John Morley - "Rousseau"

Hector Malot - "En famille"

Anonymous - "One Day"

Janet Aldridge - "The Meadow Brook Girls Afloat"

Love the One You're With - by Emily Giffin
Moreover Technologies - Premier purveyor of real-time news and RSS feeds from across the Web

The Nanny Diaries - by Emma McLaughlin and Nicola Kraus
Ad -

Book Review: The Dream by Gurbaksh Chahal
by Emily Giffin A novel about life, love, the choices we make, the choices we didn't make, and the 'what if?' At the age of 33, Ellen Graham seems to have it all. Her husband, Andy, is a handsome, successful lawyer and the brother of her best friend,

A / B / C / D / E / F / G / H / I / J / K / L / M / N / O / P / R / S / T / U / V / W / Y / Z

Gordon Keith written by Thomas Nelson Page

T >> Thomas Nelson Page >> Gordon Keith




"Write me that letter, or I will turn you out of your pulpit. You know
what will happen if I tell what I know of you."

The other man's face turned white.

"You would not be so base."

Wickersham rose and buttoned up his coat.

"It will be in the papers day after to-morrow."

"Wait," gasped Rimmon. "I will see what I can say." He poured a drink
out of the decanter, and gulped it down. Then he seized a pen and a
sheet of paper and began to write. He wrote with care.

"Will this do?" he asked tremulously.

"Yes."

"You promise not to use it unless you have to?"

"Yes."

"And to carry the stock for me till it reacts and lets me out?"

"I will make no more promises."

"But you did promise--," began Mr. Rimmon.

Wickersham put the letter in his pocket, and taking up his hat, walked
out without a word. But his eyes glinted with a curious light.



CHAPTER XXVIII

ALICE LANCASTER FINDS PHRONY

Mr. Rimmon was calling at Mrs. Lancaster's a few days after his
interview with Keith and the day following the interview with
Wickersham. Mr. Rimmon called at Mrs. Lancaster's quite frequently of
late. They had known each other a long time, almost ever since Mr.
Rimmon had been an acolyte at his uncle Dr. Little's church, when the
stout young man had first discovered the slim, straight figure and
pretty face, with its blue eyes and rosy mouth, in one of the best pews,
with a richly dressed lady beside her. He had soon learned that this was
Miss Alice Yorke, the only daughter of one of the wealthiest men in
town. Miss Alice was then very devout: just at the age and stage when
she bent particularly low on all the occasions when such bowing is held
seemly. And the mind of the young man was not unnaturally affected by
her devoutness.

Since then Mr. Rimmon had never quite banished her from his mind,
except, of course, during the brief interval when she had been a wife.
When she became a widow she resumed her place with renewed power. And of
late Mr. Rimmon had begun to have hope.

Now Mr. Rimmon was far from easy in his mind. He knew something of
Keith's attention to Mrs. Lancaster; but it had never occurred to him
until lately that he might be successful. Wickersham he had feared at
times; but Wickersham's habits had reassured him. Mrs. Lancaster would
hardly marry him. Now, however, he had an uneasy feeling that Keith
might injure him, and he called partly to ascertain how the ground lay,
and partly to forestall any possible injury Keith might do. To his
relief, he found Mrs. Lancaster more cordial than usual. The line of
conversation he adopted was quite spiritual, and he felt elevated by it.
Mrs. Lancaster also was visibly impressed. Presently she said: "Mr.
Rimmon, I want you to do me a favor."

"Even to the half of my kingdom," said Mr. Rimmon, bowing with his plump
hand on his plump bosom.

"It is not so much as that; it is only a little of your time and, maybe,
a little of your company. I have just heard of a poor young woman here
who seems to be in quite a desperate way. She has been abandoned by her
husband, and is now quite ill. The person who told me, one of those good
women who are always seeking out such cases, tells me that she has
rarely seen a more pitiable case. The poor thing is absolutely
destitute. Mrs. King tells me she has seen better days."

