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Keith laughed.

"Well, it's pretty hard to tell what Wickersham is up to,--at least, by
what he says,--especially when you don't tell me what he is doing."

The old man looked pleased. Keith had let him believe that he did not
know what he was talking of, and had expressed an opinion in which
he agreed.

"That's what I think. Well, it's about my land up here."

Keith looked relived.

"Has he made you another offer for it?"

"No; he ain't done that, and he won't do it. That's what I tells him. If
he wants it, let him make me a good offer; but he won't do that. He kind
o' circles around like a pigeon before he lights, and talks about what I
paid for it, and a hundred per cent. advance, and all that. I give a
sight for that land he don't know nothin' about--years of hard work on
the mountain-side, sweatin' o' days, and layin' out in the cold at
nights, lookin' up at the stars and wonderin' how I was to git
along--studin' of folks jest as I studied cattle. That's what I paid for
that land. He wants me to set him a price, and I won't do that--he might
give it." He looked shrewdly at Keith. "Ain't I right?"

"I think so."

"He wants me to let him have control of it; but I ain't a-goin' to do
that neither."

"That's certainly right," said Keith, heartily.

"I tell him I'm a-goin' to hold to that for Phrony. Phrony says she
wants me to sell it to him, too. But women-folks don't know about
business."

Keith wondered what effect this piece of information had on Wickersham,
and also what further design the old squire had in mind.

"I think it's about time to do something with that land. If all he says
is true,--not about _my_ land (he makes out as _my_ land is situate too
far away ever to be much account--fact is, he don't allow I've got any
land; he says it's all his anyway), but about other lands--everybody
else's land but mine,--it might be a good time to look around. I know as
my land is the best land up here. I holds the key to the situation.
That's what we used to call it durin' the war.

"Well, there ain't but three ways to git to them coal-lands back up
yonder in the Gap: one's by way of heaven, and I 'lows there ain't many
land-speculators goin' by that way; the other is through hell, a way
they'll know more about hereafter; and the third's through my land."

Keith laughed and waited.

"He seems to be hangin' around Phrony pretty considerable?"

Keith caught the gleam in the old fellow's deep eye, and looked away.

"I can't make it out. Phrony she likes him."

Keith fastened his gaze on something out of the window.

"I don't know him," pursued the squire; "But I don't think--he'd suit
Phrony. His ways ain't like ours, and--." He lapsed into reflection, and
Keith, with his eyes still fastened on something outside the window,
sighed to think of the old man's innocence. That he should imagine that
Wickersham had any serious idea of marrying the granddaughter of a
backwoods magistrate! The old squire broke the silence.

"You don't suppose he could be hankerin' after Phrony for her property,
do you?"

"No, I do not," said Keith, positively, relieved that at last a question
was put which he could answer directly.

"Because she ain't got any," asserted the squire. "She's got prospects;
but I'm goin' to remove them. It don't do for a young woman to have too
much prospects. I'm goin' to sell that land and git it down in cash,
where I can do what I want with it. And I want you to take charge of
it for me."

This, then, was the real object of his visit. He wanted Keith to take
charge of his properties. It was a tempting offer to make Keith. The old
man had been a shrewd negotiator.

There is no success so sweet as that which comes to a young man.

That night Keith spent out under the stars. Success had come. And its
other name was Alice Yorke.

The way before Keith still stretched steep enough, but the light was on
it, the sunshine caught peak after peak high up among the clouds
themselves, and crowning the highest point, bathed in perpetual
sunlight, was the image of Alice Yorke.

Alice Yorke had been abroad now for some time; but he had followed her.
Often when his work was done he had locked his door and shut himself in
from the turmoil of the bustling, noisy throng outside to dream of
her--to read and study that he might become worthy of her.

He had just seen by the papers that Alice Yorke had returned.

She had escaped the dangers of a foreign service; but, by the account,
she was the belle of the season at the watering-place which she was
honoring with her presence. As he read the account, a little jealousy
crept into the satisfaction which he had felt as he began. Mr. Lancaster
was spoken of too pointedly; and there was mention of too many
yacht-parties and entertainments in which their names appeared together.

