MR. KEITH IS UNPRACTICAL, AND MRS. YORKE GIVES HIM GOOD ADVICE
The strolls in the budding woods and the glimpses shown her of a spirit
somewhat different from any she had known were beginning to have their
influence on Alice. It flattered her and filled her with a certain
content that the young school-teacher should like her so much; yet,
knowing herself, it gave her a vague feeling that he was wanting in that
quality of sound judgment which she recognized in some of her other
admirers. It rather frightened her to feel that she was on a pedestal;
and often he soared away from her with his poetry and his fancies, and
she was afraid that he would discover it and think she was a hypocrite.
Something that her mother had said remained in her mind.
"He knows so much, mamma," said Alice one day. "Why, he can quote whole
pages of poetry."
"He is too romantic, my dear, to be practical," said Mrs. Yorke, who
looked at the young men who approached her daughter with an eye as cool
as a physician's glass. "He, perhaps, does know more about books than
any boy of his age I am acquainted with; but poetry is a very poor thing
to live on; and if he were practical he would not be teaching that
wretched little school in the wilderness."
"But, mamma, he will rise. You don't know how ambitious he is, and what
determination he has. They have lost everything. The place that Ferdy
Wickersham told me about his father owning, with its old pictures and
all that, was his old home. Old Mr. Keith, since he lost it, has been
farming it for Mr. Wickersham. Think of that!"
"Just so," said Mrs. Yorke. "He inherits it. They are all unpractical.
Your father began life poor; but he was practical, and he had the
ability to succeed."
Alice's face softened. "Dear old dad!" she said; "I must write to him."
Even as she thought of him she could not but reflect how absorption in
business had prevented his obtaining the culture of which this young
school-teacher had given her a glimpse, and had crushed, though it could
not wholly quench, the kindliness which lived in his big heart.
Though Alice defended Keith, she felt in her heart there was some truth
in her mother's estimate. He was too romantic. She soon had proof of it.
General Keith came up to the Ridge just then to see Gordon. At least, he
gave this out as the reason for his visit, and Gordon did not know until
afterwards that there was another reason for it--that he had been in
correspondence for some time with Dr. Balsam. He was looking thin; but
when Gordon spoke of it, he put it by with a smile.
"Oh, I am very well. We need not worry about my troubles. I have but
two: that old wound, and Old Age; both are incurable."
Gordon was very pleased to have the opportunity to introduce his father
to Mrs. Yorke and Miss Alice. As he scanned the thin, fine face with its
expression of calm and its lines of fortitude, he felt that it was a
good card to play. His resemblance to the man-in-armor that hung in the
old dining-room had increased.
The General and Miss Alice promptly became great friends. He treated her
with a certain distinction that pleased her. Mrs. Yorke, too, was both
pleased and flattered by his gracious manner. She was, however, more
critical toward him than her daughter was.
General Keith soon discovered Gordon's interest in the young girl. It
was not difficult to discover, for every moment of his spare time was
devoted to her in some way. The General observed them with a quiet smile
in his eyes. Now and then, however, the smile died out as he heard
Gordon expressing views which were somewhat new to him. One evening they
were all seated on the verandah together, and Gordon began to speak of
making a fortune as a high aim. He had heard Mrs. Yorke express the same
sentiments a few days before.
"My son," said his father, gently, looking at him with grave eyes, "a
fortune is a great blessing in the hands of the man who knows how to
spend it. But riches considered as something to possess or to display is
one of the most despicable and debasing of all the aims that men
can have."
Mrs. Yorke's eyes opened wide and her face hardened a little. Gordon
thought of the toil and patience it had cost him to make even his little
salary, and wealth appeared to him just then a very desirable
acquisition.
"Why, father," he said, "it opens the world to a man. It gives such
great opportunities for everything; travel, knowledge, art, science,
power, the respect and esteem of the world, are obtained by it."
Something like this Mrs. Yorke had said to him, meaning, kindly enough,
to encourage him in its pursuit.
The old General smiled gravely.
"Opportunity for travel and the acquirement of knowledge wealth
undoubtedly gives, but happily they are not dependent upon wealth, my
son. The Columbuses of science, the Galileos, Newtons, Keplers; the
great benefactors of the world, the great inventors, the great artists,
the great poets, philosophers, and statesmen have few of them
been rich."
