KEITH IN NEW YORK
Keith and Norman Wentworth had, from time to time, kept up a
correspondence, and from Dr. Templeton's Keith went to call on Norman
and his mother.
Norman, unfortunately, was now absent in the West on business, but Keith
saw his mother.
The Wentworth mansion was one of the largest and most dignified houses
on the fine old square--a big, double mansion. The door, with its large,
fan-shaped transom and side-windows, reminded Keith somewhat of the hall
door at Elphinstone, so that he had quite a feeling of old association
as he tapped with the eagle knocker. The hall was not larger than at
Elphinstone, but was more solemn, and Keith had never seen such palatial
drawing-rooms. They stretched back in a long vista. The heavy mahogany
furniture was covered with the richest brocades; the hangings were of
heavy crimson damask. Even the walls were covered with rich crimson
damask-satin. The floor was covered with rugs in the softest colors,
into which, as Keith followed the solemn servant, his feet sank deep,
giving him a strange feeling of luxuriousness. A number of fine pictures
hung on the walls, and richly bound books lay on the shirting tables
amid pieces of rare bric-à-brac.
This was the impression received from the only glance he had time to
give the room. The next moment a lady rose from behind a tea-table
placed in a nook near a window at the far end of the spacious room. As
Gordon turned toward her she came forward. She gave him a cordial
hand-shake and gracious words of welcome that at once made Keith feel at
home. Turning, she started to offer him a chair near her table, but
Keith had instinctively gone behind her chair and was holding it
for her.
"It is so long since I have had the chance," he said.
As she smiled up at him her face softened. It was a high-bred face, not
always as gentle as it was now, but her smile was charming.
"You do not look like the little, wan boy I saw that morning in bed, so
long ago. Do you remember?"
"I should say I did. I think I should have died that morning but for
you. I have never forgotten it a moment since." The rising color in his
cheeks took away the baldness of the speech.
She bowed with the most gracious smile, the color stealing up into her
cheeks and making her look younger.
"I am not used to such compliments. Young men nowadays do not take the
trouble to flatter old ladies."
Her face, though faded, still bore the unmistakable stamp of
distinction. Calm, gray eyes and a strong mouth and chin recalled
Norman's face. The daintiest of caps rested on her gray hair like a
crown, and several little ringlets about her ears gave the charm of
quaintness to the patrician face. Her voice was deep and musical. When
she first spoke it was gracious rather than cordial; but after the
inspective look she had given him it softened, and from this time Keith
felt her warmth.
The easy, cordial, almost confidential manner in which she soon began to
talk to him made Keith feel as if they had been friends always, and in a
moment, in response to a question from her, he was giving quite frankly
his impression of the big city: of its brilliance, its movement, its
rush, that keyed up the nerves like the sweep of a swift torrent.
"It almost takes my breath away," he said. "I feel as if I were on the
brink of a torrent and had an irresistible desire to jump into it and
swim against it."
She looked at the young man in silence for a moment, enjoying his
sparkling eyes, and then her face grew grave.
"Yes, it is interesting to get the impression made on a fresh young
mind. But so many are dashed to pieces, it appears to me of late to be a
maelstrom that engulfs everything in its resistless and terrible sweep.
Fortune, health, peace, reputation, all are caught and swept away; but
the worst is its heartlessness--and its emptiness."
She sighed so deeply that the young man wondered what sorrow could touch
her, intrenched and enthroned in that beautiful mansion, surrounded by
all that wealth and taste and affection could give. Years afterwards,
that picture of the old-time gentlewoman in her luxurious home came
back to him.
Just then a cheery voice was heard calling outside:
"Cousin?--cousin?--Matildy Carroll, where are you?"
It was the voice of an old lady, and yet it had something in it familiar
to Keith.
Mrs. Wentworth rose, smiling.
