TERPY'S LAST DANCE AND WICKERSHAM'S FINAL THROW
Curiously enough, the interview between Mrs. Lancaster and Lois brought
them closer together than before. The older woman seemed to find a new
pleasure in the young girl's society, and as often as she could she had
the girl at her house. Sometimes, too, Keith was of the party. He held
himself in leash, and hardly dared face the fact that he had once more
entered on the lane which, beginning among flowers, had proved so thorny
in the end. Yet more and more he let himself drift into that sweet
atmosphere whose light was the presence of Lois Huntington.
One evening they all went together to see a vaudeville performance that
was being much talked about.
Keith had secured a box next the stage. The theatre was crowded.
Wickersham sat in another box with several women, and Keith was aware
that he was covertly watching his party. He had never appeared gayer or
been handsomer.
The last number but one was a dance by a new danseuse, who, it was
stated in the playbills, had just come over from Russia. According to
the reports, the Russian court was wild about her, and she had left
Europe at the personal request of the Czar. However this might be, it
appeared that she could dance. The theatre was packed nightly, and she
was the drawing-card.
As the curtain rose, the danseuse made her way to the centre of the
stage. She had raven-black hair and brows; but even as she stood, there
was something in the pose that seemed familiar to Keith, and as she
stepped forward and bowed with a little jerk of her head, and then, with
a nod to the orchestra, began to dance, Keith recognized Terpy. That
abandon was her own.
As she swept the boxes with her eyes, they fell on Keith, and she
started, hesitated, then went on. Next moment she glanced at the box
again, and as her eye caught Keith's she gave him a glance of
recognition. She was not to be disconcerted now, however. She had never
danced so well. And she was greeted with raptures of applause. The crowd
was wild with delight.
At that moment, from one of the wings, a thin curl of smoke rose and
floated up alongside a painted tamarind-tree. It might at first have
been only the smoke of a cigar. Next moment, however, a flick of flame
stole out and moved up the tree, and a draught of air blew the smoke
across the stage. There were a few excited whispers, a rush in the
wings; some one in the gallery shouted "Fire!" and just then a shower of
sparks from the flaming scenery fell on the stage.
In a second the whole audience was on its feet. In a second more there
would have been a panic which must have cost many lives. Keith saw the
danger. "Stay in this box," he said. "The best way out is over the
stage. I will come for you if necessary." He sprang on the stage, and,
with a wave of his arm to the audience, shouted: "Down in your seats! It
is all right."
Those nearest the stage, seeing a man stand between them and the fire,
had paused, and the hubbub for a moment had ceased. Keith took
advantage of it.
"This theatre can be emptied in three minutes if you take your time," he
cried; "but the fire is under control."
Terpy had seized the burning piece of scenery and torn it down, and was
tearing off the flaming edges with her naked hands. He sprang to Terpy's
side. Her filmy dress caught fire, but Keith jerked off his coat and
smothered the flame. Just then the water came, and the fire
was subdued.
"Strike up that music again," Keith said to the musicians. Then to Terpy
he said: "Begin dancing. Dance for your life!" The girl obeyed, and, all
blackened as she was, began to dance again. She danced as she had never
danced before, and as she danced the people at the rear filed out, while
most of those in the body of the house stood and watched her. As the
last spark of flame was extinguished the girl stopped, breathless.
Thunders of applause broke out, but ceased as Terpy suddenly sank to the
floor, clutching with her blackened hands at her throat. Keith caught
her, and lowering her gently, straightened her dress. The next moment a
woman sprang out of her box and knelt beside him; a woman's arm slipped
under the dancer's head, and Lois Huntington, on her knees, was
loosening Terpy's bodice as if she had been a sister.
A doctor came up out of the audience and bent over her, and the curtain
rang down.
That night Keith and Lois and Mrs. Lancaster all spent in the
waiting-room of the Emergency Hospital. They knew that Terpy's life was
ebbing fast. She had swallowed the flame, the doctor said. During the
night a nurse came and called for Keith. The dying woman wanted to see
him. When Keith reached her bedside, the doctor, in reply to a look of
inquiry from him, said: "You can say anything to her; it will not hurt
her." He turned away, and Keith seated himself beside her. Her face and
hands were swathed in bandages.
"I want to say good-by," she said feebly. "You don't mind now what I
said to you that time?" Keith, for answer, stroked the coverlid beside
her. "I want to go back home--to Gumbolt.--Tell the boys good-by
for me."
Keith said he would--as well as he could, for he had little voice left.
"I want to see _her_," she said presently.
"Whom?" asked Keith.