For some reason, perhaps, that the circumstances called up not wholly
pleasant associations, Mr. Rimmon's face fell a little at the picture
drawn. He did not respond with the alacrity Mrs. Lancaster had expected.

"Of course, I will do it, if you wish it--or I could have some of our
workers look up the case, and, if the facts warrant it, could apply some
of our alms to its relief. I should think, however, the woman is rather
a fit subject for a hospital. Why hasn't she been sent to a hospital,
I wonder?"

"I don't know. No, that is not exactly what I meant," declared Mrs.
Lancaster. "I thought I would go myself and that, as Dr. Templeton is
ill, perhaps you would go with me. She seems to be in great distress of
mind, and possibly you might be able to comfort her. I have never
forgotten what an unspeakable comfort your uncle was when we were in
trouble years ago."

"Oh, of course, I will go with you," said the divine. "There is no
place, dear lady, where I would not go in such company," he added, his
head as much on one side as his stout neck would allow, and his eyes as
languishing as he dared make them.

Mrs. Lancaster, however, did not appear to notice this. Her face did not
change.

"Very well, then: we will go to-morrow. I will come around and pick you
up. I will get the address."

So the following morning Mrs. Lancaster's carriage stopped in front of
the comfortable house which adjoined Mr. Rimmon's church, and after a
little while that gentleman came down the steps. He was not in a happy
frame of mind, for stocks had fallen heavily the day before, and he had
just received a note from Ferdy Wickersham. However, as he settled his
plump person beside the lady, the Rev. William H. Rimmon was as
well-satisfied-looking as any man on earth could be. Who can blame him
if he thought how sweet it would be if he could drive thus always!

The carriage presently stopped at the entrance of a narrow street that
ran down toward the river. The coachman appeared unwilling to drive down
so wretched an alley, and waited for further instructions. After a few
words the clergyman and Mrs. Lancaster got out.

"You wait here, James; we will walk." They made their way down the
street, through a multitude of curious children with one common
attribute, dirt, examining the numbers on either side, and commiserating
the poor creatures who had to live in such squalor.

Presently Mrs. Lancaster stopped.

"This is the number."

It was an old house between two other old houses.

Mrs. Lancaster made some inquiries of a slatternly woman who sat sewing
just inside the doorway, and the latter said there was such a person as
she asked for in a room on the fourth floor. She knew nothing about her
except that she was very sick and mostly out of her head. The
health-doctor had been to see her, and talked about sending her to
a hospital.

The three made their way up the narrow stairs and through the dark
passages, so dark that matches had to be lighted to show them the way.
Several times Mr. Rimmon protested against Mrs. Lancaster going farther.
Such holes were abominable; some one ought to be prosecuted for it.
Finally the woman stopped at a door.

"She's in here." She pushed the door open without knocking, and walked
in, followed by Mrs. Lancaster and Mr. Rimmon. It was a cupboard hardly
more than ten feet square, with a little window that looked out on a
dead-wall not more than an arm's-length away.

A bed, a table made of an old box, and another box which served as a
stool, constituted most of the furniture, and in the bed, under a ragged
coverlid, lay the form of the sick woman.

"There's a lady and a priest come to see you," said the guide, not
unkindly. She turned to Mrs. Lancaster. "I don't know as you can make
much of her. Sometimes she's right flighty."

The sick woman turned her head a little and looked at them out of her
sunken eyes.

"Thank you. Won't you be seated?" she said, with a politeness and a
softness of tone that sounded almost uncanny coming from such a source.

"We heard that you were sick, and have come to see if we could not help
you," said Mrs. Lancaster, in a tone of sympathy, leaning over the bed.

"Yes," said Mr. Rimmon, in his full, rich voice, which made the little
room resound; "it is our high province to minister to the sick, and
through the kindness of this dear lady we may be able to remove you to
more commodious quarters--to some one of the charitable institutions
which noble people like our friend here have endowed for such persons as
yourself?"

