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"Oh, I beg your pardon. Mr. Keith, an old friend of mine," she said, and
changed the subject.

As to her old friend, he was watching her as she danced, winding in and
out among the intervening couples. He wondered that he could ever have
thought that a creature like that could care for him and share his hard
life. He might as soon have expected a bird-of-paradise to live by
choice in a coal-bunker.

He strolled about, looking at the handsome women, and presently found
himself in the conservatory. Turning a clump, of palms, he came on Mrs.
Wentworth and Mr. Wickersham sitting together talking earnestly. Keith
was about to go up and speak to Mrs. Wentworth, but her escort said
something under his breath to her, and she looked away. So Keith
passed on.

A little later, Keith went over to where Mrs. Lancaster stood. Several
men were about her, and just after Keith Joined her, another man walked
up, if any movement so lazy and sauntering could be termed walking.

"I have been wondering why I did not see you," he drawled as he came up.

Keith recognized the voice of Ferdy Wickersham. He turned and faced him;
but if Mr. Wickersham was aware of his presence, he gave no sign of it.
His dark eyes were on Mrs. Lancaster. She turned to him.

"Perhaps, Ferdinand, it was because you did not use your eyes. That is
not ordinarily a fault of yours."

"I never think of my eyes when yours are present," said he, lazily.

"Oh, don't you?" laughed Mrs. Lancaster. "What were you doing a little
while ago in the conservatory--with--?"

"Nothing. I have not been in the conservatory this evening. You have
paid some one else a compliment."

"Tell that to some one who does not use her eyes," said Mrs. Lancaster,
mockingly.

"There are occasions when you must disbelieve the sight of your eyes."
He was looking her steadily in the face, and Keith saw her expression
change. She recovered herself.

"Last time I saw you, you vowed you had eyes for none but me, you may
remember?" she said lightly.

"No. Did I? Life is too awfully short to remember. But it is true. It is
the present in which I find my pleasure."

Up to this time neither Mrs. Lancaster nor Mr. Wickersham had taken any
notice of Keith, who stood a little to one side, waiting, with his eyes
resting on the other young man's face. Mrs. Lancaster now turned.

"Oh, Mr. Keith." She now turned back to Mr. Wickersham. "You know Mr.
Keith?"

Keith was about to step forward to greet his old acquaintance; but
Wickersham barely nodded.

"Ah, how do you do? Yes, I know Mr. Keith.--If I can take care of the
present, I let the past and the future take care of themselves," he
continued to Mrs. Lancaster. "Come and have a turn. That will make the
present worth all of the past."

"Ferdy, you are discreet," said one of the other men, with a laugh.

"My dear fellow," said the young man, turning, "I assure you, you don't
know half my virtues."

"What are your virtues, Ferdy?"

"One is not interfering with others." He turned back to Mrs. Lancaster.
"Come, have a turn." He took one of his hands from his pocket and
held it out.

"I am engaged," said Mrs. Lancaster.

"Oh, that makes no difference. You are always engaged; come," he said.

"I beg your pardon. It makes a difference in _this_ case," said Keith,
coming forward. "I believe this is my turn, Mrs. Lancaster?"

Wickersham's glance swept across, but did not rest on him, though it was
enough for Keith to meet it for a second, and, without looking, the
young man turned lazily away.

"Shall we find a seat?" Mrs. Lancaster asked as she took Keith's arm.

"Delighted, unless you prefer to dance."

"I did not know that dancing was one of your accomplishments," she said
as they strolled along.

"Maybe, I have acquired several accomplishments that you do not know of.
It has been a long time since you knew me," he answered lightly. As they
turned, his eyes fell on Wickersham. He was standing where they had left
him, his eyes fastened on them malevolently. As Keith looked he started
and turned away. Mrs. Lancaster had also seen him.

"What is there between you and Ferdy?" she asked.

"Nothing."

"There must be. Did you ever have a row with him?"

"Yes; but that was long ago."

"I don't know. He has a good memory. He doesn't like you." She spoke
reflectively.

"Doesn't he?" laughed Keith. "Well, I must try and sustain it as best I
can."

"And you don't like him? Few men like him. I wonder why that is?"

"And many women?" questioned Keith, as for a moment he recalled Mrs.
Wentworth's face when he spoke of him.

"Some women," she corrected, with a quick glance at him. She reflected,
and then went on: "I think it is partly because he is so bold and partly
that he never appears to know any one else. It is the most insidious
flattery in the world. I like him because I have known him all my life.
I know him perfectly."