"The younger one. The one you looked at all the time. I want to thank
her for the doll. I ran away."
Lois was sent for, but when she reached the bedside Terpy was too far
gone to speak so that she could be understood. But she was conscious
enough to know that Lois was at her side and that it was her voice that
repeated the Lord's Prayer.
The newspapers the next day rang with her praises, and that night Keith
went South with her body to lay it on the hillside among her friends,
and all of old Gumbolt was there to meet her.
* * * * *
Wickersham, on finding his attempt at explanation to Mrs. Wentworth
received with coldness, turned his attentions in another direction. It
was necessary. His affairs had all gone wrong of late. He had seen his
great fortune disappear under his hands. Men who had not half his
ability were succeeding where he had failed. Men who once followed him
now held aloof, and refused to be drawn into his most tempting schemes.
His enemies were working against him. He would overthrow them yet.
Norman Wentworth and Gordon Keith especially he hated.
He began to try his fortune with Mrs. Lancaster again. Now, if ever,
appeared a good time. She was indifferent to every man--unless she cared
for Keith. He had sometimes thought she might; but he did not believe
it. Keith, of course, would like to marry her; but Wickersham did not
believe Keith stood any chance. Though she had refused Wickersham, she
had never shown any one else any special favor. He would try new tactics
and bear her off before she knew it. He began with a dash. He was quite
a different man from what he had been. He even was seen in church,
turning on Rimmon a sphinx-like face that a little disconcerted that
eloquent person.
Mrs. Lancaster received him with the serene and unruffled indifference
with which she received all her admirers, and there were many. She
treated him, however, with the easy indulgence with which old friends
are likely to be treated for old times' sake; and Wickersham was
deceived. Fortune appeared suddenly to smile on him again. Hope sprang
up once more.
Mrs. Nailor one day met Lois, and informed her that Mr. Wickersham was
now a rival of Mr. Keith's with Mrs. Lancaster, and, what was more, that
Norman Wentworth had learned that it was not Wickersham at all, but Mr.
Keith who had really caused the trouble between Norman and his wife.
Lois was aghast. She denied vehemently that it was true; but Mrs. Nailor
received her denial with amused indulgence.
"Oh, every one knows it," she said. "Mr. Keith long ago cut Fredy out;
and Norman knows it."
Lois went home in a maze. This, then, explained why Mr. Keith had
suddenly stopped coming to the house. When he had met her he had
appeared as glad as ever to see her, but he had also appeared
constrained. He had begun to talk of going away. He was almost the only
man in New York that she could call her friend. To think of New York
without him made her lonely. He was in love with Mrs. Lancaster, she
knew--of that she was sure, notwithstanding Mrs. Nailor's statement.
Could Mrs. Lancaster have treated him badly? She had not even cared for
her husband, so people said; would she be cruel to Keith?
The more she pondered over it the more unhappy Lois became. Finally it
appeared to her that her duty was plain. If Mrs. Lancaster had rejected
Keith for Wickersham, she might set her right. She could, at least, set
her right as to the story about him and Mrs. Wentworth.
That afternoon she called on Mrs. Lancaster. It was in the Spring, and
she put on a dainty gown she had just made.
She was received with the sincere cordiality that Alice Lancaster always
showed her. She was taken up to her boudoir, a nest of blue satin and
sunshine. And there, of all occupations in the world, Mrs. Lancaster,
clad in a soft lavender tea-gown, was engaged in mending old clothes.
"For my orphans," she said, with a laugh and a blush that made her look
charming.
A photograph of Keith stood on the table in a silver frame. When,
however, Lois would have brought up the subject of Mr. Keith, his name
stuck in her throat.
"I have what the children call 'a swap' for you," said the girl,
smiling.
Mrs. Lancaster smiled acquiescingly as she bit off a thread.
"I heard some one say the other day that you were one of those who 'do
good by stealth, and blush to find it fame.'"
"Oh, how nice! I am not, at all, you know. Still, it is pleasant to
deceive people that way. Who said it?"
"Mr. Keith." Lois could not help blushing a little; but she had broken
the ice.
"And I have one to return to you. I heard some one say that you had 'the
rare gift of an absolutely direct mind.' That you were like George
Washington: you couldn't tell a lie--that truth had its home in your
eyes." Her eyes were twinkling.
"My! Who said that?" asked the girl.
"Mr. Keith."
Lois turned quickly under pretence of picking up something, but she was
not quick enough to hide her face from her friend. The red that burned
in her cheeks flamed down and made her throat rosy.
