Various - "Punch, Or The London Charivari, Vol. 100. March 14, 1891."

Ambrose Bierce - "The Collected Works of Ambrose Bierce"

Alfred Lord Tennyson - "The Suppressed Poems of Alfred Lord Tennyson"

Robert Shaler - "The Boy Scouts of the Geological Survey"

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Gordon Keith written by Thomas Nelson Page

T >> Thomas Nelson Page >> Gordon Keith




There was a movement among the directors. They shifted uneasily in their
chairs, and several of them pushed them back. They did not know what
might happen. Keith was the incarnation of controlled passion. Mr.
Kestrel seemed to shrink up within himself. Norman broke the silence.

"I do not wonder that Mr. Keith should feel aggrieved," he said, with
feeling. "I have held off from taking part in this interview up to the
present, because I promised to do so, and because I felt that Mr. Keith
was abundantly able to take care of himself; but I think that he has
been unjustly dealt with and has been roughly handled."

Keith's only answer was a slow wave of the arm in protest toward Norman
to keep clear of the contest and leave it to him. He was standing quite
straight now, his eyes still resting upon Mr. Kestrel's face, with a
certain watchfulness in them, as if he were expecting him to stir again,
and were ready to spring on him should he do so.

Unheeding him, Norman went on.

"I know that much that he says is true." Keith looked at him quickly,
his form stiffening. "And I believe that _all_ that he says is true,"
continued Norman; "and I am unwilling to stand by longer and see this
method of procedure carried on."

Keith bowed. There flashed across his mind the picture of a boy rushing
up the hill to his rescue as he stood by a rock-pile on a hillside
defending himself against overwhelming assailants, and his
face softened.

"Well, I don't propose to be dictated to as to how I shall conduct my
own business," put in Mr. Kestrel, in a sneering voice. When the spell
of Keith's gaze was lifted from him he had recovered.

If Keith heard him now, he gave no sign of it, nor was it needed, for
Norman turned upon him.

"I think you will do whatever this board directs," he said, with almost
as much contempt as Keith had shown.

He took up the defence of the management to such good purpose that a
number of the other directors went over to his side.

They were willing to acquit Mr. Keith of blame, they said, and to show
their confidence in him. They thought it would be necessary to have some
one to look after the property and prevent further loss until better
times should come, and they thought it would be best to get Mr. Keith to
remain in charge for the present.

During this time Keith had remained motionless and silent, except to bow
his acknowledgments to Norman. He received their new expression of
confidence in silence, until the discussion had ceased and the majority
were on his side. Then he faced Mr. Yorke.

"Gentlemen," he said, "I am obliged to you for your expression; but it
comes too late. Nothing on earth could induce me ever again to assume a
position in which I could be subjected to what I have gone through this
morning. I will never again have any business association with--" he
turned and looked at Mr. Kestrel--"Mr. Kestrel, or those who have
sustained him."

Mr. Kestrel shrugged his shoulders.

"Oh, as to that," he laughed, "you need have no trouble. I shall get out
as soon as I can. I have no more desire to associate with you than you
have with me. All I want to do is to save what you mis--"

Keith's eyes turned on him quietly.

"--what I was misled into putting into your sink-hole down there. You
may remember that you told me, when I went in, that you would guarantee
me all I put in." His voice rose into a sneer.

"Oh, no. None of that, none of that!" interrupted Norman, quickly. "You
may remember, Mr. Kestrel,--?"

But Keith interrupted him with a wave of his hand.

"I do remember. I have a good memory, Mr. Kestrel."

"That was all done away with," insisted Norman, his arm outstretched
toward Mr. Kestrel. "You remember that an offer was made you of your
input and interest, and you declined?"

"I am speaking to _him_," said Mr. Kestrel, not turning his eyes from
Keith.

"I renew that offer now," said Keith, coldly.

"Then that's all right." Mr. Kestrel sat back in his chair. "I accept
your proposal, principal and interest."

Protests and murmurs went around the board, but Mr. Kestrel did not heed
them. Leaning forward, he seized a pen, and drawing a sheet of paper to
him, began to scribble a memorandum of the terms, which, when finished,
he pushed across the table to Keith.

Keith took it against Norman's protest, and when he had read it, picked
up a pen and signed his name firmly.

"Here, witness it," said Mr. Kestrel to his next neighbor. "If any of
the rest of you want to save your bones, you had better come in."

Several of the directors agreed with him.

