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Source: Daily Collegian, Penn State Written by a reverend, 'Seventeen Things To Do While Waiting for MR. RIGHT: The Single Girl's Handbook for the 21st Century Bride-to-be' unexpectedly does not define marriage conventionally. Rev. Marcy Ann Cheek's

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Gordon Keith written by Thomas Nelson Page

T >> Thomas Nelson Page >> Gordon Keith




Keith was hardly surprised when, a day or two after the rumor of the
girl's disappearance reached him, a heavy step thumping outside his
office door announced the arrival of Squire Rawson. When the old man
opened the door, Keith was shocked to see the change in him. He was
haggard and worn, but there was that in his face which made Keith feel
that whoever might be concerned in his granddaughter's disappearance had
reason to beware of meeting him.

"You have heard the news?" he said, as he sank into the chair which
Keith offered him.

Keith said that he had heard it, and regretted it more than he could
express. He had only waited, hoping that it might prove untrue, to
write to him.

"Yes, she has gone," added the old man, moodily. "She's gone off and
married without sayin' a word to me or anybody. I didn't think she'd
'a' done it."

Keith gasped with astonishment. A load appeared to be lifted from him.
After all, she was married. The next moment this hope was dashed by
the squire.

"I always thought," said the old man, "that that young fellow was
hankerin' around her a good deal. I never liked him, because I didn't
trust him. And I wouldn't 'a' liked him anyway," he added frankly; "and
I certainly don't like him now. But--." He drifted off into reflection
for a moment and then came back again--"Women-folks are curious
creatures. Phrony's mother she appeared to like him, and I suppose we
will have to make up with him. So I hev come up here to see if I can git
his address."

Keith's heart sank within him. He knew Ferdy Wickersham too well not to
know on what a broken reed the old man leaned.

"Some folks was a-hintin'," pursued the old fellow, speaking slowly,
"as, maybe, that young man hadn't married her; but I knowed better then
that, because, even if Phrony warn't a good girl,--which she is, though
she ain't got much sense,--he knowed _me_. They ain't none of 'em ever
intimated that to _me_," he added explanatorily.

Keith was glad that he had not intimated it. As he looked at the squire,
he knew how dangerous it would be. His face was settled into a grimness
which showed how perilous it would be for the man who had deceived
Phrony, if, as Keith feared, his apprehensions were well founded.

But at that moment both Phrony and Wickersham were far beyond Squire
Rawson's reach.

The evening after Phrony Tripper left New Leeds, a young woman somewhat
closely veiled descended from the train in Jersey City. Here she was
joined on the platform a moment later by a tall man who had boarded the
train at Washington, and who, but for his spruced appearance, might
have been taken for Mr. J. Quincy Plume. The young woman having
intrusted herself to his guidance, he conducted her across the ferry,
and on the other side they were met by a gentleman, who wore the collar
of his overcoat turned up. After a meeting more or less formal on one
side and cordial on the other, the gentleman gave a brief direction to
Mr. Plume, and, with the lady, entered a carriage which was waiting and
drove off; Mr. Plume following a moment later in another vehicle.

"Know who that is?" asked one of the ferry officials of another. "That's
F.C. Wickersham, who has made such a pile of money. They say he owns a
whole State down South."

"Who is the lady?"

The other laughed. "Don't ask me; you can't keep up with him. They say
they can't resist him."

An hour or two later, Mr. Plume, who had been waiting for some time in
the cafe of a small hotel not very far up-town, was joined by Mr.
Wickersham, whose countenance showed both irritation and disquietude.
Plume, who had been consoling himself with the companionship of a
decanter of rye whiskey, was in a more jovial mood, which further
irritated the other.

"You say she has balked? Jove! She has got more in her than I thought!"

"She is a fool!" said Wickersham.

Plume shut one eye. "Don't know about that. Madame de Maintenon said:
'There is nothing so clever as a good woman.' Well, what are you
going to do?"

"I don't know."

"Take a drink," said Mr. Plume, to whom this was a frequent solvent of a
difficulty.

Wickersham followed his advice, but remained silent.

