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Donald Finkel, a noted American poet whose work teemed with curious juxtapositions, which in their unorthodoxy helped illuminate the function of poetry itself, died on Nov. 15 at his home in St. Louis. He was 79. The cause was complications of Alzheimers

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Gordon Keith written by Thomas Nelson Page

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"You are not going to take Mr. Keith up-stairs!" exclaimed his wife.
"Remember, Mr. Keith may not share your enthusiasm."

"Wait until he sees the apology. Come along, Keith." He drew Keith
toward the door.

"But, Norman, I don't think--" began Mrs. Wentworth. What she did not
think was lost to the two men; for Norman, not heeding her, had, with
the eagerness of a boy, dragged his visitor out of the door and started
up the stairs, telling him volubly of the treat that was in store for
him in the perfections of a certain small young gentleman who had been
responsible for his tardiness in appearing below.

When Norman threw back a silken portiere up-stairs and flung open a
door, the scene that greeted Keith was one that made him agree that
Norman was fully justified. A yellow-haired boy was rolling on the
floor, kicking up his little pink legs in all the abandon of his years,
while a blue-eyed little girl was sitting in a nurse's lap, making
strenuous efforts to join her brother on the floor.

At sight of his father, the boy, with a whoop, scrambled to his feet,
and, with outstretched arms and open mouth, showing all his little white
teeth, made a rush for him, while the young lady suddenly changed her
efforts to descend, and began to jump up and down in a frantic ecstasy
of delight.

Norman gathered the boy up, and as soon as he could disentwine his
little arms from about his neck, turned him toward Keith. The child gave
the stranger one of those calm, scrutinizing looks that children give,
and then, his face suddenly breaking into a smile, with a rippling laugh
of good-comradeship, he sprang into Keith's outstretched arms. That
gentleman's necktie was in danger of undergoing the same damaging
process that had incurred Mrs. Norman's criticism, when the youngster
discovered that lady herself, standing at the door. Scrambling down from
his perch on Keith's shoulder, the boy, with a shout, rushed toward his
mother. Mrs. Wentworth, with a little shriek, stopped him and held him
off from her; she could not permit him to disarrange her toilet; her
coiffure had cost too much thought; but the pair were evidently on terms
of good-fellowship, and the light in the mother's eyes even as she
restrained the boy's attempt at caresses changed her, and gave Keith a
new insight into her character.

Keith and the hostess returned to the drawing-room before Norman, and
she was no longer the professional beauty, the cold woman of the world,
the mere fashionable hostess. The doors were flung open more than once
as Keith talked warmly of the boy, and within Keith got glimpses of what
was hidden there, which made him rejoice again that his friend had such
a treasure. These glimpses of unexpected softness drew him nearer to her
than he had ever expected to be, and on his part he talked to her with a
frankness and earnestness which sank deep into her mind, and opened the
way to a warmer friendship than she usually gave.

"Norman is right," she said to herself. "This is a man."

At the thought a light flashed upon her. It suddenly came to her.

This is "the ghost"! Yet could it be possible? She solved the question
quickly.

"Mr. Keith, did you ever know Alice Lancaster?"

"Alice Lancaster--?" For a bare second he looked puzzled. "Oh, Miss
Alice Yorke? Yes, a long time ago." He was conscious that his expression
had changed. So he added: "I used to know her very well."

"Decidedly, this is the ghost," reflected Mrs. Wentworth to herself, as
she scanned anew Keith's strong features and sinewy frame. "Alice said
if a woman had ever seen him, she would not be likely to forget him,
and I think she was right."

"Why do you ask me?" inquired Keith, who had now quite recovered from
his little confusion. "Of course, you know her?"

"Yes, very well. We were at school together. She is my best friend,
almost." She shut her mouth as firmly as though this were the last
sentence she ever proposed to utter; but her eyes, as they rested on
Keith's face, had the least twinkle in them. Keith did not know how much
of their old affair had been told her, but she evidently knew something,
and it was necessary to show her that he had recovered from it long ago
and yet retained a friendly feeling for Mrs. Lancaster.

"She was an old sweetheart of mine long ago; that is, I used to think
myself desperately in love with her a hundred years ago or so, before
she was married--and I was, too," he added.

He gained not the least idea of the impression this made on Mrs.
Wentworth.

"She was talking to me about you only the other day," she said casually.

Keith again made a feint to open her defence.

"I hope she said kind things about me? I deserve some kindness at her
hands, for I have only pleasant memories of her."

