KEITH MEETS NORMAN
The day after Keith's interview with Mr. Creamer he was walking up-town
more slowly than was his wont; for gloom was beginning to take the place
where disappointment had for some time been holding session. His
experience that day had been more than usually disheartening. These
people with all their shrewdness appeared to him to be in their way as
contracted as his mountaineers. They lived to amass wealth, yet went
like sheep in flocks, and were so blind that they could not recognize a
great opportunity when it was presented. They were mere machines that
ground through life as monotonously as the wheels in their factories,
turning out riches, riches, riches.
This morning Keith had come across an article in a newspaper which, in a
measure, explained his want of success. It was an article on New Leeds.
It praised, in florid sentences, the place and the people, gave a
reasonably true account of the rise of the town, set forth in a veiled
way a highly colored prospectus of the Wickersham properties, and
asserted explicitly that all the lands of value had been secured by this
company, and that such as were now being offered outside were those
which Wickersham had refused as valueless after a thorough and searching
examination. The falsity of the statements made Keith boil with rage.
Mr. J. Quincy Plume immediately flashed into his mind.
As he walked along, the newspaper clutched in his hand, a man brushed
against him. Keith's mind was far away on Quincy Plume and Ferdy
Wickersham; but instinctively, as his shoulder touched the
stranger's, he said:
"I beg your pardon."
At the words the other turned and glanced at him casually; then stopped,
turned and caught up with him, so as to take a good look at his face.
The next second a hand was on Keith's shoulder.
"Why, Gordon Keith!"
Keith glanced up in a maze at the vigorous-looking, well-dressed young
man who was holding out his gloved hand to him, his blue eyes full of a
very pleasant light. Keith's mind had been so far away that for a second
it did not return. Then a light broke over his face. He seized the
other's hand.
"Norman Wentworth!"
The greeting between the two was so cordial that men hurrying by turned
to look back at the pleasant faces, and their own set countenances
softened.
Norman demanded where Keith had just come from and how long he had been
in town, piling his questions one on the other with eager cordiality.
Keith looked sheepish, and began to explain in a rather shambling
fashion that he had been there some time and "intended to hunt him up,
of course"; but he had "been so taken up with business," etc., etc.
"I heard you were here on business. That was the way I came to know you
were in town," explained Norman, "and I have looked everywhere for you.
I hope you have been successful?" He was smiling. But Keith was still
sore from the treatment he had received in one or two offices
that morning.
"I have not been successful," he said, "and I felt sure that I should
be. I have discovered that people here are very much like people
elsewhere; they are very like sheep."
"And very suspicious, timid sheep at that," said Norman "They have
often gone for wool and got shorn. So every one has to be tested. An
unknown man has a hard time here. I suppose they would not look into
your plan?"
"They classed me with 'pedlers, book-agents, and beggars'--I saw the
signs up; looked as if they thought I was a thief. I am not used to
being treated like a swindler."
"The same old Keith! You must remember how many swindlers they have to
deal with, my boy. It is natural that they should require a guarantee--I
mean an introduction of some kind. You remember what one of them said
not long ago? 'A man spends one part of his life making a fortune and
the rest of it trying to keep others from stealing it from him.' You
ought to have come to me. You must come and dine with me this evening,
and we will talk it over. Perhaps, I can help you. I want to show you my
little home, and I have the finest boy in the world."
At the tone of cordial sincerity in his voice, Keith softened. He laid
his hand on the back of Norman's and closed it tightly.
"I knew I could always count on you, and I meant, of course, to come and
see you. The reason I have not come before I will explain to you
sometime. I was feeling a little sore over a matter--sheer lies that
some one has written." He shook the newspaper in his hand.
"Oh, don't mind that paper," said Norman. "The columns of that paper are
for hire. They belong at present to an old acquaintance of ours. They do
_me_ the honor to pay their compliments to my affairs now and then."
Keith walked up the street with a warm feeling about his heart. That
friendly face and kindly pressure of the hand had cheered him like
sunshine in a wintry day, and transformed the cold, cheerless city into
an abode of life and happiness. The crowds that thronged by him once
more took on interest for him. The faces once more softened into human
fellowship.
That evening, when Keith arrived at Norman Wentworth's, he found that
what he had termed his "little house" was, in fact, a very ample and
commodious mansion on one of the most fashionable avenues in the city.
Outside there was nothing to distinguish it particularly from the scores
of other handsome houses that stretched for blocks up and down the
street with ever-recurrent brown-stone monotony. They were as much alike
as so many box-stalls in a stable.
"If I had to live in one of these," thought Keith, as he was making his
way to keep his appointment, "I should have to begin and count my house
from the corner. No wonder the people are all so much alike!"
