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?"
"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.
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 GumboltWhistle, or the florid and flowery editor of the New LeedsClarion!
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 onlyIknow--"
"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:hegot 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."
"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.
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;notMr. 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.