MRS. LANCASTER
Keith had not yet met Mrs. Lancaster. He meant to call on her before
leaving town; for he would show her that he was successful, and also
that he had recovered. Also he wanted to see her, and in his heart was a
lurking hope that she might regret having lost him. A word that Mrs.
Wentworth had let fall the first evening he dined there had kept him
from calling before.
A few evenings later Keith was dining with the Norman Wentworths, and
after dinner Norman said:
"By the way, we are going to a ball to-night. Won't you come along? It
will really be worth seeing."
Keith, having no engagement, was about to accept, but he was aware that
Mrs. Wentworth, at her husband's words, had turned and given him a quick
look of scrutiny, that swept him from the top of his head to the toe
of his boot.
He had had that swift glance of inspection sweep him up and down many
times of late, in business offices. The look, however, appeared to
satisfy his hostess; for after a bare pause she seconded her husband's
invitation.
That pause had given Keith time to reflect, and he declined to go. But
Norman, too, had seen the glance his wife had given, and he urged his
acceptance so warmly and with such real sincerity that finally
Keith yielded.
"This is not one of _the_ balls," said Norman, laughingly. "It is only
_a_ ball, one of our subscription dances, so you need have no scruples
about going along."
Keith looked a little mystified.
"Mrs. Creamer's balls are _the_ balls, my dear fellow. There, in
general, only the rich and the noble enter--rich in prospect and noble
in title--"
"Norman, how can you talk so!" exclaimed Mrs. Wentworth, with some
impatience. "You know better than that. Mrs. Creamer has always been
particularly kind to us. Why, she asks me to receive with her
every winter."
But Norman was in a bantering mood. "Am not I rich and you noble?" he
laughed. "Do you suppose, my dear, that Mrs. Creamer would ask you to
receive with her if we lived two or three squares off Fifth Avenue? It
is as hard for a poor man to enter Mrs. Creamer's house as for a camel
to pass through the needle's eye. Her motions are sidereal and her orbit
is as regulated as that of a planet."
Mrs. Wentworth protested.
"Why, she has all sorts of people at her house--!"
"Except the unsuccessful. Even planets have a little eccentricity of
orbit."
An hour or two later Keith found himself in such a scene of radiance as
he had never witnessed before in all his life. Though, as Norman had
said, it was not one of the great balls, to be present at it was in some
sort a proof of one's social position and possibly of one's pecuniary
condition.
Keith was conscious of that same feeling of novelty and exhilaration
that had come over him when he first arrived in the city. It came upon
him when he first stepped from the cool outer air into the warm
atmosphere of the brilliantly lighted building and stood among the young
men, all perfectly dressed and appointed, and almost as similar as the
checks they were receiving from the busy servants in the cloak-room. The
feeling grew stronger as he mounted the wide marble stairway to the
broad landing, which was a bower of palms and flowers, with handsome
women passing in and out like birds in gorgeous plumage, and gay voices
sounding in his ears. It swept over him like a flood when he entered the
spacious ball-room and gazed upon the dazzling scene before him.
"This is Aladdin's palace," he declared as he stood looking across the
large ball-room. "The Arabian Nights have surely come again."
Mrs. Wentworth, immediately after presenting Keith to one or two ladies
who were receiving, had been met and borne off by Ferdy Wickersham, and
was in the throng at the far end of the great apartment, and some one
had stopped Norman on the stairway. So Keith was left for a moment
standing alone just inside the door. He had a sense of being charmed.
Later, he tried to account for it. Was it the sight before him? Even
such perfect harmony of color could hardly have done it. It must be the
dazzling radiance of youth that almost made his eyes ache with its
beauty. Perhaps, it was the strain of the band hidden in the gallery
among those palms. The waltz music that floated down always set him
swinging back in the land of memory. He stood for a moment quite
entranced. Then he was suddenly conscious of being lonely. In all the
throng before him he could not see one soul that he knew. His friends
were far away.
Suddenly the wheezy strains of the fiddles and the blare of the horns in
the big dining-room of the old Windsor back in the mountains sounded in
his ears, and the motley but gay and joyous throng that tramped and
capered and swung over the rough boards, setting the floor to swinging
and the room to swaying, swam in a dim mist before his eyes. Girls in
ribbons so gay that they almost made the eyes ache, faces flushed with
the excitement and joy of the dance; smiling faces, snowy teeth,
dishevelled hair, tarlatan dresses, green and pink and white; ringing
laughter and whoops of real merriment--all passed before his senses.
