A MISUNDERSTANDING
Miss Lois Huntington, as she sank back in the corner of her cousin's
carriage, on their way home, was far away from the rattling New York
street. Mrs. Wentworth's occasional recurrence to the unfortunate
incidents of stopping her ears and of singing the song without an
accompaniment did not ruffle her. She knew she had pleased one man--the
one she at that moment would rather have pleased than all the rest of
New York. Her heart was eased of a load that had made it heavy for many
a day. They were once more friends. Mrs. Wentworth's chiding sounded as
if it were far away on some alien shore, while Lois floated serenely on
a tide that appeared to begin away back in her childhood, and was
bearing her gently, still gently, she knew not whither. If she tried to
look forward she was lost in a mist that hung like a soft haze over the
horizon. Might there be a haven yonder in that rosy distance? Or were
those still the billows of the wide and trackless sea? She did not know
or care. She would drift and meantime think of him, the old friend who
had turned the evening for her into a real delight. Was he in love with
Mrs. Lancaster? she wondered. Every one said he was, and it would not be
unnatural if he were. It was on her account he had gone to Mrs.
Wickersham's. She undoubtedly liked him. Many men were after her. If Mr.
Keith was trying to marry her, as every one said, he must be in love
with her. He would never marry any one whom he did not love. If he were
in love with Mrs. Lancaster, would she marry him? Her belief was that
she would.
At the thought she for one moment had a pang of envy.
Her reverie was broken in on by Mrs. Wentworth.
"Why are you so pensive? You have not said a word since we started."
"Why, I do not know. I was just thinking. You know, such a dinner is
quite an episode with me."
"Did you have a pleasant time? Was Mr. Keith agreeable? I was glad to
see you had him; for he is a very agreeable man when he chooses, but
quite moody, and you never know what he is going to say."
"I think that is one of his--of his charms--that you don't know what he
is going to say. I get so tired of talking to people who say just what
you know they are going to say--just what some one else has just said
and what some one else will say to-morrow. It is like reading an
advertisement."
"Lois, you must not be so unconventional," said Mrs. Wentworth. "I must
beg you not to repeat such a thing as your performance this evening. I
don't like it."
"Very well, Cousin Louise, I will not," said the girl, a little stiffly.
"I shall recognize your wishes; but I must tell you that I do not agree
with you. I hate conventionality. We all get machine-made. I see not the
least objection to what I did, except your wishes, of course, and
neither did Mr. Keith."
"Well, while you are with me, you must conform to my wishes. Mr. Keith
is not responsible for you. Mr. Keith is like other men--ready to
flatter a young and unsophisticated girl."
"No; Mr. Keith is not like other men. He does not have to wait and see
what others think and say before he forms an opinion. I am so tired of
hearing people say what they think others think. Even Mr. Rimmon, at
church, says what he thinks his congregation likes--just as when he
meets them he flatters them and tells them what dear ladies they are,
and how well they look, and how good their wine is. Why can't people
think for themselves?"
"Well, on my word, Lois, you appear to be thinking for yourself! And you
also appear to think very highly of Mr. Keith," said Mrs. Wentworth.
"I do. I have known Mr. Keith all my life," said the girl, gravely. "He
is associated in my mind with all that I loved."
"There, I did not mean to call up sorrowful thoughts," said Mrs.
Wentworth. "I wanted you to have a good time."
Next day Mr. Keith gave himself the pleasure of calling promptly at Mrs.
Norman's. He remembered the time when he had waited a day or two before
calling on Miss Huntington and had found her gone, with its train of
misunderstandings. So he had no intention of repeating the error. In
Love as in War, Success attends Celerity.
Miss Huntington was not at home, the servant said in answer to Keith's
inquiries for the ladies; she had taken the children out to see Madam
Wentworth. But Mrs. Wentworth would see Mr. Keith.
Mrs. Wentworth was more than usually cordial. She was undoubtedly more
nervous than she used to be. She soon spoke of Norman, and for a moment
grew quite excited.
