John Jay Chapman - "Emerson and Other Essays"

Havelock Ellis - "Studies in the Psychology of Sex, Volume 3 (of 6)"

Various - "Lippincott's Magazine of Popular Literature and Science, Vol. XII, No. 29. August, 1873."

Harriet Elizabeth (Beecher) Stowe - "Sunny Memories Of Foreign Lands, Volume 1 (of 2)"

Donald Finkel, 79, Poet of Free-Ranging Styles, Is Dead
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Book Review: The Dream by Gurbaksh Chahal
Donald Finkel, a noted American poet whose work teemed with curious juxtapositions, which in their unorthodoxy helped illuminate the function of poetry itself, died on Nov. 15 at his home in St. Louis. He was 79. The cause was complications of Alzheimers

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Gordon Keith written by Thomas Nelson Page

T >> Thomas Nelson Page >> Gordon Keith




As the curtain rose, the danseuse made her way to the centre of the
stage. She had raven-black hair and brows; but even as she stood, there
was something in the pose that seemed familiar to Keith, and as she
stepped forward and bowed with a little jerk of her head, and then, with
a nod to the orchestra, began to dance, Keith recognized Terpy. That
abandon was her own.

As she swept the boxes with her eyes, they fell on Keith, and she
started, hesitated, then went on. Next moment she glanced at the box
again, and as her eye caught Keith's she gave him a glance of
recognition. She was not to be disconcerted now, however. She had never
danced so well. And she was greeted with raptures of applause. The crowd
was wild with delight.

At that moment, from one of the wings, a thin curl of smoke rose and
floated up alongside a painted tamarind-tree. It might at first have
been only the smoke of a cigar. Next moment, however, a flick of flame
stole out and moved up the tree, and a draught of air blew the smoke
across the stage. There were a few excited whispers, a rush in the
wings; some one in the gallery shouted "Fire!" and just then a shower of
sparks from the flaming scenery fell on the stage.

In a second the whole audience was on its feet. In a second more there
would have been a panic which must have cost many lives. Keith saw the
danger. "Stay in this box," he said. "The best way out is over the
stage. I will come for you if necessary." He sprang on the stage, and,
with a wave of his arm to the audience, shouted: "Down in your seats! It
is all right."

Those nearest the stage, seeing a man stand between them and the fire,
had paused, and the hubbub for a moment had ceased. Keith took
advantage of it.

"This theatre can be emptied in three minutes if you take your time," he
cried; "but the fire is under control."

Terpy had seized the burning piece of scenery and torn it down, and was
tearing off the flaming edges with her naked hands. He sprang to Terpy's
side. Her filmy dress caught fire, but Keith jerked off his coat and
smothered the flame. Just then the water came, and the fire
was subdued.

"Strike up that music again," Keith said to the musicians. Then to Terpy
he said: "Begin dancing. Dance for your life!" The girl obeyed, and, all
blackened as she was, began to dance again. She danced as she had never
danced before, and as she danced the people at the rear filed out, while
most of those in the body of the house stood and watched her. As the
last spark of flame was extinguished the girl stopped, breathless.
Thunders of applause broke out, but ceased as Terpy suddenly sank to the
floor, clutching with her blackened hands at her throat. Keith caught
her, and lowering her gently, straightened her dress. The next moment a
woman sprang out of her box and knelt beside him; a woman's arm slipped
under the dancer's head, and Lois Huntington, on her knees, was
loosening Terpy's bodice as if she had been a sister.

A doctor came up out of the audience and bent over her, and the curtain
rang down.

That night Keith and Lois and Mrs. Lancaster all spent in the
waiting-room of the Emergency Hospital. They knew that Terpy's life was
ebbing fast. She had swallowed the flame, the doctor said. During the
night a nurse came and called for Keith. The dying woman wanted to see
him. When Keith reached her bedside, the doctor, in reply to a look of
inquiry from him, said: "You can say anything to her; it will not hurt
her." He turned away, and Keith seated himself beside her. Her face and
hands were swathed in bandages.

"I want to say good-by," she said feebly. "You don't mind now what I
said to you that time?" Keith, for answer, stroked the coverlid beside
her. "I want to go back home--to Gumbolt.--Tell the boys good-by
for me."

Keith said he would--as well as he could, for he had little voice left.

"I want to see _her_," she said presently.

"Whom?" asked Keith.

"The younger one. The one you looked at all the time. I want to thank
her for the doll. I ran away."

Lois was sent for, but when she reached the bedside Terpy was too far
gone to speak so that she could be understood. But she was conscious
enough to know that Lois was at her side and that it was her voice that
repeated the Lord's Prayer.