In fact, Mr. Wickersham, after having laid most careful plans and
reached the point for which he had striven, found himself, at the very
moment of victory, in danger of being defeated. He had induced Phrony
Tripper to come to New York. She was desperately in love with him, and
would have gone to the ends of the earth for him. But he had promised to
marry her; it was to marry him that she had come. As strong as was her
passion for him, and as vain and foolish as she was, she had one
principle which was stronger than any other feeling--a sense of modesty.
This had been instilled in her from infancy. Among her people a woman's
honor was ranked higher than any other feminine virtue. Her love for
Wickersham but strengthened her resolution, for she believed that,
unless he married her, his life would not be safe from her relatives.
Now, after two hours, in which he had used every persuasion, Wickersham,
to his unbounded astonishment, found himself facing defeat. He had not
given her credit for so much resolution. Her answer to all his efforts
to overcome her determination was that, unless he married her
immediately, she would return home; she would not remain in the hotel a
single night. "I know they will take me back," she said, weeping.

This was the subject of his conversation, now, with his agent, and he
was making up his mind what to do, aided by more or less frequent
applications to the decanter which stood between them.

"What she says is true," declared Plume, his courage stimulated by his
liberal potations. "You won't be able to go back down there any more.
There are a half-dozen men I know, would consider it their duty to blow
your brains out."

Wickersham filled his glass and tossed off a drink. "I am not going down
there any more, anyhow."

"I suppose not. But I don't believe you would be safe even up here.
There is that devil, Dennison: he hates you worse than poison."

"Oh--up here--they aren't going to trouble me up here."

"I don't know--if he ever got a show at you--Why don't you let me
perform the ceremony?" he began persuasively. "She knows I've been a
preacher. That will satisfy her scruples, and then, if you ever had to
make it known--? But no one would know then."

Wickersham declined this with a show of virtue. He did not mention that
he had suggested this to the girl but she had positively refused it. She
would be married by a regular preacher or she would go home.

"There must be some one in this big town," suggested Plume, "who will do
such a job privately and keep it quiet? Where is that preacher you were
talking about once that took flyers with you on the quiet? You can seal
his mouth. And if the worst comes to the worst, there is Montana; you
can always get out of it in six weeks with an order of publication. _I_
did it," said Mr. Plume, quietly, "and never had any trouble about it."

"You did! Well, that's one part of your rascality I didn't know about."

"I guess there are a good many of us have little bits of history that we
don't talk about much," observed Mr. Plume, calmly. "I wouldn't have
told you now, but I wanted to help you out of the fix that--"

"That you have helped me get into," said Wickersham, with a sneer.

"There is no trouble about it," Plume went on. "You don't want to marry
anybody else--now, and meantime it will give you the chance you want of
controlling old Rawson's interest down there. The old fellow can't live
long, and Phrony is his only heir. You will have it all your own way.
You can keep it quiet if you wish, and if you don't, you can acknowledge
it and bounce your friend Keith. If I had your hand I bet I'd know how
to play it."

"Well, by ----! I wish you had it," said Wickersham, angrily.

Wickersham had been thinking hard during Plume's statement of the case,
and what with his argument and an occasional application to the decanter
of whiskey, he was beginning to yield. Just then a sealed note was
handed him by a waiter. He tore it open and read:


"I am going home; my heart is broken. Good-by."

"PHRONY."


With an oath under his breath, he wrote in pencil on a card: "Wait; I
will be with you directly."

"Take that to the lady," he said. Scribbling a few lines more on another
card, he gave Plume some hasty directions and left him.

When, five minutes afterwards, Mr. Plume finished the decanter, and left
the hotel, his face had a crafty look on it. "This should be worth a
good deal to you, J. Quincy," he said.

An hour later the Rev. Mr. Rimmon performed in his private office a
little ceremony, at which, besides himself, were present only the bride
and groom and a witness who had come to him a half-hour before with a
scribbled line in pencil requesting his services. If Mr. Rimmon was
startled when he first read the request, the surprise had passed away.
The groom, it is true, was, when he appeared, decidedly under the
influence of liquor, and his insistence that the ceremony was to be kept
entirely secret had somewhat disturbed Mr. Rimmon for a moment. But he
remembered Mr. Plume's assurance that the bride was a great heiress in
the South, and knowing that Ferdy Wickersham was a man who rarely lost
his head,--a circumstance which the latter testified by handing him a
roll of greenbacks amounting to exactly one hundred dollars,--and the
bride being very pretty and shy, and manifestly most eager to be
married, he gave his word to keep the matter a secret until they should
authorize him to divulge it.