"I know what people say about me," she exclaimed. "I know they say I
ought to have borne everything and have gone on smiling and pretending I
was happy even when I had the proof that he was--was--that he no longer
cared for me, or for my--my happiness. But I could not--I was not
constituted so. And if I have refused to submit to it I had
good reason."
"Mrs. Wentworth," said Keith, "will you please tell me what you are
talking about?"
"You will hear about it soon enough," she said, with a bitter laugh.
"All you have to do is to call on Mrs. Nailor or Mrs. Any-one-else for
five minutes."
"If I hear what I understand you to believe, that Norman cares for some
one else, I shall not believe it."
She laughed bitterly.
"Oh, you and Norman always swore by each other. I guess that you are no
better than other men."
"We are, at least, better than some other men," said Keith, "and Norman
is better than most other men."
She simply shrugged her shoulders and drifted into a reverie. It was
evidently not a pleasant one.
Keith rose to go. And a half-hour later he quite casually called at old
Mrs. Wentworth's, where he found the children having a romp. Miss
Huntington looked as sweet as a rose, and Keith thought, or at least
hoped, she was pleased to see him.
Keith promptly availed himself of Mrs. Wentworth's permission, and was
soon calling every day or two at her house, and even on those days when
he did not call he found himself sauntering up the avenue or in the
Park, watching for the slim, straight, trim little figure he now knew so
well. He was not in love with Lois. He said this to himself quite
positively. He only admired her, and had a feeling of protection and
warm friendship for a young and fatherless girl who had once had every
promise of a life of ease and joy, and was by the hap of ill fortune
thrown out on the cold world and into a relation of dependence. He had
about given up any idea of falling in love. Love, such as he had once
known it, was not for him. Love for love's sake--love that created a new
world and peopled it with one woman--was over for him. At least, so
he said.
And when he had reasoned thus, he would find himself hurrying along the
avenue or in the Park, straining his eyes to see if he could distinguish
her among the crowd of walkers and loungers that thronged the sidewalk
or the foot-path a quarter of a mile away. And if he could not, he was
conscious of disappointment; and if he did distinguish her, his heart
would give a bound, and he would go racing along till he was at
her side.
Oftenest, though, he visited her at Mrs. Wentworth's, where he could
talk to her without the continual interruption of the children's busy
tongues, and could get her to sing those old-fashioned songs that,
somehow, sounded to him sweeter than all the music in the world.
In fact, he went there so often to visit her that he began to neglect
his other friends. Even Norman he did not see as much of as formerly.
Once, when he was praising her voice to Mrs. Wentworth, she said to him:
"Yes, I think she would do well in concert. I am urging her to prepare
herself for that; not at present, of course, for I need her just now
with the children; but in a year or two the boys will go to school and
the two girls will require a good French governess, or I may take them
to France. Then I shall advise her to try concert. Of course, Miss
Brooke cannot take care of her always. Besides, she is too independent
to allow her to do it."
Keith was angry in a moment. He had never liked Mrs. Wentworth so
little. "I shall advise her to do nothing of the kind," he said firmly.
"Miss Huntington is a lady, and to have her patronized and treated as an
inferior by a lot of _nouveaux riches_ is more than I could stand."
"I see no chance of her marrying," said Mrs. Wentworth. "She has not a
cent, and you know men don't marry penniless girls these days."
"Oh, they do if they fall in love. There are a great many men in the
world and even in New York, besides the small tuft-hunting, money-loving
parasites that one meets at the so-called swell houses. If those you and
I know were all, New York would be a very insignificant place. The
brains and the character and the heart; the makers and leaders, are not
found at the dinners and balls we are honored with invitations to by
Mrs. Nailor and her like. Alice Lancaster was saying the other day--"
Mrs. Wentworth froze up.
"Alice Lancaster!" Her eyes flashed. "Do not quote her to me!" Her lips
choked with the words.
"She is a friend of yours, and a good friend of yours," declared Keith,
boldly.
"I do not want such friends as that," she said, flaming suddenly. "Who
do you suppose has come between my husband and me?"
"Not Mrs. Lancaster."
"Yes."
