MRS. LANCASTER'S WIDOWHOOD
The first two years of her widowhood Alice Lancaster spent in
retirement. Even the busy tongue of Mrs. Nailor could find little to
criticise in the young widow. To be sure, that accomplished critic made
the most of this little, and disseminated her opinion that Alice's grief
for Mr. Lancaster could only be remorse for her indifference to him
during his life. Every one knew, she said, how she had neglected him.
The idea that Alice Lancaster was troubled with regrets was not as
unfounded as the rest of Mrs. Nailor's ill-natured charge. She was
attached to her husband, and had always meant to be a good wife to him.
She was as good a wife as her mother and her friends would permit her to
be. Gossip had not spared some of her best friends. Even as proud a
woman as young Mrs. Wentworth had not escaped. But Gossip had never yet
touched the name of Mrs. Lancaster, and Alice did not mean that it
should. It was not unnatural that she should have accepted the liberty
which her husband gave her and have gone out more and more, even though
he could accompany her less and less.
No maelstrom is more unrelenting in its grasp than is that of Society.
Only those who sink, or are cast aside by its seething waves, escape.
And before she knew it, Alice Lancaster had found herself drawn into the
whirlpool.
An attractive proposal had been made to her to go abroad and join some
friends of hers for a London season a year or two before. Grinnell
Rhodes had married Miss Creamer, who was fond of European society, and
they had taken a house in London for the season, which promised to be
very gay, and had suggested to Mrs. Lancaster to visit them. Mr.
Lancaster had found himself unable to go. A good many matters of
importance had been undertaken by him, and he must see them through, he
said. Moreover, he had not been very well of late, and he had felt that
he should be rather a drag amid the gayeties of the London season. Alice
had offered to give up the trip, but he would not hear of it. She must
go, he said, and he knew who would be the most charming woman in London.
So, having extracted from him the promise that, when his business
matters were all arranged, he would join her for a little run on the
Continent, she had set off for Paris, where "awful beauty puts on all
its arms," to make her preparations for the campaign.
Mr. Lancaster had not told her of an interview which her mother had had
with him, in which she had pointed out that Alice's health was suffering
from her want of gayety and amusement. He was not one to talk
of himself.
Alice Lancaster was still in Paris when a cable message announced to her
Mr. Lancaster's death. It was only after his death that she awoke to the
unselfishness of his life and to the completeness of his devotion
to her.
His will, after making provision for certain charities with which he had
been associated in his lifetime, left all his great fortune to her; and
there was, besides, a sealed letter left for her in which he poured out
his heart to her. From it she learned that he had suffered greatly and
had known that he was liable to die at any time. He, however, would not
send for her to come home, for fear of spoiling her holiday.
"I will not say I have not been lonely," he wrote. "For God knows how
lonely I have been since you left. The light went with you and will
return only when you come home. Sometimes I have felt that I could not
endure it and must send for you or go to you; but the first would have
been selfishness and the latter a breach of duty. The times have been
such that I have not felt it right to leave, as so many interests have
been intrusted to me.... It is possible that I may never see your face
again. I have made a will which I hope will please you. It will, at
least, show you that I trust you entirely. I make no restrictions; for I
wish you greater happiness than I fear I have been able to bring you....
In business affairs I suggest that you consult with Norman Wentworth,
who is a man of high integrity and of a conservative mind. Should you
wish advice as to good charities, I can think of no better adviser than
Dr. Templeton. He has long been my friend."
In the first excess of her grief and remorse, Alice Lancaster came home
and threw herself heart and soul into charitable work. As Mr. Lancaster
had suggested, she consulted Dr. Templeton, the old rector of a small
and unfashionable church on a side street. Under his guidance she found
a world as new and as diverse from that in which she had always lived as
another planet would have been.
She found in some places a life where vice was esteemed more honorable
than virtue, because it brought more bread. She found things of which
she had never dreamed: things which appeared incredible after she had
seen them. These things she found within a half-hour's walk of her
sumptuous home; within a few blocks of the avenue and streets where
Wealth and Plenty took their gay pleasure and where riches poured forth
in a riot of splendid extravagance.