As he stood looking on the scene of splendor, he felt lost, lonely, and
for a moment homesick. Here all was formal, stiff repressed; that gayety
was real, that merriment was sincere. With all their crudeness, those
people in that condition were all human, hearty, strong, real. He
wondered if refinement and elegance meant necessarily a suppression of
all these. There, men came not only to enjoy but to make others enjoy as
well. No stranger could have stood a moment alone without some one
stepping to his side and drawing him into a friendly talk. This mood
soon changed.
Still, standing alone near the door waiting for Norman to appear, Keith
found entertainment watching the groups, the splendidly dressed women,
clustered here and there or moving about inspecting or speaking to each
other. One figure at the far end of the room attracted his eye again and
again. She was standing with her back partly toward him, but he knew
that she was a pretty woman as well as a handsome one, though he saw her
face only in profile, and she was too far off for him to see it very
well. Her hair was arranged simply; her head was set beautifully on her
shoulders. She was dressed in black, the bodice covered with spangles
that with her slightest movement shimmered and reflected the light like
a coat of flexible mail. A number of men were standing about her, and
many women, as they passed, held out their hands to her in the way that
ladies of fashion have. Keith saw Mrs. Wentworth approach her, and a
very animated conversation appeared to take place between them, and the
lady in black turned quickly and gazed about the room; then Mrs.
Wentworth started to move away, but the other caught and held her,
asking her something eagerly. Mrs. Wentworth must have refused to
answer, for she followed her a few steps; but Mrs. Wentworth simply
waved her hand to her and swept away with her escort, laughing back at
her over her shoulder.
Keith made his way around the room toward Mrs. Wentworth. There was
something about the young lady in black which reminded him of a girl he
had once seen standing straight and defiant, yet very charming, in a
woodland path under arching pine-boughs. Just then, however, a waltz
struck up and Mrs. Wentworth began to dance, so Keith stood leaning
against the wall. Presently a member of a group of young men near
Keith said:
"The Lancaster looks well to-night."
"She does. The old man's at home, Ferdy's on deck."
"Ferdy be dashed! Besides, where is Mrs. Went--?"
"Don't lay any money on that."
"She's all right. Try to say anything to her and you'll find out."
The others laughed; and one of them asked:
"Been trying yourself, Stirling?"
"No. I know better, Minturn."
"Why doesn't she shake Ferdy then?" demanded the other. "He's always
hanging around when he isn't around the other."
"Oh, they have been friends all their lives. She is not going to give up
a friend, especially when others are getting down on him. Can't you
allow anything to friendship?"
"Ferdy's friendship is pretty expensive," said his friend,
sententiously.
Keith took a glance at the speakers to see if he could by following
their gaze place Mrs. Lancaster. The one who defended the lady was a
jolly-looking man with a merry eye and a humorous mouth. The other two
were as much alike as their neckties, their collars, their shirt-fronts,
their dress-suits, or their shoes, in which none but a tailor could have
discovered the least point of difference. Their cheeks were smooth,
their chins were round, their hair as perfectly parted and brushed as a
barber's. Keith had an impression that he had seen them just before on
the other side of the room, talking to the lady in black; but as he
looked across, he saw the other young men still there, and there were
yet others elsewhere. At the first glance they nearly all looked alike.
Just then he became conscious that a couple had stopped close beside
him. He glanced at them; the lady was the same to whom he had seen Mrs.
Wentworth speaking at the other end of the room. Her face was turned
away, and all he saw was an almost perfect figure with shoulders that
looked dazzling in contrast with her shimmering black gown. A single
red rose was stuck in her hair. He was waiting to get a look at her
face, when she turned toward him.
[Illustration: "Why, Mr. Keith!" she exclaimed.]
"Why, Mr. Keith!" she exclaimed, her blue eyes open wide with surprise.
She held out her hand. "I don't believe you know me?"
"Then you must shut your eyes," said Keith, smiling his pleasure.
"I don't believe I should have known you? Yes, I should; I should have
known you anywhere."
"Perhaps, I have not changed so much," smiled Keith.
She gave him just the ghost of a glance out of her blue eyes.
"I don't know. Have you been carrying any sacks of salt lately?" She
assumed a lighter air.
"No; but heavier burdens still."
"Are you married?"
