Various - "Notes and Queries, Number 48, Saturday, September 28, 1850"

S. D. (Samuel Dickey) Gordon - "Quiet Talks on Prayer"

Mrs. Humphry Ward - "The Testing of Diana Mallory"

Patricio Mariano - "Juan Masili o Ang pinuno ng tulisan"

Book Review: 'Seventeen Things To Do' provi...
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Love the One You're With - by Emily Giffin
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The Nanny Diaries - by Emma McLaughlin and Nicola Kraus
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

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"And, you know, they say Norman Wentworth has lost a lot of money, too.
But, then, he has a large account to fall back on. Alice Lancaster has
a plenty."

"What's that?" Keith's voice had an unpleasant sharpness in it.

"Oh, you know, he is her trustee, and they are great friends. Good-by.
You must come and dine with us sometime--sometime soon, too."

And Mrs. Nailor floated away, and in the first drawing-room she visited
told of Keith's return and of his taking the story of Louise Wentworth
and Ferdy Wickersham very seriously; adding, "And you know, I think he
is a great admirer of Louise himself--a very great admirer. Of course,
he would like to marry Alice Lancaster, just as Ferdy would. They all
want to marry her; but Louise Wentworth is the one that has their
hearts. She knows how to capture them. You keep your eyes open. You
ought to have seen the way he looked when I mentioned Ferdy Wickersham
and her. My dear, a man doesn't look that way unless he feels something
here." She tapped solemnly the spot where she imagined her heart to be,
that dry and desiccated organ that had long ceased to know any
real warmth.

A little time afterwards, Keith, to his great surprise, received an
invitation to dine at Mrs. Wickersham's. He had never before received an
invitation to her house, and when he had met her, she had always been
stiff and repellent toward him. This he had regarded as perfectly
natural; for he and Ferdy had never been friendly, and of late had not
even kept up appearances.

He wondered why he should be invited now. Could it be true, as Stirling
had said, laughing, that now he had the key and would find all doors
open to him?

Keith had not yet written his reply when he called that evening at Mrs.
Lancaster's. She asked him if he had received such an invitation. Keith
said yes, but he did not intend to go. He almost thought it must have
been sent by mistake.

"Oh, no; now come. Ferdy won't be there, and Mrs. Wickersham wants to be
friendly with you. You and Ferdy don't get along; but neither do she and
Ferdy. You know they have fallen out? Poor old thing! She was talking
about it the other day, and she burst out crying. She said he had been
her idol."

"What is the matter?"

"Oh, Ferdy's selfishness."

"He is a brute! Think of a man quarrelling with his mother! Why--!" He
went into a reverie in which his face grew very soft, while Mrs.
Lancaster watched him silently. Presently he started. "I have nothing
against her except a sort of general animosity from boyhood, which I am
sorry to have."

"Oh, well, then, come. As people grow older they outgrow their
animosities and wish to make friends."

"You being so old as to have experienced it?" said Keith.

"I am nearly thirty years old," she said. "Isn't it dreadful?"

"Aurora is much older than that," said Keith.

"Ah, Sir Flatterer, I have a mirror." But her eyes filled with a
pleasant light as Keith said:

"Then it will corroborate what needs no proof."

She knew it was flattery, but she enjoyed it and dimpled.

"Now, you will come? I want you to come." She looked at him with a soft
glow in her face.

"Yes. On your invitation."

"Alice Lancaster, place one good deed to thy account: 'Blessed are the
peacemakers,'" said Mrs. Lancaster.

When Keith arrived at Mrs. Wickersham's he found the company assembled
in her great drawing-room--the usual sort to be found in great
drawing-rooms of large new chateau-like mansions in a great and
commercial city.

"Mr. Keats!" called out the prim servant. They always took this poetical
view of his name.

Mrs. Wickersham greeted him civilly and solemnly. She had aged much
since Keith saw her last, and had also grown quite deaf. Her face showed
traces of the desperate struggle she was making to keep up appearances.
It was apparent that she had not the least idea who he was; but she
shook hands with him much as she might have done at a funeral had he
called to pay his respects. Among the late arrivals was Mrs. Wentworth.
She was the richest-dressed woman in the room, and her jewels were the
finest, but she had an expression on her face, as she entered, which
Keith had never seen there. Her head was high, and there was an air of
defiance about her which challenged the eye at once.

"I don't think I shall speak to her," said a voice near Keith.

"Well, I have known her all my life, and until it becomes a public
scandal I don't feel authorized to cut her--"

The speaker was Mrs. Nailor, who was in her most charitable mood.

"Oh, of course, I shall speak to her here, but I mean--I certainly shall
not visit her."

