Charles Klein - "The Lion and The Mouse"

Robert Leighton - "The Pilots of Pomona"

Katherine Stokes - "The Motor Maids in Fair Japan"

Various - "Scientific American Supplement, No. 821, Sep. 26, 1891"

Love the One You're With - by Emily Giffin
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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,

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Gordon Keith written by Thomas Nelson Page

T >> Thomas Nelson Page >> Gordon Keith




"It is not yours to give," said Keith. "It belongs to Mrs. Wickersham. I
will see that she gets it if you deliver it to me."

"That's so," ejaculated Plume, as if the thought had never occurred to
him before. "I want her to have it, but you'd better keep it for her.
That man will get it away from her. You don't know him as I do. You
don't know what he'd do on a pinch. I tell you he is a gambler for life.
I have seen him sit at the board and stake sums that would have made me
rich for life. Besides," he added, as if he needed some other reason for
giving it up, "I am afraid if he knew I had it he'd get it from me in
some way."

He walked forward and handed the paper to Keith, who saw at a glance
that it was what Plume had declared it to be: a marriage certificate,
dirty and worn, but still with signatures that appeared to be genuine.
Keith's eyes flashed with satisfaction as he read the name of the Rev.
William H. Rimmon and Plume's name, evidently written with the same ink
at the same time.

"Now," said Keith, looking up from the paper, "I will see that Mrs.
Wickersham's family is put in possession of this paper."

"Couldn't you lend me a small sum, Mr. Keith," asked Plume, wheedlingly,
"just for old times' sake? I know I have done you wrong and given you
good cause to hate me, but it wasn't my fault, an' I've done you a favor
to-day, anyhow."

Keith looked at him for a second, and put his hand in his pocket.

"I'll pay you back, as sure as I live--" began Plume, cajolingly.

"No, you will not," said Keith, sharply. "You could not if you would,
and would not if you could, and I would not lend you a cent or have a
business transaction with you for all the money in New York. I will give
you this--for the person you have most injured in life. Now, don't thank
me for it, but go."

Plume took, with glistening eyes and profuse thanks, the bills that were
handed out to him, and shambled out of the room.

That night Keith, having shown the signatures to a good expert, who
pronounced them genuine, telegraphed Dr. Balsam to notify Squire Rawson
that he had the proof of Phrony's marriage. The Doctor went over to see
the old squire. He mentioned the matter casually, for he knew his man.
But as well as he knew him, he found himself mistaken in him.

"I know that," he said quietly, "but what I want is to find Phrony." His
deep eyes glowed for a while and suddenly flamed. "I'm a rich man," he
broke out, "but I'd give every dollar I ever owned to get her back, and
to get my hand once on that man."

The deep fire glowed for a while and then grew dull again, and the old
man sank back into his former grim silence.

The Doctor looked at him commiseratingly. Keith had written him fully of
Phrony and her condition, and he had decided to say nothing to the old
grandfather.



CHAPTER XXX

"SNUGGLERS' ROOST"

Wickersham began to renew his visits to Mrs. Wentworth, which he had
discontinued for a time when he had found himself repulsed. The repulse
had stimulated his desire to win her; but he had a further motive. Among
other things, she might ask for an accounting of the money he had had of
her, and he wanted more money. He must keep up appearances, or others
might pounce upon him.

When he began again, it was on a new line. He appealed to her sympathy.
If he had forgotten himself so far as to ask for more than friendship,
she would, he hoped, forgive him. She could not find a truer friend. He
would never offend her so again; but he must have her friendship, or he
might do something desperate.

Fortunately for him, Wickersham had a good advocate at court. Mrs.
Wentworth was very lonely and unhappy just then, and the plea prevailed.
She forgave him, and Wickersham again began to be a visitor at
the house.

But deeper than these lay another motive. While following Mrs. Wentworth
he had been thrown with Lois Huntington. Her freshness, her beauty, the
charm of her girlish figure, the unaffected gayety of her spirits,
attracted him, and he had paused in his other pursuit to captivate her,
as he might have stepped aside to pluck a flower beside the way. To his
astonishment, she declined the honor; more, she laughed at him. It
teased him to find himself balked by a mere country girl, and from this
moment he looked on her with new eyes. The unexpected revelation of a
deeper nature than most he had known astonished him. Since their
interview on the street Lois received him with more friendliness than
she had hitherto shown him. In fact, the house was a sad one these days,
and any diversion was welcome. The discontinuance of Keith's visits had
been so sudden that Lois had felt it all the more. She had no idea of
the reason, and set it down to the score of his rumored success with
Mrs. Lancaster. She, too, could play the game of pique, and she did it
well. She accordingly showed Wickersham more favor than she had ever
shown him before. While, therefore, he kept up his visits to Mrs.
Norman, he was playing all the time his other game with her cousin,
knowing the world well enough to be sure that it would not believe his
attentions to the latter had any serious object. In this he was not
mistaken. The buzz that coupled his name with Mrs. Wentworth's was soon
as loud as ever.