Mrs. Lancaster looked at the young girl. She made a pretty picture as
she sat leaning forward, the curves of her slim, light-gowned figure
showing against the background of blue. Her face was pensive, and she
was evidently thinking deeply.
"What are you puzzling over so?"
At the question the color mounted into her cheeks, and the next second a
smile lit up her face as she turned her eyes frankly on Mrs. Lancaster.
"You would be amused to know. I was wondering how long you had known Mr.
Keith, and what he was like when he was young."
"When he was young! Do you call him old now? Why, he is only a little
over thirty."
"Is that all! He always seems much older to me, I do not know why. But
he has seen so much--done so much. Why, he appears to have had so many
experiences! I feel as if no matter what might happen, he would know
just what to do. For instance, that story that Cousin Norman told me
once of his going down into the flooded mine, and that night at the
theatre, when there was the fire--why, he just took charge. I felt as if
he would take charge no matter what might happen."
Mrs. Lancaster at first had smiled at the girl's enthusiasm, but before
Lois had finished, she had drifted away.
"He would--he would," she repeated, pensively.
"Then that poor girl--what he did for her. I just--" Lois paused,
seeking for a word--"trust him!"
Mrs. Lancaster smiled.
"You may," she said. "That is exactly the word."
"Tell me, what was he like when--you first knew him?"
"I don't know--why, he was--he was just what he is now--you could have
trusted him--"
"Why didn't you marry him?" asked Lois, her eyes on the other's face.
Mrs. Lancaster looked at her with almost a gasp.
"Why, Lois! What are you talking about? Who says--?"
"He says so. He said he was desperately in love with you."
"Why, Lois--!" began Mrs. Lancaster, with the color mounting to her
cheeks. "Well, he has gotten bravely over it," she laughed.
"He has not. He is in love with you now," the young girl said calmly.
Mrs. Lancaster turned and faced her with her mouth open to speak, and
read the girl's sincerity in her face. "With me!" She clasped her hands
with a pretty gesture over her bosom. A warm feeling suddenly surged to
her heart.
The younger woman nodded.
"Yes--and, oh, Mrs. Lancaster, don't treat him badly!" She laid both
hands on her arm and looked at her earnestly. "He has loved you always,"
she continued.
"Loved me! Lois, you are dreaming." But as she said it, Alice's heart
was beating.
"Yes, he was talking to me one evening, and he began to tell me of his
love for a girl,--a young girl,--and what a part it had played in
his life--"
"But I was married," put in Mrs. Lancaster, seeking for further proof
rather than renouncing this.
"Yes, he said she did not care for him; but he had always striven to
keep her image in his heart--her image as she was when he knew her and
as he imagined her."
Mrs. Lancaster's face for a moment was a study.
"Do you know whom he is in love with now?" she said presently.
"Yes; with you."
"No--not with me; with you." She put her hand on Lois's cheek
caressingly, and gazed into her eyes.
The girl's eyes sank into her lap. Her face, which had been growing
white and pink by turns, suddenly flamed.
"Mrs. Lancaster, I believe I--" she began in low tones. She raised her
eyes, and they met for a moment Mrs. Lancaster's. Something in their
depths, some look of sympathy, of almost maternal kindness, struck her,
passed through to her long-stilled heart. With a little cry she threw
herself into the other's arms and buried her burning face in her lap.
The expression on the face of the young widow changed. She glanced down
for a moment at the little head in her lap, then bending down, she
buried her face in the brown tresses, and drew her form close to
her heart.
In a moment the young girl was pouring out her soul to her as if she had
been her daughter.
The expression in Alice Lancaster's eyes was softer than it had been for
a long time, for it was the light of self-sacrifice that shone in them.
"You have your happiness in your hands," she said tenderly.
Lois looked up with dissent in her eyes.
Mrs. Lancaster shook her head.
"No. He will never be in love with me again."
The girl gave a quick intaking of her breath, her hand clutching at her
throat.
"Oh, Mrs. Lancaster!" She was thinking aloud rather than speaking. "I
thought that you cared for him."
Alice Lancaster shook her head. She tried to meet frankly the other's
eyes, but as they gazed deep into hers with an inquiry not to be put
aside, hers failed and fell.
"No," she said, but it was with a gasp.
Lois's eyes opened wide, and her face changed.
"Oh!" she murmured, as the sense of what she had done swept over her.
She rose to her feet and, bending down, kissed Mrs. Lancaster tenderly.
One might have thought she was the elder of the two.