Though Norman protested, Keith accepted their proposals, and a paper was
drawn up which most of those present signed. It provided that a certain
time should be given Keith in which to raise money to make good his
offer, and arrangements were made provisionally to wind up the present
company, and to sell out and transfer its rights to a new organization.
Some of the directors prudently insisted on reserving the right to
withdraw their proposals should they change their minds. It may be
stated, however, that they had no temptation to do so. Times rapidly
grew worse instead of better.

But Keith had occasion to know how sound was Squire Rawson's judgment
when, a little later, another of the recurrent waves of depression swept
over the country, and several banks in New Leeds went down, among them
the bank in which old Rawson had had his money. The old man came up to
town to remind Keith of his wisdom.

"Well, what do you think of brass and credulity now?" he demanded.

"Let me know when you begin to prophesy against me," said Keith,
laughing.

"'Tain't no prophecy. It's jest plain sense. Some folks has it and some
hasn't. When sense tells you a thing, hold on to it.

"Well, you jest go ahead and git things in shape, and don't bother about
me. No use bein' in a hurry, neither. I have observed that when times
gits bad, they generally gits worse. It's sorter like a fever; you've
got to wait for the crisis and jest kind o' nurse 'em along. But I don't
reckon that coal is goin' to run away. It has been there some time,
accordin' to what that young man used to say, and if it was worth what
they gin for it a few years ago, it's goin' to be worth more a few years
hence. When a wheel keeps turnin', the bottom's got to come up sometime,
and if we can stick we'll be there. I think you and I make a pretty good
team. You let me furnish the ideas and you do the work, and we'll come
out ahead o' some o' these Yankees yet. Jest hold your horses; keep
things in good shape, and be ready to start when the horn blows. It's
goin' to blow sometime."

* * * * *

The clouds that had begun to rest in Norman Wentworth's eyes and the
lines that had written themselves in his face were not those of business
alone. Fate had brought him care of a deeper and sadder kind. Though
Keith did not know it till later, the little rift within the lute, that
he had felt, but had not understood, that first evening when he dined at
Norman's house, had widened, and Norman's life was beginning to be
overcast with the saddest of all clouds. Miss Abigail's keen intuition
had discovered the flaw. Mrs. Wentworth had fallen a victim to her
folly. Love of pleasure, love of admiration, love of display, had become
a part of Mrs. Wentworth's life, and she was beginning to reap the
fruits of her ambition.

For a time it was mighty amusing to her. To shop all morning, make the
costliest purchases; to drive on the avenue or in the Park of an
afternoon with the latest and most stylish turnout, in the handsomest
toilet; to give the finest dinners; to spend the evening in the most
expensive box; to cause men to open their eyes with admiration, and to
make women grave with envy: all this gave her delight for a time--so
much delight that she could not forego it even for her husband. Norman
was so occupied of late that he could not go about with her as much as
he had done. His father's health had failed, and then he had died,
throwing all the business on Norman.

Ferdy Wickersham had returned home from abroad not long before--alone.
Rumor had connected his name while abroad with some woman--an unknown
and very pretty woman had "travelled with him." Ferdy, being rallied by
his friends about it, shook his head. "Must have been some one else."
Grinnell Rhodes, who had met him, said she declared herself his wife.
Ferdy's denial was most conclusive--he simply laughed.

To Mrs. Wentworth he had told a convincing tale. It was a slander.
Norman was against him, he knew, but she, at least, would believe he had
been maligned.

Wickersham had waited for such a time in the affairs of Mrs. Wentworth.
He had watched for it; striven to bring it about in many almost
imperceptible ways; had tendered her sympathy; had been ready with help
as she needed it; till he began to believe that he was making some
impression. It was, of all the games he played, the dearest just now to
his heart. It had a double zest. It had appeared to the world that
Norman Wentworth had defeated him. He had always defeated him--first as
a boy, then at college, and later when he had borne off the prize for
which Ferdy had really striven. Ferdy would now show who was the real
victor. If Louise Caldwell had passed him by for Norman Wentworth, he
would prove that he still possessed her heart.

It was not long, therefore, before society found a delightful topic of
conversation,--that silken-clad portion of society which usually deals
with such topics,--the increasing intimacy between Ferdy Wickersham and
Mrs. Wentworth.

Tales were told of late visits; of strolls in the dusk of evenings on
unfrequented streets; of little suppers after the opera; of all the
small things that deviltry can suggest and malignity distort. Wickersham
cared little for having his name associated with that of any one, and he
was certainly not going to be more careful for another's name than for
his own. He had grown more reckless since his return, but it had not
injured him with his set. It flattered his pride to be credited with
the conquest of so cold and unapproachable a Diana as Louise Wentworth.