"I wonder what he means by that?" questioned Mrs. Wentworth to herself,
and then added:

"Oh, yes; she did. Indeed, she was almost enthusiastic about
your--friendship." Her eyes scanned his face lightly.

"Has she fulfilled the promise of beauty that she gave as a school-girl?
I used to think her one of the most beautiful creatures in the world;
but I don't know that I was capable of judging at that time," he added,
with a smile, "for I remember I was quite desperate about her for a
little while." He tried to speak naturally.

Mrs. Wentworth's eyes rested on his face for a moment.

"Why, yes; many think her much handsomer than she ever was. She is one
of the married beauties, you know." Her eyes just swept Keith's face.

"She was also one of the sweetest girls I ever knew," Keith said, moved
for some reason to add this tribute.

"Well, I don't know that every one would call her that. Indeed, I am not
quite sure that I should call her that myself always; but she can be
sweet. My children adore her, and I think that is always a good sign."

"Undoubtedly. They judge correctly, because directly."

The picture of a young girl in a riding-habit kneeling in the dust with
a chubby, little, ragged child in her arms flashed before Keith's mental
vision. And he almost gave a gasp.

"Is she married happily?'" he asked "I hope she is happy."

"Oh, as happy as the day is long," declared Mrs. Wentworth, cheerfully.
Deep down in her eyes was a wicked twinkle of malice. Her face wore a
look of content. "He is not altogether indifferent yet," she said to
herself. And when Keith said firmly that he was very glad to hear it,
she did him the honor to disbelieve him.

"Of course, you know that Mr. Lancaster is a good deal older than
Alice?"

Yes, Keith had heard so.

"But a charming man, and immensely rich."

"Yes." Keith began to look grim.

"Aren't you going to see here?" inquired Mrs. Wentworth, finding that
Keith was not prepared to say any more on the subject.

Keith said he should like to do so very much. He hoped to see her before
going away; but he could not tell.

"She is married now, and must be so taken up with her new duties that I
fear she would hardly remember me," he added, with a laugh. "I don't
think I ever made much impression on her."

"Alice Yorke is not one to forget her friends. Why, she spoke of you
with real friendship," she said, smiling, thinking to herself, Alice
likes him, and he is still in love with her. This begins to be
interesting.

"A woman does not have to give up all her friends when she marries?" she
added, with her eyes on Keith.

Keith smiled.

"Oh, no; only her lovers, unless they turn into friends."

"Of course, those," said Mrs. Wentworth, who, after a moment's
reflection, added, "They don't always do that. Do you believe a woman
ever forgets entirely a man she has really loved?"

"She does if she is happily married and if she is wise."

"But all women are not happily married."

"And, perhaps, all are not wise," said Keith.

Some association of ideas led him to say suddenly:

"Tell me something about Ferdy Wickersham. He was one of your ushers,
wasn't he?" He was surprised to see Mrs. Wentworth's countenance change.
Her eyelids closed suddenly as if a glare were turned unexpectedly on
them, and she caught her breath.

"Yes--I have known him since we were children. Of course, you know he
was desperately in love with Alice Lancaster?"

Keith said he had heard something of the kind.

"He still likes her."

"She is married," said Keith, decisively.

"Yes."

A moment later Mrs. Wentworth drew a long breath and moistened her lips.

"You knew him at the same time that you first knew Norman, did you not?"
She was simply figuring for time.

"Yes, I met him first then," said Keith.

"Don't you think Ferdy has changed since he was a boy?" she demanded
after a moment's reflection.

"How do you mean?" Keith was feeling very uncomfortable, and, to save
himself an answer, plunged along:

"Of course he has changed." He did not say how, nor did he give Mrs.
Wentworth time to explain herself. "I will tell you one thing, though,"
he said earnestly: "he never was worthy to loose the latchet of your
husband's shoe."

Mrs. Wentworth's face changed again; she glanced down for a second, and
then said:

"You and Norman have a mutual admiration society."

"We have been friends a long time," said Keith, thoughtfully.

"But even that does not always count for so much. Friendships seem so
easily broken these days."

"Because there are so few Norman Wentworths. That man is blessed who has
such a friend," said the young man, earnestly.

Mrs. Wentworth looked at him with a curious light in her eyes, and as
she gazed her face grew more thoughtful. Then, as Norman reappeared she
changed the subject abruptly.

After dinner, while they were smoking, Norman made Keith tell him of his
coal-lands and the business that had brought him to New York. To Keith's
surprise, he seemed to know something of it already.