The newspapers the next day rang with her praises, and that night Keith
went South with her body to lay it on the hillside among her friends,
and all of old Gumbolt was there to meet her.

* * * * *

Wickersham, on finding his attempt at explanation to Mrs. Wentworth
received with coldness, turned his attentions in another direction. It
was necessary. His affairs had all gone wrong of late. He had seen his
great fortune disappear under his hands. Men who had not half his
ability were succeeding where he had failed. Men who once followed him
now held aloof, and refused to be drawn into his most tempting schemes.
His enemies were working against him. He would overthrow them yet.
Norman Wentworth and Gordon Keith especially he hated.

He began to try his fortune with Mrs. Lancaster again. Now, if ever,
appeared a good time. She was indifferent to every man--unless she cared
for Keith. He had sometimes thought she might; but he did not believe
it. Keith, of course, would like to marry her; but Wickersham did not
believe Keith stood any chance. Though she had refused Wickersham, she
had never shown any one else any special favor. He would try new tactics
and bear her off before she knew it. He began with a dash. He was quite
a different man from what he had been. He even was seen in church,
turning on Rimmon a sphinx-like face that a little disconcerted that
eloquent person.

Mrs. Lancaster received him with the serene and unruffled indifference
with which she received all her admirers, and there were many. She
treated him, however, with the easy indulgence with which old friends
are likely to be treated for old times' sake; and Wickersham was
deceived. Fortune appeared suddenly to smile on him again. Hope sprang
up once more.

Mrs. Nailor one day met Lois, and informed her that Mr. Wickersham was
now a rival of Mr. Keith's with Mrs. Lancaster, and, what was more, that
Norman Wentworth had learned that it was not Wickersham at all, but Mr.
Keith who had really caused the trouble between Norman and his wife.

Lois was aghast. She denied vehemently that it was true; but Mrs. Nailor
received her denial with amused indulgence.

"Oh, every one knows it," she said. "Mr. Keith long ago cut Fredy out;
and Norman knows it."

Lois went home in a maze. This, then, explained why Mr. Keith had
suddenly stopped coming to the house. When he had met her he had
appeared as glad as ever to see her, but he had also appeared
constrained. He had begun to talk of going away. He was almost the only
man in New York that she could call her friend. To think of New York
without him made her lonely. He was in love with Mrs. Lancaster, she
knew--of that she was sure, notwithstanding Mrs. Nailor's statement.
Could Mrs. Lancaster have treated him badly? She had not even cared for
her husband, so people said; would she be cruel to Keith?

The more she pondered over it the more unhappy Lois became. Finally it
appeared to her that her duty was plain. If Mrs. Lancaster had rejected
Keith for Wickersham, she might set her right. She could, at least, set
her right as to the story about him and Mrs. Wentworth.

That afternoon she called on Mrs. Lancaster. It was in the Spring, and
she put on a dainty gown she had just made.

She was received with the sincere cordiality that Alice Lancaster always
showed her. She was taken up to her boudoir, a nest of blue satin and
sunshine. And there, of all occupations in the world, Mrs. Lancaster,
clad in a soft lavender tea-gown, was engaged in mending old clothes.
"For my orphans," she said, with a laugh and a blush that made her look
charming.

A photograph of Keith stood on the table in a silver frame. When,
however, Lois would have brought up the subject of Mr. Keith, his name
stuck in her throat.

"I have what the children call 'a swap' for you," said the girl,
smiling.

Mrs. Lancaster smiled acquiescingly as she bit off a thread.

"I heard some one say the other day that you were one of those who 'do
good by stealth, and blush to find it fame.'"

"Oh, how nice! I am not, at all, you know. Still, it is pleasant to
deceive people that way. Who said it?"

"Mr. Keith." Lois could not help blushing a little; but she had broken
the ice.

"And I have one to return to you. I heard some one say that you had 'the
rare gift of an absolutely direct mind.' That you were like George
Washington: you couldn't tell a lie--that truth had its home in your
eyes." Her eyes were twinkling.

"My! Who said that?" asked the girl.

"Mr. Keith."

Lois turned quickly under pretence of picking up something, but she was
not quick enough to hide her face from her friend. The red that burned
in her cheeks flamed down and made her throat rosy.

Mrs. Lancaster looked at the young girl. She made a pretty picture as
she sat leaning forward, the curves of her slim, light-gowned figure
showing against the background of blue. Her face was pensive, and she
was evidently thinking deeply.

"What are you puzzling over so?"

At the question the color mounted into her cheeks, and the next second a
smile lit up her face as she turned her eyes frankly on Mrs. Lancaster.