[Illustration: "It is he! 'Tis he!" she cried.]

Something about the full-toned voice with its rising inflection caught
the invalid's attention, and she turned her eyes on him with a quick
glance, and, half raising her head, scanned his face closely.

"Mr. Rimmon, here, may be able to help you in other ways too," Mrs.
Lancaster again began; but she got no further. The name appeared to
electrify the woman.

With a shriek she sat up in bed.

"It is he! 'Tis he!" she cried. "You are the very one. You will help me,
won't you? You will find him and bring him back to me?" She reached out
her thin arms to him in an agony of supplication.

"I will help you,--I shall be glad to do so,--but whom am I to bring
back? How can I help you?"

"My husband--Ferdy--Mr. Wickersham. I am the girl you married that night
to Ferdy Wickersham. Don't you remember? You will bring him back to me?
I know he would come if he knew."

The effect that her words, and even more her earnestness, produced was
remarkable. Mrs. Lancaster stood in speechless astonishment.

Mr. Rimmon for a moment turned ashy pale. Then he recovered himself.

"She is quite mad," he said in a low tone to Mrs. Lancaster. "I think we
had better go. She should be removed to an asylum."

But Mrs. Lancaster could not go. Just then the woman stretched out her
arms to her.

"You will help me? You are a lady. I loved him so. I gave up all for
him. He married me. Didn't you marry us, sir? Say you did. Mr. Plume
lost the paper, but you will give me another, won't you?"

The commiseration in Mr. Rimmon's pale face grew deeper and deeper. He
rolled his eyes and shook his head sadly.

"Quite mad--quite mad," he said in an undertone. And, indeed, the next
moment it appeared but too true, for with a laugh the poor creature
began a babble of her child and its beauty. "Just like its father. Dark
eyes and brown hair. Won't he be glad to see it when he comes? Have you
children?" she suddenly asked Mrs. Lancaster.

"No." She shook her head.

Then a strange thing happened.

"I am so sorry for you," the poor woman said. And the next second she
added: "I want to show mine to Alice Yorke. She is the only lady I know
in New York. I used to know her when I was a young girl, and I used to
be jealous of her, because I thought Ferdy was in love with her. But he
was not, never a bit."

"Come away," said Mr. Rimmon to Mrs. Lancaster. "She is crazy and may
become violent."

But he was too late; the whole truth was dawning on Mrs. Lancaster. A
faint likeness had come to her, a memory of a far-back time. She ignored
him, and stepped closer to the bed.

"What is your name?" she asked in a kind voice, bending toward the woman
and taking her hand.

"Euphronia Tripper; but I am now Mrs. Wickersham. He married us." She
turned her deep eyes on Mr. Rimmon. At sight of him a change came
over her face.

"Where is my husband?" she demanded. "I wrote to you to bring him. Won't
you bring him?"

"Quite mad--quite mad!" repeated Mr. Rimmon, shaking his head solemnly,
and turning his gaze on Mrs. Lancaster. But he saw his peril. Mrs.
Lancaster took no notice of him. She began to talk to the woman at the
door, and gave her a few directions, together with some money. Then she
advanced once more to the bed.

"I want to make you comfortable. I will send some one to take care of
you." She shook hands with her softly, pulled down her veil, and then,
half turning to Mr. Rimmon, said quietly, "I am ready."

As they stepped into the street, Mr. Rimmon observed at a little
distance a man who had something familiar about him, but the next second
he passed out of sight.

Mrs. Lancaster walked silently down the dirty street without turning
her head or speaking to the preacher, who stepped along a little behind
her, his mind full of misgiving.

Mr. Rimmon, perhaps, did as hard thinking in those few minutes as he had
ever done during the whole course of his life. It was a serious and
delicate position. His reputation, his position, perhaps even his
profession, depended on the result. He must sound his companion and
placate her at any cost.

