with the exception of an old-fashioned cricket, which his aunt had,
upon one or two occasions, charged him never to part with, since it
was a precious heirloom, having been brought from England during
the reign of Queen Elizabeth by a remote ancestor.
It was a queer-looking, rather clumsy affair, of solid mahogany,
having claw feet tipped with brass, its surface upholstered with
some bright, silk patchwork, which Miss Winchester had made to
replace a former defaced covering.
Gerald had almost a mind to let the thing go with the other
household goods, in spite of his aunt’s wish, for he felt that it
would never be anything but a burden to him; but he finally stowed
it away in the bottom of a trunk, which contained all he possessed
in the world, and removing to a small, cheap room, started forth to
seek a situation where he could earn his own living.
At first he was cash-boy in one of the large stores of the city;
later he was office boy for an eminent physician, and finally
drifted into Adam Brewster’s banking-house, where he had remained
until now, working slowly and steadily upward, gaining his
employer’s confidence and favor, until he had proved himself so
capable, trustworthy, and faithful that the man regarded him almost
in the light of a confidential clerk.
From time to time the banker, pitying his homeless and friendless
condition, had invited him to his own home, where he had spent many
a delightful hour with Allison, who, from the first, had conceived
a strong friendship for the handsome, manly fellow.
For a long time Mr. Brewster did not once think that any serious
result would be likely to follow this “boy-and-girl acquaintance.”
Allison, his idolized daughter, was happy to have Gerald come to
tea; to drive with her in the park on Saturday afternoons or
holidays; to have him to dinner with them now and then on Sundays,
and he was ever indulgent to her lightest wish.
But of late--during the last five or six months--he had suddenly
awakened to the fear that there might be danger ahead if these
relations were continued.
He had become very fond of Gerald--he knew him to be a noble,
whole-hearted, high-principled fellow; but he was not to be
considered, for a moment, as a possible son-in-law. No struggling,
plodding clerk who had his fortune to make by his own unaided
efforts would be a suitable mate for the banker’s heiress, whose
million, or more, in prospect, must be matched by at least an equal
amount and a position as enviable and secure as her own.
So, during the last half-year, Gerald had received no invitations
to the banker’s princely home--there was always some excuse of
extra office work or special and important errands whenever Allison
proposed his coming, and thus she saw him only when, occasionally,
she slipped into the bank upon some pretense. This was the first
time for months that they had been alone in each other’s presence,
and Allison, making the most of her opportunity, gave herself up to
the pleasure of the moment, and chatted, girllike, of anything and
everything that came into her pretty head.
Gerald, also, thawing out beneath her sunny influence, dropped the
formality which he had assumed upon her entrance, and, during the
half-hour that followed, feasted his heart upon her beauty and the
charm of her companionship.
Into this little banquet of love there suddenly intruded a man of
perhaps thirty-five years--a tall, gaunt figure, with a slight
stoop in his shoulders, but faultlessly attired. His face was thin,
and absolutely colorless, save for the faint tinge of red in his
lips and the cold blue of his eyes, which contrasted strangely with
the intense black of his hair and mustache.
His eyes lighted with sudden fire as they fell upon the dainty
figure and bright beauty of Allison Brewster.
“Ah, good morning, Miss Allison,” he remarked, in bland, oily
tones, his thin lips relaxing into a smile that revealed a ghastly
row of dead-white teeth beneath the black mustache. “This is an
unexpected pleasure. I do not need to inquire if you are well--your
blooming appearance speaks for itself.”
“Yes, thank you, I am well,” the girl quietly replied, but without
bestowing a second glance upon him.
The man then turned to Gerald, a vicious smile just curling the
corners of his mouth.
“Ahem! Winchester, here is a message that must go immediately to
the Second National Bank.”
“Is it imperative?” Gerald questioned.
“Yes; it must go at once.”
“I am sorry, Mr. Hubbard, but Mr. Brewster is out, and, as you
know, I am not allowed to leave the office during his absence,” the
young man replied.
Mr. Hubbard frowned, and then his gaze wandered again to Allison,
with an eager look.
