_ CHAPTER XIII. KEITH IN NEW YORK
Keith and Norman Wentworth had, from time to time, kept up a correspondence, and from Dr. Templeton's Keith went to call on Norman and his mother.
Norman, unfortunately, was now absent in the West on business, but Keith saw his mother.
The Wentworth mansion was one of the largest and most dignified houses on the fine old square--a big, double mansion. The door, with its large, fan-shaped transom and side-windows, reminded Keith somewhat of the hall door at Elphinstone, so that he had quite a feeling of old association as he tapped with the eagle knocker. The hall was not larger than at Elphinstone, but was more solemn, and Keith had never seen such palatial drawing-rooms. They stretched back in a long vista. The heavy mahogany furniture was covered with the richest brocades; the hangings were of heavy crimson damask. Even the walls were covered with rich crimson damask-satin. The floor was covered with rugs in the softest colors, into which, as Keith followed the solemn servant, his feet sank deep, giving him a strange feeling of luxuriousness. A number of fine pictures hung on the walls, and richly bound books lay on the shirting tables amid pieces of rare bric-a-brac.
This was the impression received from the only glance he had time to give the room. The next moment a lady rose from behind a tea-table placed in a nook near a window at the far end of the spacious room. As Gordon turned toward her she came forward. She gave him a cordial hand-shake and gracious words of welcome that at once made Keith feel at home. Turning, she started to offer him a chair near her table, but Keith had instinctively gone behind her chair and was holding it for her.
"It is so long since I have had the chance," he said.
As she smiled up at him her face softened. It was a high-bred face, not always as gentle as it was now, but her smile was charming.
"You do not look like the little, wan boy I saw that morning in bed, so long ago. Do you remember?"
"I should say I did. I think I should have died that morning but for you. I have never forgotten it a moment since." The rising color in his cheeks took away the baldness of the speech.
She bowed with the most gracious smile, the color stealing up into her cheeks and making her look younger.
"I am not used to such compliments. Young men nowadays do not take the trouble to flatter old ladies."
Her face, though faded, still bore the unmistakable stamp of distinction. Calm, gray eyes and a strong mouth and chin recalled Norman's face. The daintiest of caps rested on her gray hair like a crown, and several little ringlets about her ears gave the charm of quaintness to the patrician face. Her voice was deep and musical. When she first spoke it was gracious rather than cordial; but after the inspective look she had given him it softened, and from this time Keith felt her warmth.
The easy, cordial, almost confidential manner in which she soon began to talk to him made Keith feel as if they had been friends always, and in a moment, in response to a question from her, he was giving quite frankly his impression of the big city: of its brilliance, its movement, its rush, that keyed up the nerves like the sweep of a swift torrent.
"It almost takes my breath away," he said. "I feel as if I were on the brink of a torrent and had an irresistible desire to jump into it and swim against it."
She looked at the young man in silence for a moment, enjoying his sparkling eyes, and then her face grew grave.
"Yes, it is interesting to get the impression made on a fresh young mind. But so many are dashed to pieces, it appears to me of late to be a maelstrom that engulfs everything in its resistless and terrible sweep. Fortune, health, peace, reputation, all are caught and swept away; but the worst is its heartlessness--and its emptiness."
She sighed so deeply that the young man wondered what sorrow could touch her, intrenched and enthroned in that beautiful mansion, surrounded by all that wealth and taste and affection could give. Years afterwards, that picture of the old-time gentlewoman in her luxurious home came back to him.
Just then a cheery voice was heard calling outside:
"Cousin?--cousin?--Matildy Carroll, where are you?"
It was the voice of an old lady, and yet it had something in it familiar to Keith.
Mrs. Wentworth rose, smiling.
"Here I am in the drawing-room," she said, raising her voice the least bit. "It is my cousin, a dear old friend and schoolmate," she explained to Keith. "Here I am. Come in here." She advanced to the door, stretching out her hand to some one who was coming down the stair.
"Oh, dear, this great, grand house will be the death of me yet!" exclaimed the other lady, as she slowly descended.
"Why, it is not any bigger than yours," protested Mrs. Wentworth.