"What was more natural?" said Mrs. Nailor. After all, Ferdy Wickersham
was her real romance, and she was his, notwithstanding all the
attentions he had paid Alice Yorke. "Besides," said the amiable lady,
"though Norman Wentworth undoubtedly lavishes large sums on his wife,
and gives her the means to gratify her extravagant tastes, I have
observed that he is seen quite as much with Mrs. Lancaster as with her,
and any woman of spirit will resent this. You need not tell me that he
would be so complacent over all that driving and strolling and
box-giving that Ferdy does for her if he did not find his divertisement
elsewhere."

Mrs. Nailor even went to the extent of rallying Ferdy on the subject.

"You are a naughty boy. You have no right to go around here making women
fall in love with you as you do," she said, with that pretended reproof
which is a real encouragement.

"One might suppose I was like David, who slew his tens of thousands,"
answered Ferdy. "Which of my victims are you attempting to rescue?"

"You know?"

As Ferdy shook his head, she explained further.

"I don't say that it isn't natural she should find you
more--more--sympathetic than a man who is engrossed in business when he
is not engrossed in dangling about a pair of blue eyes; but you ought
not to do it. Think of her."

"I thought you objected to my thinking of her?" said Mr. Wickersham,
lightly.

Mrs. Nailor tapped him with her fan to show her displeasure.

"You are so provoking. Why won't you be serious?"

"Serious? I never was more serious in my life. Suppose I tell you I
think of her all the time?" He looked at her keenly, then broke into a
laugh as he read her delight in the speech. "Don't you think I am
competent to attend to my own affairs, even if Louise Caldwell is the
soft and unsophisticated creature you would make her? I am glad you did
not feel it necessary to caution me about her husband?" His eyes gave
a flash.

Mrs. Nailor hastened to put herself right--that is, on the side of the
one present, for with her the absent was always in the wrong.

Wickersham improved his opportunities with the ability of a veteran.
Little by little he excited Mrs. Wentworth's jealousy. Norman, he said,
necessarily saw a great deal of Alice Lancaster, for he was her business
agent. It was, perhaps, not necessary for him to see her every day, but
it was natural that he should. The arrow stuck and rankled. And later,
at an entertainment, when she saw Norman laughing and enjoying himself
in a group of old friends, among whom was Alice Lancaster, Mrs. Norman
was on fire with suspicion, and her attitude toward Alice
Lancaster changed.

So, before Norman was aware of it, he found life completely changed for
him. As a boatman on a strange shore in the night-time drifts without
knowing of it, he, in the absorption of his business, drifted away from
his old relation without marking the process. His wife had her life and
friends, and he had his. He made at times an effort to recover the old
relation, but she was too firmly held in the grip of the life she had
chosen for him to get her back.

His wife complained that he was out of sympathy with her, and he could
not deny it. She resented this, and charged him with neglecting her. No
man will stand such a charge, and Norman defended himself hotly.

"I do not think it lies in your mouth to make such a charge," he said,
with a flash in his eye. "I am nearly always at home when I am not
necessarily absent. You can hardly say as much. I do not think my worst
enemy would charge me with that. Even Ferdy Wickersham would not
say that."

She fired at the name.

"You are always attacking my friends," she declared. "I think they are
quite as good as yours."

Norman turned away. He looked gloomily out of the window for a moment,
and then faced his wife again.

"Louise," he said gravely, "if I have been hard and unsympathetic, I
have not meant to be. Why can't we start all over again? You are more
than all the rest of the world to me. I will give up whatever you object
to, and you give up what I object to. That is a good way to begin." His
eyes had a look of longing in them, but Mrs. Wentworth did not respond.

"You will insist on my giving up my friends," she said.

"Your friends? I do not insist on your giving up any friend on earth.
Mrs. Nailor and her like are not your friends. They spend their time
tearing to pieces the characters of others when you are present, and
your character when you are absent. Wickersham is incapable of being
a friend."

"You are always so unjust to him," said Mrs. Wentworth, warmly.

"I am not unjust to him. I have known him all my life, and I tell you he
would sacrifice any one and every one to his pleasure."

Mrs. Wentworth began to defend him warmly, and so the quarrel ended
worse than it had begun.