"That is one of the saddest spectacles I ever saw," he began.

To this Mrs. Lancaster vouchsafed no reply.

"She is quite mad."

"No wonder!"

"Ah, yes. What do you think of her?"

"That she is Ferdy Wickersham's wife--or ought to be."

"Ah, yes." Here was a gleam of light. "But she is so insane that very
little reliance should be placed on anything that she says. In such
instances, you know, women make the most preposterous statements and
believe them. In her condition, she might just as well have claimed me
for her husband."

Mrs. Lancaster recognized this, and looked just a little relieved. She
turned as if about to speak, but shut her lips tightly and walked on to
the waiting carriage. And during the rest of the return home she
scarcely uttered a word.

An hour later Ferdy Wickersham was seated in his private office, when
Mr. Rimmon walked in.

Wickersham greeted him with more courtesy than he usually showed him.

"Well," he said, "what is it?"

"Well, it's come."

Wickersham laughed unmirthfully. "What? You have been found out? Which
commandment have you been caught violating?"

"No; it's you," said Mr. Rimmon, his eyes on Wickersham, with a gleam of
retaliation in them. "Your wife has turned up." He was gratified to see
Wickersham's cold face turn white. It was a sweet revenge.

"My wife! I have no wife." Wickersham looked him steadily in the eyes.

"You had one, and she is in town."

"I have no wife," repeated Wickersham, firmly, not taking his eyes from
the clergyman's face. What he saw there did not satisfy him. "I have
your statement."

The other hesitated and reflected.

"I wish you would give me that back. I was in great distress of mind
when I gave you that."

"You did not give it," said Wickersham. "You sold it." His lip curled.

"I was--what you said you were when it occurred," said Mr. Rimmon. "I
was not altogether responsible."

"You were sober enough to make me carry a thousand shares of weak stock
for you till yesterday, when it fell twenty points," said Wickersham.
"Oh, I guess you were sober enough."

"She is in town," said Rimmon, in a dull voice.

"Who says so?"

"I have seen her."

"Where is she?"--indifferently.

"She is ill. She is mad."

Wickersham's face settled a little. His eyes blinked as if a blow had
been aimed at him nearly. Then he recovered his poise.

"How mad?"

"As mad as a March hare."

"You can attend to it," he said, looking the clergyman full in the face.
"I don't want her to suffer. There will be some expense. Can you get her
into a comfortable place for--for a thousand dollars?"

"I will try. The poor creature would be better off," said the other,
persuading himself. "She cannot last long. She is a very ill woman."

Wickersham either did not hear or pretended not to hear.

"You go ahead and do it. I will send you the money the day after it is
done," he said. "Money is very tight to-day, almost a panic at
the board."

"That stock? You will not trouble me about it?"

Wickersham growled something about being very busy, and rose and bowed
the visitor out. The two men shook hands formally at the door of the
inner office; but it was a malevolent look that Wickersham shot at the
other's stout back as he walked out.

As Mr. Rimmon came out of the office he caught sight of the short, stout
man he had seen in the street to which he had gone with Mrs. Lancaster.
Suddenly the association of ideas brought to him Keith's threat. He was
shadowed. A perspiration broke out over him.

Wickersham went back to his private office, and began once more on his
books. What he saw there was what he began to see on all sides: ruin. He
sat back in his chair and reflected. His face, which had begun to grow
thinner of late, as well as harder, settled more and more until it
looked like gray stone. Presently he rose, and locking his desk
carefully, left his office.

As he reached the street, a man, who had evidently been waiting for him,
walked up and spoke to him. He was a tall, thin, shabby man, with a face
and figure on which drink was written ineffaceably. Wickersham, without
looking at him, made an angry gesture and hastened his step. The other,
however, did the same, and at his shoulder began to whine.

"Mr. Wickersham, just a word."

"Get out," said Wickersham, still walking on. "I told you never to speak
to me again."