Keith laughed.
"No; not so heavy as that--yet."
"So heavy as that _yet_! Oh, you are engaged?"
"No; not engaged either--except engaged in trying to make a lot of
people who think they know everything understand that there are a few
things that they don't know."
"That is a difficult task," she said, shaking her head, "if you try it
in New York."
"'John P. Robinson, he
Says they don't know everything down in Judee,'"
put in the stout young man who had been standing by waiting to speak to
her.
"But this isn't Judee yet," she laughed, "for I assure you we do know
everything here, Mr. Keith." She held out her hand to the gentleman who
had spoken, and after greeting him introduced him to Keith as "Mr.
Stirling."
"You ought to like each other," she said cordially.
Keith professed his readiness to do so.
"I don't know about that," said Stirling, jovially. "You are too
friendly to him."
"What are you doing? Where are you staying? How long are you going to be
in town?" demanded Mrs. Lancaster, turning to Keith.
"Mining.--At the Brunswick.--Only a day or two," said Keith, laughing.
"Mining? Gold-mining?"
"No; not yet."
"Where?"
"Down South at a place called New Leeds. It's near the place where I
used to teach. It's a great city. Why, we think New York is jealous
of us."
"Oh, I know about that. A friend of mine put a little money down there
for me. You know him? Ferdy Wickersham?"
"Yes, I know him."
"Most of us know him," observed Mr. Stirling, turning his eyes on Keith.
"Of course, you must know him. Are you in with him? He tells me that
they own pretty much everything that is good in that region. They are
about to open a new mine that is to exceed anything ever known. Ferdy
tells me I am good for I don't know how much. The stock is to be put on
the exchange in a little while, and I got in on the ground-floor. That's
what they call it--the lowest floor of all, you know.
"Yes; some people call it the ground-floor," said Keith, wishing to
change the subject.
"You know there may be a cellar under a ground-floor," observed Mr.
Stirling, demurely.
Keith looked at him, and their eyes met.
Fortunately, perhaps, for Keith, some one came up just then and claimed
a dance with Mrs. Lancaster. She moved away, and then turned back.
"I shall see you again?"
"Yes. Why, I hope so-certainly."
She stopped and looked at him.
"When are you going away?"
"Why, I don't exactly know. Very soon. Perhaps, in a day or two."
"Well, won't you come to see us? Here, I will give you my address. Have
you a card?" She took the pencil he offered her and wrote her number on
it. "Come some afternoon--about six; Mr. Lancaster is always in then,"
she said sedately. "I am sure you will like each other." Keith bowed.
She floated off smiling. What she had said to Mrs. Wentworth occurred to
her.
"Yes; he looks like a man." She became conscious that her companion was
asking a question.
"What is the matter with you?" he said. "I have asked you three times
who that man was, and you have not said a word."
"Oh, I beg your pardon. Mr. Keith, an old friend of mine," she said, and
changed the subject.
As to her old friend, he was watching her as she danced, winding in and
out among the intervening couples. He wondered that he could ever have
thought that a creature like that could care for him and share his hard
life. He might as soon have expected a bird-of-paradise to live by
choice in a coal-bunker.
He strolled about, looking at the handsome women, and presently found
himself in the conservatory. Turning a clump, of palms, he came on Mrs.
Wentworth and Mr. Wickersham sitting together talking earnestly. Keith
was about to go up and speak to Mrs. Wentworth, but her escort said
something under his breath to her, and she looked away. So Keith
passed on.
A little later, Keith went over to where Mrs. Lancaster stood. Several
men were about her, and just after Keith Joined her, another man walked
up, if any movement so lazy and sauntering could be termed walking.
"I have been wondering why I did not see you," he drawled as he came up.
Keith recognized the voice of Ferdy Wickersham. He turned and faced him;
but if Mr. Wickersham was aware of his presence, he gave no sign of it.
His dark eyes were on Mrs. Lancaster. She turned to him.
"Perhaps, Ferdinand, it was because you did not use your eyes. That is
not ordinarily a fault of yours."
"I never think of my eyes when yours are present," said he, lazily.
"Oh, don't you?" laughed Mrs. Lancaster. "What were you doing a little
while ago in the conservatory--with--?"
"Nothing. I have not been in the conservatory this evening. You have
paid some one else a compliment."
"Tell that to some one who does not use her eyes," said Mrs. Lancaster,
mockingly.