"He appears to have lived in another world, mamma," said Alice when he
had left. "He is an old dear. I never knew so unworldly a person."
Mrs. Yorke's chin tilted a little.
"Now, Alice, don't you be silly. He lives in another world now, and
certainly, of all the men I know, none appears less fitted to cope with
this world. The only real people to him appear to be those whom he has
read of. He never tried wealth."
"He used to be rich--very rich. Don't you remember what that lady told
you?"
"I don't believe it," said Mrs. Yorke, sententiously.
Alice knew that this closed the argument. When her mother in such cases
said she did not believe a thing, it meant that the door of her mind was
fast shut and no reason could get into it.
Mrs. Yorke could not but notice that some change had taken place in
Alice of late. In a way she had undoubtedly improved. She was more
serious, more thoughtful of Mrs. Yorke herself, less wilful. Yet it was
not without some misgiving that Mrs. Yorke noted the change.
She suddenly had her eyes opened. Mrs. Nailor, one of her New York
friends, performed this amiable office. She assigned the possible cause,
though not directly--Mrs. Nailor rarely did things directly. She was a
small, purring lady, with a tilt of the head, and an insinuating voice
of singular clearness, with a question-mark in it. She was of a very
good family, lived in a big house on Murray Hill, and had as large a
circle of acquaintance as any one in New York. She prided herself on
knowing everybody worth knowing, and everything about everybody. She was
not lacking in amiability; she was, indeed, so amiable that she would
slander almost any absent friend to please one who was present. She had
a little grudge against Keith, for she had been struck from the first by
his bright eyes and good manners; but Keith had been so much engrossed
by his interest in Alice Yorke that he had been remiss in paying Mrs.
Nailor that attention which she felt her position required. Mrs. Nailor
now gave Mrs. Yorke a judicious hint.
"You have such a gift for knowing people?" she said to her, "and your
daughter is so like you?" She showed her even teeth.
Mrs. Yorke was not quite sure what she meant, and she answered somewhat
coldly that she was glad that Mrs. Nailor thought so. Mrs. Nailor soon
indicated her meaning.
"The young schoolmaster--he is a schoolmaster in whom your daughter is
interested, isn't he? Yes? He appears so well-read? He brought your
daughter down the mountain the day her horse ran off with her? So
romantic to make an acquaintance that way--I quite envy you? There is so
little real romance these days! It is delightful to find it?" She
sighed, and Mrs. Yorke thought of Daniel Nailor and his little bald head
and round mouth. "Yes, I quite envy you--and your daughter. Who is he?"
Mrs. Yorke said he was of a very old and distinguished family. She gave
him a pedigree that would have done honor to a Derby-winner.
"I am so glad," declared Mrs. Nailor. "I knew he must be, of course. I
am sure you would never encourage such an intimacy unless he were?" She
smiled herself off, leaving Mrs. Yorke fuming.
"That woman is always sticking pins into people," she said to herself.
But this pin had stuck fast, and Mrs. Yorke was in quite a panic.
Mrs. Yorke determined to talk to Alice on the first occasion that
offered itself; but she would not do it too abruptly. All that would be
needed would be a hint judiciously given. For surely a girl of such
sound sense as Alice, a girl brought up so wisely, could not for a
moment think of acting so foolishly. And really Mrs. Yorke felt that she
herself was very fond of this young man. She might do something for
him--something that should be of use to him in after life. At first this
plan took the form in her mind of getting her husband to give him a
place; but she reflected that this would necessitate bringing him where
his acquaintance with them might prove inconvenient. She would aid him
in going to college for another year. This would be a delicate way to
discharge the obligation under which his kindness had placed her.
Keith, meantime, was happily ignorant of the plot that was forming
against him. The warm weather was coming, and he knew that before long
Mrs. Yorke and Alice would be flitting northward. However, he would make
his hay while the sun shone for him. So one afternoon Keith had borne
Miss Alice off to his favorite haunt, the high rock in the Ridge woods.