"Yes?" Keith spoke politely.

She read his thought. "You wonder if I really know him? Yes, I do. But,
somehow, I cling to those I knew in my girlhood. You don't believe that,
but I do." She glanced at him and then looked away.

"Yes, I do believe it. Then let's be friends--old friends," said Keith.
He held out his hand, and when she took it grasped hers firmly.

"Who is here with you to-night?" he asked.

"No one. Mr. Lancaster does not care for balls."

"Won't you give me the pleasure of seeing you home?" She hesitated for a
moment, and then said:

"I will drop you at your hotel. It is right on my way home."

Just then some one came up and joined the group.

"Ah, my dear Mrs. Lancaster! How well you are looking this evening!"

The full voice, no less than the words, sounded familiar to Keith, and
turning, he recognized the young clergyman whom he had met at Mrs.
Wentworth's when he passed through New York some years before. The years
had plainly used Mr. Rimmon well. He was dressed in an evening suit with
a clerical waistcoat which showed that his plump frame had taken on an
extra layer, and a double chin was beginning to rest on his collar.

Mrs. Lancaster smiled as she returned his greeting.

"You are my stand-by, Mr. Rimmon. I always know that, no matter what
others may say of me, I shall be sure of at least one compliment before
the evening is over if you are present."

"That is because you always deserve it." He put his head on one side
like an aldermanic robin. "Ah, if you knew how many compliments I do pay
you which you never hear! My entire life is a compliment to you,"
declared Mr. Rimmon.

"Not your entire life, Mr. Rimmon. You are like some other men. You
confound me with some one else; for I am sure I heard you saying the
same thing five minutes ago to Louise Wentworth."

"Impossible. Then I must have confounded her with you," sighed Mr.
Rimmon, with such a look at Mrs. Lancaster out of his languishing eyes
that she gave him a laughing tap with her fan.

"Go and practise that on a debutante. I am an old married woman,
remember."

"Ah, me!" sighed the gentleman. "'Marriage and Death and Division make
barren our lives.'"

"Where does that come from?" asked Mrs. Lancaster.

"Ah! from--ah--" began Mr. Rimmon, then catching Keith's eyes resting on
him with an amused look in them, he turned red.

She addressed Keith. "Mr. Keith, you quoted that to me once; where does
it come from? From the Bible?"

"No."

"I read it in the newspaper and was so struck by it that I remembered
it," said Mr. Rimmon.

"I read it in 'Laus Veneris,'" said Keith, dryly, with his eyes on the
other's face. It pleased him to see it redden.

Keith, as he passed through the rooms, caught sight of an old lady over
in a corner. He could scarcely believe his senses; it was Miss Abigail.
She was sitting back against the wall, watching the crowd with eyes as
sharp as needles. Sometimes her thin lips twitched, and her bright eyes
snapped with inward amusement. Keith made his way over to her. She was
so much engaged that he stood beside her a moment without her seeing
him. Then she turned and glanced at him.

"'A chiel's amang ye takin' notes,'" he said, laughing and holding out
his hand.

"'An', faith! she'll prent 'em,'" she answered, with a nod. "How are
you? I am glad to see you. I was just wishing I had somebody to enjoy
this with me, but not a man. I ought to be gone; and so ought you, young
man. I started, but I thought if I could get in a corner by myself where
there were no men I might stay a little while and look at it; for I
certainly never saw anything like this before, and I don't think I ever
shall again. I certainly do not think you ought to see it."

Keith laughed, and she continued:

"I knew things had changed since I was a girl; but I didn't know it was
as bad as this. Why, I don't think it ought to be allowed."

"What?" asked Keith.

"This." She waved her hand to include the dancing throng before them.
"They tell me all those women dancing around there are married."

"I believe many of them are."

"Why don't those young women have partners?"

"Why, some of them do. I suppose the others are not attractive enough,
or something."

"Especially _something_," said the old lady. "Where are their husbands?"

"Why, some of them are at home, and some are here."

"Where?" The old lady turned her eyes on a couple that sailed by her,
the man talking very earnestly to his companion, who was listening
breathlessly. "Is that her husband?"

"Well, no; that is not, I believe."

"No; I'll be bound it is not. You never saw a married man talking to his
wife in public in that way--unless they were talking about the last
month's bills. Why, it is perfectly brazen."

Keith laughed.

"Where is her husband?" she demanded, as Mrs. Wentworth floated by, a
vision of brocaded satin and lace and white shoulders, supported by
Ferdy Wickersham, who was talking earnestly and looking down into her
eyes languishingly.