"It's twice as large, and, besides, I was born in that and learned all its ups and downs and passages and corners when I was a child, just as I learned the alphabet. But this house! It is as full of devious ways and pitfalls as the way in 'Pilgrim's Progress,' and I would never learn it any more than I could the multiplication table. Why, that second-floor suite you have given me is just like six-times-nine. When you first put me in there I walked around to learn my way, and, on my word, I thought I should never get back to my own room. I thought I should have to sleep in a bath-tub. I escaped from the bath-room only to land in the linen-closet. That was rather interesting. Then when I had calculated all your sheets and pillow-cases, I got out of that to what I recognized as my own room. No! it was the broom-closet--eight-times-seven! That was the only familiar thing I saw. I could have hugged those brooms. But, my dear, I never saw so many brooms in my life! No wonder you have to have all those servants. I suppose some of them are to sweep the other servants up. But you really must shut off those apartments and just give me one little room to myself; or, now that I have escaped from the labyrinth, I shall put on my bonnet and go straight home."
All this was delivered from the bottom step with a most amusing gravity.
"Well, now that you have escaped, come in here," said Mrs. Wentworth, laughing. "I want a friend of mine to know you--a young man--"
"A gentleman!"
"Yes; a young gentleman from--"
"My dear!" exclaimed the other lady. "I am not fit to see a young gentleman--I haven't on my new cap. I really could not."
"Oh, yes, you can. Come in. I want you to know him, too. He is--m--m--m--"
This was too low for Keith to hear. The next second Mrs. Wentworth turned and reentered the room, holding by the hand Keith's old lady of the train.
As she laid her eyes on Keith, she stopped with a little shriek, shut both eyes tight, and clutched Mrs. Wentworth's arm.
"My dear, it's my robber!"
"It's what?"
"My robber! He's the young man I told you of who was so suspiciously civil to me on the train. I can never look him in the face--never!" Saying which, she opened her bright eyes and walked straight up to Keith, holding out her hand. "Confess that you are a robber and save me."
Keith laughed and took her hand.
"I know you took me for one." He turned to Mrs. Wentworth and described her making him count her bundles.
"You will admit that gentlemen were much rarer on that train than ruffians or those who looked like ruffians?" insisted the old lady, gayly. "I came through the car, and not one soul offered me a seat. You deserve all the abuse you got for being so hopelessly unfashionable as to offer any civility to a poor, lonely, ugly old woman."
"Abby, Mr. Keith does not yet know who you are. Mr. Keith, this is my cousin, Miss Brooke."
"Miss Abigail Brooke, spinster," dropping him a quaint little curtsy.
So this was little Lois's old aunt, Dr. Balsam's sweetheart--the girl who had made him a wanderer; and she was possibly the St. Abigail of whom Alice Yorke used to speak!
The old lady turned to Mrs. Wentworth.
"He is losing his manners; see how he is staring. What did I tell you? One week in New York is warranted to break any gentleman of good manners."
"Oh, not so bad as that," said Mrs. Wentworth. "Now you sit down there and get acquainted with each other."
So Keith sat down by Miss Brooke, and she was soon telling him of her niece, who, she said, was always talking of him and his father.
"Is she as pretty as she was as a child?" Keith asked.
"Yes--much too pretty; and she knows it, too," smiled the old lady. "I have to hold her in with a strong hand, I tell you. She has got her head full of boys already."
Other callers began to appear just then. It was Mrs. Wentworth's day, and to call on Mrs. Wentworth was in some sort the cachet of good society. Many, it was true, called there who were not in "society" at all,--serene and self-contained old residents, who held themselves above the newly-rich who were beginning to crowd "the avenues" and force their way with a golden wedge,--and many who lived in splendid houses on the avenue had never been admitted within that dignified portal. They now began to drop in, elegantly dressed women and handsomely appointed girls. Mrs. Wentworth received them all with that graciousness that was her native manner. Miss Brooke, having secured her "new cap," was seated at her side, her faded face tinged with rising color, her keen eyes taking in the scene with quite as much avidity as Gordon's. Gordon had fallen back quite to the edge of the group that encircled the hostess, and was watching with eager eyes in the hope that, among the visitors who came in in little parties of twos and threes, he might find the face for which he had been looking. The name Wickersham presently fell on his ear.
"She is to marry Ferdy Wickersham," said a lady near him to another. They were looking at a handsome, statuesque girl, with a proud face, who had just entered the room with her mother, a tall lady in black with strong features and a refined voice, and who were making their way through the other guests toward the hostess. Mrs. Wentworth greeted them cordially, and signed to the elder lady to take a seat beside her.