Finally Lois decided to take matters in her own hands. She would appeal
to Mr. Wickersham himself. He had talked to her of late in a manner
quite different from the sneering cynicism which he aired when she first
met him. In fact, no one could hold higher sentiments than he had
expressed about women or about life. Mr. Keith himself had never held
loftier ideals than Mr. Wickersham had declared to her. She began to
think that the tittle-tattle that she got bits of whenever she saw Mrs.
Nailor or some others was, perhaps, after all, slander, and that Mr.
Wickersham was not aware of the injury he was doing Mrs. Wentworth. She
would appeal to his better nature. She lay in wait several times without
being able to meet him in a way that would not attract attention. At
length she wrote him a note, asking him to meet her on the street, as
she wished to speak to him privately.

When Wickersham met her that afternoon at the point she had designated,
not far from the Park, he had a curious expression on his cold face.

She was dressed in a perfectly simple, dark street costume which fitted
without a wrinkle her willowy figure, and a big black hat with a single
large feather shaded her face and lent a shadow to her eyes which gave
them an added witchery. Wickersham thought he had never known her so
pretty or so chic. He had not seen as handsome a figure that day, and he
had sat at the club window and scanned the avenue with an eye for
fine figures.

She held out her hand in the friendliest way, and looking into his eyes
quite frankly, said, with the most natural of voices:

"Well, I know you think I have gone crazy, and are consumed with
curiosity to know what I wanted with you?"

"I don't know about the curiosity," he said, smiling at her. "Suppose we
call it interest. You don't have to be told now that I shall be only too
delighted if I am fortunate enough to be of any service to you." He bent
down and looked so deep into her eyes that she drew a little back.

"The fact is, I am plotting a little treason," she said, with a blush,
slightly embarrassed.

"By Jove! she is a real beauty," thought Wickersham, noting, with the
eye of a connoisseur, the white, round throat, the dainty curves of the
slim figure, and the purity of the oval face, in which the delicate
color came and went under his gaze.

"Well, if this be treason, I'll make the most of it," he said, with his
most fascinating smile. "Treasons, stratagems, and spoils are my game."

"But this may be treason partly against yourself?" She gave a
half-glance up at him to see how he took this.

"I am quite used to this, too, my dear girl, I assure you," he said,
wondering more and more. She drew back a little at the familiarity.

"Come and let us stroll in the Park," he suggested, and though she
demurred a little, he pressed her, saying it was quieter there, and she
would have a better opportunity of showing him how he could help her.

They walked along talking, he dealing in light badinage of a flattering
kind, which both amused and disturbed her a little, and presently he
turned into a somewhat secluded alley, where he found a bench sheltered
and shadowed by the overhanging boughs of a tree.

"Well, here is a good place for confidences." He took her hand and,
seating himself, drew her down beside him. "I will pretend that you are
a charming dryad, and I--what shall I be?"

"My friend," she said calmly, and drew her hand away from him.

"_Votre ami? Avec tout mon coeur_. I will be your best friend." He held
out his hand.

"Then you will do what I ask? You are also a good friend of Mrs.
Wentworth?"

A little cloud flitted over his face but she did not see it.

"We do not speak of the absent when the present holds all we care for,"
he said lightly.

She took no notice of this, but went on: "I do not think you would
wittingly injure any one."

He laughed softly. "Injure any one? Why, of course I would not--I could
not. My life is spent in making people have a pleasant time--though some
are wicked enough to malign me."

"Well," she said slowly, "I do not think you ought to come to Cousin
Louise's so often. You ought not to pay Cousin Louise as much attention
as you do."

"What!" He threw back his head and laughed.

"You do not know what an injury you are doing her," she continued
gravely. "You cannot know how people are talking about it?"

"Oh, don't I?" he laughed. Then, as out of the tail of his eye he saw
her troubled face, he stopped and made his face grave. "And you think I
am injuring her!" She did notice the covert cynicism.

"I am sure you are--unwittingly. You do not know how unhappy she is."

An expression very like content stole into his dark eyes.