"Oh, her husband is here."

"Well, he had better take her home to her little children. If ever I saw
a face that I distrusted it is that man's."

"Why, that is Ferdy Wickersham. He is one of the leaders of society. He
is considered quite an Adonis," observed Keith.

"And I don't think Adonis was a very proper person for a young woman
with children to be dancing with in attire in which only her husband
should see her." She shut her lips grimly. "I know him," she added. "I
know all about them for three generations. One of the misfortunes of age
is that when a person gets as old as I am she knows so much evil about
people. I knew that young man's grandfather when he was a worthy
mechanic. His wife was an uppish hussy who thought herself better than
her husband, and their daughter was a pretty girl with black eyes and
rosy cheeks. They sent her off to school, and after the first year or
two she never came back. She had got above them. Her father told me as
much. The old man cried about it. He said his wife thought it was all
right; that his girl had married a smart young fellow who was a clerk in
a bank; but that if he had a hundred other children he'd never teach
them any more than to read, write, and figure. And to think that her son
should be the Adonis dancing with my cousin Everett Wentworth's
daughter-in-law! Why, my Aunt Wentworth would rise from her grave if
she knew it!"

"Well, times have changed," said Keith, laughing. "You see they are as
good as anybody now."

"Not as good as anybody--you mean as rich as anybody."

"That amounts to about the same thing here, doesn't it?"

"I believe it does, here," said the old lady, with a sniff. "Well," she
said after a pause, "I think I will go back and tell Matilda what I have
seen. And if you are wise you will come with me, too. This is no place
for plain, country-bred people like you and me."

Keith, laughing, said he had an engagement, but he would like to have
the privilege of taking her home, and then he could return.

"With a married woman, I suppose? Yes, I will be bound it is," she added
as Keith nodded. "You see the danger of evil association. I shall write
to your father and tell him that the sooner he gets you out of New York
the better it will be for your morals and your manners. For you are the
only man, except Norman, who has been so provincial as to take notice of
an unknown old woman."

So she went chatting merrily down the stairway to her carriage, making
her observations on whatever she saw with the freshness of a girl.

"Do you think Norman is happy?" she suddenly asked Keith.

"Why--yes; don't you think so? He has everything on earth to make him
happy," said Keith, with some surprise. But even at the moment it
flitted across his mind that there was something which he had felt
rather than observed in Mrs. Wentworth's attitude toward her husband.

"Except that he has married a fool," said the old lady, briefly. "Don't
you marry a fool, you hear?"

"I believe she is devoted to Norman and to her children," Keith began,
but Miss Abigail interrupted him.

"And why shouldn't she be? Isn't she his wife? She gives him, perhaps,
what is left over after her devotion to herself, her house, her frocks,
her jewels, and--Adonis."

"Oh, I don't believe she cares for him," declared Keith. "It is
impossible."

"I don't believe she does either, but she cares for herself, and he
flatters her. The idea of a Norman-Wentworth's wife being flattered by
the attention of a tinker's grandson!"

When the ball broke up and Mrs. Lancaster's carriage was called, several
men escorted her to it. Wickersham, who was trying to recover ground
which something told him he had lost, followed her down the stairway
with one or two other men, and after she had entered the carriage stood
leaning in at the door while he made his adieus and peace at the
same moment.

"You were not always so cruel to me," he said in a low tone.

Mrs. Lancaster laughed genuinely.

"I was never cruel to you, Ferdy; you mistake leniency for harshness."

"No one else would say that to me."

"So much the more pity. You would be a better man if you had the truth
told you oftener."

"When did you become such an advocate of Truth? Is it this man?"

"What man?"

"Keith. If it is, I want to tell you that he is not what he pretends."

A change came over Mrs. Lancaster's face.

"He is a gentleman," she said coldly.

"Oh, is he? He was a stage-driver."

Mrs. Lancaster drew herself up.

"If he was--" she began. But she stopped suddenly, glanced beyond
Wickersham, and moved over to the further side of the carriage.

Just then a hand was laid on Wickersham's arm, and a voice behind him
said:

"I beg your pardon."

Wickersham knew the voice, and without looking around stood aside for
the speaker to make his adieus. Keith stepped into the carriage and
pulled to the door before the footman could close it.

At the sound the impatient horses started off, leaving three men
standing in the street looking very blank. Stirling was the first to
speak; he turned to the others in amazement.

"Who is Keith?" he demanded.

"Oh, a fellow from the South somewhere."

