MRS. CREAMER'S BALL
The next few years passed as the experience of old Rawson had led him to
predict. Fortunes went down; but Fortune's wheel is always turning, and,
as the old countryman said, "those that could stick would come up on
top again."
Keith, however, had prospered. He had got the Rawson mine to running
again, and even in the hardest times had been able to make it pay
expenses. Other properties had failed and sold out, and had been bought
in by Keith's supporters, when Wickersham once more appeared in New
Leeds affairs. It was rumored that Wickersham was going to start again.
Old Adam Rawson's face grew dark at the rumor. He said to Keith:
"If that young man comes down here, it's him or me. I'm an old man, and
I ain't got long to live; but I want to live to meet him once. If he's
got any friends, they'd better tell him not to come." He sat glowering
and puffing his pipe morosely.
Keith tried to soothe him; but the old fellow had received a wound that
knew no healing.
"I know all you say, and I'm much obliged to you; but I can't accept it.
It's an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth with me. He has entered
my home and struck me in the dark. Do you think I done all I have done
jest for the money I was makin'! No; I wanted revenge. I have set on my
porch of a night and seen her wanderin' about in them fureign cities,
all alone, trampin' the streets--trampin', trampin', trampin'; tired,
and, maybe, sick and hungry, not able to ask them outlandish folks for
even a piece of bread--her that used to set on my knee and hug me with
her little arms and call me granddad, and claim all the little calves
for hers--jest the little ones; and that I've ridden many a mile over
the mountains for, thinkin' how she was goin' to run out to meet me when
I got home. And now even my old dog's dead--died after she went away.
"No!" he broke out fiercely. "If he comes back here, it's him or me! By
the Lord! if he comes back here, I'll pay him the debt I owe him. If
she's his wife, I'll make her a widow, and if she ain't, I'll
revenge her."
He mopped the beads of sweat that had broken out on his brow, and
without a word stalked out of the door.
But Ferdy Wickersham had no idea of returning to New Leeds. He found New
York quite interesting enough for him about this time.
The breach between Norman and his wife had grown of late.
Gossip divided the honors between them, and some said it was on Ferdy
Wickersham's account; others declared that it was Mrs. Lancaster who had
come between them. Yet others said it was a matter of money--that Norman
had become tired of his wife's extravagance and had refused to stand it
any longer.
Keith knew vaguely of the trouble between Norman and his wife; but he
did not know the extent of it, and he studiously kept up his friendly
relations with her as well as with Norman. His business took him to New
York from time to time, and he was sensible that the life there was
growing more and more attractive for him. He was fitting into it too,
and enjoying it more and more. He was like a strong swimmer who, used to
battling in heavy waves, grows stronger with the struggle, and finds
ever new enjoyment and courage in his endeavor. He felt that he was now
quite a man of the world. He was aware that his point of view had
changed and (a little) that he had changed. As flattering as was his
growth in New Leeds, he had a much more infallible evidence of his
success in the favor with which he was being received in New York.
The favor that Mrs. Lancaster had shown Keith, and, much more, old Mrs.
Wentworth's friendship, had a marked effect throughout their whole
circle of acquaintance. That a man had been invited to these houses
meant that he must be something. There were women who owned large
houses, wore priceless jewels, cruised in their own yachts, had their
own villas on ground as valuable as that which fronted the Roman Forum
in old days, who would almost have licked the marble steps of those
mansions to be admitted to sit at their dinner-tables and have their
names appear in the Sunday issues of the newly established society
journals among the blessed few. So, as soon as it appeared that Gordon
was not only an acquaintance, but a friend of these critical leaders,
women who had looked over his head as they drove up the avenue, and had
just tucked their chins and lowered their eyelids when he had been
presented, began to give him invitations. Among these was Mrs. Nailor.
Truly, the world appeared warmer and kinder than Keith had thought.
To be sure, it was at Mrs. Lancaster's that Mrs. Nailor met him, and
Keith was manifestly on very friendly terms with the pretty widow. Even
Mrs. Yorke, who was present on the occasion with her "heart," was
impressively cordial to him. Mrs. Nailor had no idea of being left out.
She almost gushed with affection, as she made a place beside her on
a divan.
"You do not come to see all your friends," she said, with her winningest
smile and her most bird-like voice. "You appear to forget that you have
other old friends in New York besides Mrs. Lancaster and Mrs. Yorke.
