PHRONY TRIPPER AND THE REV. MR. RIMMON
As Keith stepped from his office one afternoon, he thought he heard his
name called--called somewhat timidly. When, however, he turned and
glanced around among the hurrying throng that filled the street, he saw
no one whom he knew. Men and women were bustling along with that
ceaseless haste that always struck him in New York--haste to go, haste
to return, haste to hasten: the trade-mark of New York life: the hope of
outstripping in the race.
A moment later he was conscious of a woman's step close behind him. He
turned as the woman came up beside him, and faced--Phrony Tripper. She
was so worn and bedraggled and aged that for a moment he did not
recognize her. Then, as she spoke, he knew her.
"Why, Phrony!" He held out his hand. She seized it almost hungrily.
"Oh, Mr. Keith! Is it really you? I hardly dared hope it was. I have not
seen any one I knew for so long--so long!" Her face worked, and she
began to whimper; but Keith soothed her.
He drew her away from the crowded thoroughfare into a side street.
"You knew--?" she said, and gazed at him with a silent appeal.
"Yes, I knew. He deceived you and deluded you into running away with
him."
"I thought he loved me, and he did when he married me. I am sure he did.
But when he met that lady--"
"When he did what?" asked Keith, who could scarcely believe his own
ears. "Did he marry you? Ferdy Wickersham? Who married you? When? Where
was it? Who was present?"
"Yes; I would not come until he promised--"
"Yes, I knew he would promise. But did he marry you afterwards? Who was
present? Have you any witnesses?"
"Yes. Oh, yes. I was married here in New York--one night--about ten
o'clock--the night we got here. Mr. Plume was our only witness. Mr.
Plume had a paper the preacher gave him; but he lost it."
"He did! Who married you? Where was it?"
"His name was Rimm--Rimm-something--I cannot remember much; my memory is
all gone. He was a young man. He married us in his room. Mr. Plume got
him for me. He offered to marry us himself--said he was a preacher; but
I wouldn't have him, and said I would go home or kill myself if they
didn't have a preacher. Then Mr. Plume went and came back, and we all
got in a carriage and drove a little way, and got out and went into a
house, and after some talk we were married. I don't know the street. But
I would know him if I saw him. He was a young, fat man, that smiled and
stood on his toes." The picture brought up to Keith the fat and
unctuous Rimmon.
"Well, then you went abroad, and your husband left you over there?"
"Yes; I was in heaven for--for a little while, and then he left me--for
another woman. I am sure he cared for me, and he did not mean to treat
me so; but she was rich and so beautiful, and--what was I?" She gave an
expressive gesture of self-abnegation.
"Poor fool!" said Keith to himself. "Poor girl!" he said aloud.
"I have written; but, maybe, he never got my letter. He would not have
let me suffer so."
Keith's mouth shut closer.
She went on to tell of Wickersham's leaving her; of her hopes that after
her child was born he would come back to her. But the child was born and
died. Then of her despair; of how she had spent everything, and sold
everything she had to come home.
"I think if I could see him and tell him what I have been through, maybe
he would--be different. I know he cared for me for a while.--But I can't
find him," she went on hopelessly. "I don't want to go to him where
there are others to see me, for I'm not fit to see even if they'd let me
in--which they wouldn't." (She glanced down at her worn and shabby
frock.) "I have watched for him 'most all day, but I haven't seen him,
and the police ordered me away."
"I will find him for you," said Keith, grimly.
"Oh, no! You mustn't--you mustn't say anything to him. It would make
him--it wouldn't do any good, and he'd never forgive me." She
coughed deeply.
"Phrony, you must go home," said Keith.
For a second a spasm shot over her face; then a ray of light seemed to
flit across it, and then it died out.
She shook her head.
"No, I'll never go back there," she said.
"Oh, yes, you will--you must. I will take you back. The mountain air
will restore you, and--" She was shaking her head, but the look in her
eyes showed that she was thinking of something far off.
"No--no!"
"I will take you," repeated Keith. "Your grandfather will be--he will be
all right. He has just been here hunting for you."
The expression on her face was so singular that Keith put his hand on
her arm. To his horror, she burst into a laugh. It was so unreal that
men passing glanced at her quickly, and, as they passed on, turned and
looked back again.
"Well, good-by; I must find my husband," she said, holding out her hand
nervously and speaking in a hurried manner. "He's got the baby with him.
Tell 'em at home I'm right well, and the baby is exactly like
grandmother, but prettier, of course." She laughed again as she turned
away and started off hastily.
Keith caught up with her.