"You should have come to me at first," he said. "I might, at least, have
been able to counteract somewhat the adverse influence that has been
working against you." His brow clouded a little.

"Wickersham appears to be quite a personage here. I wonder he has not
been found out," said Keith after a little reverie.

Norman shifted slightly in his chair. "Oh, he is not worth bothering
about. Give me your lay-out now."

Keith put him in possession of the facts, and he became deeply
interested. He had, indeed, a dual motive: one of friendship for Keith;
the other he as yet hardly confessed even to himself.

The next day Keith met Norman by appointment and gave him his papers.
And a day or two afterwards he met a number of his friends at lunch.

They were capitalists and, if General Keith's old dictum, that gentlemen
never discussed money at table, was sound, they would scarcely have met
his requirement; for the talk was almost entirely of money. When they
rose from the table, Keith, as he afterwards told Norman, felt like a
squeezed orange. The friendliest man to him was Mr. Yorke, whom Keith
found to be a jovial, sensible little man with kindly blue eyes and a
humorous mouth. His chief cross-examiner was a Mr. Kestrel, a
narrow-faced, parchment-skinned man with a thin white moustache that
looked as if it had led a starved existence on his bloodless lip.

"Those people down there are opposed to progress," he said, buttoning up
his pockets in a way he had, as if he were afraid of having them picked.
"I guess the Wickershams have found that out. I don't see any money
in it."

"It is strange that Kestrel doesn't see money in this," said Mr. Yorke,
with a twinkle in his eye; "for he usually sees money in everything. I
guess there were other reasons than want of progress for the Wickershams
not paying dividends."

A few days later Norman informed Keith that the money was nearly all
subscribed; but Keith did not know until afterwards how warmly he had
indorsed him.

"You said something about sheep the other day; well, a sheep is a
solitary and unsocial animal to a city-man with money to invest. My
grandfather's man used to tell me: 'Sheep is kind of gregarious, Mr.
Norman. Coax the first one through and you can't keep the others out.'
Even Kestrel is jumping to get in."



CHAPTER XVIII

MRS. LANCASTER

Keith had not yet met Mrs. Lancaster. He meant to call on her before
leaving town; for he would show her that he was successful, and also
that he had recovered. Also he wanted to see her, and in his heart was a
lurking hope that she might regret having lost him. A word that Mrs.
Wentworth had let fall the first evening he dined there had kept him
from calling before.

A few evenings later Keith was dining with the Norman Wentworths, and
after dinner Norman said:

"By the way, we are going to a ball to-night. Won't you come along? It
will really be worth seeing."

Keith, having no engagement, was about to accept, but he was aware that
Mrs. Wentworth, at her husband's words, had turned and given him a quick
look of scrutiny, that swept him from the top of his head to the toe
of his boot.

He had had that swift glance of inspection sweep him up and down many
times of late, in business offices. The look, however, appeared to
satisfy his hostess; for after a bare pause she seconded her husband's
invitation.

That pause had given Keith time to reflect, and he declined to go. But
Norman, too, had seen the glance his wife had given, and he urged his
acceptance so warmly and with such real sincerity that finally
Keith yielded.

"This is not one of _the_ balls," said Norman, laughingly. "It is only
_a_ ball, one of our subscription dances, so you need have no scruples
about going along."

Keith looked a little mystified.

"Mrs. Creamer's balls are _the_ balls, my dear fellow. There, in
general, only the rich and the noble enter--rich in prospect and noble
in title--"

"Norman, how can you talk so!" exclaimed Mrs. Wentworth, with some
impatience. "You know better than that. Mrs. Creamer has always been
particularly kind to us. Why, she asks me to receive with her
every winter."

But Norman was in a bantering mood. "Am not I rich and you noble?" he
laughed. "Do you suppose, my dear, that Mrs. Creamer would ask you to
receive with her if we lived two or three squares off Fifth Avenue? It
is as hard for a poor man to enter Mrs. Creamer's house as for a camel
to pass through the needle's eye. Her motions are sidereal and her orbit
is as regulated as that of a planet."

Mrs. Wentworth protested.

"Why, she has all sorts of people at her house--!"

"Except the unsuccessful. Even planets have a little eccentricity of
orbit."

An hour or two later Keith found himself in such a scene of radiance as
he had never witnessed before in all his life. Though, as Norman had
said, it was not one of the great balls, to be present at it was in some
sort a proof of one's social position and possibly of one's pecuniary
condition.

