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Gordon Keith written by Thomas Nelson Page

T >> Thomas Nelson Page >> Gordon Keith




It was just eight o'clock that evening when the carriage drove up to the
door of Norman Wentworth's bank, and a lady enveloped in a long wrap,
her dark veil pulled down over her face, sprang out and ran up the
steps. The crowd had long ago dispersed, though now and then a few timid
depositors still made their way into the bank, to be on the safe side.

The intervention of the banks and the loans they had made that afternoon
had stayed the run and saved the bank from closing; but Norman Wentworth
knew that if he was not ruined, his bank had received a shock from which
it would not recover in a long time, and his fortune was crippled, he
feared, almost beyond repair. The tired clerks looked up as the lady
entered the bank, and, with glances at the clock, muttered a few words
to each other about her right to draw money after the closing-hour had
passed. When, however, she walked past their windows and went straight
to Mr. Wentworth's door, their interest increased.

Norman, with his books before him, was sitting back in his chair, his
head leaning back and resting in his clasped hands, deep in thought upon
the gloom of the present and the perplexities of the future, when there
was a tap at the door.

With some impatience he called to the person to enter.

The door opened, and Norman could scarcely believe his senses. For a
second he did not even sit forward. He did not stir; he simply remained
sitting back in his chair, his face turned to the door, his eyes resting
on the figure before him in vague amazement. The next second, with a
half-cry, his wife was on her knees beside him, her arms about him, her
form shaken with sobs. He sat forward slowly, and his arm rested on her
shoulders.

"There! don't cry," he said slowly; "it might be worse."

But all she said was:

"Oh, Norman! Norman!"

He tried to raise her, with grave words to calm her; but she resisted,
and clung to him closer.

"It is not so bad; it might be worse," he repeated.

She rose suddenly to her feet and flung back her veil.

"Can you forgive me? I have come to beg your forgiveness on my knees. I
have been mad--mad. I was deceived. No! I will not say that--I was
crazy--a fool! But I loved you always, you only. You will forgive me?
Say you will."

"There, there! Of course I will--I do. I have been to blame quite as
much--more than you. I was a fool."

"Oh, no, no! You shall not say that; but you will believe that I loved
you--you only--always! You will believe this? I was mad."

He raised her up gently, and with earnest words reassured her, blaming
himself for his harshness and folly.

She suddenly opened her bag and emptied the contents out on his desk.

"There! I have brought you these."

Her husband gazed in silent astonishment.

"I don't understand."

"They are for you," she said--"for us. To pay _our_ debts. To help you."
She pulled off her glove and began to take off her diamond rings.

"They will not go a great way," said Norman, with a smile of indulgence.

"Well, as far as they will go they shall go. Do you think I will keep
anything I have when you are in trouble--when your good name is at
stake? The house--everything shall go. It is all my fault. I have been a
wicked, silly fool; but I did not know--I ought to have known; but I did
not. I do not see how I could have been so blind and selfish."

"Oh, don't blame yourself. I have not blamed you," said Norman,
soothingly. "Of course, you did not know. How could you? Women are not
expected to know about those things."

"Yes, they are," insisted Mrs. Wentworth. "If I had not been such a fool
I might have seen. It is all plain to me now. Your harassment--my
folly--it came to me like a stroke of lightning."

Norman's eyes were on her with a strange inquiring look in them.

"How did you hear?" he asked.

"Mr. Keith--he came to me and told me."

"I wish he had not done it. I mean, I did not want you troubled. You
were not to blame. You were deceived."

"Oh, don't say that! I shall never cease to thank him. He tore the veil
away, and I saw what a heartless, vain, silly fool I have been." Norman
put his hand on her soothingly. "But I have never forgotten that I was
your wife, nor ceased to love you," she went on vehemently.

"I believe it."

"I have come to confess everything to you--all my folly--all my
extravagance--my insane folly. But what I said just now is true: I have
never forgotten that I was your wife."

Norman, with his arm supporting her, reassured her with comforting
words, and, sustained by his confidence, she told him of her folly in
trusting Ferdy Wickersham: of her giving him her money--of everything.

"Can you forgive me?" she asked after her shamefaced recital.

"I will never think of that again," said Norman, "and if I do, it will
be with gratitude that they have played their part in doing away with
the one great sorrow of my life and bringing back the happiness of my
youth, the one great blessing that life holds for me."