"But, Phrony--" But she hurried on, shaking her head, and talking to
herself about finding her baby and about its beauty. Keith kept up with
her, put his hand in his pocket, and taking out several bills, handed
them to her.
"Here, you must take this, and tell me where you are staying."
She took the money mechanically.
"Where am I? Oh!--where am I staying? Sixteen Himmelstrasse, third
floor--yes, that's it. No:--18 Rue Petits Champs, troisième étage. Oh,
no:--241 Hill Street. I'll show you the baby. I must get it now." And
she sped away, coughing.
Keith, having watched her till she disappeared, walked on in deep
reflection, hardly knowing what course to take. Presently his brow
cleared. He turned and went rapidly back to the great office building
where Wickersham had his offices on the first floor. He asked for Mr.
Wickersham. A clerk came forward. Mr. Wickersham was not in town. No, he
did not know when he would be back.
After a few more questions as to the possible time of his return, Keith
left his card.
That evening Keith went to the address that Phrony had given him. It was
a small lodging-house of, perhaps, the tenth rate. The dowdy woman in
charge remembered a young woman such as he described. She was ill and
rather crazy and had left several weeks before. She had no idea where
she had gone. She did not know her name. Sometimes she called herself
"Miss Tripper," sometimes "Mrs. Wickersham."
Keith took a cab and drove to the detective agency where Dave Dennison
had his office. Keith told him why he had come, and Dave listened with
tightened lips and eyes in which the flame burned deeper and deeper.
"I'll find her," he said.
Having set Dennison to work, Keith next directed his steps toward the
commodious house to which the Rev. William H. Rimmon had succeeded,
along with the fashionable church and the fashionable congregation which
his uncle had left.
He was almost sure, from the name she had mentioned, that Mr. Rimmon had
performed the ceremony. Rimmon had from time to time connected his name
with matrimonial affairs which reflected little credit on him.
From the time Mr. Rimmon had found his flattery and patience rewarded,
the pulpit from which Dr. Little had for years delivered a well-weighed,
if a somewhat dry, spiritual pabulum had changed.
Mr. Rimmon knew his congregation too well to tax their patience with any
such doctrinal sermons as his uncle had been given to. He treated his
people instead to pleasant little discourses which were as much like
Epictetus and Seneca as St. John or St. Paul.
Fifteen minutes was his limit,--eighteen at the outside,--weighed out
like a ration. Doubtless, Mr. Rimmon had his own idea of doing good. His
assistants worked hard in back streets and trod the dusty byways,
succoring the small fry, while he stepped on velvet carpets and cast his
net for the larger fish.
Was not Dives as well worth saving as Lazarus--and better worth it for
Rimmon's purposes! And surely he was a more agreeable dinner-companion.
Besides, nothing was really proved against Dives; and the crumbs from
his table fed many a Lazarus.
But there were times when the Rev. William H. Rimmon had a vision of
other things: when the Rev. Mr. Rimmon, with his plump cheeks and plump
stomach, with his embroidered stoles and fine surplices, his rich
cassocks and hand-worked slippers, had a vision of another life. He
remembered the brief period when, thrown with a number of earnest young
men who had consecrated their lives to the work of their Divine Master,
he had had aspirations for something essentially different from the life
he now led. Sometimes, as he would meet some hard-working, threadbare
brother toiling among the poor, who yet, for all his toil and narrowness
of means, had in his face that light that comes only from feasting on
the living bread, he envied him for a moment, and would gladly have
exchanged for a brief time the "good things" that he had fallen heir to
for that look of peace. These moments, however, were rare, and were
generally those that followed some evening of even greater conviviality
than usual, or some report that the stocks he had gotten Ferdy
Wickersham to buy for him had unexpectedly gone down, so that he must
make up his margins. When the margins had been made up and the stocks
had reacted, Mr. Rimmon was sufficiently well satisfied with his
own lot.
And of late Mr. Rimmon had determined to settle down. There were those
who said that Mr. Rimmon's voice took on a peculiarly unctuous tone when
a certain young widow, as noted for her wealth as for her good looks and
good nature entered the portals of his church.
Keith now having rung the bell at Mr. Rimmon's pleasant rectory and
asked if he was at home, the servant said he would see. It is
astonishing how little servants in the city know of the movements of
their employers. How much better they must know their characters!
A moment later the servant returned.
"Yes, Mr. Rimmon is in. He will be down directly; will the gentleman
wait?"
Keith took his seat and inspected the books on the table--a number of
magazines, a large work on Exegesis, several volumes of poetry, the
Social Register, and a society journal that contained the gossip and
scandal of the town.