She would have turned back, but for the old clergyman's inspiring
courage; she would have poured out her wealth indiscriminately, but for
his wisdom--but for his wisdom and Norman Wentworth's.
"No, my dear," said the old man; "to give lavishly without
discrimination is to put a premium on beggary and to subject yourself to
imposture."
This Norman indorsed, and under their direction she soon found ways to
give of her great means toward charities which were far-reaching and
enduring. She learned also what happiness comes from knowledge of others
and knowledge of how to help them.
It was surprising to her friends what a change came over the young
woman. Her point of view, her manner, her face, her voice changed. Her
expression, which had once been so proud as to mar somewhat her beauty,
softened; her manner increased in cordiality and kindness; her voice
acquired a new and sincerer tone.
Even Mrs. Nailor observed that the enforced retirement appeared to have
chastened the young widow, though she would not admit that it could be
for anything than effect.
"Black always was the most bewilderingly becoming thing to her that I
ever saw. Don't you remember those effects she used to produce with
black and just a dash of red? Well, she wears black so deep you might
think it was poor Mr. Lancaster's pall; but I have observed that
whenever I have seen her there is always something red very close at
hand. She either sits in a red chair, or there is a red shawl just at
her back, or a great bunch of red roses at her elbow. I am glad that
great window has been put up in old Dr. Templeton's church to William
Lancaster's memory, or I am afraid it would have been but a small one."
Almost the first sign that the storm, which, as related, had struck New
York would reach New Leeds was the shutting down of the Wickersham
mines. The _Clarion_ stated that the shutting down was temporary and
declared that in a very short time, when the men were brought to reason,
they would be opened again; also that the Great Gun Mine, which had been
flooded, would again be opened.
The mines belonging to Keith's company did not appear for some time to
be affected; but the breakers soon began to reach even the point on
which Keith had stood so securely. The first "roller" that came to him
was when orders arrived to cut down the force, and cut down also the
wages of those who were retained. This was done. Letters, growing
gradually more and more complaining, came from the general office in
New York.
Fortunately for Keith, Norman ran down at this time and looked over the
properties again for himself. He did not tell Keith what bitter things
were being said and that his visit down there was that he might be able
to base his defence of Keith on facts in his own knowledge.
"What has become of Mrs. Lancaster?" asked Keith, casually. "Is she
still abroad?"
"No; she came home immediately on hearing the news. You never saw any
one so changed. She has gone in for charity."
Keith looked a trifle grim.
"If you thought her pretty as a girl, you ought to see her as a widow.
She is ravishing."
"You are enthusiastic. I see that Wickersham has returned?"
Norman's brow clouded.
"He'd better not come back here," said Keith.
It is a trite saying that misfortunes rarely come singly, and it would
not be so trite if there were not truth in it. Misfortunes are sometimes
like blackbirds: they come in flocks.
Keith was on his way from his office in the town to the mines one
afternoon, when, turning the shoulder of the hill that shut the opening
of the mine from view, he became aware that something unusual had
occurred. A crowd was already assembled about the mouth of the mine,
above the tipple, among them many women; and people were hurrying up
from all directions.
"What is it?" he demanded of the first person he came to.
"Water. They have struck a pocket or something, and the drift over
toward the Wickersham line is filling up."
"Is everybody out?" Even as he inquired, Keith knew hey were not.
"No, sir; all drowned."
Keith knew this could not be true. He hurried forward and pushed his way
into the throng that crowded about the entrance. A gasp of relief went
up as he appeared.
"Ah! Here's the boss." It was the expression of a vague hope that he
might be able to do something. They gave way at his voice and stood
back, many eyes turning on him in helpless appeal. Women, with blankets
already in hand, were weeping aloud; children hanging to their skirts
were whimpering in vague recognition of disaster; men were growling and
swearing deeply.
"Give way. Stand back, every one." The calm voice and tone of command
had their effect, and as a path was opened through the crowd, Keith
recognized a number of the men who had been in and had just come out.