"I have come to take you home," she said; "to ask you to come back, if
you will but forgive me." She spoke humbly.

Norman's face gave answer even before he could master himself to speak.
He stretched out his hand, and drew her to him. "I am at home now.
Wherever you are is my home."

When Norman came out of his private office, there was such a change in
him that the clerks who had remained at the bank thought that he must
have received some great aid from the lady who had been closeted with
him so long. He had a few brief words with the cashier, explaining that
he would be back at the bank before eight o'clock in the morning, and
saying good night, hurried to the door after Mrs. Wentworth. Handing her
into the carriage, he ordered the coachman to drive home, and, springing
in after her, he closed the door behind him, and they drove off.

Keith, meantime, had not been idle. After leaving Mrs. Wentworth, he
drove straight to a detective agency. Fortunately the chief was in, and
Keith was ushered into his private office immediately. He was a
quiet-looking, stout man, with a gray moustache and keen dark eyes. He
might have been a moderately successful merchant or official, but for
the calmness of his manner and the low tones of his voice. Keith came
immediately to the point.

"I have a piece of important work on hand this evening," he said, "of a
private and delicate nature." The detective's look was acquiescent.
"Could I get Dennison?"

"I think so."

Keith stated his case. At the mention of Wickersham's name a slight
change--the very slightest--flickered across the detective's calm face.
Keith could not tell whether it was mere surprise or whether it was
gratification.

"Now you see precisely what I wish," he said, as he finished stating the
case and unfolding his plan. "It may not be necessary for him even to
appear, but I wish him to be on hand in case I should need his service.
If Wickersham does not accede to my demand, I shall arrest him for the
fraud I have mentioned. If he does accede, I wish Dennison to accompany
him to the boat of the South American Line that sails to-morrow morning,
and not leave him until the pilot comes off. I do not apprehend that he
will refuse when he knows the hand that I hold."

"No, he will not. He knows what would happen if proceedings were
started," said the detective. "Excuse me a moment." He walked out of the
office, closing the door behind him, and a few minutes later returned
with David Dennison.

"Mr. Keith, this is Mr. John Dimm. I have explained to him the nature of
the service you require of him." He looked at Mr. Dimm, who simply
nodded his acquiescence. "You will take your orders from Mr. Keith,
should anything arise to change his plans, and act accordingly."

"I know him," said Keith, amused at the cool professional air with which
his old friend greeted him in the presence of his principal.

Dave simply blinked; but his eyes had a fire in them.

It was arranged that Dennison should precede Keith to the place he had
mentioned and order a supper there, while Keith should get the ticket at
the steamship office and then follow him. So when Keith had completed
his arrangements, he found Dennison at supper at a table near the
ladies' entrance, a view of which he commanded in a mirror just before
him. Mr. Dimm's manner had entirely changed. He was a man of the world
and a host as he handed Keith to his seat.

"A supper for two has been ordered in private dining-room 21, for 9:45,"
he said in an undertone as the waiter moved off. "They do not know
whether it is for a gentleman and a lady, or two gentlemen; but I
suppose it is for a lady, as he has been here a number of times with
ladies. If you are sure that the lady will not come, you might wait for
him there. I will remain here until he comes, and follow him up, in case
you need me."

Keith feared that the waiter might mention his presence.

"Oh, no; he knows us," said Dave, with a faint smile at the bare
suggestion.

Mr. Dimm called the head-waiter and spoke to him in an undertone. The
waiter himself showed Keith up to the room, where he found a table
daintily set with two covers.

The champagne-cooler, filled with ice, was already on the floor beside
the table. Keith looked at it grimly. The curtains of the window were
down, and Keith walked over to see on what street the window looked. It
was a deep embrasure. The shade was drawn down, and he raised it, to
find that the window faced on a dead-wall. At the moment the door opened
and he heard Wickersham's voice.

"No one has come yet?"

"No, sir, not as I knows of," stammered the waiter. "I have just come
on."

"Where is Jacques, the man who usually waits on me?" demanded
Wickersham, half angrily.

"Jacques est souffrant. Il est tres malade."

Wickersham grunted. "Well, take this," he said, "and remember that if
you serve me properly there will be a good deal more to follow."

The waiter thanked him profusely.

"Now, get down and be on the lookout, and when a lady comes and asks for
21, show her up immediately. If she asks who is here, tell her two
gentlemen and a lady. You understand?"

