MRS. YORKE MAKES A MATCH
The next day Keith was able to sit up, though the Doctor refused to let
him go out of the house. He was alone in his room when a messenger
announced that a woman wished to see him. When the visitor came up it
was Terpy. She was in a state of suppressed excitement. Her face was
white, her eyes glittered. Her voice as she spoke was tremulous
with emotion.
"They're on to him," she said in a husky voice. "That man that comed
over on the stage with you give a description of him, this mornin', 't
made 'em tumble to him after we had throwed 'em off the track. If I ever
git a show at him! They knows 'twas Bill. That little devil Dennison is
out ag'in."
"Oh, they won't catch him," said Keith; but as he spoke his face
changed. "What if he should get drunk and come into town?" he
asked himself.
"If they git him, they'll hang him," pursued the girl, without heeding
him. "They're all up. You are so popular.
"Me?" exclaimed Keith, laughing.
"It's so," said the girl, gravely. "That Dave Dennison would kill
anybody for you, and they're ag'in' Bill, all of 'em."
"Can't you get word to him?" began Keith, and paused. He looked at her
keenly. "You must keep him out of the way.'
"He's wounded. You got him in the shoulder. He's got to see a doctor.
The ball's still in there."
"I knew it," said Keith, quietly.
The girl gazed at him a moment, and then looked away.
"That was the reason I have been a-pesterin' you, goin' back'ards and
for'ards. I hope you will excuse me of it," she said irrelevantly.
Keith sat quite still for a moment, as it all came over him. It was,
then, him that the man was after, not robbery, and this girl, unable to
restrain her discarded suitor without pointing suspicion to him, had
imperilled her life for Keith, when he was conceited enough to more than
half accept the hints of strangers that she cared for him.
"We must get him away," he said, rising painfully. "Where is he?"
"He's hid in a house down the road. I have flung 'em off the track by
abusin' of him. They know I am against him, and they think I am after
you," she said, looking at him with frank eyes; "and I have been lettin'
'em think it," she added quietly.
Keith almost gasped. Truly this girl was past his comprehension.
"We must get him away," he said.
"How can we do it?" she asked. "They suspicion he's here, and the
pickets are out. If he warn't hit in the shoulder so bad, he could fight
his way out. He ain't afraid of none of 'em," she added, with a flash of
the old pride. "I could go with him and help him; I have done it before;
but I would have to break up here. He's got to see a doctor."
Keith sat in reflection for a moment.
"Tim Gilsey is going to drive the stage over to Eden to-night. Go down
and see if the places are all taken."
"I have got a place on it," she said, "on the boot."
As Keith looked at her, she added in explanation:
"I take it regular, so as to have it when I want it."
Under Keith's glance she turned away her eyes.
"I am going to Eden to-night," said Keith.
She looked puzzled.
"If you could get old Tim to stop at that house for five minutes till I
give Bluffy a letter to Dr. Balsam over at the Springs, I think we might
arrange it. My clothes will fit him. You will have to see Uncle Tim."
Her countenance lit up.
"You mean you would stop there and let him take your place?"
"Yes."
The light of craft that must have been in Delilah's eyes when Samson lay
at her feet was in her face. She sprang up.
"I will never forgit you, and Bill won't neither. He knows now what a
hound he has been. When you let him off last night after he had slipped
on the rock, he says that was enough for him. Before he will ever pull a
pistol on you ag'in, he says he will blow his own brains out; and he
will, or I will for him." She looked capable of it as she stood with
glowing eyes and after a moment held out her hand. She appeared about to
speak, but reflected and turned away.
When the girl left Keith's room a few moments later, she carried a large
bundle under her arm, and that night the stage stopped in the darkness
at a little shanty at the far end of the fast-growing street, and Keith
descended painfully and went into the house. Whilst the stage waited,
old Tim attempted to do something to the lamp on that side, and in
turning it down he put it out. Just then Keith, with his arm in a sling
and wrapped in a heavy coat, came out, and was helped by old Tim up to
the seat beside him. The stage arrived somewhat ahead of time at the
point which the railroad had now reached, and old Tim, without waiting
for daylight, took the trouble to hire a buggy and send the wounded man
on, declaring that it was important that he should get to a hospital as
soon as possible.