"No," said Keith, firmly; "you wrong them both. You have been misled."
She rose and walked up and down the room in an excitement like that of
an angry lioness.
"You are the only friend that would say that to me."
"Then I am a better friend than others." He went on to defend Mrs.
Lancaster warmly.
When Keith left he wondered if that outburst meant that she still loved
Norman.
It is not to be supposed that Mr. Keith's visits to the house of Mrs.
Wentworth had gone unobserved or unchronicled. That portion of the set
that knew Mrs. Wentworth best, which is most given to the discussion of
such important questions as who visits whom too often, and who has
stopped visiting whom altogether, with the reasons therefor, was soon
busy over Keith's visits.
They were referred to in the society column of a certain journal
recently started, known by some as "The Scandal-monger's Own," and some
kind friend was considerate enough to send Norman Wentworth a
marked copy.
Some suggested timidly that they had heard that Mr. Keith's visits were
due to his opinion of the governess; but they were immediately
suppressed.
Mrs. Nailor expressed the more general opinion when she declared that
even a débutante would know that men like Ferdy Wickersham and Mr. Keith
did not fall in love with unknown governesses. That sort of thing would
do to put in books; but it did not happen in real life. They might
visit them, but--! After which she proceeded to say as many ill-natured
things about Miss Lois as she could think of; for the story of Lois's
stopping her ears had also gotten abroad.
Meantime, Keith pursued his way, happily ignorant of the motives
attributed to him by some of those who smiled on him and invited him to
their teas. A half-hour with Lois Huntington was reward enough to him
for much waiting. To see her eyes brighten and to hear her voice grow
softer and more musical as she spoke his name; to feel that she was in
sympathy with him, that she understood him without explanation, that she
was interested in his work: these were the rewards which lit up life for
him and sent him to his rooms cheered and refreshed. He knew that she
had no idea of taking him otherwise than as a friend. She looked on him
almost as a contemporary of her father. But life was growing very sweet
for him again.
It was not long before the truth was presented to him.
One of his club friends rallied him on his frequent visits in a certain
quarter and the conquest which they portended. Keith flushed warmly. He
had that moment been thinking of Lois Huntington. He had just been to
see her, and her voice was still in his ears; so, though he thought it
unusual in Tom Trimmer to refer to the matter, it was not unnatural. He
attempted to turn the subject lightly by pretending to misunderstand
him.
"I mean, I hear you have cut Wickersham out. Ferdy thought he had a
little corner there."
Again Keith reddened. He, too, had sometimes thought that Ferdy was
beginning to be attentive to Lois Huntington. Others manifestly
thought so too.
"I don't know that I understand you," he said.
"Don't you?" laughed the other. "Haven't you seen the papers lately?"
Keith chilled instantly.
"Norman Wentworth is my friend," he said quietly.
"So they say is Mrs. Norm--" began Mr. Trimmer, with a laugh.
Before he had quite pronounced the name, Keith leaned forward, his eyes
levelled right into the other's.
"Don't say that, Trimmer. I want to be friends with you," he said
earnestly. "Don't you ever couple my name with that lady's. Her husband
is my friend, and any man that says I am paying her any attention other
than such as her husband would have me pay her says what is false."
"I know nothing about that," said Tom, half surlily. "I am only giving
what others say."
"Well, don't you even do that." He rose to his feet, and stood very
straight. "Do me the favor to say to any one you may hear intimate such
a lie that I will hold any man responsible who says it."
"Jove!" said Mr. Trimmer, afterwards, to his friend Minturn, "must be
some fire there. He was as hot as pepper in a minute. Wanted to fight
any one who mentioned the matter. He'll have his hands full if he fights
all who are talking about him and Ferdy's old flame. I heard half a
roomful buzzing about it at Mrs. Nailor's. But it was none of my affair.
If he wants to fight about another man's wife, let him. It's not the
best way to stop the scandal."
"You know, I think Ferdy is a little relieved to get out of that," added
Mr. Minturn. "Ferdy wants money, and big money. He can't expect to get
money there. They say the chief cause of the trouble was Wentworth would
not put up money enough for her. He has got his eye on the
Lancaster-Yorke combine, and he is all devotion to the widow now."