"There are occasions when you must disbelieve the sight of your eyes."
He was looking her steadily in the face, and Keith saw her expression
change. She recovered herself.
"Last time I saw you, you vowed you had eyes for none but me, you may
remember?" she said lightly.
"No. Did I? Life is too awfully short to remember. But it is true. It is
the present in which I find my pleasure."
Up to this time neither Mrs. Lancaster nor Mr. Wickersham had taken any
notice of Keith, who stood a little to one side, waiting, with his eyes
resting on the other young man's face. Mrs. Lancaster now turned.
"Oh, Mr. Keith." She now turned back to Mr. Wickersham. "You know Mr.
Keith?"
Keith was about to step forward to greet his old acquaintance; but
Wickersham barely nodded.
"Ah, how do you do? Yes, I know Mr. Keith.--If I can take care of the
present, I let the past and the future take care of themselves," he
continued to Mrs. Lancaster. "Come and have a turn. That will make the
present worth all of the past."
"Ferdy, you are discreet," said one of the other men, with a laugh.
"My dear fellow," said the young man, turning, "I assure you, you don't
know half my virtues."
"What are your virtues, Ferdy?"
"One is not interfering with others." He turned back to Mrs. Lancaster.
"Come, have a turn." He took one of his hands from his pocket and
held it out.
"I am engaged," said Mrs. Lancaster.
"Oh, that makes no difference. You are always engaged; come," he said.
"I beg your pardon. It makes a difference in _this_ case," said Keith,
coming forward. "I believe this is my turn, Mrs. Lancaster?"
Wickersham's glance swept across, but did not rest on him, though it was
enough for Keith to meet it for a second, and, without looking, the
young man turned lazily away.
"Shall we find a seat?" Mrs. Lancaster asked as she took Keith's arm.
"Delighted, unless you prefer to dance."
"I did not know that dancing was one of your accomplishments," she said
as they strolled along.
"Maybe, I have acquired several accomplishments that you do not know of.
It has been a long time since you knew me," he answered lightly. As they
turned, his eyes fell on Wickersham. He was standing where they had left
him, his eyes fastened on them malevolently. As Keith looked he started
and turned away. Mrs. Lancaster had also seen him.
"What is there between you and Ferdy?" she asked.
"Nothing."
"There must be. Did you ever have a row with him?"
"Yes; but that was long ago."
"I don't know. He has a good memory. He doesn't like you." She spoke
reflectively.
"Doesn't he?" laughed Keith. "Well, I must try and sustain it as best I
can."
"And you don't like him? Few men like him. I wonder why that is?"
"And many women?" questioned Keith, as for a moment he recalled Mrs.
Wentworth's face when he spoke of him.
"Some women," she corrected, with a quick glance at him. She reflected,
and then went on: "I think it is partly because he is so bold and partly
that he never appears to know any one else. It is the most insidious
flattery in the world. I like him because I have known him all my life.
I know him perfectly."
"Yes?" Keith spoke politely.
She read his thought. "You wonder if I really know him? Yes, I do. But,
somehow, I cling to those I knew in my girlhood. You don't believe that,
but I do." She glanced at him and then looked away.
"Yes, I do believe it. Then let's be friends--old friends," said Keith.
He held out his hand, and when she took it grasped hers firmly.
"Who is here with you to-night?" he asked.
"No one. Mr. Lancaster does not care for balls."
"Won't you give me the pleasure of seeing you home?" She hesitated for a
moment, and then said:
"I will drop you at your hotel. It is right on my way home."
Just then some one came up and joined the group.
"Ah, my dear Mrs. Lancaster! How well you are looking this evening!"
The full voice, no less than the words, sounded familiar to Keith, and
turning, he recognized the young clergyman whom he had met at Mrs.
Wentworth's when he passed through New York some years before. The years
had plainly used Mr. Rimmon well. He was dressed in an evening suit with
a clerical waistcoat which showed that his plump frame had taken on an
extra layer, and a double chin was beginning to rest on his collar.
Mrs. Lancaster smiled as she returned his greeting.
"You are my stand-by, Mr. Rimmon. I always know that, no matter what
others may say of me, I shall be sure of at least one compliment before
the evening is over if you are present."
"That is because you always deserve it." He put his head on one side
like an aldermanic robin. "Ah, if you knew how many compliments I do pay
you which you never hear! My entire life is a compliment to you,"
declared Mr. Rimmon.