They were all talking to groups about them. One of them gave him the
first intelligent account of the trouble. They were working near the
entrance when they heard the cries of men farther in, and the first
thing they knew there was a rush of water which poured down on them,
sweeping everything before it.
"It must have been a river," said one, in answer to a question from
Keith. "It was rising a foot a minute. The lights were all put out, and
we just managed to get out in time."
According to their estimates, there were about forty men and boys still
in the mine, most of them in the gallery off from the main drift. Keith
was running over in his mind the levels. His face was a study, and the
crowd about him watched him closely, as if to catch any ray of hope that
he might hold out. As he reflected, his face grew whiter. Down the slant
from the mine came the roar of the water. It was a desperate chance.
Half turning, he glanced at the white, stricken faces about him.
"It is barely possible some of the men may still be alive. There are two
elevations. I am going down to see."
At the words, the sound through the crowd hushed suddenly.
"Na, th' ben't one alive," said an old miner, contentiously.
The murmur began again.
"I am going down to see," said Keith. "If one or two men will come with
me, it will increase the chances of getting to them. If not, I am going
alone. But I don't want any one who has a family."
A dead silence fell, then three or four young fellows began to push
their way through the crowd, amid expostulations of some of the women
and the urging of others.
Some of the women seized them and held on to them.
"There are one or two places where men may have been able to keep their
heads above water if it has not filled the drift, and that is what I am
going to see," said Keith, preparing to descend.
"My brother's down there and I'll go," said a young light-haired fellow
with a pale face. He belonged to the night shift.
"I ain't got any family," said a small, grizzled man. He had a thin
black band on the sleeve of his rusty, brown coat.
Several others now came forward, amid mingled expostulations and
encouragement; but Keith took the first two, and they prepared to enter.
The younger man took off his silver watch, with directions to a friend
to send it to his sister if he did not come back. The older man said a
few words to a bystander. They were about a woman's grave on the
hillside. Keith took off his watch and gave it to one of the men, with a
few words scribbled on a leaf from a memorandum-book, and the next
moment the three volunteers, amid a deathly silence, entered the mine.
Long before they reached the end of the ascent to the shaft they could
hear the water gurgling and lapping against the sides as it whirled
through the gallery below them. As they reached the water, Keith let
himself down into it. The water took him to about his waist and
was rising.
"It has not filled the drift yet," he said, and started ahead. He gave a
halloo; but there was no sound in answer, only the reverberation of his
voice. The other men called to him to wait and talk it over. The
strangeness of the situation appalled them. It might well have awed a
strong man; but Keith waded on. The older man plunged after him, the
younger clinging to the cage for a second in a panic. The lights were
out in a moment. Wading and plunging forward through the water, which
rose in places to his neck, and feeling his way by the sides of the
drift, Keith waded forward through the pitch-darkness. He stopped at
times to halloo; but there was no reply, only the strange hollow sound
of his own voice as it was thrown back on him, or died almost before
leaving his throat. He had almost made up his mind that further attempt
was useless and that he might as well turn back, when he thought he
heard a faint sound ahead. With another shout he plunged forward again,
and the next time he called he heard a cry of joy, and he pushed ahead
again, shouting to them to come to him.
Keith found most of the men huddled together on the first level, in a
state of panic. Some of them were whimpering and some were praying
fervently, whilst a few were silent, in a sort of dazed bewilderment.
All who were working in that part of the mine were there, they said,
except three men, Bill Bluffy and a man named Hennson and his boy, who
had been cut off in the far end of the gallery and who must have been
drowned immediately, they told Keith.
"They may not be," said Keith. "There is one point as high as this. I
shall go on and see."