"Here I am in the drawing-room," she said, raising her voice the least
bit. "It is my cousin, a dear old friend and schoolmate," she explained
to Keith. "Here I am. Come in here." She advanced to the door,
stretching out her hand to some one who was coming down the stair.
"Oh, dear, this great, grand house will be the death of me yet!"
exclaimed the other lady, as she slowly descended.
"Why, it is not any bigger than yours," protested Mrs. Wentworth.
"It's twice as large, and, besides, I was born in that and learned all
its ups and downs and passages and corners when I was a child, just as I
learned the alphabet. But this house! It is as full of devious ways and
pitfalls as the way in 'Pilgrim's Progress,' and I would never learn it
any more than I could the multiplication table. Why, that second-floor
suite you have given me is just like six-times-nine. When you first put
me in there I walked around to learn my way, and, on my word, I thought
I should never get back to my own room. I thought I should have to
sleep in a bath-tub. I escaped from the bath-room only to land in the
linen-closet. That was rather interesting. Then when I had calculated
all your sheets and pillow-cases, I got out of that to what I recognized
as my own room. No! it was the broom-closet--eight-times-seven! That was
the only familiar thing I saw. I could have hugged those brooms. But, my
dear, I never saw so many brooms in my life! No wonder you have to have
all those servants. I suppose some of them are to sweep the other
servants up. But you really must shut off those apartments and just give
me one little room to myself; or, now that I have escaped from the
labyrinth, I shall put on my bonnet and go straight home."
All this was delivered from the bottom step with a most amusing gravity.
"Well, now that you have escaped, come in here," said Mrs. Wentworth,
laughing. "I want a friend of mine to know you--a young man--"
"A gentleman!"
"Yes; a young gentleman from--"
"My dear!" exclaimed the other lady. "I am not fit to see a young
gentleman--I haven't on my new cap. I really could not."
"Oh, yes, you can. Come in. I want you to know him, too. He
is--m--m--m--"
This was too low for Keith to hear. The next second Mrs. Wentworth
turned and reëntered the room, holding by the hand Keith's old lady of
the train.
As she laid her eyes on Keith, she stopped with a little shriek, shut
both eyes tight, and clutched Mrs. Wentworth's arm.
"My dear, it's my robber!"
"It's what?"
"My robber! He's the young man I told you of who was so suspiciously
civil to me on the train. I can never look him in the face--never!"
Saying which, she opened her bright eyes and walked straight up to
Keith, holding out her hand. "Confess that you are a robber and
save me."
Keith laughed and took her hand.
"I know you took me for one." He turned to Mrs. Wentworth and described
her making him count her bundles.
"You will admit that gentlemen were much rarer on that train than
ruffians or those who looked like ruffians?" insisted the old lady,
gayly. "I came through the car, and not one soul offered me a seat. You
deserve all the abuse you got for being so hopelessly unfashionable as
to offer any civility to a poor, lonely, ugly old woman."
"Abby, Mr. Keith does not yet know who you are. Mr. Keith, this is my
cousin, Miss Brooke."
"Miss Abigail Brooke, spinster," dropping him a quaint little curtsy.
So this was little Lois's old aunt, Dr. Balsam's sweetheart--the girl
who had made him a wanderer; and she was possibly the St. Abigail of
whom Alice Yorke used to speak!
The old lady turned to Mrs. Wentworth.
"He is losing his manners; see how he is staring. What did I tell you?
One week in New York is warranted to break any gentleman of
good manners."
"Oh, not so bad as that," said Mrs. Wentworth. "Now you sit down there
and get acquainted with each other."
So Keith sat down by Miss Brooke, and she was soon telling him of her
niece, who, she said, was always talking of him and his father.
"Is she as pretty as she was as a child?" Keith asked.
"Yes--much too pretty; and she knows it, too," smiled the old lady. "I
have to hold her in with a strong hand, I tell you. She has got her head
full of boys already."