In fact, the forces exerted, against Alice Yorke had begun to tell. Her
mother, overawed by her husband's determination, had reluctantly
abandoned her dreams of a foreign title with its attendant honors to
herself, and, of late, had turned all her energies to furthering the
suit of Mr. Lancaster. It would be a great establishment that he would
give Alice, and no name in the country stood higher. He was the soul of
honor, personal and commercial; and in an age when many were endeavoring
to amass great fortunes and make a dazzling display, he was content to
live modestly, and was known for his broad-minded philanthropy. What did
it matter that he was considerably older than Alice? reflected Mrs.
Yorke. Mrs. Creamer and half the mothers she knew would give their eyes
to secure him for their daughters; and certainly he had shown that he
knew how to enter into Alice's feelings.

Even Mr. Yorke had begun to favor Mr. Lancaster after Mrs. Yorke had
skilfully pointed out that Alice's next most attentive admirer was Ferdy
Wickersham.

"Why, I thought he was still trying to get that Caldwell girl," said he.

"You know he cannot get her; she is married," replied Mrs. Yorke.

"I guess that would make precious little difference to that young man,
if she would say the word. I wish he would keep away from here."

"Oh, Ferdy is no worse than some others; you were always unjust to him.
Most young men sow their wild oats."

No man likes to be charged with injustice by his wife, and Mr. Yorke's
tone showed that he was no exception to this rule.

"He is worse than most others _I_ know, and the crop of oats he is
sowing, if he does not look out, he will reap somewhere else besides in
New York. Alice shall marry whom she pleases, provided it is not that
young man; but she shall not marry him if she wants to."

"She does not want to marry him," said Mrs. Yorke; "if she had she could
have done it long ago."

"Not while I lived," said Mr. Yorke, firmly. But from this time Mr.
Yorke began to acquiesce in his wife's plans touching Mr. Lancaster.

Finally Alice herself began to yield. The influences were very strong,
and were skilfully exerted. The only man who had ever made any lasting
impression on her heart was, she felt, out of the question. The young
school-teacher, with his pride and his scorn of modern ways, had
influenced her life more than any one else she had ever known, and
though under her mother's management the feeling had gradually subsided,
and had been merged into what was merely a cherished recollection,
Memory, stirred at times by some picture or story of heroism and
devotion, reminded her that she too might, under other conditions, have
had a real romance. Still, after two or three years, her life appeared
to have been made for her by Fate, and she yielded, not recognizing that
Fate was only a very ambitious and somewhat short-sighted mamma aided by
the conditions of an artificial state of life known as fashionable
society.

Keith wrote Alice Yorke a letter congratulating her upon her safe
return; but a feeling, part shyness, part pride, seized him. He had
received no acknowledgment of his last letter. Why should he write
again? He mailed the letter in the waste-basket. Now, however, that
success had come to him, he wrote her a brief note congratulating her
upon her return, a stiff little plea for remembrance. He spoke of his
good fortune: he was the agent for the most valuable lands in that
region, and the future was beginning to look very bright. Business, he
said, might take him North before long, and the humming-birds would show
him the way to the fairest roses. The hope of seeing her shone in every
line. It reached Alice Yorke in the midst of preparation for
her marriage.

Alice Yorke sat for some time in meditation over this letter. It brought
back vividly the time which she had never wholly forgotten. Often, in
the midst of scenes so gay and rich as to amaze her, she had recalled
the springtime in the budding woods, with an ardent boy beside her,
worshipping her with adoring eyes. She had lived close to Nature then,
and Content once or twice peeped forth at her from its covert with calm
and gentle eyes. She had known pleasure since then, joy, delight, but
never content. However, it was too late now. Mr. Lancaster and her
mother had won the day; she had at last accepted him and an
establishment. She had accepted her fate or had made it.

She showed the letter to her mother. Mrs. Yorke's face took on an
inscrutable expression.

"You are not going to answer it, of course?" she said.

"Of course, I am; I am going to write him the nicest letter that I know
how to write. He is one of the best friends I ever had."

"What will Mr. Lancaster say?"

"Mr. Lancaster quite understands. He is going to be reasonable; that is
the condition."

This appeared to be satisfactory to Mrs. Yorke, or, at least, she said
no more.

Alice's letter to Keith was friendly and even kind. She had never
forgotten him, she said. Some day she hoped to meet him again. Keith
read this with a pleasant light in his eyes. He turned the page, and his
face suddenly whitened. She had a piece of news to tell him which might
surprise him. She was engaged to be married to an old friend of her
family's, Mr. Lancaster. He had met Mr. Lancaster, she remembered, and
was sure he would like him, as Mr. Lancaster had liked him so much.