CHAPTER XXII

MRS. CREAMER'S BALL

The next few years passed as the experience of old Rawson had led him to
predict. Fortunes went down; but Fortune's wheel is always turning, and,
as the old countryman said, "those that could stick would come up on
top again."

Keith, however, had prospered. He had got the Rawson mine to running
again, and even in the hardest times had been able to make it pay
expenses. Other properties had failed and sold out, and had been bought
in by Keith's supporters, when Wickersham once more appeared in New
Leeds affairs. It was rumored that Wickersham was going to start again.
Old Adam Rawson's face grew dark at the rumor. He said to Keith:

"If that young man comes down here, it's him or me. I'm an old man, and
I ain't got long to live; but I want to live to meet him once. If he's
got any friends, they'd better tell him not to come." He sat glowering
and puffing his pipe morosely.

Keith tried to soothe him; but the old fellow had received a wound that
knew no healing.

"I know all you say, and I'm much obliged to you; but I can't accept it.
It's an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth with me. He has entered
my home and struck me in the dark. Do you think I done all I have done
jest for the money I was makin'! No; I wanted revenge. I have set on my
porch of a night and seen her wanderin' about in them fureign cities,
all alone, trampin' the streets--trampin', trampin', trampin'; tired,
and, maybe, sick and hungry, not able to ask them outlandish folks for
even a piece of bread--her that used to set on my knee and hug me with
her little arms and call me granddad, and claim all the little calves
for hers--jest the little ones; and that I've ridden many a mile over
the mountains for, thinkin' how she was goin' to run out to meet me when
I got home. And now even my old dog's dead--died after she went away.

"No!" he broke out fiercely. "If he comes back here, it's him or me! By
the Lord! if he comes back here, I'll pay him the debt I owe him. If
she's his wife, I'll make her a widow, and if she ain't, I'll
revenge her."

He mopped the beads of sweat that had broken out on his brow, and
without a word stalked out of the door.

But Ferdy Wickersham had no idea of returning to New Leeds. He found New
York quite interesting enough for him about this time.

The breach between Norman and his wife had grown of late.

Gossip divided the honors between them, and some said it was on Ferdy
Wickersham's account; others declared that it was Mrs. Lancaster who had
come between them. Yet others said it was a matter of money--that Norman
had become tired of his wife's extravagance and had refused to stand it
any longer.

Keith knew vaguely of the trouble between Norman and his wife; but he
did not know the extent of it, and he studiously kept up his friendly
relations with her as well as with Norman. His business took him to New
York from time to time, and he was sensible that the life there was
growing more and more attractive for him. He was fitting into it too,
and enjoying it more and more. He was like a strong swimmer who, used to
battling in heavy waves, grows stronger with the struggle, and finds
ever new enjoyment and courage in his endeavor. He felt that he was now
quite a man of the world. He was aware that his point of view had
changed and (a little) that he had changed. As flattering as was his
growth in New Leeds, he had a much more infallible evidence of his
success in the favor with which he was being received in New York.

The favor that Mrs. Lancaster had shown Keith, and, much more, old Mrs.
Wentworth's friendship, had a marked effect throughout their whole
circle of acquaintance. That a man had been invited to these houses
meant that he must be something. There were women who owned large
houses, wore priceless jewels, cruised in their own yachts, had their
own villas on ground as valuable as that which fronted the Roman Forum
in old days, who would almost have licked the marble steps of those
mansions to be admitted to sit at their dinner-tables and have their
names appear in the Sunday issues of the newly established society
journals among the blessed few. So, as soon as it appeared that Gordon
was not only an acquaintance, but a friend of these critical leaders,
women who had looked over his head as they drove up the avenue, and had
just tucked their chins and lowered their eyelids when he had been
presented, began to give him invitations. Among these was Mrs. Nailor.
Truly, the world appeared warmer and kinder than Keith had thought.

To be sure, it was at Mrs. Lancaster's that Mrs. Nailor met him, and
Keith was manifestly on very friendly terms with the pretty widow. Even
Mrs. Yorke, who was present on the occasion with her "heart," was
impressively cordial to him. Mrs. Nailor had no idea of being left out.
She almost gushed with affection, as she made a place beside her on
a divan.

"You do not come to see all your friends," she said, with her winningest
smile and her most bird-like voice. "You appear to forget that you have
other old friends in New York besides Mrs. Lancaster and Mrs. Yorke.
Alice dear, you must not be selfish and engross all his time. You must
let him come and see me, at least, sometimes. Yes?" This with a
peculiarly innocent smile and tone.