"Not your entire life, Mr. Rimmon. You are like some other men. You
confound me with some one else; for I am sure I heard you saying the
same thing five minutes ago to Louise Wentworth."
"Impossible. Then I must have confounded her with you," sighed Mr.
Rimmon, with such a look at Mrs. Lancaster out of his languishing eyes
that she gave him a laughing tap with her fan.
"Go and practise that on a débutante. I am an old married woman,
remember."
"Ah, me!" sighed the gentleman. "'Marriage and Death and Division make
barren our lives.'"
"Where does that come from?" asked Mrs. Lancaster.
"Ah! from--ah--" began Mr. Rimmon, then catching Keith's eyes resting on
him with an amused look in them, he turned red.
She addressed Keith. "Mr. Keith, you quoted that to me once; where does
it come from? From the Bible?"
"No."
"I read it in the newspaper and was so struck by it that I remembered
it," said Mr. Rimmon.
"I read it in 'Laus Veneris,'" said Keith, dryly, with his eyes on the
other's face. It pleased him to see it redden.
Keith, as he passed through the rooms, caught sight of an old lady over
in a corner. He could scarcely believe his senses; it was Miss Abigail.
She was sitting back against the wall, watching the crowd with eyes as
sharp as needles. Sometimes her thin lips twitched, and her bright eyes
snapped with inward amusement. Keith made his way over to her. She was
so much engaged that he stood beside her a moment without her seeing
him. Then she turned and glanced at him.
"'A chiel's amang ye takin' notes,'" he said, laughing and holding out
his hand.
"'An', faith! she'll prent 'em,'" she answered, with a nod. "How are
you? I am glad to see you. I was just wishing I had somebody to enjoy
this with me, but not a man. I ought to be gone; and so ought you, young
man. I started, but I thought if I could get in a corner by myself where
there were no men I might stay a little while and look at it; for I
certainly never saw anything like this before, and I don't think I ever
shall again. I certainly do not think you ought to see it."
Keith laughed, and she continued:
"I knew things had changed since I was a girl; but I didn't know it was
as bad as this. Why, I don't think it ought to be allowed."
"What?" asked Keith.
"This." She waved her hand to include the dancing throng before them.
"They tell me all those women dancing around there are married."
"I believe many of them are."
"Why don't those young women have partners?"
"Why, some of them do. I suppose the others are not attractive enough,
or something."
"Especially _something_," said the old lady. "Where are their husbands?"
"Why, some of them are at home, and some are here."
"Where?" The old lady turned her eyes on a couple that sailed by her,
the man talking very earnestly to his companion, who was listening
breathlessly. "Is that her husband?"
"Well, no; that is not, I believe."
"No; I'll be bound it is not. You never saw a married man talking to his
wife in public in that way--unless they were talking about the last
month's bills. Why, it is perfectly brazen."
Keith laughed.
"Where is her husband?" she demanded, as Mrs. Wentworth floated by, a
vision of brocaded satin and lace and white shoulders, supported by
Ferdy Wickersham, who was talking earnestly and looking down into her
eyes languishingly.
"Oh, her husband is here."
"Well, he had better take her home to her little children. If ever I saw
a face that I distrusted it is that man's."
"Why, that is Ferdy Wickersham. He is one of the leaders of society. He
is considered quite an Adonis," observed Keith.
"And I don't think Adonis was a very proper person for a young woman
with children to be dancing with in attire in which only her husband
should see her." She shut her lips grimly. "I know him," she added. "I
know all about them for three generations. One of the misfortunes of age
is that when a person gets as old as I am she knows so much evil about
people. I knew that young man's grandfather when he was a worthy
mechanic. His wife was an uppish hussy who thought herself better than
her husband, and their daughter was a pretty girl with black eyes and
rosy cheeks. They sent her off to school, and after the first year or
two she never came back. She had got above them. Her father told me as
much. The old man cried about it. He said his wife thought it was all
right; that his girl had married a smart young fellow who was a clerk in
a bank; but that if he had a hundred other children he'd never teach
them any more than to read, write, and figure. And to think that her son
should be the Adonis dancing with my cousin Everett Wentworth's
daughter-in-law! Why, my Aunt Wentworth would rise from her grave if
she knew it!"
"Well, times have changed," said Keith, laughing. "You see they are as
good as anybody now."
"Not as good as anybody--you mean as rich as anybody."