The waiter bowed his assent and retired. Wickersham came in and closed
the door behind him.

He had just thrown his coat on a chair, laid his hat on the mantelpiece,
and was twirling his moustache at the mirror above it, when he caught
sight in the mirror of Keith. Keith had stepped out behind him from the
recess, and was standing by the table, quietly looking at him. He gave
an exclamation and turned quickly.

"Hah! What is this? You here! What are you doing here? There is some
mistake." He glanced at the door.

"No, there is no mistake," said Keith, advancing; "I am waiting for
you."

"For me! Waiting for me?" he demanded, mystified.

"Yes. Did you not tell the waiter just now a gentleman was here? I
confess you do not seem very pleased to see me."

"You have read my looks correctly," said Wickersham, who was beginning
to recover himself, and with it his scornful manner. "You are the last
person on earth I wish to see--ever. I do not know that I should weep if
I never had that pleasure again."

Keith bowed.

"I think it probable. You may, hereafter, have even less cause for joy
at meeting me."

"Impossible," said Wickersham.

Keith put his hand on a chair, and prepared to sit down, motioning
Wickersham to take the other seat.

"The lady you are waiting for will not be here this evening," he said,
"and it may be that our interview will be protracted."

Wickersham passed by the last words.

"What lady? Who says I am waiting for a lady?"

"You said so at the door just now. Besides, I say so."

"Oh! You were listening, were you?" he sneered.

"Yes; I heard it."

"How do you know she will not be here? What do you know about it?"

"I know that she will no more be here than the Countess Torelli will,"
said Keith. He was looking Wickersham full in the face and saw that the
shot went home.

"What do you want?" demanded Wickersham. "Why are you here? Are you
after money or a row?"

"I want you--I want you, first, to secure all of Mrs. Wentworth's money
that you have had, or as much as you can."

Wickersham was so taken aback that his dark face turned almost white,
but he recovered himself quickly.

"You are a madman, or some one has been deceiving you. You are the
victim of a delusion."

Keith, with his eyes fastened on him, shook his head.

"Oh, no; I am not."

A look of perplexed innocence came over Wickersham's face.

"Yes, you are," he said, in an almost friendly tone. "You are the victim
of some hallucination. I give you my word, I do not know even what you
are talking about. I should say you were engaged in blackmail--" The
expression in his eyes changed like a flash, but something in Keith's
eyes, as they met his, caused him to add, "if I did not know that you
were a man of character. I, too, am a man of character, Mr. Keith. I
want you to know it." Keith's eyes remained calm and cold as steel.
Wickersham faltered. "I am a man of means--of large means. I am worth--.
My balance in bank this moment is--is more than you will ever be worth.
Now I want to ask you why, in the name of Heaven, should I want anything
to do with Mrs. Wentworth's money?"

"If you have such a balance in bank," said Keith, "it will simplify my
mission, for you will doubtless be glad to return Mr. Wentworth's money
that you have had from Mrs. Wentworth. I happen to know that his money
will come in very conveniently for Norman just now."

"Oh, you come from Wentworth, do you?" demanded Wickersham.

"No; from Mrs. Wentworth," returned Keith.

"Did she send you?" Wickersham shot at Keith a level glance from under
his half-closed lids.

"I offered to come. She knows I am here."

"What proof have I of that?"

"My statement."

"And suppose I do not please to accept your statement?"

Keith leant a little toward him over the table.

"You will accept it."

"He must hold a strong hand," thought Wickersham. He shifted his ground
suddenly. "What, in the name of Heaven, are you driving at, Keith? What
are you after? Come to the point."

"I will," said Keith, rising. "Let us drop our masks; they are not
becoming to you, and I am not accustomed to them. I have come for
several things: one of them is Mrs. Wentworth's money, which you got
from her under false pretences." He spoke slowly, and his eyes were
looking in the other's eyes.

Wickersham sprang to his feet.

"What do you mean, sir?" he demanded, with an oath. "I have already told
you--! I will let no man speak to me in that way."

Keith did not stir. Wickersham paused to get his breath.

"You would not dare to speak so if a lady's name were not involved, and
you did not know that I cannot act as I would, for fear of
compromising her."

An expression of contempt swept across Keith's face.

"Sit down," he said. "I will relieve your mind. Mrs. Wentworth is quite
ready to meet any disclosures that may come. I have her power of
attorney. She has gone to her husband and told him everything."

