_ CHAPTER XVIII. MRS. LANCASTER
Keith had not yet met Mrs. Lancaster. He meant to call on her before leaving town; for he would show her that he was successful, and also that he had recovered. Also he wanted to see her, and in his heart was a lurking hope that she might regret having lost him. A word that Mrs. Wentworth had let fall the first evening he dined there had kept him from calling before.
A few evenings later Keith was dining with the Norman Wentworths, and after dinner Norman said:
"By the way, we are going to a ball to-night. Won't you come along? It will really be worth seeing."
Keith, having no engagement, was about to accept, but he was aware that Mrs. Wentworth, at her husband's words, had turned and given him a quick look of scrutiny, that swept him from the top of his head to the toe of his boot.
He had had that swift glance of inspection sweep him up and down many times of late, in business offices. The look, however, appeared to satisfy his hostess; for after a bare pause she seconded her husband's invitation.
That pause had given Keith time to reflect, and he declined to go. But Norman, too, had seen the glance his wife had given, and he urged his acceptance so warmly and with such real sincerity that finally Keith yielded.
"This is not one of _the_ balls," said Norman, laughingly. "It is only _a_ ball, one of our subscription dances, so you need have no scruples about going along."
Keith looked a little mystified.
"Mrs. Creamer's balls are _the_ balls, my dear fellow. There, in general, only the rich and the noble enter--rich in prospect and noble in title--"
"Norman, how can you talk so!" exclaimed Mrs. Wentworth, with some impatience. "You know better than that. Mrs. Creamer has always been particularly kind to us. Why, she asks me to receive with her every winter."
But Norman was in a bantering mood. "Am not I rich and you noble?" he laughed. "Do you suppose, my dear, that Mrs. Creamer would ask you to receive with her if we lived two or three squares off Fifth Avenue? It is as hard for a poor man to enter Mrs. Creamer's house as for a camel to pass through the needle's eye. Her motions are sidereal and her orbit is as regulated as that of a planet."
Mrs. Wentworth protested.
"Why, she has all sorts of people at her house--!"
"Except the unsuccessful. Even planets have a little eccentricity of orbit."
An hour or two later Keith found himself in such a scene of radiance as he had never witnessed before in all his life. Though, as Norman had said, it was not one of the great balls, to be present at it was in some sort a proof of one's social position and possibly of one's pecuniary condition.
Keith was conscious of that same feeling of novelty and exhilaration that had come over him when he first arrived in the city. It came upon him when he first stepped from the cool outer air into the warm atmosphere of the brilliantly lighted building and stood among the young men, all perfectly dressed and appointed, and almost as similar as the checks they were receiving from the busy servants in the cloak-room. The feeling grew stronger as he mounted the wide marble stairway to the broad landing, which was a bower of palms and flowers, with handsome women passing in and out like birds in gorgeous plumage, and gay voices sounding in his ears. It swept over him like a flood when he entered the spacious ball-room and gazed upon the dazzling scene before him.
"This is Aladdin's palace," he declared as he stood looking across the large ball-room. "The Arabian Nights have surely come again."
Mrs. Wentworth, immediately after presenting Keith to one or two ladies who were receiving, had been met and borne off by Ferdy Wickersham, and was in the throng at the far end of the great apartment, and some one had stopped Norman on the stairway. So Keith was left for a moment standing alone just inside the door. He had a sense of being charmed. Later, he tried to account for it. Was it the sight before him? Even such perfect harmony of color could hardly have done it. It must be the dazzling radiance of youth that almost made his eyes ache with its beauty. Perhaps, it was the strain of the band hidden in the gallery among those palms. The waltz music that floated down always set him swinging back in the land of memory. He stood for a moment quite entranced. Then he was suddenly conscious of being lonely. In all the throng before him he could not see one soul that he knew. His friends were far away.
Suddenly the wheezy strains of the fiddles and the blare of the horns in the big dining-room of the old Windsor back in the mountains sounded in his ears, and the motley but gay and joyous throng that tramped and capered and swung over the rough boards, setting the floor to swinging and the room to swaying, swam in a dim mist before his eyes. Girls in ribbons so gay that they almost made the eyes ache, faces flushed with the excitement and joy of the dance; smiling faces, snowy teeth, dishevelled hair, tarlatan dresses, green and pink and white; ringing laughter and whoops of real merriment--all passed before his senses.