Lois returned home in deep thought. She had surprised Mrs. Lancaster's
secret, and the end was plain. She allowed herself no delusions. The
dream that for a moment had shed its radiance on her was broken. Keith
was in love with Mrs. Lancaster, and Alice loved him. She prayed that
they might be happy--especially Keith. She was angry with herself that
she had allowed herself to become so interested in him. She would forget
him. This was easier said than done. But she could at least avoid seeing
him. And having made her decision, she held to it firmly. She avoided
him in every way possible.
The strain, however, had been too much for Lois, and her strength began
to go. The doctor advised Mrs. Wentworth to send her home. "She is
breaking down, and you will have her ill on your hands," he said. Lois,
too, was pining to get away. She felt that she could not stand the city
another week. And so, one day, she disappeared from town.
When Wickersham met Mrs. Lancaster after her talk with Lois, he was
conscious of the change in her. The old easy, indulgent attitude was
gone; and in her eye, instead of the lazy, half-amused smile, was
something very like scorn. Something had happened, he knew.
His thoughts flew to Keith, Norman, Rimmon, also to several ladies of
his acquaintance. What had they told her? Could it be the fact that he
had lost nearly everything--that he had spent Mrs. Wentworth's money?
That he had written anonymous letters? Whatever it was, he would brave
it out. He had been in some hard places lately, and had won out by his
nerve. He assumed an injured and a virtuous air, and no man could do
it better.
"What has happened? You are so strange to me. Has some one been
prejudicing you against me? Some one has slandered me," he said, with an
air of virtue.
"No. No one." Mrs. Lancaster turned her rings with a little
embarrassment. She was trying to muster the courage to speak plainly to
him. He gave it to her.
"Oh, yes; some one has. I think I have a right to demand who it is. Is
it that man Keith?"
"No." She glanced at him with a swift flash in her eye. "Mr. Keith has
not mentioned your name to me since I came home."
Her tone fired him with jealousy.
"Well, who was it, then? He is not above it. He hates me enough to say
anything. He has never got over our buying his old place, and has never
lost an opportunity to malign me since."
She looked him in the face, for the first time, quite steadily.
"Let me tell you, Mr. Keith has never said a word against you to me--and
that is much more than I can say for you; so you need not be
maligning him now."
A faint flush stole into Wickersham's face.
"You appear to be championing his cause very warmly."
"Because he is a friend of mine and an honorable gentleman."
He gave a hard, bitter laugh.
"Women are innocent!"
"It is more than men are" she said, fired, as women always are, by a
fleer at the sex.
"Who has been slandering me?" he demanded, angered suddenly by her
retort. "I have stood in a relation to you which gives me a right to
demand the name."
"What relation to me?--Where is your wife?"
His face whitened, and he drew in his breath as if struck a blow,--a
long breath,--but in a second he had recovered himself, and he burst
into a laugh.
"So you have heard that old story--and believe it?" he said, with his
eyes looking straight into hers. As she made no answer, he went on.
"Now, as you have heard it, I will explain the whole thing to you. I
have always wanted to do it; but--but--I hardly knew whether it were
better to do it or leave it alone. I thought if you had heard it you
would mention it to me--"
"I have done so now," she said coldly.
"I thought our relation--or, as you object to that word, our
friendship--entitled me to that much from you."
"I never heard it till--till just now," she defended, rather shaken by
his tone and air of candor.
"When?
"Oh--very recently."
"Won't you tell me who told you?"
"No--o. Go on."
"Well, that woman--that poor girl--her name was--her name is--Phrony
Tripper--or Trimmer. I think that was her name--she called herself
Euphronia Tripper." He was trying with puckered brow to recall exactly.
"I suppose that is the woman you are referring to?" he said suddenly.
"It is. You have not had more than one, have you?"
He laughed, pleased to give the subject a lighter tone.
"Well, this poor creature I used to know in the South when I was a
boy--when I first went down there, you know? She was the daughter of an
old farmer at whose house we stayed. I used to talk to her. You know how
a boy talks to a pretty girl whom he is thrown with in a lonesome old
country place, far from any amusement." Her eyes showed that she knew,
and he was satisfied and proceeded.
"But heavens! the idea of being in love with her! Why, she was the
daughter of a farmer. Well, then I fell in with her afterwards--once or
twice, to be accurate--when I went down there on business, and she was a
pretty, vain country girl--"
"I used to know her," assented Mrs. Lancaster.
"You did!" His face fell.
"Yes; when I went there to a little Winter resort for my throat--when I
was seventeen. She used to go to the school taught by Mr. Keith."
"She did? Oh, then you know her name? It was Tripper, wasn't it?"
She nodded.