Other callers began to appear just then. It was Mrs. Wentworth's day,
and to call on Mrs. Wentworth was in some sort the cachet of good
society. Many, it was true, called there who were not in "society" at
all,--serene and self-contained old residents, who held themselves above
the newly-rich who were beginning to crowd "the avenues" and force
their way with a golden wedge,--and many who lived in splendid houses on
the avenue had never been admitted within that dignified portal. They
now began to drop in, elegantly dressed women and handsomely appointed
girls. Mrs. Wentworth received them all with that graciousness that was
her native manner. Miss Brooke, having secured her "new cap," was seated
at her side, her faded face tinged with rising color, her keen eyes
taking in the scene with quite as much avidity as Gordon's. Gordon had
fallen back quite to the edge of the group that encircled the hostess,
and was watching with eager eyes in the hope that, among the visitors
who came in in little parties of twos and threes, he might find the face
for which he had been looking. The name Wickersham presently fell on
his ear.
"She is to marry Ferdy Wickersham," said a lady near him to another.
They were looking at a handsome, statuesque girl, with a proud face, who
had just entered the room with her mother, a tall lady in black with
strong features and a refined voice, and who were making their way
through the other guests toward the hostess. Mrs. Wentworth greeted them
cordially, and signed to the elder lady to take a seat beside her.
"Oh, no; she is flying for higher game than that." They both put up
their lorgnons and gave her a swift glance.
"You mean--" She nodded over toward Mrs. Wentworth.
"Yes."
"Why, she would not allow him to. She has not a cent in the world. Her
mother has spent every dollar her husband left her, trying to get
her off."
"Yes; but she has spent it to good purpose. They are old friends. Mrs.
Wentworth does not care for money. She has all she needs. She has never
forgotten that her grandfather was a general in the Revolution, and Mrs.
Caldwell's grandfather was one also, I believe. She looks down on the
upper end of Fifth Avenue--the Wickershams and such. Don't you know what
Mrs. Wentworth's cousin said when she heard that the Wickershams had a
coat-of-arms? She said, 'Her father must have made it.'"
Something about the placid voice and air of the lady, and the knowledge
she displayed of the affairs of others, awoke old associations in Keith,
and turning to take a good look at her, he recognized Mrs. Nailor, the
inquiring lady with the feline manner and bell-like voice, who used to
mouse around the verandah at Gates's during Alice Yorke's convalescence.
He went up to her and recalled himself. She apparently had some
difficulty in remembering him, for at first she gave not the slightest
evidence of recognition; but after the other lady had moved away she was
more fortunate in placing him.
"You have known the Wentworths for some time?"
Keith did not know whether this was a statement or an inquiry. She had a
way of giving a tone of interrogation to her statements. He explained
that he and Norman Wentworth had been friends as boys.
"A dear fellow, Norman?" smiled Mrs. Nailor. "Quite one of our rising
young men? He wanted, you know, to give up the most brilliant prospects
to help his father, who had been failing for some time. Not failing
financially?" she explained with the interrogation-point again.
"Of course, I don't believe those rumors; I mean in health?"
Keith had so understood her.
"Yes, he has quite gone. Completely shattered?" She sighed deeply. "But
Norman is said to be wonderfully clever, and has gone in with his father
into the bank?" she pursued. "The girl over there is to marry him--if
her mother can arrange it? That tall, stuck-up woman." She indicated
Mrs. Caldwell, who was sitting near Mrs. Wentworth. "Do you think her
handsome?"
Keith said he did. He thought she referred to the girl, who looked
wonderfully handsome in a tailor-made gown under a big white hat.
"Romance is almost dying out?" she sighed. "It is so beautiful to find
it? Yes?"
Keith agreed with her about its charm, but hoped it was not dying out.
He thought of one romance he knew.
"You used to be very romantic? Yes?"
Keith could not help blushing.