Alice dear, you must not be selfish and engross all his time. You must
let him come and see me, at least, sometimes. Yes?" This with a
peculiarly innocent smile and tone.
Keith declared that he was in New York very rarely, and Mrs. Lancaster,
with a slightly heightened color, repudiated the idea that she had
anything to do with his movements.
"Oh, I hear of you here very often," declared Mrs. Nailor, roguishly. "I
have a little bird that brings me all the news about my friends."
"A little bird, indeed!" said Alice to herself, and to Keith later.
"I'll be bound she has not. If she had a bird, the old cat would have
eaten it."
"You are going to the Creamers' ball, of course?" pursued Mrs. Nailor.
No, Keith said: he was not going; he had been in New York only two days,
and, somehow, his advent had been overlooked. He was always finding
himself disappointed by discovering that New York was still a larger
place than New Leeds.
"Oh, but you must go! We must get you an invitation, mustn't we, Alice?"
Mrs. Nailor was always ready to promise anything, provided she could
make her engagement in partnership and then slip out and leave the
performance to her friend.
"Why, yes; there is not the least trouble about getting an invitation.
Mrs. Nailor can get you one easily."
Keith looked acquiescent.
"No, my dear; you write the note. You know Mrs. Creamer every bit as
well as I," protested Mrs. Nailor, "and I have already asked for at
least a dozen. There are Mrs. Wyndham and Lady Stobbs, who were here
last winter; and that charming Lord Huckster, who was at Newport last
summer; and I don't know how many more--so you will have to get the
invitation for Mr. Keith."
Keith, with some amusement, declared that he did not wish any trouble
taken; he had only said he would go because Mrs. Nailor had appeared to
desire it so much.
Next morning an invitation reached Keith,--he thought he knew through
whose intervention,--and he accepted it.
That evening, as Keith, about dusk, was going up the avenue on his way
home, a young girl passed him, walking very briskly. She paused for a
moment just ahead of him to give some money to a poor woman who, doubled
up on the pavement in a black shawl, was grinding out from a wheezy
little organ a thin, dirge-like strain.
"Good evening. I hope you feel better to-day," Keith heard her say in a
kind tone, though he lost all of the other's reply except the "God
bless you."
She was simply dressed in a plain, dark walking-suit, and something
about her quick, elastic step and slim, trim figure as she sailed along,
looking neither to the right nor to the left, attracted his attention.
Her head was set on her shoulders in a way that gave her quite an air,
and as she passed under a lamp the light showed the flash of a fine
profile and an unusual face. She carried a parcel in her hand that might
have been a roll of music, and from the lateness of the hour Keith
fancied her a shop-girl on her way home, or possibly a music-teacher.
Stirred by the glimpse of the refined face, and even more by the
carriage of the little head under the dainty hat, Keith quickened his
pace to obtain another glance at her. He had almost overtaken her when
she stopped in front of a well-lighted window of a music-store. The
light that fell on her face revealed to him a face of unusual beauty.
Something about her graceful pose as, with her dark brows slightly
knitted, she bent forward and scanned intently the pieces of music
within, awakened old associations in Keith's mind, and sent him back to
his boyhood at Elphinstone. And under an impulse, which he could better
justify to himself than to her, he did a very audacious and improper
thing. Taking off his hat, he spoke to her. She had been so absorbed
that for a moment she did not comprehend that it was she he was
addressing. Then, as it came to her that it was she to whom this
stranger was speaking, she drew herself up and gave him a look of such
withering scorn that Keith felt himself shrink. Next second, with her
head high in the air, she had turned without a word and sped up the
street, leaving Keith feeling very cheap and subdued.
But that glance from dark eyes flashing with indignation had filled
Keith with a sensation to which he had long been a stranger. Something
about the simple dress, the high-bred face with its fine scorn;
something about the patrician air of mingled horror and contempt, had
suddenly cleaved through the worldly crust that had been encasing him
for some time, and reaching his better self, awakened an emotion that he
had thought gone forever. It was like a lightning-flash in the darkness.