Wickersham's face whitened, and he could not repress the look of mingled
astonishment and fear that stole into his eyes.

"Now, having given you that information," continued Keith, "I say that
you stole Mrs. Wentworth's money, and I have come to recover it, if
possible."

Wickersham rose to his feet. With a furious oath he sprang for his
overcoat, and, snatching it up, began to feel for the pocket.

"I'll blow your brains out."

"No, you will not," said Keith, "and I advise you to make less noise. An
officer is outside, and I have but to whistle to place you where nothing
will help you. A warrant is out for your arrest, and I have the proof to
convict you."

Wickersham, with his coat still held in one hand, and the other in the
pocket, shot a glance at Keith. He was daunted by his coolness.

"You must think you hold a strong hand," he said. "But I have known them
to fail."

Keith bowed.

"No doubt. This one will not fail. I have taken pains that it shall not,
and I have other cards which I have not shown you. Sit down and listen
to me, and you shall judge for yourself."

With a muttered oath, Wickersham walked back to his seat; but before he
did so, he slipped quietly into his pocket a pistol which he took from
his overcoat.

Quickly as the act was done, Keith saw it.

"Don't you think you had better put your pistol back?" he said quietly.
"An officer is waiting just outside that door, a man that can neither be
bullied nor bought. Perhaps, you will agree with me when I tell you
that, though called Dimm, his real name is David Dennison. He has orders
at the least disturbance to place you under arrest. Judge for yourself
what chance you will have."

"What do you wish me to do?" asked Wickersham, sullenly.

"I wish you, first, to execute some papers which will secure to Norman
Wentworth, as far as can possibly be done, the amount of money that you
have gotten from Mrs. Wentworth under the pretence of investing it for
her in mines. Mrs. Wentworth's name will not be mentioned in this
instrument. The money was her husband's, and you knew it, and you knew
it was impairing his estate to furnish it. Secondly, I require that you
shall leave the country to-morrow morning. I have arranged for passage
for you, on a steamer sailing before sunrise."

"Thank you," sneered Wickersham. "Really, you are very kind."

"Thirdly, you will sign a paper which contains only a few of the facts,
but enough, perhaps, to prevent your returning to this country for some
years to come."

Wickersham leant across the table and burst out laughing.

"And you really think I will do that? How old do you think I am? Why did
you not bring me a milk-bottle and a rattle? You do my intellect a great
deal of honor."

For answer Keith tapped twice on a glass with the back of a knife. The
next second the door opened, and Dave Dennison entered, impassive, but
calmly observant, and with a face set like rock.

At sight of him Wickersham's face whitened.

"One moment, Dave," said Keith; "wait outside a moment more."

Dennison bowed and closed the door. The latch clicked, but the knob did
not settle back.

"I will give you one minute in which to decide," said Keith. He drew
from his pocket and threw on the table two papers. "There are the
papers." He took out his watch and waited.

Wickersham picked up the papers mechanically and glanced over them. His
face settled. Gambler that he was with the fortunes of men and the
reputations of women, he knew that he had lost. He tried one more
card--it was a poor one.

"Why are you so hard on me?" he asked, with something like a whine--a
faint whine--in his voice. "You, who I used to think--whom I have known
from boyhood, you have always been so hard on me! What did I ever do to
you that you should have hounded me so?"

Keith's face showed that the charge had reached him, but it failed of
the effect that Wickersham had hoped for. His lip curled slightly.

"I am not hard on you; I am easy on you--but not for your sake," he
added vehemently. "You have betrayed every trust reposed in you. You
have deceived men and betrayed women. No vow has been sacred enough to
restrain you; no tie strong enough to hold you. Affection, friendship,
faith, have all been trampled under your feet. You have deliberately
attempted to destroy the happiness of one of the best friends you have
ever had; have betrayed his trust and tried to ruin his life. If I
served you right I would place you beyond the power to injure any one,
forever. The reason I do not is not on your account, but because I
played with you when we were boys, and because I do not know how far my
personal feeling might influence me in carrying out what I still
recognize as mere justice." He closed his watch. "Your time is up. Do
you agree?"

"I will sign the papers," said Wickersham, sullenly.

Keith drew out a pen and handed it to him. Wickersham signed the papers
slowly and deliberately.

"When did you take to writing backhand?" asked Keith.

"I have done it for several years," declared Wickersham. "I had writer's
cramp once."