He was in unusual spirits; for he had escaped from Mrs. Nailor, who of
late had appeared to be rather lying in wait for him. It was the spot he
loved best; for the pines behind him seemed to shut out the rest of the
world, and he felt that here he was in some sort nearer to having Alice
for his own than anywhere else. It was here that he had caught that
glimpse of her heart which he felt had revealed her to him.
This afternoon he was talking of love and of himself; for what young man
who talks of love talks not of himself? She was dressed in white, and a
single red rose that he had given her was stuck in her dress. He had
been reading a poem to her. It contained a picture of the goddess of
love, decked out for "worship without end." The book now lay at his
side, and he was stretched at her feet.
"If I ever am in love," he said suddenly, "it will be with a girl who
must fill full the measure of my dreams." He was looking away through
the pine-trees to the sky far beyond; but the soft light in his face
came not from that far-off tent of blue. He was thinking vaguely how
much bluer than the sky were her eyes.
"Yes?" Her tone was tender.
"She must be a beauty, of course." He gazed at her with that in his eyes
which said, as plainly as words could have said it, "You are
beautiful."
But she was looking away, wondering to herself who it might be.
"I mean she must have what _I_ call beauty," he added by way of
explanation. "I don't count mere red and white beauty. Phrony Tripper
has that." This was not without intention. Alice had spoken of Phrony's
beauty one day when she saw her at the school.
"But she is very pretty," asserted the girl, "so fresh and such color!"
"Oh, pretty! yes; and color--a wine-sap apple has color. But I am
speaking of real beauty, the beauty of the rose, the freshness that you
cannot define, that holds fragrance, a something that you love, that you
feel even more than you see."
She thought of a school friend of hers, Louise Caldwell, a tall,
statuesque beauty, with whom another friend, Norman Wentworth, was in
love, and she wondered if Keith would think her such a beauty as he
described.
"She must be sweet," he went on, thinking to himself for her benefit. "I
cannot define that either, but you know what I mean?"
She decided mentally that Louise Caldwell would not fill his measure.
"It is something that only some girls have in common with some
flowers--violets, for instance."
"Oh, I don't care for sweet girls very much," she said, thinking of
another schoolmate whom the girls used to call _eau sucré_.
"You do," he said positively. "I am not talking of that kind. It is
womanliness and gentleness, fragrance, warmth, beauty, everything."
"Oh, yes. That kind?" she said acquiescingly. "Well, go on; you expect
to find a good deal."
"I do," he said briefly, and sat up. "I expect to find the best."
She glanced at him with new interest. He was very good-looking when he
was spirited. And his eyes now were full of light.
"Well, beauty and sweetness," she said; "what else? I must know, for I
may have to help you find her. There don't appear to be many around
Ridgely, since you have declined to accept the only pretty girl I
have seen."
"She must be good and true. She must know the truth as--" His eye fell
at that instant on a humming-bird, a gleaming jewel of changing sapphire
that, poised on half-invisible wings, floated in a bar of sunlight
before a sprig of pink honeysuckle. "--As that bird knows the flowers
where the honey lies."
"Where do you expect to find this paragon?"
As if in answer, the humming-bird suddenly caught sight of the red rose
in her dress, and, darting to it, thrust its bill deep into the crimson
heart of the flower. They both gave an exclamation of delighted wonder.
"I have found her," he said firmly, leaning a little toward her, with
mantling cheeks and close-drawn lips, his glowing eyes on her face. "The
bird has found her for me."
The bird darted away.
"Ah, it is gone! What will you give her in return?" She turned to him,
and spoke half mockingly, wishing to get off such delicate ground.
He turned and gazed into her eyes.