Amusements were scarce in Gumbolt, and Ferdy Wickersham had been there
only a day or two when, under Mr. Plume's guidance, he sought the
entertainment of Terpsichore's Hall. He had been greatly struck by Terpy
that night on the road, when she had faced down the men and had
afterwards bound up Keith's arm. He had heard from Plume rumors of her
frequent trips over the road and jests of her fancy for Keith. He would
test it. It would break the monotony and give zest to the pursuit to
make an inroad on Keith's preserve. When he saw her on the little stage
he was astonished at her dancing. Why, the girl was an artist! As good a
figure, as active a tripper, as high a kicker, as dainty a pair of
ankles as he had seen in a long time, not to mention a keen pair of eyes
with the devil peeping from them. To his surprise, he found Terpy stony
to his advances. Her eyes glittered with dislike for him.
He became one of the highest players that had ever entered the gilded
apartment on Terpsichore's second floor; he ordered more champagne than
any man in Gumbolt; but for all this he failed to ingratiate himself
with its presiding genius. Terpsichore still looked at him with level
eyes in which was a cold gleam, and when she showed her white teeth it
was generally to emphasize some gibe at him. One evening, after a little
passage at arms, Wickersham chucked her under the chin and called her
"Darling." Terpsichore wheeled on him.
"Keep your dirty hands to yourself" she said, with a flash in her eye,
and gave him such a box on the ear as made his head ring. The men around
broke into a guffaw.
Wickersham was more than angry; he was enraged. He had heard a score of
men call her by endearing names. He had also seen some of them get the
same return that he received; but none so vicious. He sprang to his
feet, his face flushed. The next second his senses returned, and he saw
that he must make the best of it.
"You vixen!" he said, with a laugh, and caught the girl by the wrist. "I
will make you pay for that." As he tried to draw her to him, she
whipped from her dress a small stiletto which she wore as an ornament,
and drew it back.
"Let go, or I'll drive it into you," she said, with fire darting from
her eyes; and Wickersham let go amid the laughter and jeers of those
about them, who were egging the girl on and calling to her to "give
it to him."
Wickersham after this tried to make his peace, but without avail. Though
he did not know it, Terpsichore had in her heart a feeling of hate which
was relentless. It was his description that had set the sheriff's posse
on the track of her dissipated lover, and though she had "washed her
hands of Bill Bluffy," as she said, she could not forgive the man who
had injured him.
Then Wickersham, having committed one error, committed another. He tried
to get revenge, and the man who sets out to get revenge on a woman
starts on a sad journey. At least, it was so with Wickersham.
He attributed the snubbing he had received to the girl's liking for
Keith, and he began to meditate how he should get even with them. The
chance presented itself, as he thought, when one night he attended a
ball at the Windsor. It was a gay occasion, for the Wickershams had
opened their first mine, and Gumbolt's future was assured. The whole of
Gumbolt was there--at least, all of those who did not side with Mr.
Drummond, the Methodist preacher. Terpsichore was there, and Keith, who
danced with her. She was the handsomest-dressed woman in the throng,
and, to Wickersham's surprise, she was dressed with some taste, and her
manners were quiet and subdued.
Toward morning the scene became hilarious, and a call was made for
Terpsichore to give a Spanish dance. The girl held back, but her
admirers were in no mood for refusal, and the call became insistent.
Keith had gone to his room, but Wickersham was still there, and his
champagne had flowed freely. At length the girl yielded, and, after a
few words with the host of the Windsor, she stepped forward and began
to dance.
She danced in such a way that the applause made the brass chandeliers
ring. Even Wickersham, though he hated her, could not but admire her.
Keith, who had found it useless to try to sleep even in a remote corner
of the hotel, returned just then, and whether it was that Terpsichore
caught sight of him as she glanced his way, or that she caught sight of
Wickersham's hostile face, she faltered and stopped suddenly.
Wickersham thought she had broken down, and, under the influence of the
champagne, turned with a jeer to Plume.
"She can't dance, Plume," he called across to the editor, who was at
some little distance in the crowd.
Those nearest to the dancer urged her to continue, but she had heard
Wickersham's jeer, and she suddenly faced him and, pointing her long,
bare arm toward him, said: "Put that man out, or I won't go on."
Wickersham gave a laugh. "Go on? You can't go on," he said, trying to
steady himself on his feet. "You can't dance any more than a cow."