Keith sat long over this letter, his face hard set and very white. She
was lost to him. He had not known till then how largely he had built his
life upon the memory of Alice Yorke. Deep down under everything that he
had striven for had lain the foundation of his hope to win her. It went
down with a crash. He went to his room, and unlocking his desk, took
from his drawer a small package of letters and other little mementos of
the past that had been so sweet. These he put in the fire and, with a
grim face, watched them blaze and burn to ashes. She was dead to him. He
reserved nothing.

The newspapers described the Yorke-Lancaster wedding as one of the most
brilliant affairs of the season. They dwelt particularly on the fortunes
of both parties, the value of the presents, and the splendor of the
dresses worn on the occasion. One journal mentioned that Mr. Lancaster
was considerably older than the bride, and was regarded as one of the
best, because one of the safest, matches to be found in society.

Keith recalled Mr. Lancaster: dignified, cultivated, and coldly
gracious. Then he recalled his gray hair, and found some satisfaction in
it. He recalled, too, Mrs. Yorke's friendliness for him. This, then, was
what it meant. He wondered to himself how he could have been so blind to
it. When he came to think of it, Mr. Lancaster came nearer possessing
what others strove for than any one else he knew. Yet, Youth looks on
Youth as peculiarly its own, and Keith found it hard to look on Alice
Yorke's marriage as anything but a sale.

"They talk about the sin of selling negroes," he said; "that is as very
a sale as ever took place at a slave-auction."

For a time he plunged into the gayest life that Gumbolt offered. He even
began to visit Terpsichore. But this was not for long. Mr. Plume's
congratulations were too distasteful to him for him to stomach them; and
Terpy began to show her partiality too plainly for him to take advantage
of it. Besides, after all, though Alice Yorke had failed him, it was
treason to the ideal he had so long carried in his heart. This still
remained to him.

He went back to his work, resolved to tear from his heart all memory of
Alice Yorke. She was married and forever beyond his dreams. If he had
worked before with enthusiasm, he now worked with fury. Mr. Lancaster,
as wealthy as he was, as completely equipped with all that success could
give, lacked one thing that Keith possessed: he lacked the promise of
the Future. Keith would show these Yorkes who he was.



CHAPTER XVI

KEITH VISITS NEW YORK, AND MRS. LANCASTER SEES A GHOST

For the next year or two the tide set in very strong toward the
mountains, and New Leeds advanced with giant strides. What had been a
straggling village a year or two before was now a town, and was
beginning to put on the airs of a city. Brick buildings quite as
pretentious as the town were springing up where a year before there were
unsightly frame boxes; the roads where hogs had wallowed in mire not
wholly of their own kneading were becoming well-paved streets. Out on
the heights, where had been a forest, were sprinkled sightly dwellings
in pretty yards. The smoke of panting engines rose where but a few years
back old Tim Gilsey drew rein over his steaming horses. Pretty girls and
well-dressed women began to parade the sidewalks where formerly
Terpsichore's skirts were the only feminine attire seen. And "Gordon
Keith, civil and mining engineer," with his straight figure and tanned,
manly face, was not ignored by them. But locked in his heart was the
memory of the girl he had found in the Spring woods. She was forever
beyond him; but he still clung to the picture he had enshrined there.

When he saw Dr. Balsam, no reference was made to the verification of the
latter's prophecy; but the young man knew from the kind tone in the
older man's voice that he had heard of it. Meantime Keith had not been
idle. Surveys and plats had been made, and everything done to facilitate
placing the Rawson properties on the market.

When old man Rawson came to New Leeds now, he made Keith's little office
his headquarters, and much quaint philosophy Keith learned from him.

"I reckon it's about time to try our cattle in the New York market," he
said at length to Keith. It was a joke he never gave up. "You go up
there and look around, and if you have any trouble send for me."

So, taking his surveys and reports and a few letters of introduction
Keith went to New York.

Only one thought marred Keith's joy: the dearest aim he had so long had
in view had disappeared. The triumph of standing before Alice Yorke and
offering her the reward of his endeavor was gone. All he could do was to
show her what she had lost. This he would do; he would win life's
highest honors. He grew grim with resolve.