"You would be amused to know. I was wondering how long you had known Mr.
Keith, and what he was like when he was young."

"When he was young! Do you call him old now? Why, he is only a little
over thirty."

"Is that all! He always seems much older to me, I do not know why. But
he has seen so much--done so much. Why, he appears to have had so many
experiences! I feel as if no matter what might happen, he would know
just what to do. For instance, that story that Cousin Norman told me
once of his going down into the flooded mine, and that night at the
theatre, when there was the fire--why, he just took charge. I felt as if
he would take charge no matter what might happen."

Mrs. Lancaster at first had smiled at the girl's enthusiasm, but before
Lois had finished, she had drifted away.

"He would--he would," she repeated, pensively.

"Then that poor girl--what he did for her. I just--" Lois paused,
seeking for a word--"trust him!"

Mrs. Lancaster smiled.

"You may," she said. "That is exactly the word."

"Tell me, what was he like when--you first knew him?"

"I don't know--why, he was--he was just what he is now--you could have
trusted him--"

"Why didn't you marry him?" asked Lois, her eyes on the other's face.

Mrs. Lancaster looked at her with almost a gasp.

"Why, Lois! What are you talking about? Who says--?"

"He says so. He said he was desperately in love with you."

"Why, Lois--!" began Mrs. Lancaster, with the color mounting to her
cheeks. "Well, he has gotten bravely over it," she laughed.

"He has not. He is in love with you now," the young girl said calmly.

Mrs. Lancaster turned and faced her with her mouth open to speak, and
read the girl's sincerity in her face. "With me!" She clasped her hands
with a pretty gesture over her bosom. A warm feeling suddenly surged to
her heart.

The younger woman nodded.

"Yes--and, oh, Mrs. Lancaster, don't treat him badly!" She laid both
hands on her arm and looked at her earnestly. "He has loved you always,"
she continued.

"Loved me! Lois, you are dreaming." But as she said it, Alice's heart
was beating.

"Yes, he was talking to me one evening, and he began to tell me of his
love for a girl,--a young girl,--and what a part it had played in
his life--"

"But I was married," put in Mrs. Lancaster, seeking for further proof
rather than renouncing this.

"Yes, he said she did not care for him; but he had always striven to
keep her image in his heart--her image as she was when he knew her and
as he imagined her."

Mrs. Lancaster's face for a moment was a study.

"Do you know whom he is in love with now?" she said presently.

"Yes; with you."

"No--not with me; with you." She put her hand on Lois's cheek
caressingly, and gazed into her eyes.

The girl's eyes sank into her lap. Her face, which had been growing
white and pink by turns, suddenly flamed.

"Mrs. Lancaster, I believe I--" she began in low tones. She raised her
eyes, and they met for a moment Mrs. Lancaster's. Something in their
depths, some look of sympathy, of almost maternal kindness, struck her,
passed through to her long-stilled heart. With a little cry she threw
herself into the other's arms and buried her burning face in her lap.

The expression on the face of the young widow changed. She glanced down
for a moment at the little head in her lap, then bending down, she
buried her face in the brown tresses, and drew her form close to
her heart.

In a moment the young girl was pouring out her soul to her as if she had
been her daughter.

The expression in Alice Lancaster's eyes was softer than it had been for
a long time, for it was the light of self-sacrifice that shone in them.

"You have your happiness in your hands," she said tenderly.

Lois looked up with dissent in her eyes.

Mrs. Lancaster shook her head.

"No. He will never be in love with me again."

The girl gave a quick intaking of her breath, her hand clutching at her
throat.

"Oh, Mrs. Lancaster!" She was thinking aloud rather than speaking. "I
thought that you cared for him."

Alice Lancaster shook her head. She tried to meet frankly the other's
eyes, but as they gazed deep into hers with an inquiry not to be put
aside, hers failed and fell.

"No," she said, but it was with a gasp.

Lois's eyes opened wide, and her face changed.

"Oh!" she murmured, as the sense of what she had done swept over her.
She rose to her feet and, bending down, kissed Mrs. Lancaster tenderly.
One might have thought she was the elder of the two.

Lois returned home in deep thought. She had surprised Mrs. Lancaster's
secret, and the end was plain. She allowed herself no delusions. The
dream that for a moment had shed its radiance on her was broken. Keith
was in love with Mrs. Lancaster, and Alice loved him. She prayed that
they might be happy--especially Keith. She was angry with herself that
she had allowed herself to become so interested in him. She would forget
him. This was easier said than done. But she could at least avoid seeing
him. And having made her decision, she held to it firmly. She avoided
him in every way possible.