He had never heard before the hum of an angry crowd.
"Throw him out! Fling him out of the window!" were the words he caught.
In a second a score of men were about him, and more than a score were
rushing in his direction with a sound that brought him quickly to
his senses.
Fortunately two men with cool heads were near by. With a spring Keith
and a short, stout young fellow with gray eyes were making their way to
his side, dragging men back, throwing them aside, expostulating,
ordering, and, before anything else had happened than the tearing of his
coat half off of his back, Wickersham found himself with Keith and Dave
Dennison standing in front of him, defending him against the angry
revellers.
The determined air of the two officers held the assailants in check
long enough for them to get their attention, and, after a moment, order
was restored on condition that Wickersham should "apologize to the lady
and leave town."
This Wickersham, well sobered by the handling he had received, was
willing to do, and he was made to walk up and offer a humble apology to
Terpsichore, who accepted it with but indifferent grace.
* * * * *
That winter the railroad reached Gumbolt, and Gumbolt, or New Leeds, as
it was now called, sprang at once, so to speak, from a chrysalis to a
full-fledged butterfly with wings unfolding in the sun of prosperity.
Lands that a year or two before might have been had for a song, and
mineral rights that might have been had for less than a song, were now
held at fabulous prices.
Keith was sitting at his table, one day, writing, when there was a heavy
step outside, and Squire Rawson walked in on him.
When all matters of mutual interest had been talked over, the squire
broached the real object of his visit; at least, he began to approach
it. He took out his pipe and filled it.
"Well, it's come," he said.
"What has come?"
"The railroad. That young man Rhodes said 'twas comin', and so it's
done. He was something of a prophet." The old fellow chuckled softly and
lit his pipe. "That there friend of yours, Mr. Wickersham, is been down
here ag'in. Kind o' hangs around. What's he up to?"
Keith laughed.
"Well, it's pretty hard to tell what Wickersham is up to,--at least, by
what he says,--especially when you don't tell me what he is doing."
The old man looked pleased. Keith had let him believe that he did not
know what he was talking of, and had expressed an opinion in which
he agreed.
"That's what I think. Well, it's about my land up here."
Keith looked relived.
"Has he made you another offer for it?"
"No; he ain't done that, and he won't do it. That's what I tells him. If
he wants it, let him make me a good offer; but he won't do that. He kind
o' circles around like a pigeon before he lights, and talks about what I
paid for it, and a hundred per cent. advance, and all that. I give a
sight for that land he don't know nothin' about--years of hard work on
the mountain-side, sweatin' o' days, and layin' out in the cold at
nights, lookin' up at the stars and wonderin' how I was to git
along--studin' of folks jest as I studied cattle. That's what I paid for
that land. He wants me to set him a price, and I won't do that--he might
give it." He looked shrewdly at Keith. "Ain't I right?"
"I think so."
"He wants me to let him have control of it; but I ain't a-goin' to do
that neither."
"That's certainly right," said Keith, heartily.
"I tell him I'm a-goin' to hold to that for Phrony. Phrony says she
wants me to sell it to him, too. But women-folks don't know about
business."
Keith wondered what effect this piece of information had on Wickersham,
and also what further design the old squire had in mind.
"I think it's about time to do something with that land. If all he says
is true,--not about _my_ land (he makes out as _my_ land is situate too
far away ever to be much account--fact is, he don't allow I've got any
land; he says it's all his anyway), but about other lands--everybody
else's land but mine,--it might be a good time to look around. I know as
my land is the best land up here. I holds the key to the situation.
That's what we used to call it durin' the war.
"Well, there ain't but three ways to git to them coal-lands back up
yonder in the Gap: one's by way of heaven, and I 'lows there ain't many
land-speculators goin' by that way; the other is through hell, a way
they'll know more about hereafter; and the third's through my land."
Keith laughed and waited.
"He seems to be hangin' around Phrony pretty considerable?"
Keith caught the gleam in the old fellow's deep eye, and looked away.
"I can't make it out. Phrony she likes him."
Keith fastened his gaze on something out of the window.
"I don't know him," pursued the squire; "But I don't think--he'd suit
Phrony. His ways ain't like ours, and--." He lapsed into reflection, and
Keith, with his eyes still fastened on something outside the window,
sighed to think of the old man's innocence. That he should imagine that
Wickersham had any serious idea of marrying the granddaughter of a
backwoods magistrate! The old squire broke the silence.