When the ceremony was over, the bride requested Mr. Rimmon to give her
her "marriage lines." This Mr. Rimmon promised to do; but as he would
have to fill out the blanks, which would take a little time, the bride
and groom, having signed the paper, took their departure without
waiting for the certificate, leaving Mr. Plume to bring it.

A day or two later a steamship of one of the less popular companies
sailing to a Continental port had among its passengers a gentleman and a
lady who, having secured their accommodations at the last moment, did
not appear on the passenger list.

It happened that they were unknown to any of the other passengers, and
as they were very exclusive, they made no acquaintances during the
voyage. If Mrs. Wagram, the name by which the lady was known on board,
had one regret, it was that Mr. Plume had failed to send her her
marriage certificate, as he had promised to do. Her husband, however,
made so light of it that it reassured her, and she was too much taken up
with her wedding-ring and new diamonds to think that anything else was
necessary.



CHAPTER XX

MRS. LANCASTER'S WIDOWHOOD

The first two years of her widowhood Alice Lancaster spent in
retirement. Even the busy tongue of Mrs. Nailor could find little to
criticise in the young widow. To be sure, that accomplished critic made
the most of this little, and disseminated her opinion that Alice's grief
for Mr. Lancaster could only be remorse for her indifference to him
during his life. Every one knew, she said, how she had neglected him.

The idea that Alice Lancaster was troubled with regrets was not as
unfounded as the rest of Mrs. Nailor's ill-natured charge. She was
attached to her husband, and had always meant to be a good wife to him.

She was as good a wife as her mother and her friends would permit her to
be. Gossip had not spared some of her best friends. Even as proud a
woman as young Mrs. Wentworth had not escaped. But Gossip had never yet
touched the name of Mrs. Lancaster, and Alice did not mean that it
should. It was not unnatural that she should have accepted the liberty
which her husband gave her and have gone out more and more, even though
he could accompany her less and less.

No maelstrom is more unrelenting in its grasp than is that of Society.
Only those who sink, or are cast aside by its seething waves, escape.
And before she knew it, Alice Lancaster had found herself drawn into the
whirlpool.

An attractive proposal had been made to her to go abroad and join some
friends of hers for a London season a year or two before. Grinnell
Rhodes had married Miss Creamer, who was fond of European society, and
they had taken a house in London for the season, which promised to be
very gay, and had suggested to Mrs. Lancaster to visit them. Mr.
Lancaster had found himself unable to go. A good many matters of
importance had been undertaken by him, and he must see them through, he
said. Moreover, he had not been very well of late, and he had felt that
he should be rather a drag amid the gayeties of the London season. Alice
had offered to give up the trip, but he would not hear of it. She must
go, he said, and he knew who would be the most charming woman in London.
So, having extracted from him the promise that, when his business
matters were all arranged, he would join her for a little run on the
Continent, she had set off for Paris, where "awful beauty puts on all
its arms," to make her preparations for the campaign.

Mr. Lancaster had not told her of an interview which her mother had had
with him, in which she had pointed out that Alice's health was suffering
from her want of gayety and amusement. He was not one to talk
of himself.

Alice Lancaster was still in Paris when a cable message announced to her
Mr. Lancaster's death. It was only after his death that she awoke to the
unselfishness of his life and to the completeness of his devotion
to her.

His will, after making provision for certain charities with which he had
been associated in his lifetime, left all his great fortune to her; and
there was, besides, a sealed letter left for her in which he poured out
his heart to her. From it she learned that he had suffered greatly and
had known that he was liable to die at any time. He, however, would not
send for her to come home, for fear of spoiling her holiday.

"I will not say I have not been lonely," he wrote. "For God knows how
lonely I have been since you left. The light went with you and will
return only when you come home. Sometimes I have felt that I could not
endure it and must send for you or go to you; but the first would have
been selfishness and the latter a breach of duty. The times have been
such that I have not felt it right to leave, as so many interests have
been intrusted to me.... It is possible that I may never see your face
again. I have made a will which I hope will please you. It will, at
least, show you that I trust you entirely. I make no restrictions; for I
wish you greater happiness than I fear I have been able to bring you....
In business affairs I suggest that you consult with Norman Wentworth,
who is a man of high integrity and of a conservative mind. Should you
wish advice as to good charities, I can think of no better adviser than
Dr. Templeton. He has long been my friend."