"You know she has quarrelled with her friend, Mrs. Lancaster? About her
husband." This was behind her fan.

"Oh, yes. She is to be here to-night. Quite brazen, isn't it? We shall
see how they meet. I met a remarkably pretty girl down in the
dressing-room," she continued; "one of the guests. She has such pretty
manners, too. Really, I thought, from her politeness to me in arranging
my dress, she must be one of the maids until Mrs. Wentworth spoke to
her. Young girls nowadays are so rude! They take up the mirror the whole
time, and never think of letting you see yourself. I wonder who she
can be?"

"Possibly Mrs. Wentworth's companion. I think she is here. She has to
have some one to do the proprieties, you know?" said Mrs. Nailor.

"I should think it might be as well," assented the other, with a sniff.
"But she would hardly be here!"

"She is really her governess, a very ill-bred and rude young person,"
said Mrs. Nailor.

The other sighed.

"Society is getting so democratic now, one might say, so mixed, that
there is no telling whom one may meet nowadays."

"No, indeed," pursued Mrs. Nailor. "I do not at all approve of
governesses and such persons being invited out. I think the English way
much the better. There the governess never dreams of coming to the table
except to luncheon, and her friends are the housekeeper and the butler."

Keith, wearied of the banalities at his ear, crossed over to where Mrs.
Wentworth stood a little apart from the other ladies. One or two men
were talking to her. She was evidently pleased to see him. She talked
volubly, and with just that pitch in her voice that betrays a subcurrent
of excitement.

From time to time she glanced about her, appearing to Keith to search
the faces of the other women. Keith wondered if it were a fancy of his
that they were holding a little aloof from her. Presently Mrs. Nailor
came up and spoke to her.

Keith backed away a little, and found himself mixed up with the train of
a lady behind him, a dainty thing of white muslin.

He apologized in some confusion, and turning, found himself looking into
Lois Huntington's eyes. For a bare moment he was in a sort of maze. Then
the expression in her face dispelled it. She held out her hand, and he
clasped it; and before he had withdrawn his eyes from hers, he knew that
his peace was made, and Mrs. Wickersham's drawing-room had become
another place. This, then, was what Alice Lancaster meant when she spoke
of the peacemakers.

"It does not in the least matter about the dress, I assure you," she
said in reply to his apology. "My dressmaker, Lois Huntington, can
repair it so that you will not know it has been torn. It was only a ruse
of mine to attract your attention." She was trying to speak lightly. "I
thought you were not going to speak to me at all. It seems to be a way
you have of treating your old friends--your oldest friends,"
she laughed.

"Oh, the insolence of youth!" said Keith, wishing to keep away from a
serious subject. "Let us settle this question of age here and now. I say
you are seven years old."

"You are a Bourbon," she said; "you neither forget nor learn. Look at
me. How old do I look?"

"Seven--"

"No. Look."

"I am looking-would I were Argus! You look like--perpetual Youth."

And she did. She was dressed in pure white. Her dark eyes were soft and
gentle, yet with mischief lurking in them, and her straight brows,
almost black, added to their lustre. Her dark hair was brushed back from
her white forehead, and as she turned, Keith noted again, as he had done
the first time he met her, the fine profile and the beautiful lines of
her round throat, with the curves below it, as white as snow. "Perpetual
Youth," he murmured.

"And do you know what you are?" she challenged him.

"Yes; Age."

"No. Flattery. But I am proof. I have learned that men are deceivers
ever. You positively refused to see me when I had left word with the
servant that I would see you if you called." She gave him a swift little
glance to see how he took her charge.

"I did nothing of the kind. I will admit that I should know where you
are by instinct, as Sir John knew the Prince; but I did not expect you
to insist on my doing so. How was I to know you were in the city?"

"The servant told you."

"The servant told me?"

As Keith's brow puckered in the effort to unravel the mystery, she
nodded.

"Um-hum--I heard him. I was at the head of the stair."

Keith tapped his head.

"It's old age--sheer senility."

"'No; I don't want to see the other lady,'" she said, mimicking him so
exactly that he opened his eyes wide.

"I am staying at Mrs. Wentworth's--Cousin Norman's," she continued, with
a little change of expression and the least little lift of her head.

Keith's expression, perhaps, changed slightly, too, for she added
quietly: "Cousin Louise had to have some one with her, and I am teaching
the children. I am the governess."

"I have always said that children nowadays have all the best things,"
said Keith, desirous to get off delicate ground. "You know, some one has
said he never ate a ripe peach in his life: when he was a boy the
grown-ups had them, and since he grew up the children have them all."