The men endeavored to dissuade him. It was "a useless risk of life,"
they assured him; "the others must have been swept away immediately. The
water had come so sudden. Besides, the water was rising, and it might
even now be too late to get out." But Keith was firm, and ordering them
back in charge of the two men who had come in with him, he pushed on
alone. He knew that the water was still rising, though, he hoped,
slowly. He had no voice to shout now, but he prayed with all his might,
and that soothed and helped him. Presently the water was a little
shallower. It did not come so high up on him. He knew from this that he
must be reaching the upper level. Now and then he spoke Bluffy's and
Hennson's names, lest in the darkness he should pass them.
Presently, as he stopped for a second to take breath, he thought he
heard another sound besides the gurgling of the water as it swirled
about the timbers. He listened intently.
It was the boy's voice. "Hold me tight, father. Don't leave me."
Then he heard another voice urging him to go. "You can't do any good
staying; try it." But Hennson was refusing.
"Hold on. I won't leave you."
"Hennson! Bluffy!" shouted Keith, or tried to shout, for his voice went
nowhere; but his heart was bounding now, and he plunged on. Presently he
was near enough to catch their words. The father was praying, and the
boy was following him.
"'Thy will be done on earth, as it is in heaven,'" Keith heard him say.
"Hennson!" he cried again.
From the darkness he heard a voice.
"Who is that? Is that any one?"
"It is I,--Mr. Keith,--Hennson. Come quick, all of you; you can get out.
Cheer up."
A cry of joy went up.
"I can't leave my boy," called the man.
"Bring him on your back," said Keith. "Come on, Bluffy."
"I can't," said Bluffy. "I'm hurt. My leg is broke."
"God have mercy!" cried Keith, and waded on.
After a moment more he was up with the man, feeling for him in the
darkness, and asking how he was hurt.
They told him that the rush of the water had thrown him against a timber
and hurt his leg and side.
"Take the boy," said Bluffy, "and go on; leave me here."
The boy began to cry.
"No," said Keith; "I will take you, too: Hennson can take the boy. Can
you walk at all?"
"I don't think so."
Keith made Hennson take the boy and hold on to him on one side, and
slipping his arm around the injured man, he lifted him and they started
back. He had put new courage into them, and the force of the current was
in their favor. They passed the first high level, where he had found the
others. When they reached a point where the water was too deep for the
boy, Keith made the father take him on his shoulder, and they waded on
through the blackness. The water was now almost up to his chin, and he
grew so tired under his burden that he began to think they should never
get out; but he fought against it and kept on, steadying himself against
the timbers. He knew that if he went down it was the end. Many thoughts
came to him of the past. He banished them and tried to speak words of
encouragement, though he could scarcely hear himself.
"Shout," he said hoarsely; and the boy shouted, though it was somewhat
feeble.
A moment later, he gave a shout of an entirely different kind.
"There is a light!" he cried.
The sound revived Keith's fainting energies, and he tried to muster his
flagging strength. The boy shouted again, and in response there came
back, strangely flattened, the shrill cry of a woman. Keith staggered
forward with Bluffy, at times holding himself up by the side-timbers. He
was conscious of a light and of voices, but was too exhausted to know
more. If he could only keep the man and the boy above water until
assistance came! He summoned his last atom of strength.
"Hold tight to the timbers, Hennson," he cried; "I am going."
The rest was a confused dream. He was conscious for a moment of the
weight being lifted from him, and he was sinking into the water as if
into a soft couch. He thought some one clutched him, but he knew
nothing more.
* * * * *
Terpsichore was out on the street when the rumor of the accident reached
her. Any accident always came home to her, and she was prompt to do what
she could to help, in any case. But this was Mr. Keith's mine, and rumor
had it that he was among the lost. Terpsichore was not attired for such
an emergency; when she went on the streets, she still wore some of her
old finery, though it was growing less and less of late. She always
acted quickly. Calling to a barkeeper who had come to his front door on
hearing the news, to bring her brandy immediately, she dashed into a
dry-goods store near by and got an armful of blankets, and when the
clerk, a stranger just engaged in the store, made some question about
charging them to her, she tore off her jewelled watch and almost flung
it at the man.