Inside, however, the personal taste of the owner counted for much more,
and when Keith was admitted by the velvety-stepped servant, he found
himself in a scene of luxury for which nothing that Norman had said had
prepared him.
A hall, rather contracted, but sumptuous in its furnishings, opened on a
series of drawing-rooms absolutely splendid with gilt and satin. One
room, all gold and yellow, led into another all blue satin, and that
into one where the light filtered through soft-tinted shades on
tapestries and rugs of deep crimson.
Keith could not help thinking what a fortunate man Norman was, and the
difference between his friend's situation in this bower of roses, and
his own in his square, bare little box on the windy mountain-side,
insensibly flashed over him. This was "an establishment"! How unequally
Fortune scattered her gifts! Just then, with a soft rustle of silk, the
portières were parted, and Mrs. Wentworth appeared. She paused for a
second just under the arch, and the young man wondered if she knew how
effective she was. She was a vision of lace and loveliness. A figure
straight and sinuous, above the middle height, which would have been
quite perfect but for being slightly too full, and which struck one
before one looked at the face; coloring that was rich to brilliance;
abundant, beautiful hair with a glint of lustre on it; deep hazel eyes,
the least bit too close together, and features that were good and only
just missed being fine Keith had remembered her as beautiful, but as
Mrs. Wentworth stood beneath the azure portières, her long, bare arms
outstretched, her lips parted in a half-smile of welcome, she was much
more striking-looking than Keith's memory had recorded. As he gazed on
her, the expression on his face testified his admiration.
She came forward with the same gratified smile on her face and greeted
him with formal words of welcome as Norman's old friend. Her thought
was, "What a strong-looking man he is! Like a picture I have seen
somewhere. Why doesn't Ferdy like him?"
As she sank into a soft divan, and with a sudden twist her train fell
about her feet, making an artistic drapery, Keith experienced a sense of
delight. He did not dream that Mrs. Wentworth knew much better than he
precisely the pose to show the curve of her white full throat and round
arm. The demands of notorious beauty were already beginning to tell on
her, and even while she spoke gracious words of her husband's friendship
for him, she from time to time added a touch here and a soft caress
there with her long white, hands to make the arrangement the more
complete. It was almost too perfect to be unconscious.
Suddenly Keith heard Norman's voice outside, apparently on the stair,
calling cheerily "Good-by" to some one, and the next second he came
hastily into the drawing-room. His hair was rumpled and his necktie a
trifle awry. As he seized and wrung Keith's hand with unfeigned
heartiness, Keith was suddenly conscious of a change in everything. This
was warmth, sincerity, and the beautiful room suddenly became a home.
Mrs. Wentworth appeared somewhat shocked at his appearance.
"Well, Norman, you are a sight! Just look at your necktie!"
"That ruffian!" he laughed, feeling at his throat and trying to adjust
the crooked tie.
"What will Mr. Keith think?"
"Oh, pshaw! Keith thinks all right. Keith is one of the men I don't have
to apologize to. But if I do"--he turned to Keith, smiling--"I'll show
you the apology. Come along." He seized Keith by the hand and started
toward the door.
"You are not going to take Mr. Keith up-stairs!" exclaimed his wife.
"Remember, Mr. Keith may not share your enthusiasm."
"Wait until he sees the apology. Come along, Keith." He drew Keith
toward the door.
"But, Norman, I don't think--" began Mrs. Wentworth. What she did not
think was lost to the two men; for Norman, not heeding her, had, with
the eagerness of a boy, dragged his visitor out of the door and started
up the stairs, telling him volubly of the treat that was in store for
him in the perfections of a certain small young gentleman who had been
responsible for his tardiness in appearing below.
When Norman threw back a silken portière up-stairs and flung open a
door, the scene that greeted Keith was one that made him agree that
Norman was fully justified. A yellow-haired boy was rolling on the
floor, kicking up his little pink legs in all the abandon of his years,
while a blue-eyed little girl was sitting in a nurse's lap, making
strenuous efforts to join her brother on the floor.
At sight of his father, the boy, with a whoop, scrambled to his feet,
and, with outstretched arms and open mouth, showing all his little white
teeth, made a rush for him, while the young lady suddenly changed her
efforts to descend, and began to jump up and down in a frantic ecstasy
of delight.