Lois continued:

"She has not been wise. She has been foolish and unyielding and--oh, I
hate to say anything against her, for she has been very kind to me!--She
has allowed others to make trouble between her and her husband; but she
loves him dearly for all that--and--"

"Oh, she does! You think so!" said Wickersham, with an ugly little gleam
under his half-closed lids and a shrewd glance at Lois.

"Yes. Oh, yes, I am sure of it. I know it. She adores him."

"She does, eh?"

"Yes. She would give the world to undo what she has done and win him
back."

"She would, eh?" Again that gleam in Wickersham's dark eyes as they
slanted a glance at the girl's earnest face.

"I think she had no idea till--till lately how people talked about her,
and it was a great shock to her. She is a very proud woman, you know?"

"Yes," he assented, "quite proud."

"She esteems you--your friendship--and likes you ever so much, and all
that." She was speaking rapidly now, her sober eyes on Wickersham's face
with an appealing look in them. "And she doesn't want to do anything
to--to wound you; but I think you ought not to come so often or see her
in a way to make people talk--and I thought I'd say so to you." A smile
that was a plea for sympathy flickered in her eyes.

Wickersham's mind had been busy. This explained the change in Louise
Wentworth's manner of late--ever since he had made the bold declaration
of his intention to conquer her. Another idea suggested itself. Could
the girl be jealous of his attentions to Mrs. Wentworth? He had had
women play such a part; but none was like this girl. If it was a game
it was a deep one. He took his line, and when she ended composed his
voice to a low tone as he leant toward her.

"My dear girl, I have listened to every word you said. I am shocked to
hear what you tell me. Of course I know people have talked about
me,--curse them! they always will talk,--but I had no idea it had gone
so far. As you know, I have always taken Mrs. Wentworth's side in the
unhappy differences between her and her husband. This has been no
secret. I cannot help taking the side of the woman in any controversy. I
have tried to stand her friend, notwithstanding what people said.
Sometimes I have been able to help her. But--" He paused and took a long
breath, his eyes on the ground. Then, leaning forward, he gazed into
her face.

"What would you say if I should tell you that my frequent visits to Mrs.
Wentworth's house were not to see her--entirely?" He felt his way
slowly, watching the effect on her. It had no effect. She did not
understand him.

"What do you mean?"

He leant over, and taking hold of her wrist with one hand, he put his
other arm around her. "Lois, can you doubt what I mean?" He threw an
unexpected passion into his eyes and into his voice,--he had done it
often with success,--and drew her suddenly to him.

Taken by surprise, she, with a little exclamation, tried to draw away
from him, but he held her firmly.

"Do you think I went there to see her? Do you give me no credit for
having eyes--for knowing the prettiest, sweetest, dearest little girl in
New York? I must have concealed my secret better than I thought. Why,
Lois, it is you I have been after." His eyes were close to hers and
looked deep into them.

She gave an exclamation of dismay and tried to rise. "Oh, Mr.
Wickersham, please let me go!" But he held her fast.

"Why, of course, it is yourself."

"Let me go--please let me go, Mr. Wickersham," she exclaimed as she
struggled.

"Oh, now don't get so excited," he said, drawing her all the closer to
him, and holding her all the tighter. "It is not becoming to your
beautiful eyes. Listen to me, my darling. I am not going to hurt you. I
love you too much, little girl, and I want your love. Sit down. Listen
to me." He tried to kiss her, but his lips just touched her face.

"No; I will not listen." She struggled to her feet, flushed and panting,
but Wickersham rose too.

"I will kiss you, you little fool." He caught her, and clasping her with
both arms, kissed her twice violently; then, as she gave a little
scream, released her. "There!" he said. As he did so she straightened
herself and gave him a ringing box on his ear.

"There!" She faced him with blazing eyes.

Angry, and with his cheek stinging, Wickersham seized her again.

"You little devil!" he growled, and kissed her on her cheek again and
again.

As he let her go, she faced him. She was now perfectly calm.

"You are not a gentleman," she said in a low, level tone, tears of shame
standing in her eyes.

For answer he caught her again.

Then the unexpected happened. At that moment Keith turned a clump of
shrubbery a few paces off, that shut out the alley from the bench which
Wickersham had selected. For a second he paused, amazed. Then, as he
took in the situation, a black look came into his face.

The next second he had sprung to where Wickersham stood, and seizing him
by the collar, jerked him around and slapped him full in the face.

"You hound!" He caught him again, the light of fury in his eyes, the
primal love of fight that has burned there when men have fought for a
woman since the days of Adam, and with a fierce oath hurled him spinning
back across the walk, where he measured his length on the ground.

Then Keith turned to the girl:

"Come; I will see you home."