The strain, however, had been too much for Lois, and her strength began
to go. The doctor advised Mrs. Wentworth to send her home. "She is
breaking down, and you will have her ill on your hands," he said. Lois,
too, was pining to get away. She felt that she could not stand the city
another week. And so, one day, she disappeared from town.

When Wickersham met Mrs. Lancaster after her talk with Lois, he was
conscious of the change in her. The old easy, indulgent attitude was
gone; and in her eye, instead of the lazy, half-amused smile, was
something very like scorn. Something had happened, he knew.

His thoughts flew to Keith, Norman, Rimmon, also to several ladies of
his acquaintance. What had they told her? Could it be the fact that he
had lost nearly everything--that he had spent Mrs. Wentworth's money?
That he had written anonymous letters? Whatever it was, he would brave
it out. He had been in some hard places lately, and had won out by his
nerve. He assumed an injured and a virtuous air, and no man could do
it better.

"What has happened? You are so strange to me. Has some one been
prejudicing you against me? Some one has slandered me," he said, with an
air of virtue.

"No. No one." Mrs. Lancaster turned her rings with a little
embarrassment. She was trying to muster the courage to speak plainly to
him. He gave it to her.

"Oh, yes; some one has. I think I have a right to demand who it is. Is
it that man Keith?"

"No." She glanced at him with a swift flash in her eye. "Mr. Keith has
not mentioned your name to me since I came home."

Her tone fired him with jealousy.

"Well, who was it, then? He is not above it. He hates me enough to say
anything. He has never got over our buying his old place, and has never
lost an opportunity to malign me since."

She looked him in the face, for the first time, quite steadily.

"Let me tell you, Mr. Keith has never said a word against you to me--and
that is much more than I can say for you; so you need not be
maligning him now."

A faint flush stole into Wickersham's face.

"You appear to be championing his cause very warmly."

"Because he is a friend of mine and an honorable gentleman."

He gave a hard, bitter laugh.

"Women are innocent!"

"It is more than men are" she said, fired, as women always are, by a
fleer at the sex.

"Who has been slandering me?" he demanded, angered suddenly by her
retort. "I have stood in a relation to you which gives me a right to
demand the name."

"What relation to me?--Where is your wife?"

His face whitened, and he drew in his breath as if struck a blow,--a
long breath,--but in a second he had recovered himself, and he burst
into a laugh.

"So you have heard that old story--and believe it?" he said, with his
eyes looking straight into hers. As she made no answer, he went on.
"Now, as you have heard it, I will explain the whole thing to you. I
have always wanted to do it; but--but--I hardly knew whether it were
better to do it or leave it alone. I thought if you had heard it you
would mention it to me--"

"I have done so now," she said coldly.

"I thought our relation--or, as you object to that word, our
friendship--entitled me to that much from you."

"I never heard it till--till just now," she defended, rather shaken by
his tone and air of candor.

"When?

"Oh--very recently."

"Won't you tell me who told you?"

"No--o. Go on."

"Well, that woman--that poor girl--her name was--her name is--Phrony
Tripper--or Trimmer. I think that was her name--she called herself
Euphronia Tripper." He was trying with puckered brow to recall exactly.
"I suppose that is the woman you are referring to?" he said suddenly.

"It is. You have not had more than one, have you?"

He laughed, pleased to give the subject a lighter tone.

"Well, this poor creature I used to know in the South when I was a
boy--when I first went down there, you know? She was the daughter of an
old farmer at whose house we stayed. I used to talk to her. You know how
a boy talks to a pretty girl whom he is thrown with in a lonesome old
country place, far from any amusement." Her eyes showed that she knew,
and he was satisfied and proceeded.

"But heavens! the idea of being in love with her! Why, she was the
daughter of a farmer. Well, then I fell in with her afterwards--once or
twice, to be accurate--when I went down there on business, and she was a
pretty, vain country girl--"

"I used to know her," assented Mrs. Lancaster.

"You did!" His face fell.

"Yes; when I went there to a little Winter resort for my throat--when I
was seventeen. She used to go to the school taught by Mr. Keith."

"She did? Oh, then you know her name? It was Tripper, wasn't it?"

She nodded.

"I thought it was. Well, she was quite pretty, you remember; and, as I
say, I fell in with her again, and having been old friends--" He shifted
in his seat a little as if embarrassed--"Why--oh, you know how it is. I
began to talk nonsense to her to pass away the time,--told her she was
pretty and all that,--and made her a few presents--and--" He paused and
took a long breath. "I thought she was very queer. The first thing I
knew, I found she was--out of her mind. Well, I stopped and soon came
away, and, to my horror, she took it into her head that she was my wife.
She followed me here. I had to go abroad, and I heard no more of her
until, not long ago, I heard she had gone completely crazy and was
hunting me up as her husband. You know how such poor creatures are?" He
paused, well satisfied with his recital, for first surprise and then a
certain sympathy took the place of incredulity in Mrs. Lancaster's face.