"Have you seen the Yorkes lately?" she continued. Keith had explained
that he had just arrived. "You know Alice is a great belle? And so
pretty, only she knows it too well; but what pretty girl does not? The
town is divided now as to whether she is going to marry Ferdy Wickersham
or Mr. Lancaster of Lancaster & Company. He is one of our leading men,
considerably older than herself, but immensely wealthy and of a
distinguished family. Ferdy Wickersham was really in love with"--she
lowered her voice--"that girl over there by Mrs. Wentworth; but she
preferred Norman Wentworth; at least, her mother did, so Ferdy has gone
back to Alice? You say you have not been to see her? No? You are going,
of course? Mrs. Yorke was so fond of you?"
"Which is she going to--I mean, which do people say she prefers?"
inquired Keith, his voice, in spite of himself, betraying his interest.
"Oh, Ferdy, of course. He is one of the eligibles, so good-looking, and
immensely rich, too; They say he is really a great financier. Has his
father's turn? You know he came from a shop?"
Keith admitted his undeniable good looks and knew of his wealth; but he
was so confounded by the information he had received that he was in
quite a state of confusion.
Just then a young clergyman crossed the room toward them. He was a stout
young man, with reddish hair and a reddish face. His plump cheeks, no
less than his well-filled waistcoat, showed that the Rev. Mr. Rimmon
was no anchoret.
"Ah, my dear Mrs. Nailor, so glad to see you! How well you look! I
haven't seen you since that charming evening at Mrs. Creamer's."
"Do you call that charming? What did you think of the dinner?" asked
Mrs. Nailor, dryly.
He laughed, and, with a glance around, lowered his voice.
"Well, the champagne was execrable after the first round. Didn't you
notice that? You didn't notice it? Oh, you are too amiable to admit it.
I am sure you noticed it, for no one in town has such champagne as you."
He licked his lips with reminiscent satisfaction.
"No, I assure you, I am not flattering you. One of my cloth! How dare
you charge me with it!" he laughed. "I have said as much to Mrs. Yorke.
You ask her if I haven't."
"How is your uncle's health?" inquired Mrs. Nailor.
The young man glanced at her, and the glance appeared to satisfy him.
"Robust isn't the word for it. He bids fair to rival the patriarchs in
more than his piety."
Mrs. Nailor smiled. "You don't appear as happy as a dutiful nephew
might."
"But he is so good--so pious. Why should I wish to withhold him from the
joys for which he is so ripe?"
Mrs. Nailor laughed.
"You are a sinner," she declared.
"We are all miserable sinners," he replied. "Have you seen the Yorkes
lately?"
"No; but I'll be bound you have."
"What do you think of the story about old Lancaster?"
"Oh, I think she'll marry him if mamma can arrange it."
"'Children, obey your parents,'" quoted Mr. Rimmon, with a little smirk
as he sidled away.
"He is one of our rising young clergymen, nephew of the noted Dr.
Little," explained Mrs. Nailor. "You know of him, of course? A good deal
better man than his nephew." This under her breath. "He is his uncle's
assistant and is waiting to step into his shoes. He wants to marry your
friend, Alice Yorke. He is sure of his uncle's church if flattery can
secure it."
Just then several ladies passed near them, and Mrs. Nailor, seeing an
opportunity to impart further knowledge, with a slight nod moved off to
scatter her information and inquiries, and Keith, having made his adieus
to Mrs. Wentworth, withdrew. He was not in a happy frame of mind over
what he had heard.
The next visit that Keith paid required more thought and preparation
than that to the Wentworth house. He had thought of it, had dreamed of
it, for years. He was seized with a sort of nervousness when he found
himself actually on the avenue, in sight of the large brown-stone
mansion which he knew must be the abode of Miss Alice Yorke.
He never forgot the least detail of his visit, from the shining brass
rail of the outside steps and the pompous little hard-eyed servant in a
striped waistcoat and brass buttons, who looked at him insolently as he
went in, to the same servant as he bowed to him obsequiously as he came
out. He never forgot Alice Yorke's first appearance in the radiance of
girlhood, or Mrs. Yorke's affable imperviousness, that baffled
him utterly.