Keith was conscious of that same feeling of novelty and exhilaration
that had come over him when he first arrived in the city. It came upon
him when he first stepped from the cool outer air into the warm
atmosphere of the brilliantly lighted building and stood among the young
men, all perfectly dressed and appointed, and almost as similar as the
checks they were receiving from the busy servants in the cloak-room. The
feeling grew stronger as he mounted the wide marble stairway to the
broad landing, which was a bower of palms and flowers, with handsome
women passing in and out like birds in gorgeous plumage, and gay voices
sounding in his ears. It swept over him like a flood when he entered the
spacious ball-room and gazed upon the dazzling scene before him.

"This is Aladdin's palace," he declared as he stood looking across the
large ball-room. "The Arabian Nights have surely come again."

Mrs. Wentworth, immediately after presenting Keith to one or two ladies
who were receiving, had been met and borne off by Ferdy Wickersham, and
was in the throng at the far end of the great apartment, and some one
had stopped Norman on the stairway. So Keith was left for a moment
standing alone just inside the door. He had a sense of being charmed.
Later, he tried to account for it. Was it the sight before him? Even
such perfect harmony of color could hardly have done it. It must be the
dazzling radiance of youth that almost made his eyes ache with its
beauty. Perhaps, it was the strain of the band hidden in the gallery
among those palms. The waltz music that floated down always set him
swinging back in the land of memory. He stood for a moment quite
entranced. Then he was suddenly conscious of being lonely. In all the
throng before him he could not see one soul that he knew. His friends
were far away.

Suddenly the wheezy strains of the fiddles and the blare of the horns in
the big dining-room of the old Windsor back in the mountains sounded in
his ears, and the motley but gay and joyous throng that tramped and
capered and swung over the rough boards, setting the floor to swinging
and the room to swaying, swam in a dim mist before his eyes. Girls in
ribbons so gay that they almost made the eyes ache, faces flushed with
the excitement and joy of the dance; smiling faces, snowy teeth,
dishevelled hair, tarlatan dresses, green and pink and white; ringing
laughter and whoops of real merriment--all passed before his senses.

As he stood looking on the scene of splendor, he felt lost, lonely, and
for a moment homesick. Here all was formal, stiff repressed; that gayety
was real, that merriment was sincere. With all their crudeness, those
people in that condition were all human, hearty, strong, real. He
wondered if refinement and elegance meant necessarily a suppression of
all these. There, men came not only to enjoy but to make others enjoy as
well. No stranger could have stood a moment alone without some one
stepping to his side and drawing him into a friendly talk. This mood
soon changed.

Still, standing alone near the door waiting for Norman to appear, Keith
found entertainment watching the groups, the splendidly dressed women,
clustered here and there or moving about inspecting or speaking to each
other. One figure at the far end of the room attracted his eye again and
again. She was standing with her back partly toward him, but he knew
that she was a pretty woman as well as a handsome one, though he saw her
face only in profile, and she was too far off for him to see it very
well. Her hair was arranged simply; her head was set beautifully on her
shoulders. She was dressed in black, the bodice covered with spangles
that with her slightest movement shimmered and reflected the light like
a coat of flexible mail. A number of men were standing about her, and
many women, as they passed, held out their hands to her in the way that
ladies of fashion have. Keith saw Mrs. Wentworth approach her, and a
very animated conversation appeared to take place between them, and the
lady in black turned quickly and gazed about the room; then Mrs.
Wentworth started to move away, but the other caught and held her,
asking her something eagerly. Mrs. Wentworth must have refused to
answer, for she followed her a few steps; but Mrs. Wentworth simply
waved her hand to her and swept away with her escort, laughing back at
her over her shoulder.

Keith made his way around the room toward Mrs. Wentworth. There was
something about the young lady in black which reminded him of a girl he
had once seen standing straight and defiant, yet very charming, in a
woodland path under arching pine-boughs. Just then, however, a waltz
struck up and Mrs. Wentworth began to dance, so Keith stood leaning
against the wall. Presently a member of a group of young men near
Keith said:

"The Lancaster looks well to-night."

"She does. The old man's at home, Ferdy's on deck."

"Ferdy be dashed! Besides, where is Mrs. Went--?"

"Don't lay any money on that."

"She's all right. Try to say anything to her and you'll find out."

The others laughed; and one of them asked:

"Been trying yourself, Stirling?"

"No. I know better, Minturn."

"Why doesn't she shake Ferdy then?" demanded the other. "He's always
hanging around when he isn't around the other."

"Oh, they have been friends all their lives. She is not going to give up
a friend, especially when others are getting down on him. Can't you
allow anything to friendship?"