"I have a paper that you'd give a million dollars to get hold of."

Wickersham's countenance showed not the least change.

"If you don't keep away from here, I'll hand you over to the police."

"If you'll just give me a dollar I'll swear never to trouble you again.
I have not had a mouthful to eat to-day. You won't let me starve?"

"Yes, I will. Starve and be ---- to you!" He suddenly stopped and faced
the other. "Plume, I wouldn't give you a cent if you were actually
starving. Do you see that policeman? If you don't leave me this minute,
I'll hand you over to him. And if you ever speak to me again or write to
me again, or if I find you on the street about here, I'll arrest you and
send you down for blackmail and stealing. Now do you understand?"

The man turned and silently shuffled away, his face working and a glint
in his bleared eye.

* * * * *

An evening or two later Dave Dennison reported to Keith that he had
found Phrony. Dave's face was black with hate, and his voice was tense
with suppressed feeling.

"How did you find her?" inquired Keith.

"Shadowed the preacher. Knew he and that man had been confabbin'. She's
clean gone," he added. "They've destroyed her. She didn't know me." His
face worked, and an ominous fire burned in his eyes.

"We must get her home."

"She can't go. You'd never know her. We'll have to put her in an
asylum."

Something in his voice made Keith look at him. He met his gaze.

"They're getting ready to do it--that man and the preacher. But I don't
mean 'em to have anything more to do with her. They've done their worst.
Now let 'em keep away from her."

Keith nodded his acquiescence.

That evening Keith went to see a doctor he knew, and next day, through
his intervention, Phrony was removed to the private ward of an asylum,
where she was made as comfortable as possible.

It was evident that she had not much longer to stay. But God had been
merciful to her. She babbled of her baby and her happiness at seeing it
soon. And a small, strongly built man with grave eyes sat by her in the
ambulance, and told her stories of it with a fertility of invention that
amazed the doctor who had her in charge.

When Mr. Rimmon's agents called next day to make the preliminary
arrangements for carrying out his agreement with Wickersham, they found
the room empty. The woman who had charge of the house had been duly
"fixed" by Dave, and she told a story sufficiently plausible to pass
muster. The sick woman had disappeared at night and had gone she did not
know where. She was afraid she might have made away with herself, as she
was out of her head. This was verified, and this was the story that went
back to Mr. Rimmon and finally to Ferdy Wickersham. A little later the
body of a woman was found in the river, and though there was nothing to
identify her, it was stated in one of the papers that there was good
ground for believing that she was the demented woman whose disappearance
had been reported the week before.



CHAPTER XXIX

THE MARRIAGE CERTIFICATE

One day after Phrony was removed, Keith was sitting in the office he had
taken in New York, working on the final papers which were to be
exchanged when his deal should be completed, when there was a tap at the
door. A knock at the door is almost as individual as a voice. There was
something about this knock that awakened associations in Keith's mind.
It was not a woman's tap, yet Terpy and Phrony Tripper both sprang into
Keith's mind.

Almost at the same moment the door opened slowly, and pausing on the
threshold stood J. Quincy Plume. But how changed from the Mr. Plume of
yore, the jovial and jocund manager of the Gumbolt _Whistle_, or the
florid and flowery editor of the New Leeds _Clarion_!

The apparition in the door was a shabby representation of what J. Quincy
Plume had been in his palmy days. He bore the last marks of extreme
dissipation; his eyes were dull, his face bloated, and his hair thin and
long. His clothes looked as if they had served him by night as well as
by day for a long time. His shoes were broken, and his hat, once the
emblem of his station and high spirits, was battered and rusty.

"How are you, Mr. Keith?" he began boldly enough. But his assumption of
something of his old air of bravado died out under Keith's icy and
steady gaze, and he stepped only inside of the room, and, taking off his
hat, waited uneasily.

"What do you want of me?" demanded Keith, leaning back in his chair and
looking at him coldly.