"I thought it was. Well, she was quite pretty, you remember; and, as I
say, I fell in with her again, and having been old friends--" He shifted
in his seat a little as if embarrassed--"Why--oh, you know how it is. I
began to talk nonsense to her to pass away the time,--told her she was
pretty and all that,--and made her a few presents--and--" He paused and
took a long breath. "I thought she was very queer. The first thing I
knew, I found she was--out of her mind. Well, I stopped and soon came
away, and, to my horror, she took it into her head that she was my wife.
She followed me here. I had to go abroad, and I heard no more of her
until, not long ago, I heard she had gone completely crazy and was
hunting me up as her husband. You know how such poor creatures are?" He
paused, well satisfied with his recital, for first surprise and then a
certain sympathy took the place of incredulity in Mrs. Lancaster's face.
"She is absolutely mad, poor thing, I understand," he sighed, with
unmistakable sympathy in his voice.
"Yes," Mrs. Lancaster assented, her thoughts drifting away.
He watched her keenly, and next moment began again.
"I heard she had got hold of Mr. Rimmon's name and declares that he
married us."
Mrs. Lancaster returned to the present, and he went on:
"I don't know how she got hold of it. I suppose his being the
fashionable preacher, or his name being in the papers frequently,
suggested the idea. But if you have any doubt on the subject, ask him."
Mrs. Lancaster looked assent.
"Here--Having heard the story, and thinking it might be as well to stop
it at once, I wrote to Mr. Rimmon to give me a statement to set the
matter at rest, and I have it in my pocket." He took from his
pocket-book a letter and spread it before Mrs. Lancaster. It read:
"DEAR MR. WICKERSHAM: I am sorry you are being annoyed. I
cannot imagine that you should need any such statement as you
request. The records of marriages are kept in the proper
office here. Any one who will take the trouble to inspect
those records will see that I have never made any such
report. This should be more than sufficient.
"I feel sure this will answer your purpose.
"Yours sincerely,
"W.H. RIMMON."
"I think that settles the matter," said Wickersham, with his eyes on her
face.
"It would seem so," said Mrs. Lancaster, gravely.
As she spoke slowly, Wickersham put in one more nail.
"Of course, you know there must be a witness to a marriage," he said.
"If there be such a witness, let K---- let those who are engaged in
defaming me produce him."
"No, no," said Mrs. Lancaster, quickly. "Mr. Rimmon's statement--I think
I owe you an apology for what I said. Of course, it appeared incredible;
but something occurred--I can't tell you--I don't want to tell you
what--that shocked me very much, and I suppose I judged too hastily and
harshly. You must forget what I said, and forgive me for my injustice."
"Certainly I will," he said earnestly.
The revulsion in her belief inclined her to be kinder toward him than
she had been in a long time.
The change in her manner toward him made Wickersham's heart begin to
beat. He leant over and took her hand.
"Won't you give me more than justice, Alice?" he began. "If you knew how
long I have waited--how I have hoped even against hope--how I have
always loved you--" She was so taken aback by his declaration that for a
moment she did not find words to reply, and he swept on: "--you would
not be so cold--so cruel to me. I have always thought you the most
beautiful--the most charming woman in New York."
She shook her head. "No, you have not."
"I have; I swear I have! Even when I have hung around--around other
women, I have done so because I saw you were taken up with--some one
else. I thought I might find some one else to supplant you, but never
for one moment have I failed to acknowledge your superiority--"
"Oh, no; you have not. How can you dare to tell me that!" she smiled,
recovering her self-possession.
"I have, Alice, ever since you were a girl--even when you
were--were--when you were beyond me--I loved you more than ever--I--"
Her face changed, and she recoiled from him.
"Don't," she said.
"I will." He seized her hand and held it tightly. "I loved you even then
better than I ever loved in my life--better than your--than any one else
did." Her face whitened.
"Stop!" she cried. "Not another word. I will not listen. Release my
hand." She pulled it from him forcibly, and, as he began again, she,
with a gesture, stopped him.
"No--no--no! It is impossible. I will not listen."
His face changed as he looked into her face. She rose from her seat and
turned away from him, taking two or three steps up and down, trying to
regain control of herself.
He waited and watched her, an angry light coming into his eyes. He
misread her feelings. He had made love to married women before and had
not been repulsed.
She turned to him now, and with level eyes looked into his.
"You never loved me in your life. I have had men in love with me, and
know when they are; but you are not one of them."
"I was--I am--" he began, stepping closer to her; but she stopped him.
"Not for a minute," she went on, without heeding him. "And you had no
right to say that to me."