The expression on Keith's face was very like a sneer, but he tried to
suppress it.

"It will do," he said, as he folded the papers and took another envelope
from his pocket. "This is your ticket for the steamer for Buenos Ayres,
which sails to-morrow morning at high tide. Dennison will go with you to
a notary to acknowledge these papers, and then will show you aboard of
her and will see that you remain aboard until the pilot leaves her.
To-morrow a warrant will be put in the hands of an officer and an
application will be made for a receiver for your property."

Wickersham leant back in his chair, with hate speaking from every line
of his face.

"You will administer on my effects? I suppose you are also going to be
administrator, _de bonis non_, of the lady in whose behalf you have
exhibited such sudden interest?"

Keith's face paled and his nostrils dilated for a moment. He leant
slightly forward and spoke slowly, his burning eyes fastened on
Wickersham's face.

"Your statement would be equally infamous whether it were true or false.
You know that it is a lie, and you know that I know it is a lie. I will
let that suffice. I have nothing further to say to you." He tapped on
the edge of the glass again, and Dennison walked in. "Dennison," he
said, "Mr. Wickersham has agreed to my plans. He will go aboard the
Buenos Ayres boat to-night. You will go with him to the office I spoke
of, where he will acknowledge these papers; then you will accompany him
to his home and get whatever clothes he may require, and you will not
lose sight of him until you come off with the pilot."

Dennison bowed without a word; but his eyes snapped.

"If he makes any attempt to evade, or gives you any cause to think he is
trying to evade, his agreement, you have your instructions."

Dennison bowed again, silently.

"I now leave you." Keith rose and inclined his head slightly toward
Wickersham.

As he turned, Wickersham shot at him a Parthian arrow:

"I hope you understand, Mr. Keith, that the obligations I have signed
are not the only obligations I recognize. I owe you a personal debt,
and I mean to live to pay it. I shall pay it, somehow."

Keith turned and looked at him steadily.

"I understand perfectly. It is the only kind of debt, as far as I know,
that you recognize. Your statement has added nothing to what I knew. It
matters little what you do to me. I have, at least, saved two friends
from you."

He walked out of the room and closed the door behind him.

As Wickersham pulled on his gloves, he glanced at Dave Dennison. But
what he saw in his face deterred him from speaking. His eyes were like
coals of fire.

"I am waiting," he said. "Hurry."

Wickersham walked out in silence.

* * * * *

The following afternoon, when Dave Dennison reported that he had left
his charge on board the outgoing steamer, bound for a far South American
port, Keith felt as if the atmosphere had in some sort cleared.

A few days later Phrony's worn spirit found rest. Keith, as he had
already arranged, telegraphed Dr. Balsam of her death, and the Doctor
went over and told Squire Rawson, at the same time, that she had been
found and lost.

The next day Keith and Dave Dennison took back to the South all that
remained of the poor creature who had left there a few years before in
such high hopes.

One lady, closely veiled, attended the little service that old Dr.
Templeton conducted in the chapel of the hospital where Phrony had
passed away, before the body was taken South. Alice Lancaster had been
faithful to the end in looking after her.

Phrony was buried in the Rawson lot in the little burying-ground at
Ridgely, not far from the spot where lay the body of General Huntington.
As Keith passed this grave he saw that flowers had been laid on it
recently, but they had withered.

All the Ridge-neighborhood gathered to do honor to Phrony and to
testify their sympathy for her grandfather. It was an exhibition of
feeling such as Keith had not seen since he left the country. The old
man appeared stronger than he had seemed for some time. He took charge
and gave directions in a clear and steady voice.

When the services were over and the last word had been said, he stepped
forward and raised his hand.

"I've got her back," he said. "I've got her back where nobody can take
her from me again. I was mighty harsh on her; but I've done forgive her
long ago--and I hope she knows it now. I heard once that the man that
took her away said he didn't marry her. But--". He paused for a moment,
then went on: "He was a liar. I've got the proof.--But I want you all to
witness that if I ever meet him, in this world or the next, the Lord do
so to me, and more also! if I don't kill him!" He paused again, and his
breathing was the only sound that was heard in the deathly stillness
that had fallen on the listening crowd.

"--And if any man interferes and balks me in my right," he continued
slowly, "I'll have his blood. Good-by. I thank you for her." He turned
back to the grave and began to smooth the sides.