"You don't suppose he could be hankerin' after Phrony for her property,
do you?"
"No, I do not," said Keith, positively, relieved that at last a question
was put which he could answer directly.
"Because she ain't got any," asserted the squire. "She's got prospects;
but I'm goin' to remove them. It don't do for a young woman to have too
much prospects. I'm goin' to sell that land and git it down in cash,
where I can do what I want with it. And I want you to take charge of
it for me."
This, then, was the real object of his visit. He wanted Keith to take
charge of his properties. It was a tempting offer to make Keith. The old
man had been a shrewd negotiator.
There is no success so sweet as that which comes to a young man.
That night Keith spent out under the stars. Success had come. And its
other name was Alice Yorke.
The way before Keith still stretched steep enough, but the light was on
it, the sunshine caught peak after peak high up among the clouds
themselves, and crowning the highest point, bathed in perpetual
sunlight, was the image of Alice Yorke.
Alice Yorke had been abroad now for some time; but he had followed her.
Often when his work was done he had locked his door and shut himself in
from the turmoil of the bustling, noisy throng outside to dream of
her--to read and study that he might become worthy of her.
He had just seen by the papers that Alice Yorke had returned.
She had escaped the dangers of a foreign service; but, by the account,
she was the belle of the season at the watering-place which she was
honoring with her presence. As he read the account, a little jealousy
crept into the satisfaction which he had felt as he began. Mr. Lancaster
was spoken of too pointedly; and there was mention of too many
yacht-parties and entertainments in which their names appeared together.
In fact, the forces exerted, against Alice Yorke had begun to tell. Her
mother, overawed by her husband's determination, had reluctantly
abandoned her dreams of a foreign title with its attendant honors to
herself, and, of late, had turned all her energies to furthering the
suit of Mr. Lancaster. It would be a great establishment that he would
give Alice, and no name in the country stood higher. He was the soul of
honor, personal and commercial; and in an age when many were endeavoring
to amass great fortunes and make a dazzling display, he was content to
live modestly, and was known for his broad-minded philanthropy. What did
it matter that he was considerably older than Alice? reflected Mrs.
Yorke. Mrs. Creamer and half the mothers she knew would give their eyes
to secure him for their daughters; and certainly he had shown that he
knew how to enter into Alice's feelings.
Even Mr. Yorke had begun to favor Mr. Lancaster after Mrs. Yorke had
skilfully pointed out that Alice's next most attentive admirer was Ferdy
Wickersham.
"Why, I thought he was still trying to get that Caldwell girl," said he.
"You know he cannot get her; she is married," replied Mrs. Yorke.
"I guess that would make precious little difference to that young man,
if she would say the word. I wish he would keep away from here."
"Oh, Ferdy is no worse than some others; you were always unjust to him.
Most young men sow their wild oats."
No man likes to be charged with injustice by his wife, and Mr. Yorke's
tone showed that he was no exception to this rule.
"He is worse than most others _I_ know, and the crop of oats he is
sowing, if he does not look out, he will reap somewhere else besides in
New York. Alice shall marry whom she pleases, provided it is not that
young man; but she shall not marry him if she wants to."
"She does not want to marry him," said Mrs. Yorke; "if she had she could
have done it long ago."
"Not while I lived," said Mr. Yorke, firmly. But from this time Mr.
Yorke began to acquiesce in his wife's plans touching Mr. Lancaster.
Finally Alice herself began to yield. The influences were very strong,
and were skilfully exerted. The only man who had ever made any lasting
impression on her heart was, she felt, out of the question. The young
school-teacher, with his pride and his scorn of modern ways, had
influenced her life more than any one else she had ever known, and
though under her mother's management the feeling had gradually subsided,
and had been merged into what was merely a cherished recollection,
Memory, stirred at times by some picture or story of heroism and
devotion, reminded her that she too might, under other conditions, have
had a real romance. Still, after two or three years, her life appeared
to have been made for her by Fate, and she yielded, not recognizing that
Fate was only a very ambitious and somewhat short-sighted mamma aided by
the conditions of an artificial state of life known as fashionable
society.