“Yes, I know that is the rule,” he said, “but you will have
to break it for once. The bank closes at twelve to-day, being
Saturday, and the message must be delivered before that. Miss
Brewster will doubtless excuse you,” he added, with the suspicion
of a sneer, “and I will entertain her during your absence, or until
Mr. Brewster returns.”
Gerald glanced at the clock, and a troubled expression flitted over
his face, but after another moment of thought, he said quietly but
firmly:
“I would like to oblige you, Mr. Hubbard, but Mr. Brewster’s orders
to me are imperative. I can, under no circumstances, leave the
office during his absence.”
“But I tell you this is an unusual case,” said the man impatiently;
“there is no messenger in just now--we are very busy to-day, and
you will have to go.”
“It is impossible--I cannot leave my post without orders direct
from Mr. Brewster,” Gerald responded, an unmistakable note of
determination in his tones; “you will have to ask one of the clerks
in the other room to take the message.”
John Hubbard turned sharply upon his heel, muttering something
under his breath, and abruptly left the room.
Allison suddenly threw down her fan and shrugged her shapely
shoulders.
“Ugh!” she said, shivering slightly. “I don’t need that any
more--I always get a chill whenever that man comes near me.”
Gerald smiled, yet he looked somewhat disconcerted, for, of late,
he had been conscious of a growing barrier between himself and this
strangely clever man, who was an expert accountant, a talented
lawyer, a director of the bank, and one at whose touch everything
seemed to turn into gold.
“But Mr. Hubbard is very valuable to Mr. Brewster and the bank,”
he said, in reply to Allison’s remark; “he inspects all accounts,
manages all law business, and has recently been made one of the
directors of the bank.”
“Is that so?” queried the young girl, with some surprise.
“Yes; he owns quite a good deal of stock.”
But Allison Brewster was not much interested to know who owned
stock in the bank; business had little attraction for her beyond
its results, which, of course, were a necessary factor in her life,
while John Hubbard and his affairs were of no moment whatever to
her.
“Gerald!” she exclaimed, after a moment, and abruptly changing the
subject, “I almost forgot a part of my errand here. Papa is going
to let me give a lawn-party before we go to Newport--and I am going
to send out my invitations for two weeks from to-day--I set it for
Saturday because you are at liberty so much earlier on that day.
Will you come?”
Gerald’s eyes glowed, and the color mounted to his temples at this
evidence of her thought for him. His voice thrilled with repressed
emotion as he replied:
“That was certainly very kind of you, Al--Miss----”
“Take care, Gerald!” suddenly interposed the fair girl, as she
raised a finger menacingly at him. “I will not be ‘missed’ by
you--at least”--with a gleam of roguishness in her dancing
eyes--“until I am gone for the summer, and then you may miss me as
much as you like. See?”
And, detaching one of the three beautiful pink rosebuds from her
corsage, she playfully tossed it at him, and with such unerring aim
that it brushed his cheek with its fragrant petals, and then lodged
upon his shoulder. Gerald captured it with a hand that tingled in
every nerve.
“Yes, Allison, I see,” he said, smiling into the piquant face.
“Thanks for this souvenir--I never saw anything more lovely.”
But he was not looking at the rose as he spoke--he was gazing
straight into the blue eyes of beautiful Allison Brewster.
“Now will you promise to come to my party?” she asked, rising to go.
“Yes, if----”
“‘If!’” she repeated sharply, a quick flush mantling her face.
“If there is no extra work to be done and I can get off,” he
explained.
“Of course you can get off on Saturday afternoon,” said the
girl impatiently; then added appealingly: “Gerald, you must
come--it will just spoil the whole thing for me if you do not.
Now, good-by--tell papa I could not wait any longer. I have an
appointment with my dressmaker at one, and I have a lot of shopping
to do before that.”
And nodding a smiling adieu to Gerald, she tripped away, while
the young man turned to a window and watched her out of sight, a
tremulous smile upon his lips, a tender gleam in his handsome brown
eyes.