The footman who opened the door to Keith looked at him with keenness,
but ended in confusion of mind. He stood, at first, in the middle of the
doorway and gave him a glance of swift inspection. But when Keith asked
if the ladies were in he suddenly grew more respectful. The visitor was
not up to the mark in appointment, but there was that in his air and
tone which Bower recognized. He would see. Would he be good enough
to walk in?
When he returned after a few minutes, indifference had given place to
servility.
Would Mr. Keats please be good enough to walk into the drawing-room?
Thankee, sir. The ladies would be down in a few moments.
Keith did not know that this change in bearing was due to the pleasure
expressed above-stairs by a certain young lady who had flatly refused to
accept her mother's suggestion that they send word they were not
at home.
Alice Yorke was not in a very contented frame of mind that day. For some
time she had been trying to make up her mind on a subject of grave
importance to her, and she had not found it easy to do. Many questions
confronted her. Curiously, Keith himself had played a part in the
matter. Strangely enough, she was thinking of him at the very time his
card was brought up. Mrs. Yorke, who had not on her glasses, handed the
card to Alice. She gave a little scream at the coincidence.
"Mr. Keith! How strange!"
"What is that?" asked her mother, quickly. Her ears had caught the name.
"Why, it is Mr. Keith. I was just--." She stopped, for Mrs. Yorke's face
spoke disappointment.
"I do not think we can see him," she began.
"Why, of course, I must see him, mamma. I would not miss seeing him for
anything in the world. Go down, Bower, and say I will be down directly."
The servant disappeared.
"Now, Alice," protested her mother, who had already exhausted several
arguments, such as the inconvenience of the hour, the impoliteness of
keeping the visitor waiting, as she would have to do to dress, and
several other such excuses as will occur to mammas who have plans of
their own for their daughters and unexpectedly receive the card of a
young man who, by a bare possibility, may in ten minutes upset the work
of nearly two years--"Now, Alice, I think it very wrong in you to do
anything to give that young man any idea that you are going to reopen
that old affair."
Alice protested that she had no idea of doing anything like that. There
was no "old affair." She did not wish to be rude when he had taken the
trouble to call--that was all.
"Fudge!" exclaimed Mrs. Yorke. "Trouble to call! Of course, he will take
the trouble to call. He would call a hundred times if he thought he
could get--" she caught her daughter's eye and paused--"could get you.
But you have no right to cause him unhappiness."
"Oh, I guess I couldn't cause him much unhappiness now. I fancy he is
all over it now," said the girl, lightly. "They all get over it. It's a
quick fever. It doesn't last, mamma. How many have there been?"
"You know better. Isn't he always sending you books and things? He is
not like those others. What would Mr. Lancaster say?"
"Oh, Mr. Lancaster! He has no right to say anything," pouted the girl,
her face clouding a little. "Mr. Lancaster will say anything I want him
to say," she added as she caught sight of her mother's unhappy
expression. "I wish you would not always be holding him up to me. I like
him, and he is awfully good to me--much better than I deserve; but I get
awfully tired of him sometimes: he is so serious. Sometimes I feel like
breaking loose and just doing things. I do!" She tossed her head and
stamped her foot with impatience like a spoiled child.
"Well, there is Ferdy?--" began her mother.
The girl turned on her.
"I thought we had an understanding on that subject, mamma. If you ever
say anything more about my marrying Ferdy, I _will_ do things! I vow
I will!"
"Why, I thought you professed to like Ferdy, and he is certainly in love
with you."
"He certainly is not. He is in love with Lou Caldwell as much as he
could be in love with any one but himself; but if you knew him as well
as I do you would know he is not in love with any one but Ferdy."