"Oh, no; she is flying for higher game than that." They both put up their lorgnons and gave her a swift glance.
"You mean--" She nodded over toward Mrs. Wentworth.
"Yes."
"Why, she would not allow him to. She has not a cent in the world. Her mother has spent every dollar her husband left her, trying to get her off."
"Yes; but she has spent it to good purpose. They are old friends. Mrs. Wentworth does not care for money. She has all she needs. She has never forgotten that her grandfather was a general in the Revolution, and Mrs. Caldwell's grandfather was one also, I believe. She looks down on the upper end of Fifth Avenue--the Wickershams and such. Don't you know what Mrs. Wentworth's cousin said when she heard that the Wickershams had a coat-of-arms? She said, 'Her father must have made it.'"
Something about the placid voice and air of the lady, and the knowledge she displayed of the affairs of others, awoke old associations in Keith, and turning to take a good look at her, he recognized Mrs. Nailor, the inquiring lady with the feline manner and bell-like voice, who used to mouse around the verandah at Gates's during Alice Yorke's convalescence.
He went up to her and recalled himself. She apparently had some difficulty in remembering him, for at first she gave not the slightest evidence of recognition; but after the other lady had moved away she was more fortunate in placing him.
"You have known the Wentworths for some time?"
Keith did not know whether this was a statement or an inquiry. She had a way of giving a tone of interrogation to her statements. He explained that he and Norman Wentworth had been friends as boys.
"A dear fellow, Norman?" smiled Mrs. Nailor. "Quite one of our rising young men? He wanted, you know, to give up the most brilliant prospects to help his father, who had been failing for some time. Not failing financially?" she explained with the interrogation-point again.
"Of course, I don't believe those rumors; I mean in health?"
Keith had so understood her.
"Yes, he has quite gone. Completely shattered?" She sighed deeply. "But Norman is said to be wonderfully clever, and has gone in with his father into the bank?" she pursued. "The girl over there is to marry him--if her mother can arrange it? That tall, stuck-up woman." She indicated Mrs. Caldwell, who was sitting near Mrs. Wentworth. "Do you think her handsome?"
Keith said he did. He thought she referred to the girl, who looked wonderfully handsome in a tailor-made gown under a big white hat.
"Romance is almost dying out?" she sighed. "It is so beautiful to find it? Yes?"
Keith agreed with her about its charm, but hoped it was not dying out. He thought of one romance he knew.
"You used to be very romantic? Yes?"
Keith could not help blushing.
"Have you seen the Yorkes lately?" she continued. Keith had explained that he had just arrived. "You know Alice is a great belle? And so pretty, only she knows it too well; but what pretty girl does not? The town is divided now as to whether she is going to marry Ferdy Wickersham or Mr. Lancaster of Lancaster & Company. He is one of our leading men, considerably older than herself, but immensely wealthy and of a distinguished family. Ferdy Wickersham was really in love with"--she lowered her voice--"that girl over there by Mrs. Wentworth; but she preferred Norman Wentworth; at least, her mother did, so Ferdy has gone back to Alice? You say you have not been to see her? No? You are going, of course? Mrs. Yorke was so fond of you?"
"Which is she going to--I mean, which do people say she prefers?" inquired Keith, his voice, in spite of himself, betraying his interest.
"Oh, Ferdy, of course. He is one of the eligibles, so good-looking, and immensely rich, too; They say he is really a great financier. Has his father's turn? You know he came from a shop?"
Keith admitted his undeniable good looks and knew of his wealth; but he was so confounded by the information he had received that he was in quite a state of confusion.
Just then a young clergyman crossed the room toward them. He was a stout young man, with reddish hair and a reddish face. His plump cheeks, no less than his well-filled waistcoat, showed that the Rev. Mr. Rimmon was no anchoret.
"Ah, my dear Mrs. Nailor, so glad to see you! How well you look! I haven't seen you since that charming evening at Mrs. Creamer's."
"Do you call that charming? What did you think of the dinner?" asked Mrs. Nailor, dryly.
He laughed, and, with a glance around, lowered his voice.
"Well, the champagne was execrable after the first round. Didn't you notice that? You didn't notice it? Oh, you are too amiable to admit it. I am sure you noticed it, for no one in town has such champagne as you."