The noise had attracted the attention of others besides Gordon Keith.
Just at this juncture a stout policeman turned the curve at a
double-quick.

As he did so, Wickersham rose and slipped away.

"What th' devil 'rre ye doin'?" the officer demanded in a rich brogue
before he came to a halt. "I'll stop this racket. I'll run ye ivery wan
in. I've got ye now, me foine leddy; I've been waitin' for ye for some
time." He seized Lois by the arm roughly.

"Let her go. Take your hand off that lady, sir. Don't you dare to touch
her." Keith stepped up to him with his eyes flashing and hand raised.

"And you too. I'll tache you to turn this park into--"

"Take your hand off her, or I'll make you sorry for it."

"Oh, you will!" But at the tone of authority he released Lois.

"What is your name? Give me your number. I'll have you discharged for
insulting a lady," said Keith.

"Oh, me name's aall right. Me name's Mike Doherty--Sergeant Doherty. I
guess ye'll find it on the rolls right enough. And as for insultin' a
leddy, that's what I'm goin' to charrge against ye--that and--"

"Why, Mike Doherty!" exclaimed Keith. "I am Mr. Keith--Gordon Keith."

"Mr. Keith! Gordon Keith!" The big officer leant over and looked at
Keith in the gathering dusk. "Be jabbers, and so it is! Who's your leddy
friend?" he asked in a low voice. "Be George, she's a daisy!"

Keith stiffened. The blood rushed to his face, and he started to speak
sharply. He, however, turned to Lois.

"Miss Huntington, this is an old friend of mine. This is Mike Doherty,
who used to be the best man on the ship when I ran the blockade as
a boy."

"The verry same," said Mike.

"He used to teach me boxing," continued Keith.

"I taaught him the left upper-cut," nodded the sergeant.

Keith went on and told the story of his coming on a man who was annoying
Miss Huntington, but he did not give his name.

"Did ye give him the left upper-cut?" demanded Sergeant Doherty.

"I am not sure that I did not," laughed Keith. "I know he went down over
there where you saw him lying--and I have ended one or two
misunderstandings with it very satisfactorily."

"Ah, well, then, I'm glad I taaught ye. I'm glad ye've got such a good
defender, ma'am. Ye'll pardon what I said when I first coomed up. But I
was a little over-het. Ye see, this place is kind o' noted
for--for--This place is called 'Snugglers' Roost.' Nobody comes here
this time 'thout they'rre a little aff, and we has arders to look
out for 'em."

"I am glad I had two such defenders," said Lois, innocently.

"I'm always glad to meet Mr. Keith's friends--and his inimies too," said
the sergeant, taking off his helmet and bowing. "If I can sarve ye any
time, sind worrd to Precin't XX, and I'll be proud to do it."

As Keith and Lois walked slowly homeward, Lois gave him an account of
her interview with Wickersham. Only she did not tell him of his kissing
her the first time. She tried to minimize the insult now, for she did
not know what Keith might do. He had suddenly grown so quiet.

What she said to Keith, however, was enough to make him very grave. And
when he left her at Mrs. Wentworth's house the gravity on his face
deepened to grimness. That Wickersham should have dared to insult this
young girl as he had done stirred Keith's deepest anger. What Keith did
was, perhaps, a very foolish thing. He tried to find him, but failing in
this, he wrote him a note in which he told him what he thought of him,
and added that if he felt aggrieved he would be glad to send a friend to
him and arrange to give him any satisfaction which he might desire.

Wickersham, however, had left town. He had gone West on business, and
would not return for some weeks, the report from his office stated.

On reaching home, Lois went straight to her room and thought over the
whole matter. It certainly appeared grave enough to her. She determined
that she would never meet Wickersham again, and, further, that she would
not remain in the house if she had to do so. Her cheeks burned with
shame as she thought of him, and then her heart sank at the thought that
Keith might at that moment be seeking him.

Having reached her decision, she sought Mrs. Wentworth.

As soon as she entered the room, Mrs. Wentworth saw that something
serious had occurred, and in reply to her question Lois sat down and
quietly told the story of having met Mr. Wickersham and of his
attempting to kiss her, though she did not repeat what Wickersham had
said to her. To her surprise, Mrs. Wentworth burst out laughing.

"On my word, you were so tragic when you came in that I feared something
terrible had occurred. Why, you silly creature, do you suppose that
Ferdy meant anything by what he did?"

"He meant to insult me--and you," said Lois, with a lift of her head and
a flash in her eye.

"Nonsense! He has probably kissed a hundred girls, and will kiss a
hundred more if they give him the chance to do so."