He knew that she had entered his life. His resolution was taken on the
instant. He would meet her, and if she were what she looked to be--again
Elphinstone and his youth swept into his mind. He already was conscious
of a sense of protection; he felt curiously that he had the right to
protect her. If he had addressed her, might not others do so? The
thought made his blood boil. He almost wished that some one would
attempt it, that he might assert his right to show her what he was, and
thus retrieve himself in her eyes. Besides, he must know where she
lived. So he followed her at a respectful distance till she ran up the
steps of one of the better class of houses and disappeared within. He
was too far off to be able to tell which house it was that she entered,
but it was in the same block with Norman Wentworth's house.
Keith walked the avenue that night for a long time, pondering how he
should find and explain his conduct to the young music-teacher, for a
music-teacher he had decided she must be. The next evening, too, he
strolled for an hour on the avenue, scanning from a distance every fair
passer-by, but he saw nothing of her.
Mrs. Creamer's balls were, as Norman had once said, _the_ balls of the
season. "Only the rich and the noble were expected."
Mrs. Creamer's house was one of the great, new, brown-stone mansions
which had been built within the past ten years upon "the avenue." It had
cost a fortune. Within, it was so sumptuous that a special work has been
"gotten up," printed, and published by subscription, of its "art
treasures," furniture, and upholstery.
Into this palatial residence--for flattery could not have called it a
home--Keith was admitted, along with some hundreds of other guests.
To-night it was filled with, not flowers exactly, but with floral
decorations; for the roses and orchids were lost in the
designs--garlands, circles, and banks formed of an infinite number
of flowers.
Mrs. Creamer, a large, handsome woman with good shoulders, stood just
inside the great drawing-room. She was gorgeously attired and shone with
diamonds until the eyes ached with her splendor. Behind her stood Mr.
Creamer, looking generally mightily bored. Now and then he smiled and
shook hands with the guests, at times drawing a friend out of the line
back into the rear for a chat, then relapsing again into indifference
or gloom.
Keith was presented to Mrs. Creamer. She only nodded to him. Keith moved
on. He soon discovered that a cordial greeting to a strange guest was no
part of the convention in that society. One or two acquaintances spoke
to him, but he was introduced to no one; so he sauntered about and
entertained himself observing the people. The women were in their best,
and it was good.
Keith was passing from one room to another when he became aware that a
man, who was standing quite still in the doorway, was, like himself,
watching the crowd. His face was turned away; but something about the
compact figure and firm chin was familiar to him. Keith moved to take a
look at his face. It was Dave Dennison.
He had a twinkle in his eye as he said: "Didn't expect to see me here?"
"Didn't expect to see myself here," said Keith.
"I'm one of the swells now"; and Dave glanced down at his expensive
shirt-front and his evening suit with complacency. "Wouldn't Jake give a
lot to have such a bosom as that? I think I look just as well as some of
'em?" he queried, with a glance about him.
Keith thought so too. "You are dressed for the part," he said. Keith's
look of interest inspired him to go on.
"You see, 'tain't like 'tis down with us, where you know everybody, and
everything about him, to the number of drinks he can carry."
"Well, what do you do here?" asked Keith, who was trying to follow Mr.
Dennison's calm eye as, from time to time, it swept the rooms, resting
here and there on a face or following a hand. He was evidently not
merely a guest.
"Detective."
"A detective!" exclaimed Keith.
Dave nodded. "Yes; watchin' the guests, to see they don't carry off each
other. It is the new ones that puzzle us for a while," he added. "Now,
there is a lady acting very mysteriously over there." His eye swept over
the room and then visited, in that casual way it had, some one in the
corner across the room. "I don't just seem to make her out. She looks
all right--but--?"
Keith followed the glance, and the blood rushed to his face and then
surged back again to his heart, for there, standing against the wall,
was the young girl whom he had spoken to on the street a few evenings
before, who had given him so merited a rebuff. She was a
patrician-looking creature and was standing quite alone, observing the
scene with keen interest. Her girlish figure was slim; her eyes, under
straight dark brows, were beautiful; and her mouth was almost perfect.
Her fresh face expressed unfeigned interest, and though generally grave
as she glanced about her, she smiled at times, evidently at her
own thoughts.
"I don't just make her out," repeated Mr. Dennison, softly. "I never saw
her before, as I remember, and yet--!" He looked at her again.
"Why, I do not see that she is acting at all mysteriously," said Keith.
"I think she is a music-teacher. She is about the prettiest girl in the
room. She may be a stranger, like myself, as no one is talking to her."