He licked his lips with reminiscent satisfaction.
"No, I assure you, I am not flattering you. One of my cloth! How dare you charge me with it!" he laughed. "I have said as much to Mrs. Yorke. You ask her if I haven't."
"How is your uncle's health?" inquired Mrs. Nailor.
The young man glanced at her, and the glance appeared to satisfy him.
"Robust isn't the word for it. He bids fair to rival the patriarchs in more than his piety."
Mrs. Nailor smiled. "You don't appear as happy as a dutiful nephew might."
"But he is so good--so pious. Why should I wish to withhold him from the joys for which he is so ripe?"
Mrs. Nailor laughed.
"You are a sinner," she declared.
"We are all miserable sinners," he replied. "Have you seen the Yorkes lately?"
"No; but I'll be bound you have."
"What do you think of the story about old Lancaster?"
"Oh, I think she'll marry him if mamma can arrange it."
"'Children, obey your parents,'" quoted Mr. Rimmon, with a little smirk as he sidled away.
"He is one of our rising young clergymen, nephew of the noted Dr. Little," explained Mrs. Nailor. "You know of him, of course? A good deal better man than his nephew." This under her breath. "He is his uncle's assistant and is waiting to step into his shoes. He wants to marry your friend, Alice Yorke. He is sure of his uncle's church if flattery can secure it."
Just then several ladies passed near them, and Mrs. Nailor, seeing an opportunity to impart further knowledge, with a slight nod moved off to scatter her information and inquiries, and Keith, having made his adieus to Mrs. Wentworth, withdrew. He was not in a happy frame of mind over what he had heard.
The next visit that Keith paid required more thought and preparation than that to the Wentworth house. He had thought of it, had dreamed of it, for years. He was seized with a sort of nervousness when he found himself actually on the avenue, in sight of the large brown-stone mansion which he knew must be the abode of Miss Alice Yorke.
He never forgot the least detail of his visit, from the shining brass rail of the outside steps and the pompous little hard-eyed servant in a striped waistcoat and brass buttons, who looked at him insolently as he went in, to the same servant as he bowed to him obsequiously as he came out. He never forgot Alice Yorke's first appearance in the radiance of girlhood, or Mrs. Yorke's affable imperviousness, that baffled him utterly.
The footman who opened the door to Keith looked at him with keenness, but ended in confusion of mind. He stood, at first, in the middle of the doorway and gave him a glance of swift inspection. But when Keith asked if the ladies were in he suddenly grew more respectful. The visitor was not up to the mark in appointment, but there was that in his air and tone which Bower recognized. He would see. Would he be good enough to walk in?
When he returned after a few minutes, indifference had given place to servility.
Would Mr. Keats please be good enough to walk into the drawing-room? Thankee, sir. The ladies would be down in a few moments.
Keith did not know that this change in bearing was due to the pleasure expressed above-stairs by a certain young lady who had flatly refused to accept her mother's suggestion that they send word they were not at home.
Alice Yorke was not in a very contented frame of mind that day. For some time she had been trying to make up her mind on a subject of grave importance to her, and she had not found it easy to do. Many questions confronted her. Curiously, Keith himself had played a part in the matter. Strangely enough, she was thinking of him at the very time his card was brought up. Mrs. Yorke, who had not on her glasses, handed the card to Alice. She gave a little scream at the coincidence.
"Mr. Keith! How strange!"
"What is that?" asked her mother, quickly. Her ears had caught the name.
"Why, it is Mr. Keith. I was just--." She stopped, for Mrs. Yorke's face spoke disappointment.
"I do not think we can see him," she began.
"Why, of course, I must see him, mamma. I would not miss seeing him for anything in the world. Go down, Bower, and say I will be down directly." The servant disappeared.
"Now, Alice," protested her mother, who had already exhausted several arguments, such as the inconvenience of the hour, the impoliteness of keeping the visitor waiting, as she would have to do to dress, and several other such excuses as will occur to mammas who have plans of their own for their daughters and unexpectedly receive the card of a young man who, by a bare possibility, may in ten minutes upset the work of nearly two years--"Now, Alice, I think it very wrong in you to do anything to give that young man any idea that you are going to reopen that old affair."