She laughed.

"I am very severe, I assure you."

"You look it. I should think you might be Herod himself."

She smiled, and then the smile died out, and she glanced around her.

"I owe you an apology," she said in a lowered voice.

"For what?"

"For--mis--for not answering your letters. But I mis--I don't know how
to say what I wish. Won't you accept it without an explanation?" She
held out her hand and gave him the least little flitting glance
of appeal.

"I will," said Keith. "With all my heart."

"Thank you. I have been very unhappy about it." She breathed a little
sigh of relief, which Keith caught.

Mrs. Lancaster did not arrive until all the other guests had been there
a little while. But when she entered she had never looked handsomer. As
soon as she had greeted her hostess, her eyes swept around the room, and
in their circuit rested for a moment on Keith, who was talking to Lois.
She gave them a charming smile. The next moment, however, her eyes stole
that way again, and this time they bore a graver expression. The
admiration that filled the younger girl's eyes was unbounded and
unfeigned.

"Don't you think she is the handsomest woman in the room?" she asked,
with a nod toward Mrs. Lancaster.

Keith was suddenly conscious that he did not wish to commit himself to
such praise. She was certainly very handsome, he admitted, but there
were others who would pass muster, too, in a beauty show.

"Oh, but I know you must think so; every one says you do," Lois urged,
with a swift glance up at him, which, somehow, Keith would have liked
to avoid.

"Then, I suppose it must be so; for every one knows my innermost
thoughts. But I think she was more beautiful when she was younger. I do
not know what it is; but there is something in Society that, after a few
years, takes away the bloom of ingenuousness and puts in its place just
the least little shade of unreality."

"I know what you mean; but she is so beautiful that one would never
notice it. What a power such beauty is! I should be afraid of it." Lois
was speaking almost to herself, and Keith, as she was deeply absorbed in
observing Mrs. Lancaster, gazed at her with renewed interest.

"I'd so much rather be loved for myself'," the girl went on earnestly.
"I think it is one of the compensations that those who want such
beauty have-"

"Well, it is one of the things which you must always hold merely as a
conjecture, for you can never know by experience."

She glanced up at him with a smile, half pleased, half reproving.

"Do you think I am the sort that likes flattery? I believe you think we
are all silly. I thought you were too good a friend of mine to attempt
that line with me."

Keith declared that all women loved flattery, but protested, of course,
that he was not flattering her.

"Why should I?" he laughed.

"Oh, just because you think it will please me, and because it is so
easy. It is so much less trouble. It takes less intellect, and you don't
think I am worth spending intellect on."

This Keith stoutly denied.

She gave him a fleeting glance out of her brown eyes. "She, however, is
as good as she is handsome," she said, returning to Mrs. Lancaster.

"Yes; she is one of those who 'do good by stealth, and blush to find it
fame.'"

"There are not a great many like that around here," Lois smiled. "Here
comes one now?" she added, as Mrs. Nailor moved up to them. She was "so
glad" to see Miss Huntington out. "You must like your Winter in New
York?" she said, smiling softly. "You have such opportunities for seeing
interesting people-like Mr. Keith, here?" She turned her eyes on Keith.

"Oh, yes. I do. I see so many entertaining people," said Lois,
innocently.

"They are very kind to you?" purred the elder lady.

"Most condescending." Lois turned her eyes toward Keith with a little
sparkle in them; but as she read his appreciation a smile stole
into them.

Dinner was solemnly announced, and the couples swept out in that stately
manner appropriate to solemn occasions, such as marriages, funerals, and
fashionable dinners.

"Do you know your place?" asked Keith of Lois, to whom he had been
assigned.

"Don't I? A governess and not know her place! You must help me through."

"Through what?"

"The dinner. You do not understand what a tremendous responsibility you
have. This is my first dinner."

"I always said dinners were a part of the curse," said Keith, lightly,
smiling down at her fresh face with sheer content. "I shall confine
myself hereafter to breakfast and lunch-except when I receive
invitations to Mrs. Wickersham's." he added.

Mrs. Lancaster was on the other side of Keith; so he found the dinner
much pleasanter than he had expected. She soon fell to talking of Lois,
a subject which Keith found very agreeable.

"You know, she is staying with Louise Wentworth? Louise had to have some
one to stay with her, so she got her to come and teach the children this
Winter. Louise says she is trying to make something of her."

"From my slight observation, it seems to me as if the Creator has been
rather successful in that direction already. How does she propose to
help Him out?"

Mrs. Lancaster bent forward and took a good look at the girl, who at the
moment was carrying on an animated conversation with Stirling. Her color
was coming and going, her eyes were sparkling, and her cheek was
dimpling with fun.