As he stood looking on the scene of splendor, he felt lost, lonely, and for a moment homesick. Here all was formal, stiff repressed; that gayety was real, that merriment was sincere. With all their crudeness, those people in that condition were all human, hearty, strong, real. He wondered if refinement and elegance meant necessarily a suppression of all these. There, men came not only to enjoy but to make others enjoy as well. No stranger could have stood a moment alone without some one stepping to his side and drawing him into a friendly talk. This mood soon changed.
Still, standing alone near the door waiting for Norman to appear, Keith found entertainment watching the groups, the splendidly dressed women, clustered here and there or moving about inspecting or speaking to each other. One figure at the far end of the room attracted his eye again and again. She was standing with her back partly toward him, but he knew that she was a pretty woman as well as a handsome one, though he saw her face only in profile, and she was too far off for him to see it very well. Her hair was arranged simply; her head was set beautifully on her shoulders. She was dressed in black, the bodice covered with spangles that with her slightest movement shimmered and reflected the light like a coat of flexible mail. A number of men were standing about her, and many women, as they passed, held out their hands to her in the way that ladies of fashion have. Keith saw Mrs. Wentworth approach her, and a very animated conversation appeared to take place between them, and the lady in black turned quickly and gazed about the room; then Mrs. Wentworth started to move away, but the other caught and held her, asking her something eagerly. Mrs. Wentworth must have refused to answer, for she followed her a few steps; but Mrs. Wentworth simply waved her hand to her and swept away with her escort, laughing back at her over her shoulder.
Keith made his way around the room toward Mrs. Wentworth. There was something about the young lady in black which reminded him of a girl he had once seen standing straight and defiant, yet very charming, in a woodland path under arching pine-boughs. Just then, however, a waltz struck up and Mrs. Wentworth began to dance, so Keith stood leaning against the wall. Presently a member of a group of young men near Keith said:
"The Lancaster looks well to-night."
"She does. The old man's at home, Ferdy's on deck."
"Ferdy be dashed! Besides, where is Mrs. Went--?"
"Don't lay any money on that."
"She's all right. Try to say anything to her and you'll find out."
The others laughed; and one of them asked:
"Been trying yourself, Stirling?"
"No. I know better, Minturn."
"Why doesn't she shake Ferdy then?" demanded the other. "He's always hanging around when he isn't around the other."
"Oh, they have been friends all their lives. She is not going to give up a friend, especially when others are getting down on him. Can't you allow anything to friendship?"
"Ferdy's friendship is pretty expensive," said his friend, sententiously.
Keith took a glance at the speakers to see if he could by following their gaze place Mrs. Lancaster. The one who defended the lady was a jolly-looking man with a merry eye and a humorous mouth. The other two were as much alike as their neckties, their collars, their shirt-fronts, their dress-suits, or their shoes, in which none but a tailor could have discovered the least point of difference. Their cheeks were smooth, their chins were round, their hair as perfectly parted and brushed as a barber's. Keith had an impression that he had seen them just before on the other side of the room, talking to the lady in black; but as he looked across, he saw the other young men still there, and there were yet others elsewhere. At the first glance they nearly all looked alike. Just then he became conscious that a couple had stopped close beside him. He glanced at them; the lady was the same to whom he had seen Mrs. Wentworth speaking at the other end of the room. Her face was turned away, and all he saw was an almost perfect figure with shoulders that looked dazzling in contrast with her shimmering black gown. A single red rose was stuck in her hair. He was waiting to get a look at her face, when she turned toward him.
[Illustration: "Why, Mr. Keith!" she exclaimed.]
"Why, Mr. Keith!" she exclaimed, her blue eyes open wide with surprise. She held out her hand. "I don't believe you know me?"
"Then you must shut your eyes," said Keith, smiling his pleasure.
"I don't believe I should have known you? Yes, I should; I should have known you anywhere."
"Perhaps, I have not changed so much," smiled Keith.
She gave him just the ghost of a glance out of her blue eyes.
"I don't know. Have you been carrying any sacks of salt lately?" She assumed a lighter air.
"No; but heavier burdens still."
"Are you married?"
Keith laughed.
"No; not so heavy as that--yet."
"So heavy as that _yet_! Oh, you are engaged?"
"No; not engaged either--except engaged in trying to make a lot of people who think they know everything understand that there are a few things that they don't know."
"That is a difficult task," she said, shaking her head, "if you try it in New York."