"Don't no stranger git in here," said Mr. Dennison, decisively. "You see
how different she is from the others. Most of them don't think about
anything but themselves. She ain't thinkin' about herself at all; she is
watchin' others. She may be a reporter--she appears mighty interested
in clothes."
"A reporter!"
The surprise in Keith's tone amused his old pupil. "Yes, a sassiety
reporter. They have curious ways here. Why, they pay money to git
themselves in the paper."
Just then so black a look came into his face for a second that Keith
turned and followed his glance. It rested on Ferdy Wickersham, who was
passing at a little distance, with Mrs. Wentworth on his arm.
"There's one I am watchin' on my own account," said the detective. "I'm
comin' up with him, and some day I'm goin' to light on him." His eye
gave a flash and then became as calm and cold as usual. Presently he
spoke again:
"I don't forgit nothin'--'pears like I can't do it." His voice had a new
subtone in it, which somehow sent Keith's memory back to the past. "I
don't forgit a kindness, anyway," he said, laying his hand for a second
on Keith's arm. "Well, see you later, sir." He moved slowly on. Keith
was glad that patient enemy was not following him.
Keith's inspection of the young girl had inflamed his interest. It was
an unusual face--high-bred and fine. Humor lurked about the corners of
her mouth; but resolution also might be read there. And Keith knew how
those big, dark eyes could flash. And she was manifestly having a good
time all to herself. She was dressed much more simply than any other
woman he saw, in a plain muslin dress; but she made a charming picture
as she stood against the wall, her dark eyes alight with interest. Her
brown hair was drawn back from a brow of snowy whiteness, and her little
head was set on her shoulders in a way that recalled to Keith an old
picture. She would have had an air of distinction in any company. Here
she shone like a jewel.
Keith's heart went out to her. At sight of her his youth appeared to
flood over him again. Keith fancied that she looked weary, for every now
and then she lifted her head and glanced about the rooms as though
looking for some one. A sense of protection swept over him. He must meet
her. But how? She did not appear to know any one. Finally he determined
on a bold expedient. If he succeeded it would give him a chance to
recover himself as nothing else could; if he failed he could but fail.
So he made his way over to her. But it was with a beating heart.
"You look tired. Won't you let me get you a chair?" His voice sounded
strange even to himself.
"No, thank you; I am not tired." She thanked him civilly enough, but
scarcely looked at him. "But I should like a glass of water."
"It is the only liquid I believe I cannot get you," said Keith. "There
are three places where water is scarce: the desert, a ball-room, and the
other place where Dives was."
She drew herself up a little.
"But I will try," he added, and went off. On his return with a glass of
water, she took it.
As she handed the glass back to him, she glanced at him, and he caught
her eye. Her head went up, and she flushed to the roots of her
brown hair.
"Oh!--I beg your pardon! I--I--really--I don't--Thank you very much. I
am very sorry." She turned away stiffly.
"Why?" said Keith, flushing in spite of himself. "You have done me a
favor in enabling me to wait on you. May I introduce myself? And then I
will get some one to do it in person--Mrs. Lancaster or Mrs. Wentworth.
They will vouch for me."
The girl looked up at him, at first with a hostile expression on her
face, which changed suddenly to one of wonder.
"Isn't this Gordon Keith?"
Gordon's eyes opened wide. How could she know him?
"Yes."
"You don't know me?" Her eyes were dancing now, and two dimples were
flitting about her mouth. Keith's memory began to stir. She put her head
on one side.
"'Lois, if you'll kiss me I'll let you ride my horse,'" she said
cajolingly.
"Lois Huntington! It can't be!" exclaimed Keith, delighted. "You are
just so high." Keith measured a height just above his left watch-pocket.
"And you have long hair down your back."
With a little twist she turned her head and showed him a head of
beautiful brown hair done up in a Grecian knot just above the nape of a
shapely little neck.
"--And you have the brightest--"
She dropped her eyes before his, which were looking right into
them--though not until she had given a little flash from them, perhaps
to establish their identity.
"--And you used to say I was your sw--"
"Did I?" (this was very demurely said). "How old was I then?"
"How old are you now?"
"Eighteen," with a slight straightening of the slim figure.
"Impossible!" exclaimed Keith, enjoying keenly the picture she made.
"All of it," with a flash of the eyes.
"For me you are just all of seven years old."
"Do you know who I thought you were?" Her face dimpled.
"Yes; a waiter!"