"That amounts to about the same thing here, doesn't it?"
"I believe it does, here," said the old lady, with a sniff. "Well," she
said after a pause, "I think I will go back and tell Matilda what I have
seen. And if you are wise you will come with me, too. This is no place
for plain, country-bred people like you and me."
Keith, laughing, said he had an engagement, but he would like to have
the privilege of taking her home, and then he could return.
"With a married woman, I suppose? Yes, I will be bound it is," she added
as Keith nodded. "You see the danger of evil association. I shall write
to your father and tell him that the sooner he gets you out of New York
the better it will be for your morals and your manners. For you are the
only man, except Norman, who has been so provincial as to take notice of
an unknown old woman."
So she went chatting merrily down the stairway to her carriage, making
her observations on whatever she saw with the freshness of a girl.
"Do you think Norman is happy?" she suddenly asked Keith.
"Why--yes; don't you think so? He has everything on earth to make him
happy," said Keith, with some surprise. But even at the moment it
flitted across his mind that there was something which he had felt
rather than observed in Mrs. Wentworth's attitude toward her husband.
"Except that he has married a fool," said the old lady, briefly. "Don't
you marry a fool, you hear?"
"I believe she is devoted to Norman and to her children," Keith began,
but Miss Abigail interrupted him.
"And why shouldn't she be? Isn't she his wife? She gives him, perhaps,
what is left over after her devotion to herself, her house, her frocks,
her jewels, and--Adonis."
"Oh, I don't believe she cares for him," declared Keith. "It is
impossible."
"I don't believe she does either, but she cares for herself, and he
flatters her. The idea of a Norman-Wentworth's wife being flattered by
the attention of a tinker's grandson!"
When the ball broke up and Mrs. Lancaster's carriage was called, several
men escorted her to it. Wickersham, who was trying to recover ground
which something told him he had lost, followed her down the stairway
with one or two other men, and after she had entered the carriage stood
leaning in at the door while he made his adieus and peace at the
same moment.
"You were not always so cruel to me," he said in a low tone.
Mrs. Lancaster laughed genuinely.
"I was never cruel to you, Ferdy; you mistake leniency for harshness."
"No one else would say that to me."
"So much the more pity. You would be a better man if you had the truth
told you oftener."
"When did you become such an advocate of Truth? Is it this man?"
"What man?"
"Keith. If it is, I want to tell you that he is not what he pretends."
A change came over Mrs. Lancaster's face.
"He is a gentleman," she said coldly.
"Oh, is he? He was a stage-driver."
Mrs. Lancaster drew herself up.
"If he was--" she began. But she stopped suddenly, glanced beyond
Wickersham, and moved over to the further side of the carriage.
Just then a hand was laid on Wickersham's arm, and a voice behind him
said:
"I beg your pardon."
Wickersham knew the voice, and without looking around stood aside for
the speaker to make his adieus. Keith stepped into the carriage and
pulled to the door before the footman could close it.
At the sound the impatient horses started off, leaving three men
standing in the street looking very blank. Stirling was the first to
speak; he turned to the others in amazement.
"Who is Keith?" he demanded.
"Oh, a fellow from the South somewhere."
"Well, Keith knows his business!" said Mr. Stirling, with a nod of
genuine admiration.
Wickersham uttered an imprecation and turned back into the house.
Next day Mr. Stirling caught Wickersham in a group of young men at the
club, and told them the story.
"Look out for Keith," he said. "He gave me a lesson."
Wickersham growled an inaudible reply.
"Who was the lady? Wickersham tries to capture so many prizes, what you
say gives us no light," said Mr. Minturn, one of the men.
"Oh, no. I'll only tell you it's not the one you think," said the jolly
bachelor. "But I am going to take lessons of that man Keith. These
countrymen surprise me sometimes."
"He was a d----d stage-driver," said Wickersham.
"Then you had better take lessons from him, Ferdy," said Stirling. "He
drives well. He's a veteran."
When Keith reached his room he lit a cigar and flung himself into a
chair. Somehow, the evening had not left a pleasant impression on his
mind. Was this the Alice Yorke he had worshipped, revered? Was this the
woman whom he had canonized throughout these years? Why was she carrying
on an affair with Ferdy Wickersham? What did he mean by those last words
at the carriage? She said she knew him. Then she must know what his
reputation was. Now and then it came to Keith that it was nothing to
him. Mrs. Lancaster was married, and her affairs could not concern him.