"'John P. Robinson, he
Says they don't know everything down in Judee,'"
put in the stout young man who had been standing by waiting to speak to her.
"But this isn't Judee yet," she laughed, "for I assure you we do know everything here, Mr. Keith." She held out her hand to the gentleman who had spoken, and after greeting him introduced him to Keith as "Mr. Stirling."
"You ought to like each other," she said cordially.
Keith professed his readiness to do so.
"I don't know about that," said Stirling, jovially. "You are too friendly to him."
"What are you doing? Where are you staying? How long are you going to be in town?" demanded Mrs. Lancaster, turning to Keith.
"Mining.--At the Brunswick.--Only a day or two," said Keith, laughing.
"Mining? Gold-mining?"
"No; not yet."
"Where?"
"Down South at a place called New Leeds. It's near the place where I used to teach. It's a great city. Why, we think New York is jealous of us."
"Oh, I know about that. A friend of mine put a little money down there for me. You know him? Ferdy Wickersham?"
"Yes, I know him."
"Most of us know him," observed Mr. Stirling, turning his eyes on Keith.
"Of course, you must know him. Are you in with him? He tells me that they own pretty much everything that is good in that region. They are about to open a new mine that is to exceed anything ever known. Ferdy tells me I am good for I don't know how much. The stock is to be put on the exchange in a little while, and I got in on the ground-floor. That's what they call it--the lowest floor of all, you know.
"Yes; some people call it the ground-floor," said Keith, wishing to change the subject.
"You know there may be a cellar under a ground-floor," observed Mr. Stirling, demurely.
Keith looked at him, and their eyes met.
Fortunately, perhaps, for Keith, some one came up just then and claimed a dance with Mrs. Lancaster. She moved away, and then turned back.
"I shall see you again?"
"Yes. Why, I hope so-certainly."
She stopped and looked at him.
"When are you going away?"
"Why, I don't exactly know. Very soon. Perhaps, in a day or two."
"Well, won't you come to see us? Here, I will give you my address. Have you a card?" She took the pencil he offered her and wrote her number on it. "Come some afternoon--about six; Mr. Lancaster is always in then," she said sedately. "I am sure you will like each other." Keith bowed.
She floated off smiling. What she had said to Mrs. Wentworth occurred to her.
"Yes; he looks like a man." She became conscious that her companion was asking a question.
"What is the matter with you?" he said. "I have asked you three times who that man was, and you have not said a word."
"Oh, I beg your pardon. Mr. Keith, an old friend of mine," she said, and changed the subject.
As to her old friend, he was watching her as she danced, winding in and out among the intervening couples. He wondered that he could ever have thought that a creature like that could care for him and share his hard life. He might as soon have expected a bird-of-paradise to live by choice in a coal-bunker.
He strolled about, looking at the handsome women, and presently found himself in the conservatory. Turning a clump, of palms, he came on Mrs. Wentworth and Mr. Wickersham sitting together talking earnestly. Keith was about to go up and speak to Mrs. Wentworth, but her escort said something under his breath to her, and she looked away. So Keith passed on.
A little later, Keith went over to where Mrs. Lancaster stood. Several men were about her, and just after Keith Joined her, another man walked up, if any movement so lazy and sauntering could be termed walking.
"I have been wondering why I did not see you," he drawled as he came up.
Keith recognized the voice of Ferdy Wickersham. He turned and faced him; but if Mr. Wickersham was aware of his presence, he gave no sign of it. His dark eyes were on Mrs. Lancaster. She turned to him.
"Perhaps, Ferdinand, it was because you did not use your eyes. That is not ordinarily a fault of yours."
"I never think of my eyes when yours are present," said he, lazily.
"Oh, don't you?" laughed Mrs. Lancaster. "What were you doing a little while ago in the conservatory--with--?"
"Nothing. I have not been in the conservatory this evening. You have paid some one else a compliment."
"Tell that to some one who does not use her eyes," said Mrs. Lancaster, mockingly.
"There are occasions when you must disbelieve the sight of your eyes." He was looking her steadily in the face, and Keith saw her expression change. She recovered herself.
"Last time I saw you, you vowed you had eyes for none but me, you may remember?" she said lightly.
"No. Did I? Life is too awfully short to remember. But it is true. It is the present in which I find my pleasure."
Up to this time neither Mrs. Lancaster nor Mr. Wickersham had taken any notice of Keith, who stood a little to one side, waiting, with his eyes resting on the other young man's face. Mrs. Lancaster now turned.