She nodded brightly.
"It was my good manners. The waiters have struck me much this evening,"
said Keith.
She smiled, and the dimples appeared again.
"That is their business. They are paid for it."
"Oh, I see. Is that the reason others are--what they are? Well, I am
more than paid. My recompense is--you."
She looked pleased. "You are the first person I have met!--Did you have
any idea who I was the other evening?" she asked suddenly.
Keith would have given five years of his life to be able to answer yes.
But he said no. "I only knew you were some one who needed protection,"
he said, trying to make the best of a bad situation. You are too young
to be on the street so late."
"So it appeared. I had been out for a walk to see old Dr. Templeton and
to get a piece of music, and it was later than I thought."
"Whom are you here with?" inquired Keith, to get off of delicate ground.
"Where are you staying?"
"With my cousin, Mrs. Norman Wentworth. It is my first introduction into
New York life."
Just then there was a movement toward the supper-room.
Keith suggested that they should go and find Mrs. Norman. Miss
Huntington said, however, she thought she had better remain where she
was, as Mrs. Norman had promised to come back.
"I hope she will invite you to join our party," she said naïvely.
"If she does not, I will invite you both to join mine," declared Keith.
"I have no idea of letting you escape for another dozen years."
Just then, however, Mrs. Norman appeared. She was with Ferdy Wickersham,
who, on seeing Keith, looked away coldly. She smiled, greatly surprised
to find Keith there. "Why, where did you two know each other?"
They explained.
"I saw you were pleasantly engaged, so I did not think it necessary to
hasten back," she said to Lois.
Ferdy Wickersham said something to her in an undertone, and she held out
her hand to the girl.
"Come, we are to join a party in the supper-room. We shall see you after
supper, Mr. Keith?"
Keith said he hoped so. He was conscious of a sudden wave of
disappointment sweeping over him as the three left him. The young girl
gave him a bright smile.
Later, as he passed by, he saw only Ferdy Wickersham with Mrs. Norman.
Lois Huntington was at another table, so Keith joined her.
After the supper there was to be a novel kind of entertainment: a sort
of vaudeville show in which were to figure a palmist, a gentleman set
down in the programme with its gilt printing as the "Celebrated
Professor Cheireman"; several singers; a couple of acrobatic performers;
and a danseuse: "Mlle. Terpsichore."
The name struck Keith with something of sadness. It recalled old
associations, some of them pleasant, some of them sad. And as he stood
near Lois Huntington, on the edge of the throng that filled the large
apartment where the stage had been constructed, during the first three
or four numbers he was rather more in Gumbolt than in that gay company
in that brilliant room.
"Professor Cheireman" had shown the wonders of the trained hand and the
untrained mind in a series of tricks that would certainly be wonderful
did not so many men perform them. Mlle. de Voix performed hardly less
wonders with her voice, running up and down the scale like a squirrel
in a cage, introducing trills into songs where there were none, and
making the simplest melodies appear as intricate as pieces of opera. The
Burlystone Brothers jumped over and skipped under each other in a
marvellous and "absolutely unrivalled manner." And presently the
danseuse appeared.
Keith was standing against the wall thinking of Terpy and the old hail
with its paper hangings in Gumbolt, and its benches full of eager,
jovial spectators, when suddenly there was a roll of applause, and he
found himself in Gumbolt. From the side on which he stood walked out his
old friend, Terpy herself. He had not been able to see her until she was
well out on the stage and was making her bow. The next second she
began to dance.
After the first greeting given her, a silence fell on the room, the best
tribute they could pay to her art, her grace, her abandon. Nothing so
audacious had ever been seen by certainly half the assemblage. Casting
aside the old tricks of the danseuse, the tipping and pirouetting and
grimacing for applause, the dancer seemed oblivious of her audience and
as though she were trying to excel herself. She swayed and swung and
swept from side to side as though on wings.
Round after round of applause swept over the room. Men were talking in
undertones to each other; women buzzed behind their fans.
She stopped, panting and flushed with pride, and with a certain scorn in
her face and mien glanced over the audience. Just as she was poising
herself for another effort, her eye reached the side of the room where
Keith stood just beside Miss Huntington. A change passed over her face.
