AN UNLOOKED-FOR SCENE.
As the clocks of the city struck eleven Robert and his friend Palmer
turned into Lemore street. It was a small, narrow street, lined with
brick houses, and evidently far from fashionable. The house indicated
by the singer was no better than its neighbors.
"I wonder which is her room?" murmured Palmer. "There seems to be no
light in any of the windows."
But as he spoke, one of the windows was lighted up by a lamp, which was
lighted from within.
"That's her room," said Palmer joyfully. "She is expecting me."
The curtain was lifted, and the fair face of Alameda peered out. She
looked across the street and smiled, as she caught sight of Palmer and
his young companion.
"You see?"
"Yes. Perhaps I had better go now."
"No; stay till she opens the window and speaks to me."
"Very well, if you wish it."
Livingston Palmer walked across the street, and taking a harmonica from
his pocket, started on a tune. It was the only instrument on which he
knew how to play, and that is why he selected it. It might have been
hard to distinguish the tune, but that was not of so much importance.
He felt that it was the proper thing to do, to serenade his charmer.
Robert maintained his position, and wondered what would come next. He
had not long to wait.
The window opened, and Alameda leaned out with something in her hand.
The next moment Palmer was drenched by the contents of a pitcher, which
Alameda poured out, locating him with careful precision, so that he
should receive the full benefit of it.
Palmer started with a cry of dismay, and turned quickly. But too late.
His collar, his hat, and coat were thoroughly wet. It was certainly
very aggravating, and his mortification was increased by a hard, cold
laugh, evidently proceeding from his charmer.
"Good-night," she said, and then shut the window.
Robert hurried across the street to where Palmer was standing
motionless, as if dazed. He did not laugh, as most boys would have
done, for he felt indignant at the treatment his unlucky companion had
received.
"Are you much wet?" he asked in a tone of sympathy.
"Yes," answered Livingston Palmer in a hollow voice. "But it is not
that that troubles me. She is false, heartless. Oh, Robert, my heart is
broken!"
And the poor fellow actually shed tears.
"Brace up, Palmer!" said Robert in a cheery voice. "She is not worthy
of you. You are lucky to have found her out so soon."
"Perhaps you are right," said Palmer in a mournful voice. "But how
could she be so false, so cruel?"
"You had not known her long?"
"No."
"And you will soon forget her, now that you know how false she is."
"I don't know, Robert," said the poor fellow sadly. "I don't think I
shall ever get over it."
"Oh, yes, you will. You will meet someone else, who will appreciate
your devotion."
They heard the window opening again, and fearing a second deluge, drew
quickly away.
It was just in time, for the pitcher was again emptied, but this time
the water only wet the sidewalk.
"Surely you can't love her after that," said Robert.
"No. She is not what my fancy painted her. What can I do?"
"You had better let the matter drop."
"No. I will go home and write her a reproachful letter. I will make her
ashamed of herself."
"Better not. She will only laugh at it."
"But it will make me feel better. I--would you mind going into the
Sherman House with me while I write the letter?"
"Better wait till to-morrow."
"No, it will ease my breaking heart if I write to her to-night."
Sympathizing with his friend, Robert made no further opposition, and
Palmer stepped into the Sherman House, procured a sheet of paper, and
wrote thus:
"Perfidious Girl:
"How could you find it in your heart to treat so cruelly one who
loves you so wildly? You led me to think that you returned my
love, at any rate that you felt an interest in me. I have just
returned from the house in Lemore street. I will not refer to the
way you received me. It was cruel and unwomanly. I feel that my
heart has received a wound from which it will never recover. Yet,
if you acted in a thoughtless manner, and did not mean to wound
me, I am ready to forgive and forget all. Once more I will come to
your side, and renew my vows of devotion. I put my business address
below, and shall be most glad to hear from you.
"Your faithful friend,
"Livingston Palmer."
"What do you think of that, Robert?" asked Palmer, handing the boy the
letter to read.
"I wouldn't have said anything about going back to her, if I had been
you."
"But perhaps she only meant it in fun. Girls sometimes act that way."
"Not if they love a person."
"But if there is any chance of getting in with her again, I don't want
to lose it."
"Well, Mr. Palmer, if you are satisfied with the letter, you had better
mail it."
"I'll get a stamp and mail it to-night."
"Now I think we had better go home and go to bed."
"I shall not sleep to-night, Robert," said Palmer mournfully. "My
poor heart is too sore;" and he placed his hand on the place where he
supposed his heart to be.
"I am glad I am not old enough to have any heart troubles."
"Yes, you are fortunate. But your time will come."
Robert doubted whether he should ever be affected like Palmer, but he
dropped the subject, and went home to bed.
Palmer appeared at business the next day. His face showed a mild
melancholy, but there were no indications of a breaking heart.
Whenever the postman entered the office, he looked up hopefully. But
there was no letter for him till three o'clock. And then it was not
directed in a feminine hand. But he opened it eagerly. As he read it
his face became blanched. Then he laid it down on the counter and
beckoned to Robert. Mr. Gray was not in the office.
"Is the letter from her?" asked Robert.
"No, but it is about her. Read it."
Robert cast his eye over the letter. It was written in a large
masculine hand. It ran thus:
"Mr. Livingston Palmer.
"Dear Sir: You have dared to write an insulting letter to my wife
and I demand an apology. You are evidently seeking to alienate her
affections from me. If ever she should forsake me it won't be for
such a man as you. She requests me to say that your attentions are
unwelcome, and that she has never given you any encouragement. If
you renew them, I will horsewhip you on sight.
"Yours, etc.,
"Peter Churchill.
"Should you take offense at my letter, I am willing to meet you on
the field of honor. You have the choice of weapons."
* * * * *
"So Alameda is a married woman?" said Robert, rather amused.
"Yes."
"And her husband charges you with trying to alienate her affections?"
"It is terrible!" murmured Palmer.
"And he hints at a duel. Shall you meet him on the field of honor, Mr.
Palmer?"
"No! no! I wouldn't fight a duel for anything. What do you think I had
better do?"
"Write a letter of apology. Tell him you did not know she was a
married woman, and will withdraw your attentions."
"I will. I--I don't think I love her any more, now that I know she is
another man's wife."
"You are quite right. It would not be honorable."
"Still she encouraged me."
"You had better not say anything about that. Mr. Churchill might take
offense, and insist on your fighting a duel."
"My dream is at an end. I will never think of her again."
"You are wise."
Livingston Palmer wrote a letter of apology, and mailed it just after
supper. After that he seemed more cheerful. Robert concluded that his
heart was not quite broken.
The next day about eleven o'clock a large dark-complexioned man with
black hair and whiskers and a deep, hoarse voice entered the office.
"What can I do for you, sir?" asked Robert, who was nearest the door.
"Is Mr. Livingston Palmer employed here?"
"Yes, sir. That is he."
The new arrival strode up to where Palmer was standing.
"Mr. Palmer," he said. "I have received your letter. I am Peter
Churchill."
Palmer turned pale, his knees knocked together, and he looked
terror-stricken.