Keith declared that he was in New York very rarely, and Mrs. Lancaster,
with a slightly heightened color, repudiated the idea that she had
anything to do with his movements.

"Oh, I hear of you here very often," declared Mrs. Nailor, roguishly. "I
have a little bird that brings me all the news about my friends."

"A little bird, indeed!" said Alice to herself, and to Keith later.
"I'll be bound she has not. If she had a bird, the old cat would have
eaten it."

"You are going to the Creamers' ball, of course?" pursued Mrs. Nailor.

No, Keith said: he was not going; he had been in New York only two days,
and, somehow, his advent had been overlooked. He was always finding
himself disappointed by discovering that New York was still a larger
place than New Leeds.

"Oh, but you must go! We must get you an invitation, mustn't we, Alice?"
Mrs. Nailor was always ready to promise anything, provided she could
make her engagement in partnership and then slip out and leave the
performance to her friend.

"Why, yes; there is not the least trouble about getting an invitation.
Mrs. Nailor can get you one easily."

Keith looked acquiescent.

"No, my dear; you write the note. You know Mrs. Creamer every bit as
well as I," protested Mrs. Nailor, "and I have already asked for at
least a dozen. There are Mrs. Wyndham and Lady Stobbs, who were here
last winter; and that charming Lord Huckster, who was at Newport last
summer; and I don't know how many more--so you will have to get the
invitation for Mr. Keith."

Keith, with some amusement, declared that he did not wish any trouble
taken; he had only said he would go because Mrs. Nailor had appeared to
desire it so much.

Next morning an invitation reached Keith,--he thought he knew through
whose intervention,--and he accepted it.

That evening, as Keith, about dusk, was going up the avenue on his way
home, a young girl passed him, walking very briskly. She paused for a
moment just ahead of him to give some money to a poor woman who, doubled
up on the pavement in a black shawl, was grinding out from a wheezy
little organ a thin, dirge-like strain.

"Good evening. I hope you feel better to-day," Keith heard her say in a
kind tone, though he lost all of the other's reply except the "God
bless you."

She was simply dressed in a plain, dark walking-suit, and something
about her quick, elastic step and slim, trim figure as she sailed along,
looking neither to the right nor to the left, attracted his attention.
Her head was set on her shoulders in a way that gave her quite an air,
and as she passed under a lamp the light showed the flash of a fine
profile and an unusual face. She carried a parcel in her hand that might
have been a roll of music, and from the lateness of the hour Keith
fancied her a shop-girl on her way home, or possibly a music-teacher.

Stirred by the glimpse of the refined face, and even more by the
carriage of the little head under the dainty hat, Keith quickened his
pace to obtain another glance at her. He had almost overtaken her when
she stopped in front of a well-lighted window of a music-store. The
light that fell on her face revealed to him a face of unusual beauty.
Something about her graceful pose as, with her dark brows slightly
knitted, she bent forward and scanned intently the pieces of music
within, awakened old associations in Keith's mind, and sent him back to
his boyhood at Elphinstone. And under an impulse, which he could better
justify to himself than to her, he did a very audacious and improper
thing. Taking off his hat, he spoke to her. She had been so absorbed
that for a moment she did not comprehend that it was she he was
addressing. Then, as it came to her that it was she to whom this
stranger was speaking, she drew herself up and gave him a look of such
withering scorn that Keith felt himself shrink. Next second, with her
head high in the air, she had turned without a word and sped up the
street, leaving Keith feeling very cheap and subdued.

But that glance from dark eyes flashing with indignation had filled
Keith with a sensation to which he had long been a stranger. Something
about the simple dress, the high-bred face with its fine scorn;
something about the patrician air of mingled horror and contempt, had
suddenly cleaved through the worldly crust that had been encasing him
for some time, and reaching his better self, awakened an emotion that he
had thought gone forever. It was like a lightning-flash in the darkness.
He knew that she had entered his life. His resolution was taken on the
instant. He would meet her, and if she were what she looked to be--again
Elphinstone and his youth swept into his mind. He already was conscious
of a sense of protection; he felt curiously that he had the right to
protect her. If he had addressed her, might not others do so? The
thought made his blood boil. He almost wished that some one would
attempt it, that he might assert his right to show her what he was, and
thus retrieve himself in her eyes. Besides, he must know where she
lived. So he followed her at a respectful distance till she ran up the
steps of one of the better class of houses and disappeared within. He
was too far off to be able to tell which house it was that she entered,
but it was in the same block with Norman Wentworth's house.