NEIGHBORLY CALLS.
In the opinion of Miss Betsey Kling, a lone young woman, who possessed
three large trunks, a more than average share of good looks, and who
went out and came in at irregular and unheard-of hours, was a person to
be looked after and inquired about; accordingly, while Miss Archer was
making the acquaintance of Nattie, and of the invisible "C," Miss Kling
descended upon Mrs. Simonson, with the object of dragging from that lady
all possible information she might be possessed of, regarding her latest
lodger. As a result, Miss Kling learned that Miss Archer was studying to
become an opera singer, that she occasionally now sang at concerts,
meeting with encouraging success, and further, that she possessed the
best of references. But Miss Kling gave a sniffle of distrust.
"Public characters are not to be trusted. Do you remember," she asked
solemnly, "do you remember the young man you once had here, who ran away
with your teaspoons and your toothbrush?"
Ah, yes! Mrs. Simonson remembered him perfectly. Was she likely to
forget him? But he, Mrs. Simonson respectfully submitted, was not a
singer, but a commercial traveler.
Miss Kling shook her head.
"That experience should be a warning! You cannot deny that no young
woman of a modest and retiring disposition would seek to place herself
in a public position. Can you imagine _me_ upon the stage?" concluded Miss
Kling with great dignity.
Mrs. Simonson was free to admit that her imagination could contemplate
no such possibility, and then, neither desirous of criticising a good
paying lodger, or of offending Miss Kling--that struggle with the ways
and means having taught her to, offend no one if it could possibly be
avoided--she changed the subject by expatiating at length upon a topic
she always found safe--the weather. But Miss Celeste Fishblate coming
in, Miss Kling left the weather to take care of itself, and returned to
the more interesting discussion, to her, of Miss Archer.
Celeste, a young lady favored with a countenance that impressed the
beholder as being principally nose and teeth, and possessing a large
share of the commodity known as _gush_, was ready enough to be the
recipient of her neighbor's collection of gossip. But, to Miss Kling's
no small disgust, she was rather lukewarm in pre-judging the new-comer.
In truth, although somewhat alarmed at the "three trunks," lest she
should be out-dressed, she was already debating within herself whether
Miss Archer, as a medium by which more frequent access to Mrs.
Simonson's gentlemen lodgers could be obtained, was not a person whose
acquaintance it was desirable to cultivate. Moreover, the words opera
singer raised ecstatic visions of a possible future introduction to some
"ravishing tenor," the remote idea of which caused her to be so visibly
preoccupied, that Miss Kling took her leave with angry sniffles, and
returned home to ponder over what she had heard.
A few days after, Nattie, who had quite paralyzed Miss Kling by refusing
to listen to what she boldly termed unfounded gossip about her new
friend, went to spend an evening with her.
Miss Archer occupied a suite of rooms, consisting of a parlor and a very
small bed-room that had been Mrs. Simonson's own, but which on account
of the "ways and means" she had given up now, confining herself
exclusively to the kitchen, fitted up to look as much like a parlor as a
kitchen could.
"And how is 'C'?" asked Miss Archer as she warmly welcomed her visitor.
"Still as agreeable as ever," Nattie replied. "I told him I was coming
to see you this evening and he sent his regards, and wished he could be
of the party."
"I wish he might. But that would spoil the mystery," rejoined Miss
Archer. "Do you know what the 'C' is for?"
"'Clem,' he says. His other name I don't know. He would give me some
outlandish cognomen if I should ask. But it isn't of much consequence."
"It might be if you should really fall in love with him," laughed Miss
Archer.
"Fall in love! Over the wire! That is absurd, especially as I am not
susceptible," Nattie answered, coloring a trifle, however, as she
remembered how utterly disconsolate she had been all that morning,
because a "cross" on the wire had for several hours cut off
communication between her office and "X n."
"You think it would be too romantic for real life? Doubtless you are
right. And the funny incidents--have you anything new in your
note-book?"
"Only that a man to-day, who had perhaps just dined, wanted to know the
tariff to the U--nited St--at--ates," answered Nattie, glancing at some
autumn leaves tastefully arranged on the walls and curtains. "But 'C'
was telling me about a mistake that was lately made--not by him, he
vehemently asserts, although I am inclined to think it was; the message as
originally sent was, 'John is dead, be at home at three,' when it was
delivered it read, 'John is dead _beat_; home at three.'"
"How was that possible?" asked Miss Archer, laughing,
"I suppose the sending operator did not leave space enough between the
words; we leave a small space between letters, and a longer one between
words," explained Nattie.