Alice protested that she had no idea of doing anything like that. There was no "old affair." She did not wish to be rude when he had taken the trouble to call--that was all.
"Fudge!" exclaimed Mrs. Yorke. "Trouble to call! Of course, he will take the trouble to call. He would call a hundred times if he thought he could get--" she caught her daughter's eye and paused--"could get you. But you have no right to cause him unhappiness."
"Oh, I guess I couldn't cause him much unhappiness now. I fancy he is all over it now," said the girl, lightly. "They all get over it. It's a quick fever. It doesn't last, mamma. How many have there been?"
"You know better. Isn't he always sending you books and things? He is not like those others. What would Mr. Lancaster say?"
"Oh, Mr. Lancaster! He has no right to say anything," pouted the girl, her face clouding a little. "Mr. Lancaster will say anything I want him to say," she added as she caught sight of her mother's unhappy expression. "I wish you would not always be holding him up to me. I like him, and he is awfully good to me--much better than I deserve; but I get awfully tired of him sometimes: he is so serious. Sometimes I feel like breaking loose and just doing things. I do!" She tossed her head and stamped her foot with impatience like a spoiled child.
"Well, there is Ferdy?--" began her mother.
The girl turned on her.
"I thought we had an understanding on that subject, mamma. If you ever say anything more about my marrying Ferdy, I _will_ do things! I vow I will!"
"Why, I thought you professed to like Ferdy, and he is certainly in love with you."
"He certainly is not. He is in love with Lou Caldwell as much as he could be in love with any one but himself; but if you knew him as well as I do you would know he is not in love with any one but Ferdy."
Mrs. Yorke knew when to yield, and how to do it. Her face grew melancholy and her voice pathetic as she protested that all she wished was her daughter's happiness.
"Then please don't mention that to me again," said the girl.
The next second her daughter was leaning over her, soothing her and assuring her of her devotion.
"I want to invite him to dinner, mamma."
Mrs. Yorke actually gasped.
"Nonsense! Why, he would be utterly out of place. This is not Ridgely. I do not suppose he ever had on a dress-coat in his life!" Which was true, though Keith would not have cared a button about it.
"Well, we can invite him to lunch," said Alice, with a sigh.
But Mrs. Yorke was obdurate. She could not undertake to invite an unknown young man to her table. Thus, the want of a dress-suit limited Mrs. Yorke's hospitality and served a secondary and more important purpose for her.
"I wish papa were here; he would agree with me," sighed the girl.
When the controversy was settled Miss Alice slipped off to gild the lily. The care she took in the selection of a toilet, and the tender pats and delicate touches she gave as she turned before her cheval-glass, might have belied her declaration to her mother, a little while before, that she was indifferent to Mr. Keith, and might even have given some comfort to the anxious young man in the drawing-room below, who, in default of books, was examining the pictures with such interest. He had never seen such a sumptuous house.
Meantime, Mrs. Yorke executed a manoeuvre. As soon as Alice disappeared, she descended to the drawing-room. But she slipped on an extra diamond ring or two. Thus she had a full quarter of an hour's start of her daughter.
The greeting between her and the young man was more cordial than might have been expected. Mrs. Yorke was surprised to find how Keith had developed. He had broadened, and though his face was thin, it had undeniable distinction. His manner was so dignified that Mrs. Yorke was almost embarrassed.
"Why, how you have changed!" she exclaimed. What she said to herself was: "What a bother for this boy to come here now, just when Alice is getting her mind settled! But I will get rid of him."
She began to question him as to his plans.
What Keith had said to himself when the step on the stair and the rustling gown introduced Mrs. Yorke's portly figure was: "Heavens! it's the old lady! I wonder what the old dragon will do, and whether I am not to see Her!" He observed her embarrassment as she entered the room, and took courage.
The next moment they were fencing across the room, and Keith was girding himself like another young St. George.
How was his school coming on? she asked.
He was not teaching any more. He had been to college, and had now taken up engineering. It offered such advantages.
She was so surprised. She would have thought teaching the very career for him. He seemed to have such a gift for it.
Keith was not sure that this was not a "touch." He quoted Dr. Johnson's definition that teaching was the universal refuge of educated indigents. "I do not mean to remain an indigent all my life," he added, feeling that this was a touch on his part.
Mrs. Yorke pondered a moment.