But they did concern him. They had agreed to be old friends--old
friends. He would be a true friend to her.
He rose and threw away his half-smoked cigar.
Keith called on Mrs. Lancaster just before he left for the South. Though
he had no such motive when he put off his visit, he could not have done
a wiser thing. It was a novel experience for her to invite a man to call
on her and not have him jump at the proposal, appear promptly next day,
frock-coat, kid gloves, smooth flattery, and all; and when Keith had not
appeared on the third day after the ball, it set her to thinking. She
imagined at first that he must have been called out of town, but Mrs.
Norman, whom she met, dispelled this idea. Keith had dined with them
informally the evening before.
"He appeared to be in high spirits," added the lady. "His scheme has
succeeded, and he is about to go South. Norman took it up and put it
through for him."
"I know it," said Mrs. Lancaster, demurely.
Mrs. Wentworth's form stiffened slightly; but her manner soon became
gracious again. "Ferdy says there is nothing in it."
Could he be offended, or afraid--of himself? reflected Mrs. Lancaster.
Mrs. Wentworth's next observation disposed of this theory also. "You
ought to hear him talk of you. By the way, I have found out who that
ghost was."
Mrs. Lancaster threw a mask over her face.
"He says you have more than fulfilled the promise of your girlhood: that
you are the handsomest woman he has seen in New York, my dear," pursued
the other, looking down at her own shapely figure. "Of course, I do not
agree with him, quite," she laughed. "But, then, people will differ."
"Louise Wentworth, vanity is a deadly sin," said the other, smiling,
"and we are told in the Commandments--I forget which one--to envy
nothing of our neighbor's."
"He said he wanted to go to see you; that you had kindly invited him,
and he wished very much to meet Mr. Lancaster," said Mrs.
Wentworth, blandly.
"Yes, I am sure they will like each other," said Mrs. Lancaster, with
dignity. "Mamma also is very anxious to see him. She used to know him
when--when he was a boy, and liked him very much, too, though she would
not acknowledge it to me then." She laughed softly at some recollection.
"He spoke of your mother most pleasantly," declared Mrs. Wentworth, not
without Mrs. Lancaster noticing that she was claiming to stand as
Keith's friend.
"Well, I shall not be at home to-morrow," she began. "I have promised to
go out to-morrow afternoon."
"Oh, sha'n't you? Why, what a pity! because he said he was going to pay
his calls to-morrow, as he expected to leave to-morrow night. I think he
would be very sorry not to see you."
"Oh, well, then, I will stay in. My other engagement is of no
consequence."
Her friend looked benign.
Recollecting Mrs. Wentworth's expression, Mrs. Lancaster determined that
she would not be at home the following afternoon. She would show Mrs.
Wentworth that she could not gauge her so easily as she fancied. But at
the last moment, after putting on her hat, she changed her mind. She
remained in, and ended by inviting Keith to dinner that evening, an
invitation which was so graciously seconded by Mr. Lancaster that Keith,
finding that he could take a later train, accepted. Mrs. Yorke was at
the dinner, too, and how gracious she was to Keith! She "could scarcely
believe he was the same man she had known a few years before." She "had
heard a great deal of him, and had come around to dinner on purpose to
meet him." This was true.
"And you have done so well, too, I hear. Your friends are very pleased
to know of your success," she said graciously.
Keith smilingly admitted that he had had, perhaps, better fortune than
he deserved; but this Mrs. Yorke amiably would by no means allow.
"Mrs. Wentworth--not Louise--I mean the elder Mrs. Wentworth--was
speaking of you. You and Norman were great friends when you were boys,
she tells me. They were great friends of ours, you know, long before
we met you."
He wondered how much the Wentworths' indorsement counted for in securing
Mrs. Yorke's invitation. For a good deal, he knew; but as much credit as
he gave it he was within the mark.
It was only her environment. She could no more escape from that than if
she were in prison. She gauged every one by what others thought, and she
possessed no other gauge. Yet there was a certain friendliness, too, in
Mrs. Yorke. The good lady had softened with the years, and at heart she
had always liked Keith.
Most of her conversation was of her friends and their position. Alice
was thinking of going abroad soon to visit some friends on the other
side, "of a very distinguished family," she told Keith.
When Keith left the Lancaster house that night Alice Lancaster knew that
he had wholly recovered.