"The operator who received it must have been rather stupid not to have
seen the mistake," Miss Archer said. "I have too good an opinion of your
'C' to believe it was he. But every profession has its comic side as
well as its tricks, I suppose; mine, I am sure, does. But I am learning
something every day, and I am determined," energetically, "to fight my
way up!"
Stirred by Miss Archer's earnestness, there came to Nattie an uneasy
consciousness that she herself was making no progress towards her only
dreamed of ambition, and a shade crossed her face; but without observing
it, Miss Archer continued,
"I always had a passion for the lyric stage, and now there is nothing to
prevent--" did a slight shadow here darken also her sunny eyes, gone
instantly?-- "I shall make music my life's aim. Fortunately I have money
of my own to enable me to study, and--"
Miss Archer's speech was here interrupted in a somewhat startling
manner, by the door suddenly flying open, banging against the piano with
a prodigious crash, and disclosing Quimby, red and abashed, outside.
Nattie jumped, Miss Archer gave a little scream, and the Duchess, Mrs.
Simonson's handsome tortoise-shell cat, so named from her extreme
dignity, who lay at full length upon a rug, drew herself up in haughty
displeasure.
"I--I beg pardon, I am sure!" stammered the more agitated intruder.
"Really, I--I am so ashamed I--I can hardly speak! I was unfortunate
enough to stumble--I'm used to it, you know,--and I give you my word of
honor I never saw such a--such an extremely lively door!"
"It is of no consequence," Miss Archer assured him. "Will you come in?"
"Thank you, I--I fear I intrude," answered Quimby, clutching his
watch-chain, and glancing at Nattie, guiltily conscious of the strong
desire to do so that had taken possession of him since the sound of her
voice had penetrated to his apartment, and in perfect agony lest she
should surmise it. However, upon Miss Archer's assuring him that they
would be very glad of his company, he ventured to enter. But the door
still weighed upon his mind, for after carefully closing it, he stood
and stared at it with a very perplexed face.
"Never saw such a lively door, you know!" he repeated, finally sitting
down on the piano-stool, and folding both arms across one knee, letting
a hand droop dismally on either side, while he looked alternately at
Miss Archer, Nattie, and the part of the room mentioned, at which the
former laughed, and then, with the kind intention of drawing his mind
from the subject of his forced appearance, suggested a game of cards.
"Then we shall have to have one more person, shall we not?" Nattie
asked, at this proposition.
"It would be better," replied Miss Archer. "Let me see--Mrs. Simonson
does not play--"
"Mr. Norton does!" interrupted Quimby, forgetting the door, in his
eagerness to be of service. "I--I would willingly ask him to join us, if
you will allow me!"
"That queer young artist who lodges here, you mean?" inquired Miss
Archer.
"Oh! But he is a dreadful Bohemian!" commented Nattie, distrustfully,
before Quimby could reply.
"Is he?" laughed Miss Archer. "Then ask him in by all means! I am
something of a Bohemian myself, and shall be delighted to meet a kindred
soul! I do not know as I have ever observed the gentleman particularly,
but if I remember rightly, he wears his hair very closely cropped, and
is not a model of beauty?"
"But he is just as nice a fellow as if he was handsome outside!" said
Quimby earnestly, doubtless aware of his own shortcomings in the Adonis
line. "He is a little queer to be sure, doesn't believe in love or
sentiment or anything of that sort, you know, and he says he wears his
hair cropped close because people have a general idea that artists are
long-haired, lackadaisical fellows,--not to say untidy, you know,--and
he is determined that no one shall be able to say it of him!"
Miss Archer was much amused at this description.
"He certainly is an odd genius, and decidedly worth knowing. Bring him
in, I beg of you," she said.
But Quimby hesitated and glanced at Nattie.
"He is not very unconventional, I--I do not think he will shock you very
much if you do not get him at it, you know!" he said to her
apologetically.
"Oh! I am not at all alarmed!" said Nattie, adding, as her thoughts
reverted to Miss Kling, "I think, after all, a Bohemian is better than a
perfect model of conventionalism!"
Miss Archer heartily indorsed this sentiment, and Quimby went in quest
of Mr. Norton, with whom he soon returned.
Unlike enough to the melancholy artist of romantic fame was Mr. Norton.
Short, rather stout, inclined to be red in the face, large-nosed,
scrupulously neat in dress, clean shaven, and closely-cropped hair--all
this the observing Miss Archer saw at a glance as she bowed to him in
response to Quimby's introduction. But the second glance showed her that
the expression of his face was so jovial that its plainness vanished as
if by magic on his first smile.