Norman gathered the boy up, and as soon as he could disentwine his
little arms from about his neck, turned him toward Keith. The child gave
the stranger one of those calm, scrutinizing looks that children give,
and then, his face suddenly breaking into a smile, with a rippling laugh
of good-comradeship, he sprang into Keith's outstretched arms. That
gentleman's necktie was in danger of undergoing the same damaging
process that had incurred Mrs. Norman's criticism, when the youngster
discovered that lady herself, standing at the door. Scrambling down from
his perch on Keith's shoulder, the boy, with a shout, rushed toward his
mother. Mrs. Wentworth, with a little shriek, stopped him and held him
off from her; she could not permit him to disarrange her toilet; her
coiffure had cost too much thought; but the pair were evidently on terms
of good-fellowship, and the light in the mother's eyes even as she
restrained the boy's attempt at caresses changed her, and gave Keith a
new insight into her character.
Keith and the hostess returned to the drawing-room before Norman, and
she was no longer the professional beauty, the cold woman of the world,
the mere fashionable hostess. The doors were flung open more than once
as Keith talked warmly of the boy, and within Keith got glimpses of what
was hidden there, which made him rejoice again that his friend had such
a treasure. These glimpses of unexpected softness drew him nearer to her
than he had ever expected to be, and on his part he talked to her with a
frankness and earnestness which sank deep into her mind, and opened the
way to a warmer friendship than she usually gave.
"Norman is right," she said to herself. "This is a man."
At the thought a light flashed upon her. It suddenly came to her.
This is "the ghost"! Yet could it be possible? She solved the question
quickly.
"Mr. Keith, did you ever know Alice Lancaster?"
"Alice Lancaster--?" For a bare second he looked puzzled. "Oh, Miss
Alice Yorke? Yes, a long time ago." He was conscious that his expression
had changed. So he added: "I used to know her very well."
"Decidedly, this is the ghost," reflected Mrs. Wentworth to herself, as
she scanned anew Keith's strong features and sinewy frame. "Alice said
if a woman had ever seen him, she would not be likely to forget him,
and I think she was right."
"Why do you ask me?" inquired Keith, who had now quite recovered from
his little confusion. "Of course, you know her?"
"Yes, very well. We were at school together. She is my best friend,
almost." She shut her mouth as firmly as though this were the last
sentence she ever proposed to utter; but her eyes, as they rested on
Keith's face, had the least twinkle in them. Keith did not know how much
of their old affair had been told her, but she evidently knew something,
and it was necessary to show her that he had recovered from it long ago
and yet retained a friendly feeling for Mrs. Lancaster.
"She was an old sweetheart of mine long ago; that is, I used to think
myself desperately in love with her a hundred years ago or so, before
she was married--and I was, too," he added.
He gained not the least idea of the impression this made on Mrs.
Wentworth.
"She was talking to me about you only the other day," she said casually.
Keith again made a feint to open her defence.
"I hope she said kind things about me? I deserve some kindness at her
hands, for I have only pleasant memories of her."
"I wonder what he means by that?" questioned Mrs. Wentworth to herself,
and then added:
"Oh, yes; she did. Indeed, she was almost enthusiastic about
your--friendship." Her eyes scanned his face lightly.
"Has she fulfilled the promise of beauty that she gave as a school-girl?
I used to think her one of the most beautiful creatures in the world;
but I don't know that I was capable of judging at that time," he added,
with a smile, "for I remember I was quite desperate about her for a
little while." He tried to speak naturally.
Mrs. Wentworth's eyes rested on his face for a moment.
"Why, yes; many think her much handsomer than she ever was. She is one
of the married beauties, you know." Her eyes just swept Keith's face.
"She was also one of the sweetest girls I ever knew," Keith said, moved
for some reason to add this tribute.
"Well, I don't know that every one would call her that. Indeed, I am not
quite sure that I should call her that myself always; but she can be
sweet. My children adore her, and I think that is always a good sign."
"Undoubtedly. They judge correctly, because directly."
The picture of a young girl in a riding-habit kneeling in the dust with
a chubby, little, ragged child in her arms flashed before Keith's mental
vision. And he almost gave a gasp.
"Is she married happily?'" he asked "I hope she is happy."
"Oh, as happy as the day is long," declared Mrs. Wentworth, cheerfully.
Deep down in her eyes was a wicked twinkle of malice. Her face wore a
look of content. "He is not altogether indifferent yet," she said to
herself. And when Keith said firmly that he was very glad to hear it,
she did him the honor to disbelieve him.
"Of course, you know that Mr. Lancaster is a good deal older than
Alice?"
Yes, Keith had heard so.
"But a charming man, and immensely rich."
"Yes." Keith began to look grim.
"Aren't you going to see here?" inquired Mrs. Wentworth, finding that
Keith was not prepared to say any more on the subject.
Keith said he should like to do so very much. He hoped to see her before
going away; but he could not tell.