"Take that, idiot! Men are dying," she said. "I have not time to box
your jaws." And snatching up the blankets, she ran out, stopped a
passing buggy, and flinging them into it, sprang in herself. With a nod
of thanks to the barkeeper, who had brought out several bottles of
brandy, she snatched the reins from the half-dazed driver, and heading
the horse up the street that led out toward the mine, she lashed him
into a gallop. She arrived at the scene of the accident just before the
first men rescued reappeared. She learned of Keith's effort to save
them. She would have gone into the mine herself had she not been
restrained. Just then the men came out.
The shouts and cries of joy that greeted so unexpected a deliverance
drowned everything else for a few moments; but as man after man was met
and received half dazed into the arms of his family and friends, the
name of Keith began to be heard on all sides. One voice, however, was
more imperative than the others; one figure pressed to the front--that
of the gayly dressed woman who had just been comforting and encouraging
the weeping women about the mine entrance.
"Where is Mr. Keith?" she demanded of man after man.
The men explained. "He went on to try and find three more men who are
down there--Bluffy and Hennson and his boy."
"Who went with him?"
"No one. He went alone."
"And you men let him go?"
"We could not help it. He insisted. We tried to make him come with us."
"You cowards!" she cried, tearing off her wrap. "Of course, he insisted,
for he is a _man_. Had one woman been down there, she would not have let
him go alone." She sprang over the fencing rope as lightly as a deer,
and started toward the entrance. A cry broke from the crowd.
"She's going! Stop her! She's crazy! Catch her!"
Several men sprang over the rope and started after her. Hearing them,
Terpsichore turned. With outstretched arms spread far apart and blazing
eyes, she faced them.
"If any man tries to stop me, I will kill him on the spot, as God
lives!" she cried, snatching up a piece of iron bar that lay near by. "I
am going to find that man, dead or alive. If there is one of you man
enough to come with me, come on. If not, I will go alone."
"I will go with you!" A tall, sallow-faced man who had just come up
pushed through the throng and overtook her. "You stay here; I will go."
It was Tib Drummond, the preacher. He was still panting. The girl hardly
noticed him. She waved him aside and dashed on.
A dozen men offered to go if she would come back.
"No; I shall go with you," she said; and knowing that every moment was
precious, and thinking that the only way to pacify her was to make the
attempt, the men yielded, and a number of them entered the mine with
her, the lank preacher among them.
They had just reached the bottom when the faint outline of something
black was seen in the glimmer that their lights threw in the distance.
Terpy, with a cry, dashed forward, and was just in time to catch Keith
as he sank beneath the black water.
When the rescuing party with their burdens reached the surface once
more, the scene was one to revive even a flagging heart; but Keith and
Bluffy were both too far gone to know anything of it.
The crowd, which up to this time had been buzzing with the excitement of
the reaction following the first rescue, suddenly hushed down to an awed
silence as Keith and Bluffy were brought out and were laid limp and
unconscious on a blanket, which Terpsichore had snatched from a man in
the front of the others. Many women pressed forward to offer assistance,
but the girl waved them back.
"A doctor!" she cried, and reaching for a brandy-bottle, she pressed it
first to Keith's lips. Turning to Drummond, the preacher, who stood
gaunt and dripping above her, she cried fiercely: "Pray, man; if you
ever prayed, pray now. Pray, and if you save 'em, I'll leave town. I
swear before God I will. Tell Him so."
But the preacher needed no urging. Falling on his knees, he prayed as
possibly he had never prayed before. In a few moments Keith began to
come to. But Bluffy was still unconscious, and a half-hour later the
Doctor pronounced him past hope.
* * * * *
It was some time before Keith was able to rise from his bed, and during
this period a number of events had taken place affecting him, and, more
or less, affecting New Leeds. Among these was the sale of Mr. Plume's
paper to a new rival which had recently been started in the place, and
the departure of Mr. Plume (to give his own account of the matter) "to
take a responsible position upon a great metropolitan journal." He was
not a man, he said, "to waste his divine talents in the attempt to carry
on his shoulders the blasted fortunes of a 'bursted boom,' when the
world was pining for the benefit of his ripe experience." Another
account of the same matter was that rumor had begun to connect Mr.