"She won't look at him. She has too much sense. Besides, she likes
Keith," said Stirling.
As Mr. Trimmer and his friend said, if Keith expected to silence all the
tongues that were clacking with his name and affairs, he was likely to
be disappointed. There are some people to whose minds the distribution
of scandal is as great a delight as the sweetest morsel is to the
tongue. Besides, there was one person who had a reason for spreading the
report. Ferdy Wickersham had returned and was doing his best to give it
circulation.
Norman Wentworth received in his mail, one morning, a thin letter over
which a frown clouded his brow. The address was in a backhand. He had
received a letter in the same handwriting not long previously--an
anonymous letter. It related to his wife and to one whom he had held in
high esteem. He had torn it up furiously in little bits, and had dashed
them into the waste-basket as he had dashed the matter from his mind. He
was near tearing this letter up without reading it; but after a moment
he opened the envelope. A society notice in a paper the day before had
contained the name of his wife and that of Mr. Gordon Keith, and this
was not the only time he had seen the two names together. As his eye
glanced over the single page of disguised writing, a deeper frown grew
on his brow. It was only a few lines; but it contained a barbed arrow
that struck and rankled:
"When the cat's away
The mice will play.
If you have cut your wisdom-teeth,
You'll know your mouse. His name is ----"
It was signed, "_A True Friend_."
Norman crushed the paper in his band, in a rage for having read it. But
it was too late. He could not banish it from his mind: so many things
tallied with it. He had heard that Keith was there a great deal. Why had
he ceased speaking of it of late?
When Keith next met Norman there was a change in the latter. He was cold
and almost morose; answered Keith absently, and after a little while
rose and left him rather curtly.
When this had occurred once or twice Keith determined to see Norman and
have a full explanation. Accordingly, one day he went to his office.
Mr. Wentworth was out, but Keith said he would wait for him in his
private office.
On the table lay a newspaper. Keith picked it up to glance over it. His
eye fell on a marked passage. It was a notice of a dinner to which he
had been a few evenings before. Mrs. Wentworth's name was marked with a
blue pencil, and a line or two below it was his own name
similarly marked.
Keith felt the hot blood surge into his face, then a grip came about his
throat. Could this be the cause? Could this be the reason for Norman's
curtness? Could Norman have this opinion of him? After all these years!
He rose and walked from the office and out into the street. It was a
blow such as he had not had in years. The friendship of a lifetime
seemed to have toppled down in a moment.
Keith walked home in deep reflection. That Norman could treat him so was
impossible except on one theory: that he believed the story which
concerned him and Mrs. Wentworth. That he could believe such a story
seemed absolutely impossible. He passed through every phase of regret,
wounded pride, and anger. Then it came to him clearly enough that if
Norman were laboring under any such hallucination it was his duty to
dispel it. He should go to him and clear his mind. The next morning he
went again to Norman's office. To his sorrow, he learned that he had
left town the evening before for the West to see about some business
matters. He would be gone some days. Keith determined to see him as soon
as he returned.
Keith had little difficulty in assigning the scandalous story to its
true source, though he did Ferdy Wickersham an injustice in laying the
whole blame on him.
Meantime, Keith determined that he would not go to Mrs. Wentworth's
again until after he had seen Norman, even though it deprived him of the
chance of seeing Lois. It was easier to him, as he was very busy now
pushing through the final steps of his deal with the English syndicate.
This he was the more zealous in as his last visit South had shown him
that old Mr. Rawson was beginning to fail.
"I am just livin' now to hear about Phrony," said the old man, "--and to
settle with that man," he added, his deep eyes burning under his
shaggy brows.
Keith had little idea that the old man would ever live to hear of her
again, and he had told him so as gently as he could.
"Then I shall kill him," said the old man, quietly.
Keith was in his office one morning when his attention was arrested by a
heavy step outside his door. It had something familiar in it. Then he
heard his name spoken in a loud voice. Some one was asking for him, and
the next moment the door opened and Squire Rawson stood on the
threshold. He looked worn; but his face was serene. Keith's intuition
told him why he had come; and the old man did not leave it in any doubt.