"Well, Keith knows his business!" said Mr. Stirling, with a nod of
genuine admiration.

Wickersham uttered an imprecation and turned back into the house.

Next day Mr. Stirling caught Wickersham in a group of young men at the
club, and told them the story.

"Look out for Keith," he said. "He gave me a lesson."

Wickersham growled an inaudible reply.

"Who was the lady? Wickersham tries to capture so many prizes, what you
say gives us no light," said Mr. Minturn, one of the men.

"Oh, no. I'll only tell you it's not the one you think," said the jolly
bachelor. "But I am going to take lessons of that man Keith. These
countrymen surprise me sometimes."

"He was a d----d stage-driver," said Wickersham.

"Then you had better take lessons from him, Ferdy," said Stirling. "He
drives well. He's a veteran."

When Keith reached his room he lit a cigar and flung himself into a
chair. Somehow, the evening had not left a pleasant impression on his
mind. Was this the Alice Yorke he had worshipped, revered? Was this the
woman whom he had canonized throughout these years? Why was she carrying
on an affair with Ferdy Wickersham? What did he mean by those last words
at the carriage? She said she knew him. Then she must know what his
reputation was. Now and then it came to Keith that it was nothing to
him. Mrs. Lancaster was married, and her affairs could not concern him.
But they did concern him. They had agreed to be old friends--old
friends. He would be a true friend to her.

He rose and threw away his half-smoked cigar.

Keith called on Mrs. Lancaster just before he left for the South. Though
he had no such motive when he put off his visit, he could not have done
a wiser thing. It was a novel experience for her to invite a man to call
on her and not have him jump at the proposal, appear promptly next day,
frock-coat, kid gloves, smooth flattery, and all; and when Keith had not
appeared on the third day after the ball, it set her to thinking. She
imagined at first that he must have been called out of town, but Mrs.
Norman, whom she met, dispelled this idea. Keith had dined with them
informally the evening before.

"He appeared to be in high spirits," added the lady. "His scheme has
succeeded, and he is about to go South. Norman took it up and put it
through for him."

"I know it," said Mrs. Lancaster, demurely.

Mrs. Wentworth's form stiffened slightly; but her manner soon became
gracious again. "Ferdy says there is nothing in it."

Could he be offended, or afraid--of himself? reflected Mrs. Lancaster.
Mrs. Wentworth's next observation disposed of this theory also. "You
ought to hear him talk of you. By the way, I have found out who that
ghost was."

Mrs. Lancaster threw a mask over her face.

"He says you have more than fulfilled the promise of your girlhood: that
you are the handsomest woman he has seen in New York, my dear," pursued
the other, looking down at her own shapely figure. "Of course, I do not
agree with him, quite," she laughed. "But, then, people will differ."

"Louise Wentworth, vanity is a deadly sin," said the other, smiling,
"and we are told in the Commandments--I forget which one--to envy
nothing of our neighbor's."

"He said he wanted to go to see you; that you had kindly invited him,
and he wished very much to meet Mr. Lancaster," said Mrs.
Wentworth, blandly.

"Yes, I am sure they will like each other," said Mrs. Lancaster, with
dignity. "Mamma also is very anxious to see him. She used to know him
when--when he was a boy, and liked him very much, too, though she would
not acknowledge it to me then." She laughed softly at some recollection.

"He spoke of your mother most pleasantly," declared Mrs. Wentworth, not
without Mrs. Lancaster noticing that she was claiming to stand as
Keith's friend.

"Well, I shall not be at home to-morrow," she began. "I have promised to
go out to-morrow afternoon."

"Oh, sha'n't you? Why, what a pity! because he said he was going to pay
his calls to-morrow, as he expected to leave to-morrow night. I think he
would be very sorry not to see you."

"Oh, well, then, I will stay in. My other engagement is of no
consequence."

Her friend looked benign.

Recollecting Mrs. Wentworth's expression, Mrs. Lancaster determined that
she would not be at home the following afternoon. She would show Mrs.
Wentworth that she could not gauge her so easily as she fancied. But at
the last moment, after putting on her hat, she changed her mind. She
remained in, and ended by inviting Keith to dinner that evening, an
invitation which was so graciously seconded by Mr. Lancaster that Keith,
finding that he could take a later train, accepted. Mrs. Yorke was at
the dinner, too, and how gracious she was to Keith! She "could scarcely
believe he was the same man she had known a few years before." She "had
heard a great deal of him, and had come around to dinner on purpose to
meet him." This was true.