"Oh, Mr. Keith." She now turned back to Mr. Wickersham. "You know Mr. Keith?"
Keith was about to step forward to greet his old acquaintance; but Wickersham barely nodded.
"Ah, how do you do? Yes, I know Mr. Keith.--If I can take care of the present, I let the past and the future take care of themselves," he continued to Mrs. Lancaster. "Come and have a turn. That will make the present worth all of the past."
"Ferdy, you are discreet," said one of the other men, with a laugh.
"My dear fellow," said the young man, turning, "I assure you, you don't know half my virtues."
"What are your virtues, Ferdy?"
"One is not interfering with others." He turned back to Mrs. Lancaster. "Come, have a turn." He took one of his hands from his pocket and held it out.
"I am engaged," said Mrs. Lancaster.
"Oh, that makes no difference. You are always engaged; come," he said.
"I beg your pardon. It makes a difference in _this_ case," said Keith, coming forward. "I believe this is my turn, Mrs. Lancaster?"
Wickersham's glance swept across, but did not rest on him, though it was enough for Keith to meet it for a second, and, without looking, the young man turned lazily away.
"Shall we find a seat?" Mrs. Lancaster asked as she took Keith's arm.
"Delighted, unless you prefer to dance."
"I did not know that dancing was one of your accomplishments," she said as they strolled along.
"Maybe, I have acquired several accomplishments that you do not know of. It has been a long time since you knew me," he answered lightly. As they turned, his eyes fell on Wickersham. He was standing where they had left him, his eyes fastened on them malevolently. As Keith looked he started and turned away. Mrs. Lancaster had also seen him.
"What is there between you and Ferdy?" she asked.
"Nothing."
"There must be. Did you ever have a row with him?"
"Yes; but that was long ago."
"I don't know. He has a good memory. He doesn't like you." She spoke reflectively.
"Doesn't he?" laughed Keith. "Well, I must try and sustain it as best I can."
"And you don't like him? Few men like him. I wonder why that is?"
"And many women?" questioned Keith, as for a moment he recalled Mrs. Wentworth's face when he spoke of him.
"Some women," she corrected, with a quick glance at him. She reflected, and then went on: "I think it is partly because he is so bold and partly that he never appears to know any one else. It is the most insidious flattery in the world. I like him because I have known him all my life. I know him perfectly."
"Yes?" Keith spoke politely.
She read his thought. "You wonder if I really know him? Yes, I do. But, somehow, I cling to those I knew in my girlhood. You don't believe that, but I do." She glanced at him and then looked away.
"Yes, I do believe it. Then let's be friends--old friends," said Keith. He held out his hand, and when she took it grasped hers firmly.
"Who is here with you to-night?" he asked.
"No one. Mr. Lancaster does not care for balls."
"Won't you give me the pleasure of seeing you home?" She hesitated for a moment, and then said:
"I will drop you at your hotel. It is right on my way home."
Just then some one came up and joined the group.
"Ah, my dear Mrs. Lancaster! How well you are looking this evening!"
The full voice, no less than the words, sounded familiar to Keith, and turning, he recognized the young clergyman whom he had met at Mrs. Wentworth's when he passed through New York some years before. The years had plainly used Mr. Rimmon well. He was dressed in an evening suit with a clerical waistcoat which showed that his plump frame had taken on an extra layer, and a double chin was beginning to rest on his collar.
Mrs. Lancaster smiled as she returned his greeting.
"You are my stand-by, Mr. Rimmon. I always know that, no matter what others may say of me, I shall be sure of at least one compliment before the evening is over if you are present."
"That is because you always deserve it." He put his head on one side like an aldermanic robin. "Ah, if you knew how many compliments I do pay you which you never hear! My entire life is a compliment to you," declared Mr. Rimmon.
"Not your entire life, Mr. Rimmon. You are like some other men. You confound me with some one else; for I am sure I heard you saying the same thing five minutes ago to Louise Wentworth."
"Impossible. Then I must have confounded her with you," sighed Mr. Rimmon, with such a look at Mrs. Lancaster out of his languishing eyes that she gave him a laughing tap with her fan.
"Go and practise that on a debutante. I am an old married woman, remember."
"Ah, me!" sighed the gentleman. "'Marriage and Death and Division make barren our lives.'"
"Where does that come from?" asked Mrs. Lancaster.