Something of this triumphant feeling showed in his mien and in his face
as he plunged into the crowded life of the city. From the time he passed
into the throng that streamed up the long platforms of the station and
poured into the wide ferry-boats, like grain pouring through a mill, he
felt the thrill of the life. This was what he had striven for. He would
take his place here and show what was in him.

He had forgotten how gay the city life was. Every place of public resort
pleased him: theatres, hotels, beer-gardens; but best of all the
streets. He took them all in with absolute freedom and delight.

Business was the watchword, the trade-mark. It buzzed everywhere, from
the Battery to the Park. It thronged the streets, pulsating through the
outlets and inlets at ferries and railway-stations and crossings, and
through the great buildings that were already beginning to tower in the
business sections. It hummed in the chief centres. And through it all
and beyond it all shone opulence, opulence gilded and gleaming and
dazzling in its glitter: in the big hotels; in the rich shops; in the
gaudy theatres; along the fine avenues: a display of wealth to make the
eyes ache; an exhibition of riches never seen before. It did Keith good
at first just to stand in the street and watch the pageant as it passed
like a gilded panorama. Of the inner New York he did not yet know: the
New York of luxurious homes; of culture and of art; of refinement and
elegance. The New York that has grown up since, with its vast wealth,
its brazen glitter, its tides that roll up riches as the sea rolls up
the sand, was not yet. It was still in its infancy, a chrysalis as yet
sleeping within its golden cocoon.

Keith had no idea there were so many handsome and stylish young women in
the world as he now saw. He had forgotten how handsome the American girl
is in her best appointment. They sailed down the avenue looking as fine
as young fillies at a show, or streamed through the best shopping
streets as though not only the shops, but the world belonged to them,
and it were no longer the meek, but the proud, that inherit the earth.

If in the throngs on the streets there were often marked contrasts,
Keith was too exhilarated to remark it--at least, at first. If women
with worn faces and garments unduly thin in the frosty air, carrying
large bundles in their pinched hands, hurried by as though hungry, not
only for food, but for time in which to earn food; if sad-eyed men with
hollow cheeks, sunken chests, and threadbare clothes shambled eagerly
along, he failed to note them in his first keen enjoyment of the
pageant. Old clothes meant nothing where he came from; they might be the
badge of perilous enterprise and well-paid industry, and food and fire
were at least common to all.

Keith, indeed, moved about almost in a trance, absorbing and enjoying
the sights. It was Humanity in flood; Life at full tide.

Many a woman and not a few men turned to take a second look at the
tanned, eager face and straight, supple figure, as, with smiling, yet
keen eyes, he stalked along with the free, swinging gait caught on the
mountains, so different from the quick, short steps of the city man.
Beggars, and some who from their look and apparel might not have been
beggars, applied to him so often that he said to one of them, a fairly
well-dressed man with a nose of a slightly red tinge:

"Well, I must have a very benevolent face or a very credulous one!"

"You have," said the man, with brazen frankness, pocketing the
half-dollar given him on his tale of a picked pocket and a remittance
that had gone wrong.

Keith laughed and passed on.

Meantime, Keith was making some discoveries. He did not at first call on
Norman Wentworth. He had a feeling that it might appear as if he were
using his friendship for a commercial purpose. He presented his business
letters. His letters, however, failed to have the weight he had
expected. The persons whom he had met down in New Leeds, during their
brief visits there, were, somehow, very different when met in New York.
Some whom he called on were civil enough to him; but as soon as he
broached his business they froze up. The suggestion that he had
coal-property to sell sent them down to zero. Their eyes would glint
with a shrewd light and their faces harden into ice. One or two told him
plainly that they had no money to embark in "wild-cat schemes."

Mr. Creamer of Creamer, Crustback & Company, Capitalists, a tall,
broad-shouldered man, with a strongly cut nose and chin and keen, gray
eyes, that, through long habitude, weighed chances with an infallible
appraisement, to whom Keith had a letter from an acquaintance, one of
those casual letters that mean anything or nothing, informed him frankly
that he had "neither time nor inclination to discuss enterprises,
ninety-nine out of every hundred of which were frauds, and the hundredth
generally a failure."

"This is not a fraud," said Keith, hotly, rising. "I do not indorse
frauds, sir." He began to draw on his gloves. "If I cannot satisfy any
reasonable man of the fact I state, I am willing to fail. I ought to
fail." With a bow, he turned to the door.

Something in Keith's assurance went further with the shrewd-eyed
capitalist than his politeness had done. He shot a swift glance as he
was retiring toward the door.