"She is married now, and must be so taken up with her new duties that I
fear she would hardly remember me," he added, with a laugh. "I don't
think I ever made much impression on her."
"Alice Yorke is not one to forget her friends. Why, she spoke of you
with real friendship," she said, smiling, thinking to herself, Alice
likes him, and he is still in love with her. This begins to be
interesting.
"A woman does not have to give up all her friends when she marries?" she
added, with her eyes on Keith.
Keith smiled.
"Oh, no; only her lovers, unless they turn into friends."
"Of course, those," said Mrs. Wentworth, who, after a moment's
reflection, added, "They don't always do that. Do you believe a woman
ever forgets entirely a man she has really loved?"
"She does if she is happily married and if she is wise."
"But all women are not happily married."
"And, perhaps, all are not wise," said Keith.
Some association of ideas led him to say suddenly:
"Tell me something about Ferdy Wickersham. He was one of your ushers,
wasn't he?" He was surprised to see Mrs. Wentworth's countenance change.
Her eyelids closed suddenly as if a glare were turned unexpectedly on
them, and she caught her breath.
"Yes--I have known him since we were children. Of course, you know he
was desperately in love with Alice Lancaster?"
Keith said he had heard something of the kind.
"He still likes her."
"She is married," said Keith, decisively.
"Yes."
A moment later Mrs. Wentworth drew a long breath and moistened her lips.
"You knew him at the same time that you first knew Norman, did you not?"
She was simply figuring for time.
"Yes, I met him first then," said Keith.
"Don't you think Ferdy has changed since he was a boy?" she demanded
after a moment's reflection.
"How do you mean?" Keith was feeling very uncomfortable, and, to save
himself an answer, plunged along:
"Of course he has changed." He did not say how, nor did he give Mrs.
Wentworth time to explain herself. "I will tell you one thing, though,"
he said earnestly: "he never was worthy to loose the latchet of your
husband's shoe."
Mrs. Wentworth's face changed again; she glanced down for a second, and
then said:
"You and Norman have a mutual admiration society."
"We have been friends a long time," said Keith, thoughtfully.
"But even that does not always count for so much. Friendships seem so
easily broken these days."
"Because there are so few Norman Wentworths. That man is blessed who has
such a friend," said the young man, earnestly.
Mrs. Wentworth looked at him with a curious light in her eyes, and as
she gazed her face grew more thoughtful. Then, as Norman reappeared she
changed the subject abruptly.
After dinner, while they were smoking, Norman made Keith tell him of his
coal-lands and the business that had brought him to New York. To Keith's
surprise, he seemed to know something of it already.
"You should have come to me at first," he said. "I might, at least, have
been able to counteract somewhat the adverse influence that has been
working against you." His brow clouded a little.
"Wickersham appears to be quite a personage here. I wonder he has not
been found out," said Keith after a little reverie.
Norman shifted slightly in his chair. "Oh, he is not worth bothering
about. Give me your lay-out now."
Keith put him in possession of the facts, and he became deeply
interested. He had, indeed, a dual motive: one of friendship for Keith;
the other he as yet hardly confessed even to himself.
The next day Keith met Norman by appointment and gave him his papers.
And a day or two afterwards he met a number of his friends at lunch.
They were capitalists and, if General Keith's old dictum, that gentlemen
never discussed money at table, was sound, they would scarcely have met
his requirement; for the talk was almost entirely of money. When they
rose from the table, Keith, as he afterwards told Norman, felt like a
squeezed orange. The friendliest man to him was Mr. Yorke, whom Keith
found to be a jovial, sensible little man with kindly blue eyes and a
humorous mouth. His chief cross-examiner was a Mr. Kestrel, a
narrow-faced, parchment-skinned man with a thin white moustache that
looked as if it had led a starved existence on his bloodless lip.
"Those people down there are opposed to progress," he said, buttoning up
his pockets in a way he had, as if he were afraid of having them picked.
"I guess the Wickershams have found that out. I don't see any money
in it."
"It is strange that Kestrel doesn't see money in this," said Mr. Yorke,
with a twinkle in his eye; "for he usually sees money in everything. I
guess there were other reasons than want of progress for the Wickershams
not paying dividends."
A few days later Norman informed Keith that the money was nearly all
subscribed; but Keith did not know until afterwards how warmly he had
indorsed him.
"You said something about sheep the other day; well, a sheep is a
solitary and unsocial animal to a city-man with money to invest. My
grandfather's man used to tell me: 'Sheep is kind of gregarious, Mr.
Norman. Coax the first one through and you can't keep the others out.'
Even Kestrel is jumping to get in."