Mrs. Yorke knew when to yield, and how to do it. Her face grew
melancholy and her voice pathetic as she protested that all she wished
was her daughter's happiness.
"Then please don't mention that to me again," said the girl.
The next second her daughter was leaning over her, soothing her and
assuring her of her devotion.
"I want to invite him to dinner, mamma."
Mrs. Yorke actually gasped.
"Nonsense! Why, he would be utterly out of place. This is not Ridgely. I
do not suppose he ever had on a dress-coat in his life!" Which was true,
though Keith would not have cared a button about it.
"Well, we can invite him to lunch," said Alice, with a sigh.
But Mrs. Yorke was obdurate. She could not undertake to invite an
unknown young man to her table. Thus, the want of a dress-suit limited
Mrs. Yorke's hospitality and served a secondary and more important
purpose for her.
"I wish papa were here; he would agree with me," sighed the girl.
When the controversy was settled Miss Alice slipped off to gild the
lily. The care she took in the selection of a toilet, and the tender
pats and delicate touches she gave as she turned before her
cheval-glass, might have belied her declaration to her mother, a little
while before, that she was indifferent to Mr. Keith, and might even have
given some comfort to the anxious young man in the drawing-room below,
who, in default of books, was examining the pictures with such interest.
He had never seen such a sumptuous house.
Meantime, Mrs. Yorke executed a manoeuvre. As soon as Alice disappeared,
she descended to the drawing-room. But she slipped on an extra diamond
ring or two. Thus she had a full quarter of an hour's start of
her daughter.
The greeting between her and the young man was more cordial than might
have been expected. Mrs. Yorke was surprised to find how Keith had
developed. He had broadened, and though his face was thin, it had
undeniable distinction. His manner was so dignified that Mrs. Yorke was
almost embarrassed.
"Why, how you have changed!" she exclaimed. What she said to herself
was: "What a bother for this boy to come here now, just when Alice is
getting her mind settled! But I will get rid of him."
She began to question him as to his plans.
What Keith had said to himself when the step on the stair and the
rustling gown introduced Mrs. Yorke's portly figure was: "Heavens! it's
the old lady! I wonder what the old dragon will do, and whether I am not
to see Her!" He observed her embarrassment as she entered the room, and
took courage.
The next moment they were fencing across the room, and Keith was girding
himself like another young St. George.
How was his school coming on? she asked.
He was not teaching any more. He had been to college, and had now taken
up engineering. It offered such advantages.
She was so surprised. She would have thought teaching the very career
for him. He seemed to have such a gift for it.
Keith was not sure that this was not a "touch." He quoted Dr. Johnson's
definition that teaching was the universal refuge of educated indigents.
"I do not mean to remain an indigent all my life," he added, feeling
that this was a touch on his part.
Mrs. Yorke pondered a moment.
"But that was not his name. His name was Balsam. I know, because I had
some trouble getting a bill out of him."
Keith changed his mind about the touch.
Just then there was another rustle on the stair and another step,--this
time a lighter one,--and the next moment appeared what was to the young
man a vision.
Keith's face, as he rose to greet her, showed what he thought. For a
moment, at least, the dragon had disappeared, and he stood in the
presence only of Alice Yorke.
The girl was, indeed, as she paused for a moment just in the wide
doorway under its silken hangings,--the minx! how was he to know that
she knew how effective the position was?--a picture to fill a young
man's eye and flood his face with light, and even to make an old man's
eye grow young again. The time that had passed had added to the charm of
both face and figure; and, arrayed in her daintiest toilet of blue and
white, Alice Yorke was radiant enough to have smitten a much harder
heart than that which was at the moment thumping in Keith's breast and
looking forth from his eager eyes. The pause in the doorway gave just
time for the picture to be impressed forever in Keith's mind.
Her eyes were sparkling, and her lips parted with a smile of pleased
surprise.
"How do you do?" She came forward with outstretched arm and a cordial
greeting.