She nodded, hesitated for a second, and then began again. She failed to
catch the time of the music and danced out of time. A titter came from
the rear of the room. She looked in that direction, and Keith did the
same. Ferdy Wickersham, with a malevolent gleam in his eye, was
laughing. The dancer flushed deeply, frowned, lost her self-possession,
and stopped. A laugh of derision sounded at the rear.
"For shame! It is shameful!" said Lois Huntington in a low voice to
Keith.
"It is. The cowardly scoundrel!" He turned and scowled at Ferdy.
At the sound, Terpy took a step toward the front, and bending forward,
swept the audience with her flashing eyes.
"Put that man out."
A buzz of astonishment and laughter greeted her outbreak.
"Cackle, you fools!"
She turned to the musicians.
"Play that again and play it right, or I'll wring your necks!"
She began to dance again, and soon danced as she had done at first.
Applause was beginning again; but at the sound she stopped, looked over
the audience disdainfully, and turning, walked coolly from the stage.
"Who is she?" "Well, did you ever see anything like that!" "Well, I
never did!" "The insolent creature!" "By Jove! she can dance if she
chooses!" buzzed over the room.
"Good for her," said Keith, his face full of admiration.
"Did you know her?" asked Miss Huntington.
"Well."
The girl said nothing, but she stiffened and changed color slightly.
"You know her, too," said Keith.
"I! I do not."
"Do you remember once, when you were a tot over in England, giving your
doll to a little dancing-girl?--When your governess was in such
a temper?"
Lois nodded.
"That is she. She used to live in New Leeds. She was almost the only
woman in Gumbolt when I went there. Had a man laughed at her there then,
he would never have left the room alive. Mr. Wickersham tried it once,
and came near getting his neck broken for it. He is getting even
with her now."
As the girl glanced up at him, his face was full of suppressed feeling.
A pang shot through her.
Just then the entertainment broke up and the guests began to leave. Mrs.
Wentworth beckoned to Lois. Wickersham was still with her.
"I will not trust myself to go within speaking distance of him now,"
said Keith; "so I will say good-by, here." He made his adieus somewhat
hurriedly, and moved off as Mrs. Wentworth approached.
Wickersham, who, so long as Keith remained with Miss Huntington, had
kept aloof, and was about to say good night to Mrs. Wentworth, had, on
seeing Keith turn away, followed Mrs. Wentworth.
Every one was still chatting of the episode of the young virago.
"Well, what did you think of your friend's friend?" asked Wickersham of
Lois.
"Of whom?"
"Of your friend Mr. Keith's young lady. She is an old flame of his," he
said, turning to Mrs. Wentworth and speaking in an undertone, just loud
enough for Lois to hear. "They have run her out of New Leeds, and I
think he is trying to force her on the people here. He has cheek enough
to do anything; but I think to-night will about settle him."
"I do not know very much about such things; but I think she dances very
well," said Lois, with heightened color, moved to defend the girl under
an instinct of opposition to Wickersham.
"So your friend thinks, or thought some time ago," said Wickersham. "My
dear girl, she can't dance at all. She is simply a disreputable young
woman, who has been run out of her own town, as she ought to be run out
of this, as an impostor, if nothing else." He turned to Mrs. Wentworth:
"A man who brought such a woman to a place like this ought to be kicked
out of town."
"If you are speaking of Mr. Keith, I don't believe that of him," said
Lois, coldly.
Wickersham looked at her for a moment. A curious light was in his eyes
as he said:
"I am not referring to any one. I am simply generalizing." He shrugged
his shoulders and turned away.
As Mrs. Wentworth and Lois entered their carriage, a gentleman was
helping some one into a hack just behind Mrs. Wentworth's carriage. The
light fell on them at the moment that Lois stepped forward, and she
recognized Mr. Keith and the dancer, Mile. Terpsichore. He was handing
her in with all the deference that he would have shown the highest lady
in the land.
Lois Huntington drove home in a maze. Life appeared to have changed
twice for her in a single evening. Out of that crowd of strangers had
come one who seemed to be a part of her old life. They had taken each
other up just where they had parted. The long breach in their lives had
been bridged. He had seemed the old friend and champion of her
childhood, who, since her aunt had revived her recollection of him, had
been a sort of romantic hero in her dreams. Their meeting had been such
as she had sometimes pictured to herself it would be. She believed him
finer, higher, than others. Then, suddenly, she had found that the
vision was but an idol of clay. All that her aunt had said of him had
been dashed to pieces in a trice.