"Ferdy's friendship is pretty expensive," said his friend,
sententiously.

Keith took a glance at the speakers to see if he could by following
their gaze place Mrs. Lancaster. The one who defended the lady was a
jolly-looking man with a merry eye and a humorous mouth. The other two
were as much alike as their neckties, their collars, their shirt-fronts,
their dress-suits, or their shoes, in which none but a tailor could have
discovered the least point of difference. Their cheeks were smooth,
their chins were round, their hair as perfectly parted and brushed as a
barber's. Keith had an impression that he had seen them just before on
the other side of the room, talking to the lady in black; but as he
looked across, he saw the other young men still there, and there were
yet others elsewhere. At the first glance they nearly all looked alike.
Just then he became conscious that a couple had stopped close beside
him. He glanced at them; the lady was the same to whom he had seen Mrs.
Wentworth speaking at the other end of the room. Her face was turned
away, and all he saw was an almost perfect figure with shoulders that
looked dazzling in contrast with her shimmering black gown. A single
red rose was stuck in her hair. He was waiting to get a look at her
face, when she turned toward him.

[Illustration: "Why, Mr. Keith!" she exclaimed.]

"Why, Mr. Keith!" she exclaimed, her blue eyes open wide with surprise.
She held out her hand. "I don't believe you know me?"

"Then you must shut your eyes," said Keith, smiling his pleasure.

"I don't believe I should have known you? Yes, I should; I should have
known you anywhere."

"Perhaps, I have not changed so much," smiled Keith.

She gave him just the ghost of a glance out of her blue eyes.

"I don't know. Have you been carrying any sacks of salt lately?" She
assumed a lighter air.

"No; but heavier burdens still."

"Are you married?"

Keith laughed.

"No; not so heavy as that--yet."

"So heavy as that _yet_! Oh, you are engaged?"

"No; not engaged either--except engaged in trying to make a lot of
people who think they know everything understand that there are a few
things that they don't know."

"That is a difficult task," she said, shaking her head, "if you try it
in New York."

"'John P. Robinson, he
Says they don't know everything down in Judee,'"

put in the stout young man who had been standing by waiting to speak to
her.

"But this isn't Judee yet," she laughed, "for I assure you we do know
everything here, Mr. Keith." She held out her hand to the gentleman who
had spoken, and after greeting him introduced him to Keith as "Mr.
Stirling."

"You ought to like each other," she said cordially.

Keith professed his readiness to do so.

"I don't know about that," said Stirling, jovially. "You are too
friendly to him."

"What are you doing? Where are you staying? How long are you going to be
in town?" demanded Mrs. Lancaster, turning to Keith.

"Mining.--At the Brunswick.--Only a day or two," said Keith, laughing.

"Mining? Gold-mining?"

"No; not yet."

"Where?"

"Down South at a place called New Leeds. It's near the place where I
used to teach. It's a great city. Why, we think New York is jealous
of us."

"Oh, I know about that. A friend of mine put a little money down there
for me. You know him? Ferdy Wickersham?"

"Yes, I know him."

"Most of us know him," observed Mr. Stirling, turning his eyes on Keith.

"Of course, you must know him. Are you in with him? He tells me that
they own pretty much everything that is good in that region. They are
about to open a new mine that is to exceed anything ever known. Ferdy
tells me I am good for I don't know how much. The stock is to be put on
the exchange in a little while, and I got in on the ground-floor. That's
what they call it--the lowest floor of all, you know.

"Yes; some people call it the ground-floor," said Keith, wishing to
change the subject.

"You know there may be a cellar under a ground-floor," observed Mr.
Stirling, demurely.

Keith looked at him, and their eyes met.

Fortunately, perhaps, for Keith, some one came up just then and claimed
a dance with Mrs. Lancaster. She moved away, and then turned back.

"I shall see you again?"

"Yes. Why, I hope so-certainly."

She stopped and looked at him.

"When are you going away?"

"Why, I don't exactly know. Very soon. Perhaps, in a day or two."

"Well, won't you come to see us? Here, I will give you my address. Have
you a card?" She took the pencil he offered her and wrote her number on
it. "Come some afternoon--about six; Mr. Lancaster is always in then,"
she said sedately. "I am sure you will like each other." Keith bowed.

She floated off smiling. What she had said to Mrs. Wentworth occurred to
her.

"Yes; he looks like a man." She became conscious that her companion was
asking a question.

"What is the matter with you?" he said. "I have asked you three times
who that man was, and you have not said a word."