"What?" he demanded.
"What you said. My husband loved me with all the strength of a noble,
high-minded man, and notwithstanding the difference in our ages, treated
me as his equal; and I loved him--yes, loved him devotedly," she said,
as she saw a spark come into his eyes.
"You love some one else now," he said coolly.
It might have been anger that brought the rush of color to her face. She
turned and looked him full in the face.
"If I do, it is not you."
The arrow went home. His eyes snapped with anger.
"You took such lofty ground just now that I should hardly have supposed
the attentions of Mr. Wentworth meant anything so serious. I thought
that was mere friendship."
This time there was no doubt that the color meant anger.
"What do you mean?" she demanded, looking him once more full in the
eyes.
"I refer to what the world says, especially as he himself is such a
model of all the Christian virtues."
"What the world says? What do you mean?" she persisted, never taking her
eyes from his face.
He simply shrugged his shoulders.
"So I assume Mr. Keith is the fortunate suitor for the remnant of your
affections: Keith the immaculate--Keith the pure and pious gentleman who
trades on his affections. I wish you good luck."
At his insolence Mrs. Lancaster's patience suddenly snapped.
"Go," she said, pointing to the door. "Go."
When Wickersham walked out into the street, his face was white and
drawn, and a strange light was in his eyes. He had played one of his
last cards, and had played it like a fool. Luck had gone against him,
and he had lost his head. His heart--that heart that had never known
remorse and rarely dismay--began to sink. Luck had been going against
him now for a long time, so long that it had swept away his fortune and
most of his credit. What was worse to him, he was conscious that he had
lost his nerve. Where should he turn? Unless luck turned or he could get
help he would go down. He canvassed the various means of escape. Man
after man had fallen away from him. Every scheme had failed.
He attributed it all to Norman--to Norman and Keith. Norman had ruined
him in New York; Keith had blocked him and balked him in the South. But
one resource remained to him. He would make one more supreme effort.
Then, if he failed? He thought of a locked drawer in his desk, and a
black pistol under the papers there. His cheek blanched at the thought,
but his lips closed tight. He would not survive disgrace. His disgrace
meant the known loss of his fortune. One thing he would do. Keith had
escaped him, had succeeded, but Norman he could overthrow. Norman had
been struck hard; he would now complete his ruin. With this mental tonic
he straightened up and walked rapidly down the street.
That evening Wickersham was closeted for some time with a man who had of
late come into especial notice as a strong and merciless
financier--Mr. Kestrel.
Mr. Kestrel received him at first with a coldness which might have
repelled a less determined man. He had no delusions about Wickersham;
but Wickersham knew this, and unfolded to him, with plausible frankness,
a scheme which had much reason in it. He had at the same time played on
the older man's foibles with great astuteness, and had awakened one or
two of his dormant animosities. He knew that Mr. Kestrel had had a
strong feeling against Norman for several years.
"You are one of the few men who do not have to fall down and worship the
name of Wentworth," he said.
"Well, I rather think not," said Mr. Kestrel, with a glint in his eyes,
as he recalled Norman Wentworth's scorn of him at the board-meeting
years before, when Norman had defended Keith against him.
"--Or this new man, Keith, who is undertaking to teach New York
finance?"
Mr. Kestrel gave a hard little laugh, which was more like a cough than
an expression of mirth, but which meant that he was amused.
"Well, neither do I," said Wickersham. "To tell you frankly, I hate them
both, though there is money, and big money, in this, as you can see for
yourself from what I have said. This is my real reason for wanting you
in it. If you jump in and hammer down those things, you will clean them
out. I have the old patents to all the lands that Keith sold those
people. They antedate the titles under which Rawson claims. If you can
break up the deal now, we will go in and recover the lands from Rawson.
Wentworth is so deep in that he'll never pull through, and his friend
Keith has staked everything on this one toss."
Old Kestrel's parchment face was inscrutable as he gazed at Wickersham
and declared that he did not know about that. He did not believe in
having animosities in business matters, as it marred one's judgment.
But Wickersham knew enough to be sure that the seed he had planted would
bear fruit, and that Kestrel would stake something on the chance.
In this he was not deceived. The next day Mr. Kestrel acceded to his
plan.
For some days after that there appeared in a certain paper a series of
attacks on various lines of property holdings, that was characterized by
other papers as a "strong bearish movement." The same paper contained a
vicious article about the attempt to unload worthless coal-lands on
gullible Englishmen. Meantime Wickersham, foreseeing failure, acted
independently.