He was not worthy of her notice. He was not a gentleman. He was what Mr.
Wickersham had called him. He had boasted to her of his intimacy with a
common dancing-girl. He had left her to fly to her and escort her home.
As Keith had left the house, Terpsichore had come out of the side
entrance, and they had met. Keith was just wondering how he could find
her, and he considered the meeting a fortunate one. She was in a state
of extreme agitation. It was the first time that she had undertaken to
dance at such an entertainment. She had refused, but had been
over-persuaded, and she declared it was all a plot between Wickersham
and her manager to ruin her. She would be even with them both, if she
had to take a pistol to right her wrongs.
Keith had little idea that the chief motive of her acceptance had been
the hope that she might find him among the company. He did what he could
to soothe her, and having made a promise to call upon her, he bade her
good-by, happily ignorant of the interpretation which she who had
suddenly sprung uppermost in his thoughts had, upon Wickersham's
instigation, put upon his action.
Keith walked home with a feeling to which he had been long a stranger.
He was somehow happier than he had been in years. A young girl had
changed the whole entertainment for him--the whole city--almost his
whole outlook on life. He had not felt this way for years--not since
Alice Yorke had darkened life for him. Could love be for him again?
The dial appeared to have turned back for him. He felt younger, fresher,
more hopeful. He walked out into the street and tried to look up at the
stars. The houses obscured them; they were hardly visible. The city
streets were no place for stars and sentiment. He would go through the
park and see them. So he strolled along and turned into a park. The
gas-lamps shed a yellow glow on the trees, making circles of feeble
light on the walks, and the shadows lay deep on the ground. Most of the
benches were vacant; but here and there a waif or a belated homegoer sat
in drowsy isolation. The stars were too dim even from this
vantage-ground to afford Keith much satisfaction. His thoughts flew back
to the mountains and the great blue canopy overhead, spangled with
stars, and a blue-eyed girl amid pillows whom he used to worship. An
arid waste of years cut them off from the present, and his thoughts
came back to a sweet-faced girl with dark eyes, claiming him as her old
friend. She appeared to be the old ideal rather than the former.
All next day Keith thought of Lois Huntington. He wanted to go and see
her but he waited until the day after. He would not appear too eager.
He called at Norman's office for the pleasure of talking of her; but
Norman was still absent. The following afternoon he called at Norman's
house. The servant said Mrs. Norman was out.
"Miss Huntington?"
"She left this morning."
Keith walked up the street feeling rather blank. That night he started
for the South. But Lois Huntington was much in his thoughts. He wondered
if life would open for him again. When a man wonders about this, life
has already opened.
By the time he reached New Leeds, he had already made up his mind to
write and ask Miss Abby for an invitation to Brookford, and he wrote his
father a full account of the girl he had known as a child, over which
the old General beamed.
He forgave people toward whom he had hard feelings. The world was better
than he had been accounting it. He even considered more leniently than
he had done Mrs. Wentworth's allowing Ferdy Wickersham to hang around
her. It suddenly flashed on him that, perhaps, Ferdy was in love with
Lois Huntington. Crash! went his kind feelings, his kind thoughts. The
idea of Ferdy making love to that pure, sweet, innocent creature! It was
horrible! Her innocence, her charming friendliness, her sweetness, all
swept over him, and he thrilled with a sense of protection.
Could he have known what Wickersham had done to poison her against him,
he would have been yet more enraged. As it was, Lois was at that time
back at her old home; but with how different feelings from those which
she had had but a few days before! Sometimes she hated Keith, or, at
least, declared to herself that she hated him; and at others she
defended him against her own charge. And more and more she truly hated
Wickersham.
"So you met Mr. Keith?" said her aunt, abruptly, a day or two after her
return. "How did you like him?"
"I did not like him," said Lois, briefly, closing her lips with a snap,
as if to keep the blood out of her cheeks.
"What! you did not like him? Girls are strange creatures nowadays. In my
time, a girl--a girl like you--would have thought him the very pink of a
man. I suppose you liked that young Wickersham better?" she
added grimly.
"No, I did not like him either. But I think Mr. Keith is perfectly
horrid."
"Horrid!" The old lady's black eyes snapped. "Oh, he didn't ask you to
dance! Well, I think, considering he knew you when you were a child, and
knew you were my niece, he might--"
"Oh, yes, I danced with him; but he is not very nice. He--ah--Something
I saw prejudiced me."