In the first excess of her grief and remorse, Alice Lancaster came home
and threw herself heart and soul into charitable work. As Mr. Lancaster
had suggested, she consulted Dr. Templeton, the old rector of a small
and unfashionable church on a side street. Under his guidance she found
a world as new and as diverse from that in which she had always lived as
another planet would have been.

She found in some places a life where vice was esteemed more honorable
than virtue, because it brought more bread. She found things of which
she had never dreamed: things which appeared incredible after she had
seen them. These things she found within a half-hour's walk of her
sumptuous home; within a few blocks of the avenue and streets where
Wealth and Plenty took their gay pleasure and where riches poured forth
in a riot of splendid extravagance.

She would have turned back, but for the old clergyman's inspiring
courage; she would have poured out her wealth indiscriminately, but for
his wisdom--but for his wisdom and Norman Wentworth's.

"No, my dear," said the old man; "to give lavishly without
discrimination is to put a premium on beggary and to subject yourself to
imposture."

This Norman indorsed, and under their direction she soon found ways to
give of her great means toward charities which were far-reaching and
enduring. She learned also what happiness comes from knowledge of others
and knowledge of how to help them.

It was surprising to her friends what a change came over the young
woman. Her point of view, her manner, her face, her voice changed. Her
expression, which had once been so proud as to mar somewhat her beauty,
softened; her manner increased in cordiality and kindness; her voice
acquired a new and sincerer tone.

Even Mrs. Nailor observed that the enforced retirement appeared to have
chastened the young widow, though she would not admit that it could be
for anything than effect.

"Black always was the most bewilderingly becoming thing to her that I
ever saw. Don't you remember those effects she used to produce with
black and just a dash of red? Well, she wears black so deep you might
think it was poor Mr. Lancaster's pall; but I have observed that
whenever I have seen her there is always something red very close at
hand. She either sits in a red chair, or there is a red shawl just at
her back, or a great bunch of red roses at her elbow. I am glad that
great window has been put up in old Dr. Templeton's church to William
Lancaster's memory, or I am afraid it would have been but a small one."

Almost the first sign that the storm, which, as related, had struck New
York would reach New Leeds was the shutting down of the Wickersham
mines. The _Clarion_ stated that the shutting down was temporary and
declared that in a very short time, when the men were brought to reason,
they would be opened again; also that the Great Gun Mine, which had been
flooded, would again be opened.

The mines belonging to Keith's company did not appear for some time to
be affected; but the breakers soon began to reach even the point on
which Keith had stood so securely. The first "roller" that came to him
was when orders arrived to cut down the force, and cut down also the
wages of those who were retained. This was done. Letters, growing
gradually more and more complaining, came from the general office in
New York.

Fortunately for Keith, Norman ran down at this time and looked over the
properties again for himself. He did not tell Keith what bitter things
were being said and that his visit down there was that he might be able
to base his defence of Keith on facts in his own knowledge.

"What has become of Mrs. Lancaster?" asked Keith, casually. "Is she
still abroad?"

"No; she came home immediately on hearing the news. You never saw any
one so changed. She has gone in for charity."

Keith looked a trifle grim.

"If you thought her pretty as a girl, you ought to see her as a widow.
She is ravishing."

"You are enthusiastic. I see that Wickersham has returned?"

Norman's brow clouded.

"He'd better not come back here," said Keith.

It is a trite saying that misfortunes rarely come singly, and it would
not be so trite if there were not truth in it. Misfortunes are sometimes
like blackbirds: they come in flocks.

Keith was on his way from his office in the town to the mines one
afternoon, when, turning the shoulder of the hill that shut the opening
of the mine from view, he became aware that something unusual had
occurred. A crowd was already assembled about the mouth of the mine,
above the tipple, among them many women; and people were hurrying up
from all directions.

"What is it?" he demanded of the first person he came to.

"Water. They have struck a pocket or something, and the drift over
toward the Wickersham line is filling up."