His greeting was brief.
He had gotten to New York only that morning, and had already been to
Wickersham's office; but the office was shut.
"I have come to find her," he said, "and I'll find her, or I'll drag him
through this town by his neck." He took out a pistol and laid it by him
on the table.
Keith was aghast. He knew the old man's resolution. His face showed that
he was not to be moved from it. Keith began to argue with him. They did
not do things that way in New York, he said. The police would arrest
him. Or if he should shoot a man he would be tried, and it would go hard
with him. He had better give up his pistol. "Let me keep it for you,"
he urged.
The old man took up the pistol and felt for his pocket.
"I'll find her or I'll kill him," he said stolidly. "I have come to do
one or the other. If I do that, I don't much keer what they do with me.
But I reckon some of 'em would take the side of a woman what's been
treated so. Well, I'll go on an' wait for him. How do you find this here
place?" He took out a piece of paper and, carefully adjusting his
spectacles, read a number. It was the number of Wickersham's office.
Keith began to argue again; but the other's face was set like a rock. He
simply put up his pistol carefully. "I'll kill him if I don't find her.
Well, I reckon somebody will show me the way. Good day." He went out.
The moment his footsteps had died away, Keith seized his hat and dashed
out.
The bulky figure was going slowly down the street, and Keith saw him
stop a man and show him his bit of paper. Keith crossed the street and
hurried on ahead of him. Wickersham's office was only a few blocks away,
and a minute later Keith rushed into the front office. The clerks hooked
up in surprise at his haste. Keith demanded of one of them if Mr.
Wickersham was in. The clerk addressed turned and looked at another man
nearer the door of the private office, who shook his head warningly. No,
Mr. Wickersham was not in.
Keith, however, had seen the signal, and he walked boldly up to the door
of the private office.
"Mr. Wickersham is in, but he is engaged," said the man, rising hastily.
"I must see him immediately," said Keith, and opening the door, walked
straight in.
Wickersham was sitting at his desk poring over a ledger, and at the
sudden entrance he looked up, startled. When he saw who it was he sprang
to his feet, his face changing slightly. Just then one of the clerks
followed Keith.
As Keith, however, spoke quietly, Wickersham's expression changed, and
the next second he had recovered his composure and with it his
insolence.
"To what do I owe the honor of this unexpected visit?" he demanded, with
a curl of his lip.
Keith gave a little wave of his arm, as if he would sweep away his
insolence.
"I have come to warn you that old Adam Rawson is in town hunting you."
Wickersham's self-contained face paled suddenly, and he stepped a little
back. Then his eye fell on the clerk, who stood just inside the door.
"What do you want?" he demanded angrily. "---- you! can't you keep out
when a gentleman wants to see me on private business?"
The clerk hastily withdrew.
"What does he want?" he asked of Keith, with a dry voice.
"He is hunting for you. He wants to find his granddaughter, and he is
coming after you."
"What the ---- do I know about his granddaughter!" cried Wickersham.
"That is for you to say. He swears that he will kill you unless you
produce her. He is on his way here now, and I have hurried ahead to
warn you."
Wickersham's face, already pale, grew as white as death, for he read
conviction in Keith's tone. With an oath he turned to a bell and
rang it.
"Ring for a cab for me at once," he said to the clerk who appeared.
"Have it at my side entrance."
As Keith passed out he heard him say to the clerk:
"Tell any one who calls I have left town. I won't see a soul."
A little later an old man entered Wickersham & Company's office and
demanded to see F.C. Wickersham.
There was a flurry among the men there, for they all knew that something
unusual had occurred; and there was that about the massive, grim old
man, with his fierce eyes, that demanded attention.
On learning that Wickersham was not in, he said he would wait for him
and started to take a seat.
There was a whispered colloquy between two clerks, and then one of them
told him that Mr. Wickersham was not in the city. He had been called
away from town the day before, and would be gone for a month or two.