"She looks as if she came out of a country garden, doesn't she?" she
said.

"Yes, because she has, and has not yet been wired to a stick."

Mrs. Lancaster's eyes grew graver at Keith's speech. Just then the
conversation became more general. Some one told a story of a man
travelling with his wife and meeting a former wife, and forgetting which
one he then had.

"Oh, that reminds me of a story I heard the other day. It was awfully
good-but just a little wicked," exclaimed Mrs. Nailor.

Keith's smile died out, and there was something very like a cloud
lowering on his brow. Several others appeared surprised, and Mr. Nailor,
a small bald-headed man, said across the table: "Hally, don't you tell
that story." But Mrs. Nailor was not to be controlled.

"Oh, I must tell it! It is not going to hurt any of you. Let me see if
there is any one here very young and innocent?" She glanced about the
table. "Oh, yes; there is little Miss Huntington. Miss Huntington, you
can stop your ears while I tell it."

"Thank you," said Lois, placidly. She leaned a little forward and put
her fingers in her ears.

A sort of gasp went around the table, and then a shout of laughter, led
by Stirling. Mrs. Nailor joined in it, but her face was red and her eyes
were angry. Mrs. Wentworth looked annoyed.

"Good," said Mrs. Lancaster, in an undertone.

"Divine," said Keith, his eyes snapping with satisfaction.

"It was not so bad as that," said Mrs. Nailor, her face very red. "Miss
Huntington, you can take your hands down now; I sha'n't tell it."

"Thank you," said Lois, and sat quietly back in her chair, with her face
as placid as a child's.

Mrs. Nailor suddenly changed the conversation to Art. She was looking at
a painting on the wall behind Keith, and after inspecting it a moment
through her lorgnon, turned toward the head of the table.

"Where did you get that picture, Mrs. Wickersham? Have I ever seen it
before?"

The hostess's gaze followed hers.

"That? Oh, we have had it ever so long. It is a portrait of an ancestor
of mine. It belonged to a relative, a distant relative--another branch,
you know, in whose family it came down, though we had even more right to
it, as we were an older branch," she said, gaining courage as she
went on.

Mrs. Lancaster turned and inspected the picture.

"I, too, almost seem to have seen it before," she said presently, in a
reflective way.

"My dear, you have not seen it before," declared the hostess,
positively. "Although we have had it for a good while, it was at our
place in the country. Brush, the picture-dealer, says it is one of the
finest 'old masters' in New York, quite in the best style of Sir
Peter--What's his name?"

"Then I have seen some one so like it--? Who can it be?" said Mrs.
Lancaster, her mind still working along the lines of reminiscence.

Nearly every one was looking now.

"Why, I know who it is!" said Lois Huntington, who had turned to look at
it, to Mrs. Lancaster. "It is Mr. Keith." Her clear voice was heard
distinctly.

"Of course, it is," said Mrs. Lancaster. Others agreed with her.

Keith, too, had turned and looked over his shoulder at the picture
behind him, and for a moment he seemed in a dream. His father was
gazing down at him out of the frame. The next moment he came to himself.
It was the man-in-armor that used to hang in the library at Elphinstone.
As he turned back, he glanced at Mrs. Lancaster, and her eyes gazed into
his. The next moment he addressed Mrs. Wickersham and started a new
subject of conversation.

"That is it," said Mrs. Lancaster to herself. Then turning to her
hostess, she said: "No, I never saw it before; I was mistaken."

But Lois knew that she herself had seen it before, and remembered where
it was.

Mrs. Wickersham looked extremely uncomfortable, but Keith's calm
courtesy set her at ease again.

When the gentlemen, after their cigars, followed the ladies into the
drawing-room, Keith found Mrs. Lancaster and Lois sitting together, a
little apart from the others, talking earnestly. He walked over and
joined them.

They had been talking of the incident of the picture, but stopped as he
came up.

"Now, Lois," said Mrs. Lancaster, gayly, "I have known Mr. Keith a long
time, and I give you one standing piece of advice. Don't believe one
word that he tells you; for he is the most insidious flatterer
that lives."

"On the contrary," said Keith, bowing and speaking gravely to the
younger girl, "I assure you that you may believe implicitly every word
that I tell you. I promise you in the beginning that I shall never tell
you anything but the truth as long as I live. It shall be my claim upon
your friendship."

"Thank you," said Lois, lifting her eyes to his face. Her color had
deepened a little at his earnest manner. "I love a palpable truth."

"You do not get it often in Society," said Mrs. Lancaster.

"I promise you that you shall always have it from me," said Keith.