Plume's name with the destruction of the Wickersham mine and the
consequent disaster in the Rawson mine. His paper, with brazen
effrontery, had declared that the accident in the latter was due to the
negligence of the management. This was too much for the people of New
Leeds in their excited condition. Bluffy was dead; but Hennson, the man
whom Keith had rescued, had stated that they had cut through into a
shaft when the water broke in on them, and an investigation having been
begun, not only of this matter, but of the previous explosion in the
Wickersham mine, Mr. Plume had sold out his paper hastily and shaken the
dust of New Leeds from his feet.
Keith knew nothing of this until it was all over. He was very ill for a
time, and but for the ministrations of Dr. Balsam, who came up from
Ridgely to look after him, and the care of a devoted nurse in the person
of Terpsichore, this history might have ended then. Terpsichore had,
immediately after Keith's accident, closed her establishment and devoted
herself to his care. There were many other offers of similar service,
for New Leeds was now a considerable town, and Keith might have had a
fair proportion of the gentler sex to minister to him; but Dr. Balsam,
to whom Terpsichore had telegraphed immediately after Keith's rescue,
had, after his first interview with her in the sick-room, decided in
favor of the young woman.
"She has the true instinct," said the Doctor to himself. "She knows when
to let well enough alone, and holds her tongue."
Thus, when Keith was able to take notice again, he found himself in good
hands.
A few days after he was able to get up, Keith received a telegram
summoning him to New York to meet the officers of the company. As weak
as he was, he determined to go, and, against the protestations of doctor
and nurse, he began to make his preparations.
Just before Keith left, a visitor was announced, or rather announced
himself; for Squire Rawson followed hard upon his knock at the door. His
heavy boots, he declared, "were enough to let anybody know he was
around, and give 'em time to stop anything they was ashamed o' doin'."
The squire had come over, as he said, "to hear about things." It was the
first time he had seen Keith since the accident, though, after he had
heard of it, he had written and invited Keith to come "and rest up a bit
at his house."
When the old man learned of the summons that had come to Keith, he relit
his pipe and puffed a moment in silence.
"Reckon they'll want to know why they ain't been a realizin' of their
dreams?" he said, with a twinkle in his half-shut eyes. "Ever notice,
when a man is huntin', if he gits what he aims at, it's himself; but if
he misses, it's the blamed old gun?"
Keith smiled. He had observed that phenomenon.
"Well, I suspicionate they'll be findin' fault with their gun. I have
been a-watchin' o' the signs o' the times. If they do, don't you say
nothin' to them about it; but I'm ready to take back my part of the
property, and I've got a leetle money I might even increase my
herd with."
The sum he mentioned made Keith open his eyes.
"When hard times comes," continued the old man, after enjoying Keith's
surprise, "I had rather have my money in land than in one of these here
banks. I has seen wild-cat money and Confederate money, and land's land.
I don't know that it is much of a compliment to say that I has more
confidence in you than I has in these here men what has come down from
nobody-knows-where to open a bank on nobody-knows-what."
Keith expressed his appreciation of the compliment, but thought that
they must have something to bank on.
"Oh, they've got something," admitted the capitalist. "But you know what
it is. They bank on brass and credulity. That's what I calls it."
The old man's face clouded. "I had been puttin' that by for Phrony," he
said. "But she didn't want it. _My_ money warn't good enough for her.
Some day she'll know better."
Keith waited for his humor to pass.
"I won't ever do nothin' for her; but if ever you see her, I'd like you
to help her out if she needs it," he said huskily.
Keith promised faithfully that he would.
That afternoon Terpy knocked at his door, and came in with that mingled
shyness and boldness which was characteristic of her.
Keith offered her a chair and began to thank her for having saved his
life.
"Well, I am always becoming indebted to you anew for saving my life--"
"I didn't come for that," declared the girl. "I didn't save your life. I
just went down to do what I could to help you. You know how that mine
got flooded?"