Mrs. Yorke could not repress a mother's pride at seeing the impression
that her daughter's appearance had made. The expression on Keith's face,
however, decided her that she would hazard no more such meetings.
The first words, of course, were of the surprise Alice felt at finding
him there. "How did you remember us?"
"I was not likely to forget you," said Keith, frankly enough. "I am in
New York on business, and I thought that before going home I would see
my friends." This with some pride, as Mrs. Yorke was present.
"Where are you living?"
Keith explained that he was an engineer and lived in Gumbolt.
"Ah, I think that is a splendid profession," declared Miss Alice. "If I
were a man I would be one. Think of building great bridges across mighty
rivers, tunnelling great mountains!"
"Maybe even the sea itself," said Mr. Keith, who, so long as Alice's
eyes were lighting up at the thought of his profession, cared not what
Mrs. Yorke thought.
"I doubt if engineers would find much to do in New York," put in Mrs.
Yorke. "I think the West would be a good field--the far West," she
explained.
"It was so good in you to look us up," Miss Alice said sturdily and,
perhaps, a little defiantly, for she knew what her mother was thinking.
"If that is being good," said Keith, "my salvation is assured." He
wanted to say, as he looked at her, "In all the multitude in New York
there is but one person that I really came to see, and I am repaid," but
he did not venture so far. In place of it he made a mental calculation
of the chances of Mrs. Yorke leaving, if only for a moment. A glance at
her, however, satisfied him that the chance of it was not worth
considering, and gloom began to settle on him. If there is anything that
turns a young man's heart to lead and encases it in ice, it is, when he
has travelled leagues to see a girl, to have mamma plant herself in the
room and mount guard. Keith knew now that Mrs. Yorke had mounted guard,
and that no power but Providence would dislodge her. The thought of the
cool woods of the Ridge came to him like a mirage, torturing him.
He turned to the girl boldly.
"Sha'n't you ever come South again?" he asked. "The humming-birds are
waiting."
Alice smiled, and her blush made her charming.
Mrs. Yorke answered for her. She did not think the South agreed with
Alice.
Alice protested that she loved it.
"How is my dear old Doctor? Do you know, he and I have carried on quite
a correspondence this year?"
Keith did not know. For the first time in his life he envied the Doctor.
"He is your--one of your most devoted admirers. The last time I saw him
he was talking of you."
"What did he say of me? Do tell me!" with exaggerated eagerness.
Keith smiled, wondering what she would think if she knew.
"Too many things for me to tell."
His gray eyes said the rest.
While they were talking a sound of wheels was heard outside, followed by
a ring at the door. Keith sat facing the door, and could see the
gentleman who entered the hail. He was tall and a little gray, with a
pleasant, self-contained face. He turned toward the drawing-room, taking
off his gloves as he walked.
"Her father. He is quite distinguished-looking," thought Keith. "I
wonder if he will come in here? He looks younger than the dragon." He
was in some trepidation at the idea of meeting Mr. Yorke.
When Keith looked at the ladies again some change had taken place in
both of them. Their faces wore a different expression: Mrs. Yorke's was
one of mingled disquietude and relief, and Miss Alice's an expression of
discontent and confusion. Keith settled himself and waited to be
presented.
The gentleman came in with a pleased air as his eye rested on the young
lady.
"There is where she gets her high-bred looks--from her father," thought
Keith; rising.
The next moment the gentleman was shaking hands warmly with Miss Alice
and cordially with Mrs. Yorke. And then, after a pause,--a pause in
which Miss Alice had looked at her mother,--the girl introduced "Mr.
Lancaster." He turned and spoke to Keith pleasantly.
"Mr. Keith is--an acquaintance we made in the South when we were there
winter before last," said Mrs. Yorke.
"A friend of ours," said the girl. She turned back to Keith.
"Tell me what Dr. Balsam said."
"Mr. Keith knows the Wentworths--I believe you know the Wentworths very
well?" Mrs. Yorke addressed Mr. Keith.