"She is absolutely mad, poor thing, I understand," he sighed, with
unmistakable sympathy in his voice.

"Yes," Mrs. Lancaster assented, her thoughts drifting away.

He watched her keenly, and next moment began again.

"I heard she had got hold of Mr. Rimmon's name and declares that he
married us."

Mrs. Lancaster returned to the present, and he went on:

"I don't know how she got hold of it. I suppose his being the
fashionable preacher, or his name being in the papers frequently,
suggested the idea. But if you have any doubt on the subject, ask him."

Mrs. Lancaster looked assent.

"Here--Having heard the story, and thinking it might be as well to stop
it at once, I wrote to Mr. Rimmon to give me a statement to set the
matter at rest, and I have it in my pocket." He took from his
pocket-book a letter and spread it before Mrs. Lancaster. It read:

"DEAR MR. WICKERSHAM: I am sorry you are being annoyed. I
cannot imagine that you should need any such statement as you
request. The records of marriages are kept in the proper
office here. Any one who will take the trouble to inspect
those records will see that I have never made any such
report. This should be more than sufficient.

"I feel sure this will answer your purpose.

"Yours sincerely,

"W.H. RIMMON."

"I think that settles the matter," said Wickersham, with his eyes on her
face.

"It would seem so," said Mrs. Lancaster, gravely.

As she spoke slowly, Wickersham put in one more nail.

"Of course, you know there must be a witness to a marriage," he said.
"If there be such a witness, let K---- let those who are engaged in
defaming me produce him."

"No, no," said Mrs. Lancaster, quickly. "Mr. Rimmon's statement--I think
I owe you an apology for what I said. Of course, it appeared incredible;
but something occurred--I can't tell you--I don't want to tell you
what--that shocked me very much, and I suppose I judged too hastily and
harshly. You must forget what I said, and forgive me for my injustice."

"Certainly I will," he said earnestly.

The revulsion in her belief inclined her to be kinder toward him than
she had been in a long time.

The change in her manner toward him made Wickersham's heart begin to
beat. He leant over and took her hand.

"Won't you give me more than justice, Alice?" he began. "If you knew how
long I have waited--how I have hoped even against hope--how I have
always loved you--" She was so taken aback by his declaration that for a
moment she did not find words to reply, and he swept on: "--you would
not be so cold--so cruel to me. I have always thought you the most
beautiful--the most charming woman in New York."

She shook her head. "No, you have not."

"I have; I swear I have! Even when I have hung around--around other
women, I have done so because I saw you were taken up with--some one
else. I thought I might find some one else to supplant you, but never
for one moment have I failed to acknowledge your superiority--"

"Oh, no; you have not. How can you dare to tell me that!" she smiled,
recovering her self-possession.

"I have, Alice, ever since you were a girl--even when you
were--were--when you were beyond me--I loved you more than ever--I--"
Her face changed, and she recoiled from him.

"Don't," she said.

"I will." He seized her hand and held it tightly. "I loved you even then
better than I ever loved in my life--better than your--than any one else
did." Her face whitened.

"Stop!" she cried. "Not another word. I will not listen. Release my
hand." She pulled it from him forcibly, and, as he began again, she,
with a gesture, stopped him.

"No--no--no! It is impossible. I will not listen."

His face changed as he looked into her face. She rose from her seat and
turned away from him, taking two or three steps up and down, trying to
regain control of herself.

He waited and watched her, an angry light coming into his eyes. He
misread her feelings. He had made love to married women before and had
not been repulsed.

She turned to him now, and with level eyes looked into his.

"You never loved me in your life. I have had men in love with me, and
know when they are; but you are not one of them."

"I was--I am--" he began, stepping closer to her; but she stopped him.

"Not for a minute," she went on, without heeding him. "And you had no
right to say that to me."

"What?" he demanded.

"What you said. My husband loved me with all the strength of a noble,
high-minded man, and notwithstanding the difference in our ages, treated
me as his equal; and I loved him--yes, loved him devotedly," she said,
as she saw a spark come into his eyes.

"You love some one else now," he said coolly.

It might have been anger that brought the rush of color to her face. She
turned and looked him full in the face.

"If I do, it is not you."

The arrow went home. His eyes snapped with anger.

"You took such lofty ground just now that I should hardly have supposed
the attentions of Mr. Wentworth meant anything so serious. I thought
that was mere friendship."