"And you have done so well, too, I hear. Your friends are very pleased
to know of your success," she said graciously.

Keith smilingly admitted that he had had, perhaps, better fortune than
he deserved; but this Mrs. Yorke amiably would by no means allow.

"Mrs. Wentworth--not Louise--I mean the elder Mrs. Wentworth--was
speaking of you. You and Norman were great friends when you were boys,
she tells me. They were great friends of ours, you know, long before
we met you."

He wondered how much the Wentworths' indorsement counted for in securing
Mrs. Yorke's invitation. For a good deal, he knew; but as much credit as
he gave it he was within the mark.

It was only her environment. She could no more escape from that than if
she were in prison. She gauged every one by what others thought, and she
possessed no other gauge. Yet there was a certain friendliness, too, in
Mrs. Yorke. The good lady had softened with the years, and at heart she
had always liked Keith.

Most of her conversation was of her friends and their position. Alice
was thinking of going abroad soon to visit some friends on the other
side, "of a very distinguished family," she told Keith.

When Keith left the Lancaster house that night Alice Lancaster knew that
he had wholly recovered.



CHAPTER XIX

WICKERSHAM AND PHRONY

Keith returned home and soon found himself a much bigger man in New
Leeds than when he went away. The mine opened on the Rawson property
began to give from the first large promises of success.

Keith picked up a newspaper one day a little later. It announced in
large head-lines, as befitted the chronicling of such an event, the
death of Mr. William Lancaster, capitalist. He had died suddenly in his
office. His wife, it was stated, was in Europe and had been cabled the
sad intelligence. There was a sketch of his life and also of that of his
wife. Their marriage, it was recalled, had been one of the "romances" of
the season a few years before. He had taken society by surprise by
carrying off one of the belles of the season, the beautiful Miss Yorke.
The rest of the notice was taken up in conjectures as to the amount of
his property and the sums he would be likely to leave to the various
charitable institutions of which he had always been a liberal patron.

Keith laid the paper down on his knee and went off in a revery. Mr.
Lancaster was dead! Of all the men he had met in New York he had in some
ways struck him the most. He had appeared to him the most perfect type
of a gentleman; self-contained, and inclined to be cold, but a man of
elegance as well as of brains. He felt that he ought to be sorry Mr.
Lancaster was dead, and he tried to be sorry for his wife. He started to
write her a letter of condolence, but stopped at the first line, and
could get no further. Yet several times a day, for many days, she
recurred to him, each time giving him a feeling of dissatisfaction,
until at length he was able to banish her from his mind.

Prosperity is like the tide. It comes, each wave higher and higher,
until it almost appears that it will never end, and then suddenly it
seems to ebb a little, comes up again, recedes again, and, before one
knows it, is passing away as surely as it came.

Just when Keith thought that his tide was in full flood, it began to ebb
without any apparent cause, and before he was aware of it, the
prosperity which for the last few years had been setting in so steadily
in those mountain regions had passed away, and New Leeds and he were
left stranded upon the rocks.

Rumor came down to New Leeds from the North. The Wickersham enterprises
were said to be hard hit by some of the failures which had occurred.

A few weeks later Keith heard that Mr. Aaron Wickersham was dead. The
clerks said that he had had a quarrel with his son the day after the
panic and had fallen in an apoplectic fit soon afterwards. But then the
old clerks had been discharged immediately after his death. Young
Wickersham said he did not want any dead-wood in his offices. Also he
did not want any dead property. Among his first steps was the sale of
the old Keith plantation. Gordon, learning that it was for sale, got a
friend to lend him the money and bought it in, though it would scarcely
have been known for the same place. The mansion had been stripped of its
old furniture and pictures soon after General Keith had left there, and
the plantation had gone down.

Rumor also said that Wickersham's affairs were in a bad way. Certainly
the new head of the house gave no sign of it. He opened a yet larger
office and began operations on a more extensive scale. The _Clarion_
said that his Southern enterprises would be pushed actively, and that
the stock of the Great Gun Mine would soon be on the New York Exchange.

Ferdy Wickersham suddenly returned to New Leeds, and New Leeds showed
his presence. Machinery was shipped sufficient to run a dozen mines. He
not only pushed the old mines, but opened a new one. It was on a slip of
land that lay between the Rawson property and the stream that ran down
from the mountain. Some could not understand why he should run the shaft
there, unless it was that he was bent on cutting the Rawson property off
from the stream. It was a perilous location for a shaft, and Matheson,
the superintendent, had protested against it.