"I do," said Keith.
"They done it to do you," she said; "and they made Bill believe it was
to hurt Wickersham. Bill's dead now, an' I don't want you to think he
had anything against you." She began to cry.
All this was new to Keith, and he said so.
"Well, you won't say anything about what I said about Bill. J. Quincy
made him think 'twas against Wickersham, and he was that drunk he didn't
know what a fool they was makin' of him.--You are going away?" she
said suddenly.
"Oh, only for a very little while--I am going off about a little
business for a short time. I expect to be back very soon."
"Ah! I heard--I am glad to hear that you are coming back." She was
manifestly embarrassed, and Keith was wondering more and more what she
wanted of him. "I just wanted to say good-by. I am going away." She was
fumbling at her wrap. "And to tell you I have changed my business. I'm
not goin' to keep a dance-house any longer."
"I am glad of that," said Keith, and then stuck fast again.
"I don't think a girl ought to keep a dance-house or a bank?"
"No; I agree with you. What are you going to do?"
"I don't know; I thought of trying a milliner. I know right smart about
hats; but I'd wear all the pretty ones and give all the ugly ones away,"
she said, with a poor little smile. "And it might interfere with Mrs.
Gaskins, and she is a widder. So I thought I'd go away. I thought of
being a nurse--I know a little about that. I used to be about the
hospital at my old home, and I've had some little experience since." She
was evidently seeking his advice.
"You saved my life," said Keith. "Dr. Balsam says you are a born nurse."
She put this by without comment, and Keith went on.
"Where was your home?"
"Grofton."
"Grofton? You mean in England? In the West Country?"
She nodded. "Yes. I was the girl the little lady gave the doll to. You
were there. Don't you remember? I ran away with it. I have it now--a
part of it. They broke it up; but I saved the body."
Keith's eyes opened wide.
"That Lois Huntington gave it to?"
"Yes. I heard you were going to be married?" she said suddenly.
"I! Married! No! No such good luck for me." His laugh had an unexpected
tone of bitterness in it. She gave him a searching glance in the dusk,
and presently began again haltingly.
"I want you to know I am never going back to that any more."
"I am glad to hear it."
"You were the first to set me to thinkin' about it."
"I!"
"Yes; I want to live straight, and I'm goin' to."
"I am sure you are, and I cannot tell you how glad I am," he said
cordially.
"Yes, thankee." She was looking down, picking shyly at the fringe on her
wrap. "And I want you to know 'twas you done it. I have had a hard
life--you don't know how hard--ever since I was a little bit of a
gal--till I run away from home. And then 'twas harder. And they all
treated me's if I was just a--a dog, and the worst kind of a dog. So I
lived like a dog. I learned how to bite, and then they treated me some
better, because they found I would bite if they fooled with me. And then
I learned what fools and cowards men were, and I used 'em. I used to
love to play 'em, and I done it. I used to amuse 'em for money and hold
'em off. But I knew sometime I'd die like a dog as I lived like one--and
then you came--." She paused and looked away out of the window, and
after a gulp went on again: "They preached at me for dancin'. But I
don't think there's any harm dancin'. And I love it better'n anything
else in the worl'."
"I do not, either," said Keith.
"You was the only one as treated me as if I was--some'n' I warn't. I
fought against you and tried to drive you out, but you stuck, and I knew
then I was beat. I didn't know 'twas you when I--made such a fool of
myself that time--."
Keith laughed.
"Well, I certainly did not know it was you."
"No--I wanted you to know that," she went on gravely, "because--because,
if I had, I wouldn' 'a' done it--for old times' sake." She felt for her
handkerchief, and not finding it readily, suddenly caught up the bottom
of her skirt and wiped her eyes with it as she might have done when a
little girl.
Keith tried to comfort her with words of assurance, the tone of which
was at least consoling.
"I always was a fool about crying--an' I was thinkin' about Bill," she
said brokenly. "Good-by." She wrung his hand, turned, and walked rapidly
out of the room, leaving Keith with a warm feeling about his heart.