Presently Mr. Rimmon was heard descending the stair. He had a light
footfall, extraordinarily light in one so stout; for he had grown
rounder with the years.
"Ah, Mr. Keith. I believe we have met before. What can I do for you?" He
held Keith's card in his hand, and was not only civil, but almost
cordial. But he did not ask Keith to sit down.
Keith said he had come to him hoping to obtain a little information
which he was seeking for a friend. He was almost certain that Mr. Rimmon
could give it to him.
"Oh, yes. Well? I shall be very glad, I am sure, if I can be of service
to you. It is a part of our profession, you know. What is it?"
"Why," said Keith, "it is in regard to a marriage ceremony--a marriage
that took place in this city three or four years ago, about the middle
of November three years ago. I think you possibly performed the
ceremony."
"Yes, yes. What are the names of the contracting parties? You see, I
solemnize a good many marriage ceremonies. For some reason, a good many
persons come to me. My church is rather--popular, you see. I hate to
have 'fashionable' applied to holy things. I cannot tell without
their names."
"Why, of course," said Keith, struck by the sudden assumption of a
business manner. "The parties were Ferdinand C. Wickersham and a young
girl, named Euphronia Tripper."
Keith was not consciously watching Mr. Rimmon, but the change in him was
so remarkable that it astonished him. His round jaw actually dropped for
a second. Keith knew instantly that he was the man. His inquiry had
struck home. The next moment, however, Mr. Rimmon had recovered himself.
A single glance shot out of his eyes, so keen and suspicious that Keith
was startled. Then his eyes half closed again, veiling their flash of
hostility.
"F.C. Wickershaw and Euphronia Trimmer?" he repeated half aloud, shaking
his head. "No, I don't remember any such names. No, I never united in
the bonds of matrimony any persons of those names. I am quite positive."
He spoke decisively.
"No, not Wicker_shaw_--F.C. Wicker_sham_ and Euphronia Tripper. Ferdy
Wickersham--you know him. And the girl was named Tripper; she might have
called herself 'Phrony' Tripper."
"My dear sir, I cannot undertake to remember the names of all the
persons whom I happen to come in contact with in the performance of my
sacred functions," began Mr. Rimmon. His voice had changed, and a
certain querulousness had crept into it.
"No, I know that," said Keith, calmly; "but you must at least remember
whether within four years you performed a marriage ceremony for a man
whom you know as well as you know Ferdy Wickersham--?"
"Ferdy Wickersham! Why don't you go and ask him?" demanded the other,
suddenly. "You appear to know him quite as well as I, and certainly Mr.
Wickersham knows quite as well as I whether or not he is married. I know
nothing of your reasons for persisting in this investigation. It is
quite irregular, I assure you. I don't know that ever in the course of
my life I knew quite such a case. A clergyman performs many functions
simply as a ministerial official. I should think that the most natural
way of procedure would be to ask Mr. Wickersham."
"Certainly it might be. But whatever my reason may be, I have come to
ask you. As a matter of fact, Mr. Wickersham took this young girl away
from her home. I taught her when she was a school-girl. Her grandfather,
who brought her up, is a friend of mine. I wish to clear her good name.
I have reason to think that she was legally married here in New York,
and that you performed the ceremony, and I came to ask you whether you
did so or not. It is a simple question. You can at least say whether you
did so or did not. I assumed that as a minister you would be glad to
help clear a young woman's good name."
"And I have already answered you," said Mr. Rimmon, who, while Keith was
speaking, had been forming his reply.
Keith flushed.
"Why, you have not answered me at all. If you have, you can certainly
have no objection to doing me the favor of repeating it. Will you do me
the favor to repeat it? Did you or did you not marry Ferdy Wickersham to
a young girl about three years ago?"
"My dear sir, I have told you that I do not recognize your right to
interrogate me in this manner. I know nothing about your authority to
pursue this investigation, and I refuse to continue this conversation
any longer."
"Then you refuse to give me any information whatever?" Keith was now
very angry, and, as usual, very quiet, with a certain line about his
mouth, and his eyes very keen.
"I do most emphatically refuse to give you any information whatever. I
decline, indeed, to hold any further communication with you," (Keith was
yet quieter,) "and I may add that I consider your entrance here an
intrusion and your manner little short of an impertinence." He rose on
his toes and fell on his heels, with, the motion which Keith had
remarked the first time he met him.
Keith fastened his eye on him.