"'Worship without end.'" There was that in his face that made her change
color. She looked away and began to think of her own ideal. She found
that her idea of the man she loved had been of height of figure and
breadth of shoulders, a handsome face and fashionable attire. She had
pictured him as tall and straight, taller than this boy and larger every
way, with a straight nose, brown eyes, and dark hair. But chiefly she
had thought of the style of his clothes. She had fancied the neckties he
should wear, and the pins that should be stuck in them. He must be
brave, of course, a beautiful dancer, a fine tennis-player. She had once
thought that black-eyed, handsome young Ferdy Wickersham was as near her
ideal as any one else she knew. He led germans divinely. But he was
selfish, and she had never admired him as much as another man, who was
less showy, but was, she knew, more of a man: Norman Wentworth, a bold
swimmer, a good horseman, and a leader of their set. It suddenly
occurred to her now how much more like this man Norman Wentworth was
than Ferdy Wickersham, and following her thought of the two, she
suddenly stepped up on a higher level and was conscious of a certain
elation, much like that she had had the day she had climbed up before
Gordon Keith on the out-jutting rock and looked far down over the wide
expanse of forest and field, to where his home had been.
She sat for a little while in deep reflection. Presently she said, quite
gravely and a little shyly:
"You know, I am not a bit what you think I am. Why, you treat me as if I
were a superior being. And I am not; I am a very matter-of-fact girl."
He interrupted her with a gesture of dissent, his eyes full of light.
"Nonsense! You don't know me, you don't know men, or you would know that
any girl is the superior of the best man," he reiterated.
"You don't know girls," she retorted.
"I know one, at least," he said, with a smile that spoke his admiration.
"I am not sure that you do," she persisted, speaking slowly and very
seriously. She was gazing at him in a curious, reflective way.
"The one I know is good enough for me." He leaned over and shyly took
her hand and raised it to his lips, then released it. She did not resist
him, but presently she said tentatively:
"I believe I had rather be treated as I am than as something I am not. I
like you too much to want to deceive you, and I think you are deceived."
He, of course, protested that he was not deceived. He "knew perfectly
well," he said. She was not convinced; but she let it go. She did not
want to quarrel with him for admiring her.
That afternoon, when Alice came in, her manner was so different from
what it had been of late that her mother could not but observe it. One
moment she was distraite; the next she was impatient and even irritable;
then this mood changed, and she was unusually gay; her cheeks glowed and
her eyes sparkled; but even as she reflected, a change came, and she
drifted away again into a brown study.
Next day, while Mrs. Yorke was still considering what to do, a card was
handed her. It was a name written simply on one of the slips of paper
that were kept on the hotel counter below. Keith of late had not been
sending up his card; a servant simply announced his name. This, then,
decided her. It was the most fortunate thing in the world that Alice had
gone off and was out of the way. It gave Mrs. Yorke the very opportunity
she desired. If, as she divined, the young man wished to talk to her
about anything personal, she would speak kindly to him, but so plainly
that he could never forget it. After all, it would be true kindness to
him to do so. She had a virtuous feeling as she smoothed her hair
before a mirror.
He was not in the sitting-room when she came down; so she sought for him
on one of the long verandahs where they usually sat. He was seated at
the far end, where he would be more or less secluded, and she marched
down on him. He was evidently on the watch for her, and as soon as she
appeared he rose from his seat. She had made up her mind very clearly
what she would say to him; but as she approached him it was not so easy
to say as she had fancied it. There was something in his bearing and
expression that deterred her from using the rather condescending words
she had formulated. His face was somewhat pale; his mouth was firmly
set, throwing out the chin in a way to make it quite strong; his eyes
were anxious, but steady; his form was very erect, and his shoulders
were very square and straight. He appeared to her older than she had
considered him. It would not do to patronize this man. After greeting
her, he handed her a chair solemnly, and the next moment plunged
straight into his subject. It was so sudden that it almost took her
breath away; and before she knew it he had, with the blood coming and
going in his cheeks, declared his love for her daughter, and asked her
permission to pay her his addresses. After the first gulp or two he had
lost his embarrassment, and was speaking in a straightforward, manly
way. The color had come rushing back into his face, and his eyes were
filled with light. Mrs. Yorke felt that it was necessary to do
something. So, though she felt some trepidation, she took heart and
began to answer him. As she proceeded, her courage returned to her, and
seeing that he was much disturbed, she became quite composed.
She regretted extremely, she said, that she had not foreseen this. It
was all so unexpected to her that she was quite overwhelmed by it. She
felt that this was a lie, and she was not sure that he did not know it.
Of course, it was quite impossible that she could consent to anything
like what he had proposed.
"Do you mean because she is from the North and I am from the South?" he
asked earnestly.