The attack might not have amounted to a great deal but for one of those
untimely accidents that sometimes overthrow all calculations. One of the
keenest and oldest financiers in the city suddenly dropped dead, and a
stampede started on the Stock Exchange. It was stayed in a little while,
but meantime a number of men had been hard hit, and among these was
Norman Wentworth. The papers next day announced the names of those who
had suffered, and much space was given in one of them to the decline of
the old firm of Wentworth & Son, whose history was almost contemporary
with that of New York.
By noon it was extensively rumored that Wentworth & Son would close
their doors. The firm which had lasted for three generations, and whose
name had been the synonym for honor and for philanthropy, which had
stood as the type of the highest that can exist in commerce, would go
down. Men spoke of it with a regret which did them honor--hard men who
rarely expressed regret for the losses of another.
It was rumored, too, that Wickersham & Company must assign; but this
caused little surprise and less regret. Aaron Wickersham had had
friends, but his son had not succeeded to them.
Keith, having determined to talk to Alice Lancaster about Lois, was
calling on the former a day or two after her interview with Wickersham.
She was still somewhat disturbed over it, and showed it in her manner so
clearly that Keith asked what was the trouble.
It was nothing very much, she said. Only she had broken finally with a
friend she had known a long time, and such things upset her.
Keith was sympathetic, and suddenly, to his surprise, she broke down and
began to cry. He had never seen her weep before since she sat, as a
girl, in the pine-woods and he lent her his handkerchief to dry her
tears. Something in the association gave him a feeling of unwonted
tenderness. She had not appeared to him so soft, so feminine, in a long
time. He essayed to comfort her. He, too, had broken with an old friend,
the friend of a lifetime, and he would never get over it.
"Mine was such a blow to me," she said, wiping her eyes; "such cruel
things were said to me. I did not think any one but a woman would have
said such biting things to a woman."
"It was Ferdy Wickersham, I know," said Keith, his eyes contracting;
"but what on earth could he have said? What could he have dared to say
to wound you so?"
"He said all the town was talking about me and Norman." She began to cry
again. "Norman, dear old Norman, who has been more like a brother to me
than any one I have ever known, and whom I would give the world to bring
back happiness to."
"He is a scoundrel!" exclaimed Keith. "I have stood all--more than I
ever expected to stand from any man living; but if he is attacking
women"--he was speaking to himself rather than to her--"I will unmask
him. He is not worth your notice," he said kindly, addressing her again.
"Women have been his prey ever since I knew him, when he was but a young
boy." Mrs. Lancaster dried her eyes.
"You refer to the story that he had married that poor girl and abandoned
her?"
"Yes--partly that. That is the worst thing I know of him."
"But that is not true. However cruel he is, that accusation is
unfounded. I know that myself."
"How do you know it?" asked Keith, in surprise.
"He told me the whole story: explained the thing to my satisfaction. It
was a poor crazy girl who claimed that he married her; said Mr. Rimmon
had performed the ceremony She was crazy. I saw Mr. Rimmon's letter
denying the whole thing."
"Do you know his handwriting?" inquired Keith, grimly.
"Whose?"
"Well, that of both of them?"
She nodded, and Keith, taking out his pocket-book, opened it and took
therefrom a slip of paper. "Look at that. I got that a few days ago from
the witness who was present."
"Why, what is this?" She sprang up in her excitement.
"It is incredible!" she said slowly. "Why, he told me the story with the
utmost circumstantiality."
"He lied to you," said Keith, grimly. "And Rimmon lied. That is their
handwriting. I have had it examined by the best expert in New York City.
I had not intended to use that against him, but only to clear the
character of that poor young creature whom he deceived and then
abandoned; but as he is defaming her here, and is at his old trade of
trying to deceive women, it is time he was shown up in his true colors."
She gave a shudder of horror, and wiped her right hand with her left.
"Oh, to think that he dared!" She wiped her hand on her handkerchief.
At that moment a servant brought in a card. As Mrs. Lancaster gazed at
it, her eyes flashed and her lip curled.
"Say that Mrs. Lancaster begs to be excused."
"Yes, madam." The servant hesitated. "I think he heard you talking,
madam."
"Say that Mrs. Lancaster begs to be excused," she said firmly.
The servant, with a bow, withdrew.
She handed the card to Keith. On it was the name of the Rev. William H.
Rimmon.
Mr. Rimmon, as he stood in the hall, was in unusually good spirits,
though slightly perturbed. He had determined to carry through a plan
that he had long pondered over. He had decided to ask Mrs. Lancaster to
become Mrs. Rimmon.