"But that was not his name. His name was Balsam. I know, because I had some trouble getting a bill out of him."
Keith changed his mind about the touch.
Just then there was another rustle on the stair and another step,--this time a lighter one,--and the next moment appeared what was to the young man a vision.
Keith's face, as he rose to greet her, showed what he thought. For a moment, at least, the dragon had disappeared, and he stood in the presence only of Alice Yorke.
The girl was, indeed, as she paused for a moment just in the wide doorway under its silken hangings,--the minx! how was he to know that she knew how effective the position was?--a picture to fill a young man's eye and flood his face with light, and even to make an old man's eye grow young again. The time that had passed had added to the charm of both face and figure; and, arrayed in her daintiest toilet of blue and white, Alice Yorke was radiant enough to have smitten a much harder heart than that which was at the moment thumping in Keith's breast and looking forth from his eager eyes. The pause in the doorway gave just time for the picture to be impressed forever in Keith's mind.
Her eyes were sparkling, and her lips parted with a smile of pleased surprise.
"How do you do?" She came forward with outstretched arm and a cordial greeting.
Mrs. Yorke could not repress a mother's pride at seeing the impression that her daughter's appearance had made. The expression on Keith's face, however, decided her that she would hazard no more such meetings.
The first words, of course, were of the surprise Alice felt at finding him there. "How did you remember us?"
"I was not likely to forget you," said Keith, frankly enough. "I am in New York on business, and I thought that before going home I would see my friends." This with some pride, as Mrs. Yorke was present.
"Where are you living?"
Keith explained that he was an engineer and lived in Gumbolt.
"Ah, I think that is a splendid profession," declared Miss Alice. "If I were a man I would be one. Think of building great bridges across mighty rivers, tunnelling great mountains!"
"Maybe even the sea itself," said Mr. Keith, who, so long as Alice's eyes were lighting up at the thought of his profession, cared not what Mrs. Yorke thought.
"I doubt if engineers would find much to do in New York," put in Mrs. Yorke. "I think the West would be a good field--the far West," she explained.
"It was so good in you to look us up," Miss Alice said sturdily and, perhaps, a little defiantly, for she knew what her mother was thinking.
"If that is being good," said Keith, "my salvation is assured." He wanted to say, as he looked at her, "In all the multitude in New York there is but one person that I really came to see, and I am repaid," but he did not venture so far. In place of it he made a mental calculation of the chances of Mrs. Yorke leaving, if only for a moment. A glance at her, however, satisfied him that the chance of it was not worth considering, and gloom began to settle on him. If there is anything that turns a young man's heart to lead and encases it in ice, it is, when he has travelled leagues to see a girl, to have mamma plant herself in the room and mount guard. Keith knew now that Mrs. Yorke had mounted guard, and that no power but Providence would dislodge her. The thought of the cool woods of the Ridge came to him like a mirage, torturing him.
He turned to the girl boldly.
"Sha'n't you ever come South again?" he asked. "The humming-birds are waiting."
Alice smiled, and her blush made her charming.
Mrs. Yorke answered for her. She did not think the South agreed with Alice.
Alice protested that she loved it.
"How is my dear old Doctor? Do you know, he and I have carried on quite a correspondence this year?"
Keith did not know. For the first time in his life he envied the Doctor.
"He is your--one of your most devoted admirers. The last time I saw him he was talking of you."
"What did he say of me? Do tell me!" with exaggerated eagerness.
Keith smiled, wondering what she would think if she knew.
"Too many things for me to tell."
His gray eyes said the rest.
While they were talking a sound of wheels was heard outside, followed by a ring at the door. Keith sat facing the door, and could see the gentleman who entered the hail. He was tall and a little gray, with a pleasant, self-contained face. He turned toward the drawing-room, taking off his gloves as he walked.
"Her father. He is quite distinguished-looking," thought Keith. "I wonder if he will come in here? He looks younger than the dragon." He was in some trepidation at the idea of meeting Mr. Yorke.
When Keith looked at the ladies again some change had taken place in both of them. Their faces wore a different expression: Mrs. Yorke's was one of mingled disquietude and relief, and Miss Alice's an expression of discontent and confusion. Keith settled himself and waited to be presented.
The gentleman came in with a pleased air as his eye rested on the young lady.
"There is where she gets her high-bred looks--from her father," thought Keith; rising.