If Nattie, possibly a trifle prejudiced in his disfavor, expected him to
outrage common propriety in some way, such as keeping on his hat,
smoking a black pipe, or turning up his pantaloons leg, she was
utterly--shall we say disappointed? Truth to tell, before ten minutes
had elapsed from the time of his arrival, she was wishing she knew more
"Bohemians," and even hoping "C" was one!
At home as soon as he entered the room, in a very short time the
strangers of a moment ago were his life-long friends. Full of anecdotes
and quaint remarks, he was the life of the little party. Miss Archer,
however, was a very able backer--Cyn, as they all found themselves
calling her soon after Jo Norton's advent, and forevermore.
"Cyn was," as its owner said, "short" for the samewhat lofty name of
Cynthia.
Doubtless, the fact of these two, who were partners, beating nearly
every game they played, was not without its effect in promoting their
most genial feelings. A result brought about, not so much by their
skill, as by Quimby's perpetually forgetting what was trumps,
confounding the right and left bowers, and disregarding the power of the
joker.
And in truth Quimby's mind was more on his partner than on the game, and
he was becoming more and more awake to the fact that his heart was fast
filling with admiration and adoration of which she was the object, and
inevitably must soon overflow! For Nattie was really looking her very
best this evening. It was excitement and animation that her face
depended upon for its beauty. Miss Archer's companionship, too, was
doing much towards promoting the cheerfulness that brought so clear a
light to her eyes--the light that was now dazzling Quimby. For Cyn was
one of those people who live always in the sunshine, and seem to carry
its own brightness around with them, while Nattie, on the contrary,
oftentimes dwelt among the shadows, and a touch of their somberness hung
over her, and showed itself upon her face.
But none of these lurking shadows were there to-night, and as a
consequence, Quimby was unable to keep his eyes off her, and sighed, and
made misdeals, and became generally mixed. His embarrassment was not
lessened when Cyn mischievously informed him he had certainly found
favor in the eyes of Miss Fishblate--who had called upon her the day
before. He dropped the pack of cards he happened to have in his hand at
the moment, all over the floor, and then dived so hastily to pick them
up that his head came in violent contact with the edge of the table, and
for a moment he was almost stunned.
But in answer to Cyn's anxious inquiry if he was hurt, he replied,
"It's nothing! I--I am used to it, you know!" Notwithstanding which
assertion his forehead developed such a sudden and terrific bump of
benevolence, that Cyn insisted upon binding her handkerchief over it.
Thus, with his head tied up, and secretly lamenting the unornamental
figure he now presented to the eyes of his partner and charmer, Quimby
resumed the game. But what with this cause of uneasiness, and a latent
fear that Cyn's jesting remark about Celeste might be true, a fear he
had privately been conscious of previously, although the least conceited
of mortals, Quimby played so badly--and indeed would undoubtedly have
answered "checkers," had he been asked suddenly what game he was
playing, on account of his meditations on a checkered existence--that
the cards were soon abandoned, and Cyn delighted them with several
songs, and a recitation of "Lady Clara Vere de Vere."
While Cyn was singing, Nattie happened to glance at Mr. Norton, and
suddenly remembering a sentence in a lately-read novel about some one
looking with "his soul in his eyes," wondered if that was not exactly
what Mr. Norton was doing now? She did not notice, however, that it was
certainly what Quimby was trying not to do! She wondered too, if the
young artist was paying Cyn some private compliments, for they seemed to
be talking together apart, as all were bidding each other good-night. If
so, she could not understand why Cyn should look so mischievous over it.
It was but a momentary thought, however, forgotten as they all mutually
agreed that the pleasant evening just passed should be but the beginning
of many. The circumstance was recalled to her mind, however, and
explained the next day, for on returning from the office she found under
her door a pen and ink sketch, of which she knew at once Cyn was the
designer, and Mr. Norton the executor. It represented two rooms, one on
each side of a partition; in one was a table, containing the ordinary
telegraphic apparatus, before which sat a young lady strangely
resembling Miss Nattie Rogers, with her face beaming with smiles, and
her hand grasping the key. In the other, a young man with a very
battered hat knelt before the sounder on his table, while behind him an
urchin with a message in his hand stared unnoticed, open-mouthed and
unheard; far above was Cupid, connecting the wires that ran from the
gentleman to the lady.
"What nonsense!" murmured Nattie, laughing to herself; but' she put the
picture away in her writing desk as carefully as she might some
cherished memento.