"No; of course not. I have Southern blood myself. My grandmother was
from the South." She smiled at his simplicity.
"Then why?"
This was embarrassing, but she must answer.
"Why, you--we--move in--quite different--spheres, and--ah, it's really
not to be thought of Mr. Keith," she said, half desperately.
He himself had thought of the different spheres in which they moved, but
he had surmounted that difficulty. Though her father, as he had learned,
had begun life as a store-boy, and her mother was not the most learned
person in the world, Alice Yorke was a lady to her finger-tips, and in
her own fine person was the incontestable proof of a strain of gentle
blood somewhere. Those delicate features, fine hands, trim ankles, and
silken hair told their own story.
So he came near saying, "That does not make any difference"; but he
restrained himself. He said instead, "I do not know that I
understand you."
It was very annoying to have to be so plain, but it was, Mrs. Yorke
felt, quite necessary.
"Why, I mean that my daughter has always moved in the--the
most--exclusive society; she has had the best advantages, and has a
right to expect the best that can be given her."
"Do you mean that you think my family is not good enough for your
daughter?"
There was a tone in his quiet voice that made her glance up at him, and
a look on his face that made her answer quickly:
"Oh, no; not that, of course. I have no doubt your family is--indeed, I
have heard it is--ur--. But my daughter has every right to expect the
best that life can give. She has a right to expect--an--establishment."
"You mean money?" Keith asked, a little hoarsely.
"Why, not in the way in which you put it; but what money stands
for--comforts, luxuries, position. Now, don't go and distress yourself
about this. You are nothing but a silly boy. You fancy yourself in love
with my daughter because she is the only pretty girl about here."
"She is not; but she is the prettiest I know," ejaculated Keith,
bitterly.
"You think that, and so you fancy you are in love with her."
"It is no fancy; I am," asserted Keith, doggedly. "I would be in love
with her if she were as ugly as--as she is beautiful."
"Oh, no, you wouldn't," declared Mrs. Yorke, coolly. "Now, the thing for
you to do is to forget all about her, as she will in a short time forget
all about you."
"I know she will, though I hope she will not," groaned the young man. "I
shall never forget her--never."
His voice and manner showed such unfeigned anguish that the lady could
not but feel real commiseration for him, especially as he appeared to be
accepting her view of the case. She glanced at him almost kindly.
"Is there nothing I can do for you? I should like very much to do
something--something to show my appreciation of what you have done for
us to make our stay here less dreary than it would have been."
"Thank you. There is nothing," said Keith. "I am going to turn my
attention now to--getting an establishment." He spoke half
sarcastically, but Mrs. Yorke did not see it.
"That is right," she said warmly.
"It is not right," declared Keith, with sudden vehemence. "It is all
wrong. I know it is all wrong."
"What the world thinks is right can't be all wrong." Mrs. Yorke spoke
decisively.
"When are you going away?" the young man asked suddenly.
"In a few days." She spoke vaguely, but even as she spoke, she
determined to leave next day.
"I thank you for all your kindness to me," said Keith, standing very
straight and speaking rather hoarsely.
Mrs. Yorke's heart smote her. If it were not for her daughter's welfare
she could have liked this boy and befriended him. A vision came to her
from out of the dim past; a country boy with broad shoulders suddenly
flashed before her; but she shut it off before it became clear. She
spoke kindly to Keith, and held out her hand to him with more real
sincerity than she had felt in a long time.
"You are a good boy," she said, "and I wish I could have answered you
otherwise, but it would have been simple madness. You will some day know
that it was kinder to you to make you look nakedly at facts."
"I suppose so," said Keith, politely. "But some day, Mrs. Yorke, you
shall hear of me. If you do not, remember I shall be dead."
With this bit of tragedy he turned and left her, and Mrs. Yorke stood
and watched him as he strode down the path, meaning, if he should turn,
to wave him a friendly adieu, and also watching lest that which she had
dreaded for a quarter of an hour might happen. It would be dreadful if
her daughter should meet him now. He did not turn, however, and when at
last he disappeared, Mrs. Yorke, with a sigh of relief, went up to her
room and began to write rapidly.