"Is everybody out?" Even as he inquired, Keith knew hey were not.

"No, sir; all drowned."

Keith knew this could not be true. He hurried forward and pushed his way
into the throng that crowded about the entrance. A gasp of relief went
up as he appeared.

"Ah! Here's the boss." It was the expression of a vague hope that he
might be able to do something. They gave way at his voice and stood
back, many eyes turning on him in helpless appeal. Women, with blankets
already in hand, were weeping aloud; children hanging to their skirts
were whimpering in vague recognition of disaster; men were growling and
swearing deeply.

"Give way. Stand back, every one." The calm voice and tone of command
had their effect, and as a path was opened through the crowd, Keith
recognized a number of the men who had been in and had just come out.
They were all talking to groups about them. One of them gave him the
first intelligent account of the trouble. They were working near the
entrance when they heard the cries of men farther in, and the first
thing they knew there was a rush of water which poured down on them,
sweeping everything before it.

"It must have been a river," said one, in answer to a question from
Keith. "It was rising a foot a minute. The lights were all put out, and
we just managed to get out in time."

According to their estimates, there were about forty men and boys still
in the mine, most of them in the gallery off from the main drift. Keith
was running over in his mind the levels. His face was a study, and the
crowd about him watched him closely, as if to catch any ray of hope that
he might hold out. As he reflected, his face grew whiter. Down the slant
from the mine came the roar of the water. It was a desperate chance.

Half turning, he glanced at the white, stricken faces about him.

"It is barely possible some of the men may still be alive. There are two
elevations. I am going down to see."

At the words, the sound through the crowd hushed suddenly.

"Na, th' ben't one alive," said an old miner, contentiously.

The murmur began again.

"I am going down to see," said Keith. "If one or two men will come with
me, it will increase the chances of getting to them. If not, I am going
alone. But I don't want any one who has a family."

A dead silence fell, then three or four young fellows began to push
their way through the crowd, amid expostulations of some of the women
and the urging of others.

Some of the women seized them and held on to them.

"There are one or two places where men may have been able to keep their
heads above water if it has not filled the drift, and that is what I am
going to see," said Keith, preparing to descend.

"My brother's down there and I'll go," said a young light-haired fellow
with a pale face. He belonged to the night shift.

"I ain't got any family," said a small, grizzled man. He had a thin
black band on the sleeve of his rusty, brown coat.

Several others now came forward, amid mingled expostulations and
encouragement; but Keith took the first two, and they prepared to enter.
The younger man took off his silver watch, with directions to a friend
to send it to his sister if he did not come back. The older man said a
few words to a bystander. They were about a woman's grave on the
hillside. Keith took off his watch and gave it to one of the men, with a
few words scribbled on a leaf from a memorandum-book, and the next
moment the three volunteers, amid a deathly silence, entered the mine.

Long before they reached the end of the ascent to the shaft they could
hear the water gurgling and lapping against the sides as it whirled
through the gallery below them. As they reached the water, Keith let
himself down into it. The water took him to about his waist and
was rising.

"It has not filled the drift yet," he said, and started ahead. He gave a
halloo; but there was no sound in answer, only the reverberation of his
voice. The other men called to him to wait and talk it over. The
strangeness of the situation appalled them. It might well have awed a
strong man; but Keith waded on. The older man plunged after him, the
younger clinging to the cage for a second in a panic. The lights were
out in a moment. Wading and plunging forward through the water, which
rose in places to his neck, and feeling his way by the sides of the
drift, Keith waded forward through the pitch-darkness. He stopped at
times to halloo; but there was no reply, only the strange hollow sound
of his own voice as it was thrown back on him, or died almost before
leaving his throat. He had almost made up his mind that further attempt
was useless and that he might as well turn back, when he thought he
heard a faint sound ahead. With another shout he plunged forward again,
and the next time he called he heard a cry of joy, and he pushed ahead
again, shouting to them to come to him.

Keith found most of the men huddled together on the first level, in a
state of panic. Some of them were whimpering and some were praying
fervently, whilst a few were silent, in a sort of dazed bewilderment.
All who were working in that part of the mine were there, they said,
except three men, Bill Bluffy and a man named Hennson and his boy, who
had been cut off in the far end of the gallery and who must have been
drowned immediately, they told Keith.