"Yes, I have known Norman since we were boys. I have met his mother, but
I never met his father."
Mrs. Yorke was provoked at the stupidity of denying so advantageous an
acquaintance. But Mr. Lancaster took more notice of Keith than he had
done before. His dark eyes had a gleam of amusement in them as he turned
and looked at the young man. Something in him recalled the past.
"From the South, you say?"
"Yes, sir." He named his State with pride.
"Did I catch your name correctly? Is it Keith?"
"Yes, sir."
"I used to know a gentleman of that name--General Keith."
"There were several of them," answered the young man, with pride. "My
father was known as 'General Keith of Elphinstone.'"
"That was he. I captured him. He was desperately wounded, and I had the
pleasure of having him attended to, and afterwards of getting him
exchanged. How is he? Is he still living?"
"Yes, sir."
Mr. Lancaster turned to the ladies. "He was one of the bravest men I
have known," he said. "I was once a recipient of his gracious
hospitality. I went South to look into some matters there," he explained
to the ladies.
The speech brought a gratified look into Keith's eyes. Mrs. Yorke was
divided between her feeling of relief that Mr. Lancaster should know of
Keith's social standing and her fear that such praise might affect
Alice. After a glance at the girl's face the latter predominated.
"Men have no sense at all," she said to herself. Had she known it, the
speech made the girl feel more kindly toward her older admirer than she
had ever done before.
Gordon's face was suffused with tenderness, as it always was at any
mention of his father. He stepped forward.
"May I shake hands with you, sir?" He grasped the hand of the older man.
"If I can ever be of any service to you--of the least service--I hope
you will let my father's son repay a part of his debt. You could not do
me a greater favor." As he stood straight and dignified, grasping the
older man's hand, he looked more of a man than he had ever done. Mr.
Lancaster was manifestly pleased.
"I will do so," he said, with a smile.
Mrs. Yorke was in a fidget. "This man will ruin everything," she said to
herself.
Seeing that his chance of seeing Alice alone was gone, Keith rose and
took leave with some stateliness. At the last moment Alice boldly asked
him to take lunch with them next day.
"Thank you," said Keith, "I lunch in Sparta to-morrow. I am going South
to-night." But his allusion was lost on the ladies.
When Keith came out, a handsome trap was standing at the door, with a
fine pair of horses and a liveried groom.
And a little later, as Keith was walking up the avenue looking at the
crowds that thronged it in all the bravery of fine apparel, he saw the
same pair of high-steppers threading their way proudly among the other
teams. He suddenly became aware that some one was bowing to him, and
there was Alice Yorke sitting up beside Mr. Lancaster, bowing to him
from under a big hat with great white plumes. For one moment he had a
warm feeling about his heart, and then, as the turnout was swallowed up
in the crowd, Keith felt a sudden sense of loneliness, and he positively
hated Mrs. Yorke. A little later he passed Ferdy Wickersham, in a long
coat and a high hat, walking up the avenue with the girl he had seen at
Mrs. Wentworth's. He took off his hat as they passed, but apparently
they did not see him. And once more that overwhelming loneliness swept
over him.
He did not get over the feeling till he found himself in Dr. Templeton's
study. He had promised provisionally to go back and take supper with the
old clergyman, and had only not promised it absolutely because he had
thought he might be invited to the Yorkes'. He was glad enough now to
go, and as he received the old gentleman's cordial greeting, he felt his
heart grow warm again. Here was Sparta, too. This, at least, was
hospitality. He was introduced to two young clergymen, both earnest
fellows who were working among the poor. One of them was a
High-churchman and the other a Presbyterian, and once or twice they
began to discuss warmly questions as to which they differed; but the old
Rector appeared to know just how to manage them.
"Come, my boys; no division here," he said, with a smile, "Remember, one
flag, one union, one Commander. Titus is still before the walls."