"You do?" he said. "You think all that? You consider even my entrance to
ask you, a minister of the Gospel, a question that any good man would
have been glad to answer, 'an intrusion'? Now I am going; but before I
go I wish to tell you one or two things. I have heard reports about you,
but I did not believe them. I have known men of your cloth, the holiest
men on earth, saints of God, who devoted their lives to doing good. I
was brought up to believe that a clergyman must be a good man. I could
not credit the stories I have heard coupled with your name. I now
believe them true, or, at least, possible."
Mr. Riminon's face was purple with rage. He stepped forward with
uplifted hand.
"How dare you, sir!" he began.
"I dare much more," said Keith, quietly.
"You take advantage of my cloth--!"
"Oh, no; I do not. I have one more thing to say to you before I go. I
wish to tell you that one of the shrewdest detectives in New York is at
work on this case. I advise you to be careful, for when you fall you
will fall far. Good day."
He left Mr. Rimmon shaken and white. His indefinite threats had struck
him more deeply than any direct charge could have done. For Mr. Rimmon
knew of acts of which Keith could not have dreamed.
When he rose he went to his sideboard, and, taking out a bottle, poured
out a stiff drink and tossed it off. "I feel badly," he said to himself:
"I have allowed that--that fellow to excite me, and Dr. Splint said I
must not get excited. I did pretty well, though; I gave him not the
least information, and yet I did not tell a falsehood, an actual
falsehood."
With the composure that the stimulant brought, a thought occurred to
him. He sat down and wrote a note to Wickersham, and, marking it,
"Private," sent it by a messenger.
The note read:
"DEAR FERDY: I must see you without an hour's delay on a matter of the
greatest possible importance. Tripper-business. Your friend K. has
started investigation; claims to have inside facts. I shall wait at my
house for reply. If impossible for you to come immediately, I will run
down to your office.
"Yours, RIMMON."
When Mr. Wickersham received this note, he was in his office. He frowned
as he glanced at the handwriting. He said to himself:
"He wants more money, I suppose. He is always after money, curse him. He
must deal in some other office as well as in this." He started to toss
the note aside, but on second thought he tore it open. For a moment he
looked puzzled, then a blank expression passed over his face.
He turned to the messenger-boy, who was waiting and chewing gum with the
stolidity of an automaton.
"Did they tell you to wait for an answer?"
"Sure!"
He leant over and scribbled a line and sealed it. "Take that back."
"Yes, sir." The automaton departed, glancing from side to side and
chewing diligently.
The note read: "Will meet you at club at five."
As the messenger passed up the street, a smallish man who had come
down-town on the same car with him, and had been reading a newspaper on
the street for some little time, crossed over and accosted him.
"Can you take a note for me?"
"Where to?"
"Up-town. Where are you going?"
The boy showed his note.
"Um--hum! Well, my note will be right on your way." He scribbled a line.
It read: "Can't be back till eight. Look out for Shepherd. Pay boy 25 if
delivered before four."
"You drop this at that number before four o'clock and you'll get a
quarter."
Then he passed on.
That afternoon Keith walked up toward the Park. All day he had been
trying to find Phrony, and laying plans for her relief when she should
be found. The avenue was thronged with gay equipages and richly dressed
women, yet among all his friends in New York there was but one woman to
whom he could apply in such a case--Alice Lancaster. Old Mrs. Wentworth
would have been another, but he could not go to her now, since his
breach with Norman. He knew that there were hundreds of good, kind
women; they were all about him, but he did not know them. He had chosen
his friends in another set. The fact that he knew no others to whom he
could apply struck a sort of chill to his heart. He felt lonely and
depressed. He determined to go to Dr. Templeton. There, at least, he was
sure of sympathy.
He turned to go back down-town, and at a little distance caught sight of
Lois Huntington. Suddenly a light appeared to break in on his gloom.
Here was a woman to whom he could confide his trouble with the certainty
of sympathy. As they walked along he told her of Phrony; of her
elopement; of her being deserted; and of his chance meeting with her and
her disappearance again. He did not mention Wickersham, for he felt that
until he had the proof of his marriage he had no right to do so.
"Why, I remember that old, man, Mr. Rawson," said Lois. "It was where my
father stayed for a while?" Her voice was full of tenderness.
"Yes. It is his granddaughter."
"I remember her kindness to me. We must find her. I will help you." Her
face was sweet with tender sympathy, her eyes luminous with
firm resolve.
Keith gazed at her with a warm feeling surging about his heart. Suddenly
the color deepened in her cheeks; her expression changed; a sudden flame
seemed to dart into her eyes.
"I wish I knew that man!"