Miss Abby was so insistent that she should tell her what had happened
that she yielded.
"Well, I saw him on the street helping a woman into a carriage."
"A woman? And why shouldn't he help her in? He probably was the only man
you saw that would do it, if you saw the men I met."
"A dis--reputable woman," said Lois, slowly.
"And, pray, what do you know of disreputable women? Not that there are
not enough of them to be seen!"
"Some one told me--and she looked it," said Lois, blushing. The old lady
unexpectedly whipped around and took her part so warmly that Lois
suddenly found herself defending Gordon. She could not bear that others
should attack him, though she took frequent occasion to tell herself
that she hated him. In fact, she hated him so that she wanted to see him
to show him how severe she would be.
The occasion might have come sooner than she expected; but alas! Fate
was unkind. Keith was not conscious until he found that Lois Huntington
had left town how much he had thought of her. Her absence appeared
suddenly to have emptied the city. By the time he had reached his room
he had determined to follow her home. That rift of sunshine which had
entered his life should not be shut out again. He sat down and wrote to
her: a friendly letter, expressing warmly his pleasure at having met
her, picturing jocularly his disappointment at having failed to find
her. He made a single allusion to the Terpsichore episode. He had done
what he could, he said, to soothe his friend's ruffled feelings; but,
though he thought he had some influence with her, he could not boast of
having had much success in this. In the light in which Lois read this
letter, the allusion to the dancing-girl outweighed all the rest, and
though her heart had given a leap when she first saw that she had a
letter from Keith, when she laid it down her feeling had changed. She
would show him that she was not a mere country chit to be treated as he
had treated her. His "friend" indeed!
When Keith, to his surprise, received no reply to his letter, he wrote
again more briefly, asking if his former letter had been received; but
this shared the fate of the first.
Meantime Lois had gone off to visit a friend. Her mind was not quite as
easy as it should have been. She felt that if she had it to go over, she
would do just the same thing; but she began to fancy excuses for Keith.
She even hunted up the letters he had written her as a boy.
It is probable that Lois's failure to write did more to raise her in
Keith's estimation and fix her image in his mind than anything else she
could have done. Keith knew that something untoward had taken place, but
what it was he could not conceive. At least, however, it proved to him
that Lois Huntington was different from some of the young women he had
met of late. So he sat down and wrote to Miss Brooke, saying that he was
going abroad on a matter of importance, and asking leave to run down and
spend Sunday with them before he left. Miss Brooke's reply nearly took
his breath away. She not only refused his request, but intimated that
there was a good reason why his former letters had not been acknowledged
and why he would not be received by her.
It was rather incoherent, but it had something to do with "inexplicable
conduct." On this Keith wrote Miss Brooke, requesting a more explicit
charge and demanding an opportunity to defend himself. Still he received
no reply; and, angry that he had written, he took no further steps
about it.
By the time Lois reached home she had determined to answer his letter.
She would write him a severe reply.
Miss Abby, however, announced to Lois, the day of her return, that Mr.
Keith had written asking her permission to come down and see them. The
blood sprang into Lois's face, and if Miss Abby had had on her
spectacles at that moment, she must have read the tale it told.
"Oh, he did! And what--?" She gave a swallow to restrain her impatience.
"What did you say to him, Aunt Abby? Have you answered the letter?" This
was very demurely said.
"Yes. Of course, I wrote him not to come. I preferred that he should not
come."
Could she have but seen Lois's face!
"Oh, you did!"
"Yes. I want no hypocrites around me." Her head was up and her cap was
bristling. "I came very near telling him so, too. I told him that I had
it from good authority that he had not behaved in altogether the most
gentlemanly way--consorting openly with a hussy on the street! I think
he knows whom I referred to."
"But, Aunt Abby, I do not know that she was. I only heard she was,"
defended Lois.
"Who told you?"
"Mr. Wickersham."
"Well, _he_ knows," said Miss Abigail, with decision. "Though I think he
had very little to do to discuss such matters with you."
"But, Aunt Abby, I think you had better have let him come. We could have
shown him our disapproval in our manner. And possibly he might have some
explanations?"
"I guess he won't make any mistake about that. The hypocrite! To sit up
and talk to me as if he were a bishop! I have no doubt he would have
explanation enough. They always do."