The next moment the gentleman was shaking hands warmly with Miss Alice and cordially with Mrs. Yorke. And then, after a pause,--a pause in which Miss Alice had looked at her mother,--the girl introduced "Mr. Lancaster." He turned and spoke to Keith pleasantly.
"Mr. Keith is--an acquaintance we made in the South when we were there winter before last," said Mrs. Yorke.
"A friend of ours," said the girl. She turned back to Keith.
"Tell me what Dr. Balsam said."
"Mr. Keith knows the Wentworths--I believe you know the Wentworths very well?" Mrs. Yorke addressed Mr. Keith.
"Yes, I have known Norman since we were boys. I have met his mother, but I never met his father."
Mrs. Yorke was provoked at the stupidity of denying so advantageous an acquaintance. But Mr. Lancaster took more notice of Keith than he had done before. His dark eyes had a gleam of amusement in them as he turned and looked at the young man. Something in him recalled the past.
"From the South, you say?"
"Yes, sir." He named his State with pride.
"Did I catch your name correctly? Is it Keith?"
"Yes, sir."
"I used to know a gentleman of that name--General Keith."
"There were several of them," answered the young man, with pride. "My father was known as 'General Keith of Elphinstone.'"
"That was he. I captured him. He was desperately wounded, and I had the pleasure of having him attended to, and afterwards of getting him exchanged. How is he? Is he still living?"
"Yes, sir."
Mr. Lancaster turned to the ladies. "He was one of the bravest men I have known," he said. "I was once a recipient of his gracious hospitality. I went South to look into some matters there," he explained to the ladies.
The speech brought a gratified look into Keith's eyes. Mrs. Yorke was divided between her feeling of relief that Mr. Lancaster should know of Keith's social standing and her fear that such praise might affect Alice. After a glance at the girl's face the latter predominated.
"Men have no sense at all," she said to herself. Had she known it, the speech made the girl feel more kindly toward her older admirer than she had ever done before.
Gordon's face was suffused with tenderness, as it always was at any mention of his father. He stepped forward.
"May I shake hands with you, sir?" He grasped the hand of the older man. "If I can ever be of any service to you--of the least service--I hope you will let my father's son repay a part of his debt. You could not do me a greater favor." As he stood straight and dignified, grasping the older man's hand, he looked more of a man than he had ever done. Mr. Lancaster was manifestly pleased.
"I will do so," he said, with a smile.
Mrs. Yorke was in a fidget. "This man will ruin everything," she said to herself.
Seeing that his chance of seeing Alice alone was gone, Keith rose and took leave with some stateliness. At the last moment Alice boldly asked him to take lunch with them next day.
"Thank you," said Keith, "I lunch in Sparta to-morrow. I am going South to-night." But his allusion was lost on the ladies.
When Keith came out, a handsome trap was standing at the door, with a fine pair of horses and a liveried groom.
And a little later, as Keith was walking up the avenue looking at the crowds that thronged it in all the bravery of fine apparel, he saw the same pair of high-steppers threading their way proudly among the other teams. He suddenly became aware that some one was bowing to him, and there was Alice Yorke sitting up beside Mr. Lancaster, bowing to him from under a big hat with great white plumes. For one moment he had a warm feeling about his heart, and then, as the turnout was swallowed up in the crowd, Keith felt a sudden sense of loneliness, and he positively hated Mrs. Yorke. A little later he passed Ferdy Wickersham, in a long coat and a high hat, walking up the avenue with the girl he had seen at Mrs. Wentworth's. He took off his hat as they passed, but apparently they did not see him. And once more that overwhelming loneliness swept over him.
He did not get over the feeling till he found himself in Dr. Templeton's study. He had promised provisionally to go back and take supper with the old clergyman, and had only not promised it absolutely because he had thought he might be invited to the Yorkes'. He was glad enough now to go, and as he received the old gentleman's cordial greeting, he felt his heart grow warm again. Here was Sparta, too. This, at least, was hospitality. He was introduced to two young clergymen, both earnest fellows who were working among the poor. One of them was a High-churchman and the other a Presbyterian, and once or twice they began to discuss warmly questions as to which they differed; but the old Rector appeared to know just how to manage them.
"Come, my boys; no division here," he said, with a smile, "Remember, one flag, one union, one Commander. Titus is still before the walls." _