"Why didn't Wickersham make money down there?" he demanded, half in
query, half in denial, gazing keenly over his gold-rimmed glasses. "He
usually makes money, even if others lose it."

Mr. Creamer had his own reasons for not liking Wickersham.

Keith was standing at the door.

"For two or three reasons. One was that he underestimated the people who
live down there, and thought he could force them into selling him their
lands, and so lost the best properties there."

"The lands you have, I suppose?" said the banker, looking again at Keith
quickly.

"Yes, the lands I have, though you don't believe it," said Keith,
looking him calmly in the eyes.

The banker was gazing at the young man ironically; but, as he observed
him, his credulity began to give way.

That stamp of truth which men recognize was written on him unmistakably.
Mr. Creamer's mind worked quickly.

"By the way, you came from down there. Did you know a young man named
Rhodes? He was an engineer. Went over the line."

Keith's eyes brightened. "He is one of my best friends. He is in Russia
now."

Mr. Creamer nodded. "What do you think of him?"

"He is one of the best."

Mr. Creamer nodded. He did not think it necessary to tell Keith that
Rhodes was paying his addresses to his daughter.

"You write to him," said Keith. "He will tell you just what I have. Tell
him they are the Rawson lands."

Keith opened the door. "Good morning, sir."

"One moment!" Mr. Creamer leaned back in his chair. "Whom else do you
know here?" he asked after a second.

Keith reflected a moment.

"I know Mr. Wentworth."

"Norman Wentworth?"

"Yes; I know him very well. He is an old friend of mine."

"Have you been to him?"

"No, sir."

"Why not?"

"Because my relations with him are entirely personal. We used to be warm
friends, and I did not wish to use his friendship for me as a ground on
which to approach him in a commercial enterprise."

Mr. Creamer's countenance expressed more incredulity than he intended to
show.

"He might feel under obligations to do for me what he would not be
inclined to do otherwise," Keith explained.

"Oh, I don't think you need have any apprehension on that score," Mr.
Creamer said, with a glint of amusement in his eyes. "It is a matter of
business, and I don't think you will find business men here overstepping
the bounds of prudence from motives of sentiment."

"There is no man whom I would rather have go into it with me; but I
shall not ask him to do it, for the reason I have given. Good morning."

The banker did not take his eyes from the door until the sound of
Keith's steps had died away through his outer office. Then he reflected
for a moment. Presently he touched a bell, and a clerk appeared in
the door.

"Write a note to Mr. Norman Wentworth and ask him to drop in to see
me--any time this afternoon."

"Yes, sir."

When Norman Wentworth called at Mr. Creamer's office he found the
financier in a good humor. The market had gone well of late, and Mr.
Creamer's moods were not altogether unlike the mercury. His greeting was
more cordial than usual. After a brief discussion of recent events, he
pushed a card across to his visitor and asked casually:

"What do you know about that man?"

"Gordon Keith!" exclaimed the younger man, in surprise. "Is he in New
York, and I have not seen him! Why, I know all about him. He used to be
an old friend of mine. We were boys together ever so long ago."

He went on to speak warmly of him.

"Well, that was long ago," said Mr. Creamer, doubtfully. "Many things
have happened in that time. He has had time to change."

"He must have changed a good deal if he is not straight," declared
Norman. "I wonder why he has not been to see me?"

"Well, I'll tell you what he said," began Mr. Creamer.

He gave Keith's explanation.

"Did he say that? Then it's true. You ought to know his father. He is a
regular old Don Quixote."

"The Don was not particularly practical. He would not have done much
with coal and iron lands," observed the banker. "What do you know about
this man's knowledge of such things?"

Norman admitted that on this point he had no information.

"He says he knows Wickersham--your friend," said Mr. Creamer, with a sly
look at Norman.

"Yes, I expect he does--if any one knows him. He used to know him. What
does he say of him?"

"Oh, I think he knows him. Well, I am much obliged to you for coming
around," he said in a tone of dismissal. "You are coming to dine with us
soon, I believe? The Lancasters are coming, too. And we expect Rhodes
home. He's due next week."

"One member of your family will be glad to see him," said Norman,
smiling. "The wedding is to take place in a few weeks, I believe?"

"I hear so," said the father. "Fine young man, Rhodes? Your cousin,
isn't he? Been very successful?"