"Thank you," she said again, quite earnestly, looking him calmly in the
eyes. "Then we shall always be friends."

"Always."

Just then Stirling came up and with a very flattering speech asked Miss
Huntington to sing.

"I hear you sing like a seraph," he declared.

"I thought they always cried," she said, smiling; then, with a
half-frightened look across toward her cousin, she sobered and declared
that she could not.

"I have been meaning to have her take lessons," said Mrs. Wentworth,
condescendingly, from her seat near by; "but I have not had time to
attend to it. She will sing very well when she takes lessons." She
resumed her conversation. Stirling was still pressing Miss Huntington,
and she was still excusing herself; declaring that she had no one to
play her accompaniments.

"Please help me," she said in an undertone to Keith. "I used to play
them myself, but Cousin Louise said I must not do that; that I must
always stand up to sing."

"Nonsense," said Keith. "You sha'n't sing if you do not wish to do so;
but let me tell you: there is a deed of record in my State conveying a
tract of land to a girl from an old gentleman on the expressed
consideration that she had sung 'Annie Laurie' for him when he asked her
to do it, without being begged."

She looked at him as if she had not heard, and then glanced at her
cousin.

"Either sing or don't sing, my dear," said Mrs. Wentworth, with a slight
frown. "You are keeping every one waiting."

Keith glanced over at her, and was about to say to Lois, "Don't sing";
but he was too late. Folding her hands before her, and without moving
from where she stood near the wall, she began to sing "Annie Laurie."
She had a lovely voice, and she sang as simply and unaffectedly as if
she had been singing in her own room for her own pleasure.

When she got through, there was a round of applause throughout the
company. Even Mrs. Wentworth joined in it; but she came over and said:

"That was well done; but next time, my dear, let some one play your
accompaniment."

"Next time, don't you do any such thing," said Keith, stoutly. "You can
never sing it so well again if you do. Please accept this from a man who
would rather have heard you sing that song that way than have heard
Albani sing in 'Lohengrin.'" He took the rosebud out of his buttonhole
and gave it to her, looking her straight in the eyes.

"Is this the truth?" she asked, with her gaze quite steady on his face.

"The palpable truth," he said.



CHAPTER XXVI

A MISUNDERSTANDING

Miss Lois Huntington, as she sank back in the corner of her cousin's
carriage, on their way home, was far away from the rattling New York
street. Mrs. Wentworth's occasional recurrence to the unfortunate
incidents of stopping her ears and of singing the song without an
accompaniment did not ruffle her. She knew she had pleased one man--the
one she at that moment would rather have pleased than all the rest of
New York. Her heart was eased of a load that had made it heavy for many
a day. They were once more friends. Mrs. Wentworth's chiding sounded as
if it were far away on some alien shore, while Lois floated serenely on
a tide that appeared to begin away back in her childhood, and was
bearing her gently, still gently, she knew not whither. If she tried to
look forward she was lost in a mist that hung like a soft haze over the
horizon. Might there be a haven yonder in that rosy distance? Or were
those still the billows of the wide and trackless sea? She did not know
or care. She would drift and meantime think of him, the old friend who
had turned the evening for her into a real delight. Was he in love with
Mrs. Lancaster? she wondered. Every one said he was, and it would not be
unnatural if he were. It was on her account he had gone to Mrs.
Wickersham's. She undoubtedly liked him. Many men were after her. If Mr.
Keith was trying to marry her, as every one said, he must be in love
with her. He would never marry any one whom he did not love. If he were
in love with Mrs. Lancaster, would she marry him? Her belief was that
she would.

At the thought she for one moment had a pang of envy.

Her reverie was broken in on by Mrs. Wentworth.

"Why are you so pensive? You have not said a word since we started."

"Why, I do not know. I was just thinking. You know, such a dinner is
quite an episode with me."

"Did you have a pleasant time? Was Mr. Keith agreeable? I was glad to
see you had him; for he is a very agreeable man when he chooses, but
quite moody, and you never know what he is going to say."

"I think that is one of his--of his charms--that you don't know what he
is going to say. I get so tired of talking to people who say just what
you know they are going to say--just what some one else has just said
and what some one else will say to-morrow. It is like reading an
advertisement."

"Lois, you must not be so unconventional," said Mrs. Wentworth. "I must
beg you not to repeat such a thing as your performance this evening. I
don't like it."

"Very well, Cousin Louise, I will not," said the girl, a little stiffly.
"I shall recognize your wishes; but I must tell you that I do not agree
with you. I hate conventionality. We all get machine-made. I see not the
least objection to what I did, except your wishes, of course, and
neither did Mr. Keith."