"Well, I thought I would like to have a little talk with you about a
matter--"

Keith, without taking his eyes from his face, shook his head slowly.

"About a friend of yours," continued Plume.

Again Keith shook his head very slowly.

"I have a little information that might be of use to you--that you'd
like to have."

"I don't want it."

"You would if you knew what it was."

"No."

"Yes, you would. It's about Squire Rawson's granddaughter--about her
marriage to that man Wickersham."

"How much do you want for it?" demanded Keith.

Plume advanced slowly into the room and looked at a chair.

"Don't sit down. How much do you want for it?" repeated Keith.

"Well, you are a rich man now, and--"

"I thought so." Keith rose. "However rich I am, I will not pay you a
cent." He motioned Plume to the door.

"Oh, well, if that's the way you take it!" Plume drew himself up and
stalked to the door. Keith reseated himself and again took up his pen.

At the door Plume turned and saw that Keith had put him out of his mind
and was at work again.

"Yes, Keith, if you knew what information I have--"

Keith sat up suddenly.

"Go out of here!"

"If you'd only listen--"

Keith stood up, with a sudden flame in his eyes.

"Go on, I say. If you do not, I will put you out. It is as much as I can
do to keep my hands off you. You could not say a word that I would
believe on any subject."

"I will swear to this."

"Your oath would add nothing to it."

Plume waited, and after a moment's reflection began in a different key.

"Mr. Keith, I did not come here to sell you anything--"

"Yes, you did."

"No, I did not. I did not come--only for that. If I could have sold it,
I don't say I wouldn't, for I need money--the Lord knows how much I need
it! I have not a cent in the world to buy me a mouthful to eat--or
drink. I came to tell you something that only _I_ know--"

"I have told you that I would not believe you on oath," began Keith,
impatiently.

"But you will, for it is true; and I tell it not out of love for you
(though I never disliked--I always liked you--would have liked you if
you'd have let me), but out of hate for that--. That man has treated me
shamefully--worse than a yellow dog! I've done for that man what I
wouldn't have done for my brother. You know what I've done for him, Mr.
Keith, and now when he's got no further use for me, he kicks me out into
the street and threatens to give me to the police if I come to
him again."

Keith's expression changed. There was no doubt now that for once Quincy
Plume was sincere. The hate in his bleared eyes and bloated face was
unfeigned.

"Give me to the police! I'll give him to the police!" he broke out in a
sudden flame at Keith's glance of inspection. "He thinks he has been
very smart in taking from me all the papers. He thinks no one will
believe me on my mere word, but I've got a paper he don't know of."

His hand went to the breast of his threadbare coat with an angry clutch.
"I've got the marriage lines of his wife."

One word caught Keith, and his interest awoke.

"What wife?" he asked as indifferently as he could.

"His wife,--his lawful wife,--Squire Rawson's granddaughter, Phrony
Tripper. I was at the weddin'--I was a witness. He thought he could get
out of it, and he was half drunk; but he married her."

"Where? When? You were present?"

"Yes. They were married by a preacher named Rimmon, and he gave me her
certificate, and I swore to her I had lost it: _he_ got me to do it--the
scoundrel! He wanted me to give it to him; but I swore to him I had lost
it, too. I thought it would be of use some of these days." A gleam of
the old craftiness shone in his eyes.

Keith gazed at the man in amazement. His unblushing effrontery staggered
him.

"Would you mind letting me see that certificate?"

Plume hesitated and licked his ups like a dog held back from a bone.
Keith noted it.

"I do not want you to think that I will give you any money for it, for I
will not," he added quietly, his gray eyes on him.

For a moment Plume was so taken aback that his face became a blank.
Then, whether it was that the very frankness of the speech struck home
to him or that he wished to secure a fragment of esteem from Keith, he
recovered himself.

"I don't expect any money for it, Mr. Keith. I don't want any money for
it. I will not only show you this paper, I will give it to you."