"I gave him no chance," said Lois, sitting very straight and stiff, and
with a proud dignity which the other might well have heeded.

"Now, don't be silly," said Mrs. Wentworth, with a little hauteur. "Why
did you walk in a secluded part of the Park with him?"

"I thought I could help a friend of mine," said Lois.

"Mr. Keith, I suppose!"

"No; _not_ Mr. Keith."

"A woman, perhaps?"

"Yes; a woman." She spoke with a hauteur which Mrs. Wentworth had never
seen in her.

"Cousin Louise," she said suddenly, after a moment's reflection, "I
think I ought to say to you that I will never speak to Mr.
Wickersham again."

The color rushed to Mrs. Wentworth's face, and her eyes gave a flash.
"You will never do what?" she demanded coldly, looking at her with
lifted head.

"I will never meet Mr. Wickersham again."

"You appear to have met him once too often already. I think you do not
know what you are saying or whom you are speaking to."

"I do perfectly," said Lois, looking her full in the eyes.

"I think you had better go to your room," said Mrs. Wentworth, angrily.

The color rose to Lois's face, and her eyes were sparkling. Then the
color ebbed back again as she restrained herself.

"You mean you wish me to go?" Her voice was calm.

"I do. You have evidently forgotten your place."

"I will go home," she said. She walked slowly to the door. As she
reached it she turned and faced Mrs. Wentworth. "I wish to thank you for
all your kindness to me; for you have been very kind to me at times, and
I wish--" Her voice broke a little, but she recovered herself, and
walking back to Mrs. Wentworth, held out her hand. "Good-by."

Mrs. Wentworth, without rising, shook hands with her coldly. "Good-by."

Lois turned and walked slowly from the room.

As soon as she had closed the door she rushed up-stairs, and, locking
herself in, threw herself on the bed and burst out crying. The strain
had been too great, and the bent bow at last snapped.

An hour or two later there was a knock on her door. Lois opened it, and
Mrs. Wentworth entered. She appeared rather surprised to find Lois
packing her trunk.

"Are you really going away?" she asked.

"Yes, Cousin Louise."

"I think I spoke hastily to you. I said one or two things that I regret.
I had no right to speak to you as I did," said Mrs. Wentworth.

"No, I do not think you had," said Lois, gravely; "but I will try and
never think of it again, but only of your kindness to me."

Suddenly, to her astonishment, Mrs. Wentworth burst out weeping. "You
are all against me," she exclaimed--"all! You are all so hard on me!"

Lois sprang toward her, her face full of sudden pity. "Why, Cousin
Louise!"

"You are all deserting me. What shall I do! I am so wretched! I am so
lonely--so lonely! Oh, I wish I were dead!" sobbed the unhappy woman.
"Then, maybe, some one might be sorry for me even if they did not
love me."

Lois slipped her arm around her and drew her to her, as if their ages
had been reversed. "Don't cry, Cousin Louise. Calm yourself."

Lois drew her down to a sofa, and kneeling beside her, tried to comfort
her with tender words and assurances of her affection. "There, Cousin
Louise, I do love you--we all love you. Cousin Norman loves you."

Mrs. Wentworth only sobbed her dissent.

"I will stay. I will not go," said Lois. "If you want me."

The unhappy woman caught her in her arms and thanked her with a humility
which was new to the girl. And out of the reconciliation came a view of
her which Lois had never seen, and which hardly any one had seen often.



CHAPTER XXXI

TERPY'S LAST DANCE AND WICKERSHAM'S FINAL THROW

Curiously enough, the interview between Mrs. Lancaster and Lois brought
them closer together than before. The older woman seemed to find a new
pleasure in the young girl's society, and as often as she could she had
the girl at her house. Sometimes, too, Keith was of the party. He held
himself in leash, and hardly dared face the fact that he had once more
entered on the lane which, beginning among flowers, had proved so thorny
in the end. Yet more and more he let himself drift into that sweet
atmosphere whose light was the presence of Lois Huntington.

One evening they all went together to see a vaudeville performance that
was being much talked about.

Keith had secured a box next the stage. The theatre was crowded.
Wickersham sat in another box with several women, and Keith was aware
that he was covertly watching his party. He had never appeared gayer or
been handsomer.

The last number but one was a dance by a new danseuse, who, it was
stated in the playbills, had just come over from Russia. According to
the reports, the Russian court was wild about her, and she had left
Europe at the personal request of the Czar. However this might be, it
appeared that she could dance. The theatre was packed nightly, and she
was the drawing-card.