Keith wrote Alice Yorke a letter congratulating her upon her safe
return; but a feeling, part shyness, part pride, seized him. He had
received no acknowledgment of his last letter. Why should he write
again? He mailed the letter in the waste-basket. Now, however, that
success had come to him, he wrote her a brief note congratulating her
upon her return, a stiff little plea for remembrance. He spoke of his
good fortune: he was the agent for the most valuable lands in that
region, and the future was beginning to look very bright. Business, he
said, might take him North before long, and the humming-birds would show
him the way to the fairest roses. The hope of seeing her shone in every
line. It reached Alice Yorke in the midst of preparation for
her marriage.
Alice Yorke sat for some time in meditation over this letter. It brought
back vividly the time which she had never wholly forgotten. Often, in
the midst of scenes so gay and rich as to amaze her, she had recalled
the springtime in the budding woods, with an ardent boy beside her,
worshipping her with adoring eyes. She had lived close to Nature then,
and Content once or twice peeped forth at her from its covert with calm
and gentle eyes. She had known pleasure since then, joy, delight, but
never content. However, it was too late now. Mr. Lancaster and her
mother had won the day; she had at last accepted him and an
establishment. She had accepted her fate or had made it.
She showed the letter to her mother. Mrs. Yorke's face took on an
inscrutable expression.
"You are not going to answer it, of course?" she said.
"Of course, I am; I am going to write him the nicest letter that I know
how to write. He is one of the best friends I ever had."
"What will Mr. Lancaster say?"
"Mr. Lancaster quite understands. He is going to be reasonable; that is
the condition."
This appeared to be satisfactory to Mrs. Yorke, or, at least, she said
no more.
Alice's letter to Keith was friendly and even kind. She had never
forgotten him, she said. Some day she hoped to meet him again. Keith
read this with a pleasant light in his eyes. He turned the page, and his
face suddenly whitened. She had a piece of news to tell him which might
surprise him. She was engaged to be married to an old friend of her
family's, Mr. Lancaster. He had met Mr. Lancaster, she remembered, and
was sure he would like him, as Mr. Lancaster had liked him so much.
Keith sat long over this letter, his face hard set and very white. She
was lost to him. He had not known till then how largely he had built his
life upon the memory of Alice Yorke. Deep down under everything that he
had striven for had lain the foundation of his hope to win her. It went
down with a crash. He went to his room, and unlocking his desk, took
from his drawer a small package of letters and other little mementos of
the past that had been so sweet. These he put in the fire and, with a
grim face, watched them blaze and burn to ashes. She was dead to him. He
reserved nothing.
The newspapers described the Yorke-Lancaster wedding as one of the most
brilliant affairs of the season. They dwelt particularly on the fortunes
of both parties, the value of the presents, and the splendor of the
dresses worn on the occasion. One journal mentioned that Mr. Lancaster
was considerably older than the bride, and was regarded as one of the
best, because one of the safest, matches to be found in society.
Keith recalled Mr. Lancaster: dignified, cultivated, and coldly
gracious. Then he recalled his gray hair, and found some satisfaction in
it. He recalled, too, Mrs. Yorke's friendliness for him. This, then, was
what it meant. He wondered to himself how he could have been so blind to
it. When he came to think of it, Mr. Lancaster came nearer possessing
what others strove for than any one else he knew. Yet, Youth looks on
Youth as peculiarly its own, and Keith found it hard to look on Alice
Yorke's marriage as anything but a sale.
"They talk about the sin of selling negroes," he said; "that is as very
a sale as ever took place at a slave-auction."
For a time he plunged into the gayest life that Gumbolt offered. He even
began to visit Terpsichore. But this was not for long. Mr. Plume's
congratulations were too distasteful to him for him to stomach them; and
Terpy began to show her partiality too plainly for him to take advantage
of it. Besides, after all, though Alice Yorke had failed him, it was
treason to the ideal he had so long carried in his heart. This still
remained to him.
He went back to his work, resolved to tear from his heart all memory of
Alice Yorke. She was married and forever beyond his dreams. If he had
worked before with enthusiasm, he now worked with fury. Mr. Lancaster,
as wealthy as he was, as completely equipped with all that success could
give, lacked one thing that Keith possessed: he lacked the promise of
the Future. Keith would show these Yorkes who he was.