As Keith glanced toward the door, he caught Mr. Rimmon's eye. He was
waiting on the threshold and rubbing his hands with eager expectancy.
Just then the servant gave him the message. Keith saw his countenance
fall and his face blanch. He turned, picked up his hat, and slipped out
of the door, with a step that was almost a slink.
As Mr. Rimmon passed down the street he knew that he had reached a
crisis in his life. He went to see Wickersham, but that gentleman was in
no mood for condolences. Everything had gone against him. He was facing
utter ruin. Rimmon's upbraiding angered him.
"By the way, you are the very man I wanted to see," he said grimly. "I
want you to sign a note for that twenty thousand I lost by you when you
insisted on my holding that stock."
Rimmon's jaw fell. "That you held for me? Sign a note! Twenty-six
thousand!"
"Yes. Don't pretend innocence--not on me. Save that for the pulpit. I
know you," said the other, with a chilling laugh.
"But you were to carry that. That was a part of our agreement. Why,
twenty thousand would take everything I have."
"Don't play that on me," said Wickersham, coldly. "It won't work. You
can make it up when you get your widow."
Rimmon groaned helplessly.
"Come; there is the note. Sign."
Rimmon began to expostulate, and finally refused pointblank to sign.
Wickersham gazed at him with amusement.
"You sign that, or I will serve suit on you in a half-hour, and we will
see how the Rev. Mr. Rimmmon stands when my lawyers are through with
him. You will believe in hell then, sure enough."
"You won't dare do it. Your marriage would come out. Mrs. Lancaster
would--"
"She knows it," said Wickersham, calmly. And, as Rimmon looked
sceptical, "I told her myself to spare you the trouble. Sign." He rose
and touched a bell.
Rimmon, with a groan, signed the paper.
"You must have showed her my letter!"
"Of course, I did."
"But you promised me not to. I am ruined!"
"What have I to do with that? 'See thou to that,'" said Wickersham, with
a bitter laugh.
Rimmon's face paled at the quotation. He, too, had betrayed his Lord.
"Now go." Wickersham pointed to the door.
Mr. Rimmon went home and tried to write a letter to Mrs. Lancaster, but
he could not master his thoughts. That pen that usually flowed so glibly
failed to obey him. He was in darkness. He saw himself dishonored,
displaced. Wickersham was capable of anything. He did not know where to
turn. He thought of his brother clergymen. He knew many good men who
spent their lives helping others. But something deterred him from
applying to them now. To some he had been indifferent, others he had
known only socially. Yet others had withdrawn themselves from him more
and more of late. He had attributed it to their envy or their folly. He
suddenly thought of old Dr. Templeton. He had always ignored that old
man as a sort of crack-brained creature who had not been able to keep up
with the world, and had been left stranded, doing the work that properly
belonged to the unsuccessful. Curiously enough, he was the one to whom
the unhappy man now turned. Besides, he was a friend of Mrs. Lancaster.
A half-hour later the Rev. Mr. Rimmon was in Dr. Templeton's simple
study, and was finding a singular sense of relief in pouring out his
troubles to the old clergyman. He told him something of his unhappy
situation--not all, it is true, but enough to enable the other to see
how grave it was, as much from what he inferred as from what Rimmon
explained. He even began to hope again. If the Doctor would undertake to
straighten out the complications he might yet pull through. To his
dismay, this phase of the matter did not appear to present itself to the
old man's mind. It was the sin that he had committed that had
touched him.
"Let us carry it where only we can find relief;" he said. "Let us take
it to the Throne of Grace, where we can lay all our burdens"; and before
Rimmon knew it, he was on his knees, praying for him as if he had been a
very outcast.
When the Rev. Mr. Rimmon came out of the shabby little study, though he
had not gotten the relief he had sought, he, somehow, felt a little
comforted, while at the same time he felt humble. He had one of those
brief intervals of feeling that, perhaps, there was, after all,
something that that old man had found which he had missed, and he
determined to find it. But Mr. Rimmon had wandered far out of the way.
He had had a glimpse of the pearl, but the price was great, and he had
not been able to pay it all.
* * * * *
Wickersham discounted the note; but the amount was only a bagatelle to
him: a bucket-shop had swallowed it within an hour. He had lost his
instinct. It was only the love of gambling that remained.
Only one chance appeared to remain for him. He had made up with Louise
Wentworth after a fashion. He must get hold of her in some way. He might
obtain more money from her. The method he selected was a desperate one;
but he was a desperate man.
After long pondering, he sat down and wrote her a note, asking her "to
meet some friends of his, a Count and Countess Torelli, at supper"
next evening.