"What would you do?" demanded Keith, smiling at her fierceness.
"I'd make him suffer all his life." She looked the incarnation of
vengeance.
"Such a man would be hard to make suffer," hazarded Keith.
"Not if I could find him."
Keith soon left her to carry out his determination, and Lois went to see
Mrs. Lancaster, and told her the story she had heard. It found
sympathetic ears, and the next day Lois and Mrs. Lancaster were hard at
work quietly trying to find the unfortunate woman. They went to Dr.
Templeton; but, unfortunately, the old man was ill in bed.
The next afternoon, Keith caught sight of Lois walking up the street
with some one; and when he got nearer her it was Wickersham. They were
so absorbed that Keith passed without either of them seeing him. He
walked on with more than wonder in his heart. The meeting, however, had
been wholly accidental on Lois's part.
Wickersham of late had frequently fallen in with Lois when she was out
walking. And this afternoon he had hardly joined her when she began to
speak of the subject that had been uppermost in her mind all day. She
did not mention any names, but told the story just as she had heard it.
Fortunately for Wickersham, she was so much engrossed in her recital
that she did not observe her companion's face until he had recovered
himself. He had fallen a little behind her and did not interrupt her
until he had quite mastered himself. Then he asked quietly:
"Where did you get that story?"
"Mr. Keith told me."
"And he said the man who did that was a 'gentleman'?"
"No, he did not say that; he did not give me the least idea who it was.
Do you know who it was?"
The question was so unexpected that Wickersham for a moment was
confounded. Then he saw that she was quite innocent. He almost gasped.
"I? How could I? I have heard that story--that is, something of it. It
is not as Mr. Keith related it. He has some of the facts wrong. I will
tell you the true story if you will promise not to say anything
about it."
Lois promised.
"Well, the truth is that the poor creature was crazy; she took it into
her head that she was married to some one, and ran away from home to
try and find him. At one time she said it was a Mr. Wagram; then it was
a man named Plume, a drunken sot; then I think she for a time fancied it
was Mr. Keith himself; and"--he glanced at her quickly--"I am not sure
she did not claim me once. I knew her slightly. Poor thing! she was
quite insane."
"Poor thing!" sighed Lois, softly. She felt more kindly toward
Wickersham than she had ever done before.
"I shall do what I can to help you find her," he added.
"Thank you. I hope you may be successful."
"I hope so," said Wickersham, sincerely.
That evening Wickersham called on Mr. Rimmon, and the two were together
for some time. The meeting was not wholly an amicable one. Wickersham
demanded something that Mr. Rimmon was unwilling to comply with, though
the former made him an offer at which his eyes glistened. He had offered
to carry his stock for him as long as he wanted it carried. Mr. Rimmon
showed him his register to satisfy him that no entry had been made there
of the ceremony he had performed that night a few years before; but he
was unwilling to write him a certificate that he had not performed such
a ceremony. He was not willing to write a falsehood.
Wickersham grew angry.
"Now look here, Rimmon," he said, "you know perfectly well that I never
meant to marry that--to marry any one. You know that I was drunk that
night, and did not know what I was doing, and that what I did was out of
kindness of heart to quiet the poor little fool."
"But you married her in the presence of a witness," said Mr. Rimmon,
slowly. "And I gave him her certificate."
"You must have been mistaken. I have the affidavit of the man that he
signed nothing of the kind. I give you my word of honor as to that.
Write me the letter I want." He pushed the decanter on the table nearer
to Rimmon, who poured out a drink and took it slowly. It appeared to
give him courage, for after a moment he shook his head.
"I cannot."
Wickersham looked at him with level eyes.
"You will do it, or I will sell you out," he said coldly.
"You cannot. You promised to carry that stock for me till I could pay up
the margins."
"Write me that letter, or I will turn you out of your pulpit. You know
what will happen if I tell what I know of you."
The other man's face turned white.
"You would not be so base."
Wickersham rose and buttoned up his coat.
"It will be in the papers day after to-morrow."
"Wait," gasped Rimmon. "I will see what I can say." He poured a drink
out of the decanter, and gulped it down. Then he seized a pen and a
sheet of paper and began to write. He wrote with care.
"Will this do?" he asked tremulously.
"Yes."
"You promise not to use it unless you have to?"
"Yes."
"And to carry the stock for me till it reacts and lets me out?"
"I will make no more promises."
"But you did promise--," began Mr. Rimmon.
Wickersham put the letter in his pocket, and taking up his hat, walked
out without a word. But his eyes glinted with a curious light.