Would the visitor leave his name?
"Tell him Adam Rawson has been to see him, and that he will come
again." He paused a moment, then said slowly: "Tell him I'm huntin' for
him and I'm goin' to stay here till I find him."
He walked slowly out, followed by the eyes of every man in the office.
The squire spent his time between watching for Wickersham and hunting
for his granddaughter. He would roam about the streets and inquire for
her of policemen and strangers, quite as if New York were a small
village like Ridgely instead of a great hive in which hundreds of
thousands were swarming, their identity hardly known to any but
themselves. Most of those to whom he applied treated him as a harmless
old lunatic. But he was not always so fortunate. One night, when he was
tired out with tramping the streets, he wandered into one of the parks
and sat down on a bench, where he finally fell asleep. He was awakened
by some one feeling in his pocket. He had just been dreaming that Phrony
had found him and hail sat down beside him and was fondling him, and
when he first came back to consciousness her name was on his lips. He
still thought it was she who sat beside him, and he called her by name,
"Phrony." The girl, a poor, painted, bedizened creature, was quick
enough to answer to the name.
"I am Phrony; go to sleep again."
The joy of getting back his lost one aroused the old man, and he sat up
with an exclamation of delight. The next second, at sight of the
strange, painted face, he recoiled.
"You Phrony?"
"Yes. Don't you know me?" She snuggled closer beside him, and worked
quietly at his big watch, which somehow had caught in his tight
vest pocket.
"No, you ain't! Who are you, girl? What are you doin'?"
The young woman put her arms around his neck, and began to talk
cajolingly. He was "such a dear old fellow," etc., etc. But the old
man's wit had now returned to him. His disappointment had angered him.
"Get away from me, woman. What are you doin' to me?" he demanded
roughly.
She still clung to him, using her poor blandishments. But the squire was
angry. He pushed her off. "Go away from me, I say. What do you want? You
ought to be ashamed of yourself. You don't know who I am. I am a deacon
in the church, a trustee of Ridge College, and I have a granddaughter
who is older than you. If you don't go away, I will tap you with
my stick."
The girl, having secured his watch, with something between a curse and a
laugh, went off, calling him "an old drunk fool."
Next moment the squire put his hand in his pocket to take out his watch,
but it was gone. He felt in his other pockets, but they were empty, too.
The young woman had clung to him long enough to rob him of everything.
The squire rose and hurried down the walk, calling lustily after her;
but it was an officer who answered the call. When the squire told his
story he simply laughed and told him he was drunk, and threatened, if he
made any disturbance, to "run him in."
The old countryman flamed out.
"Run who in?" he demanded. "Do you know who I am, young man?"
"No, I don't, and I don't keer a ----."
"Well, I'm Squire Rawson of Ridgely, and I know more law than a hundred
consarned blue-bellied thief-hiders like you. Whoever says I am drunk is
a liar. But if I was drunk is that any reason for you to let a thief rob
me? What is your name? I've a mind to arrest you and run you in myself.
I've run many a better man in."
It happened that the officer's record was not quite clear enough to
allow him to take the chance of a contest with so bold an antagonist as
the squire of Ridgely. He did not know just who he was, or what he might
be able to do. So he was willing to "break even," and he walked off
threatning, but leaving the squire master of the field.
The next day the old man applied to Keith, who placed the matter in Dave
Dennison's hands and persuaded the squire to return home.
Keith was very unhappy over the misunderstanding between Norman and
himself. He wrote Norman a letter asking an interview as soon as he
returned. But he received no reply. Then, having heard of his return, he
went to his office one day to see him.
Yes, Mr. Wentworth was in. Some one was with him, but would Mr. Keith
walk in? said the clerk, who knew of the friendship between the two. But
Keith sent in his name.
The clerk came out with a surprised look on his face. Mr. Wentworth was
"engaged."
Keith went home and wrote a letter, but his letter was returned
unopened, and on it was the indorsement, "Mr. Norman Wentworth declines
to hold any communication with Mr. Gordon Keith."
After this, Keith, growing angry, swore that he would take no further
steps.