"Ah! from--ah--" began Mr. Rimmon, then catching Keith's eyes resting on him with an amused look in them, he turned red.
She addressed Keith. "Mr. Keith, you quoted that to me once; where does it come from? From the Bible?"
"No."
"I read it in the newspaper and was so struck by it that I remembered it," said Mr. Rimmon.
"I read it in 'Laus Veneris,'" said Keith, dryly, with his eyes on the other's face. It pleased him to see it redden.
Keith, as he passed through the rooms, caught sight of an old lady over in a corner. He could scarcely believe his senses; it was Miss Abigail. She was sitting back against the wall, watching the crowd with eyes as sharp as needles. Sometimes her thin lips twitched, and her bright eyes snapped with inward amusement. Keith made his way over to her. She was so much engaged that he stood beside her a moment without her seeing him. Then she turned and glanced at him.
"'A chiel's amang ye takin' notes,'" he said, laughing and holding out his hand.
"'An', faith! she'll prent 'em,'" she answered, with a nod. "How are you? I am glad to see you. I was just wishing I had somebody to enjoy this with me, but not a man. I ought to be gone; and so ought you, young man. I started, but I thought if I could get in a corner by myself where there were no men I might stay a little while and look at it; for I certainly never saw anything like this before, and I don't think I ever shall again. I certainly do not think you ought to see it."
Keith laughed, and she continued:
"I knew things had changed since I was a girl; but I didn't know it was as bad as this. Why, I don't think it ought to be allowed."
"What?" asked Keith.
"This." She waved her hand to include the dancing throng before them. "They tell me all those women dancing around there are married."
"I believe many of them are."
"Why don't those young women have partners?"
"Why, some of them do. I suppose the others are not attractive enough, or something."
"Especially _something_," said the old lady. "Where are their husbands?"
"Why, some of them are at home, and some are here."
"Where?" The old lady turned her eyes on a couple that sailed by her, the man talking very earnestly to his companion, who was listening breathlessly. "Is that her husband?"
"Well, no; that is not, I believe."
"No; I'll be bound it is not. You never saw a married man talking to his wife in public in that way--unless they were talking about the last month's bills. Why, it is perfectly brazen."
Keith laughed.
"Where is her husband?" she demanded, as Mrs. Wentworth floated by, a vision of brocaded satin and lace and white shoulders, supported by Ferdy Wickersham, who was talking earnestly and looking down into her eyes languishingly.
"Oh, her husband is here."
"Well, he had better take her home to her little children. If ever I saw a face that I distrusted it is that man's."
"Why, that is Ferdy Wickersham. He is one of the leaders of society. He is considered quite an Adonis," observed Keith.
"And I don't think Adonis was a very proper person for a young woman with children to be dancing with in attire in which only her husband should see her." She shut her lips grimly. "I know him," she added. "I know all about them for three generations. One of the misfortunes of age is that when a person gets as old as I am she knows so much evil about people. I knew that young man's grandfather when he was a worthy mechanic. His wife was an uppish hussy who thought herself better than her husband, and their daughter was a pretty girl with black eyes and rosy cheeks. They sent her off to school, and after the first year or two she never came back. She had got above them. Her father told me as much. The old man cried about it. He said his wife thought it was all right; that his girl had married a smart young fellow who was a clerk in a bank; but that if he had a hundred other children he'd never teach them any more than to read, write, and figure. And to think that her son should be the Adonis dancing with my cousin Everett Wentworth's daughter-in-law! Why, my Aunt Wentworth would rise from her grave if she knew it!"
"Well, times have changed," said Keith, laughing. "You see they are as good as anybody now."
"Not as good as anybody--you mean as rich as anybody."
"That amounts to about the same thing here, doesn't it?"
"I believe it does, here," said the old lady, with a sniff. "Well," she said after a pause, "I think I will go back and tell Matilda what I have seen. And if you are wise you will come with me, too. This is no place for plain, country-bred people like you and me."
Keith, laughing, said he had an engagement, but he would like to have the privilege of taking her home, and then he could return.
"With a married woman, I suppose? Yes, I will be bound it is," she added as Keith nodded. "You see the danger of evil association. I shall write to your father and tell him that the sooner he gets you out of New York the better it will be for your morals and your manners. For you are the only man, except Norman, who has been so provincial as to take notice of an unknown old woman."
So she went chatting merrily down the stairway to her carriage, making her observations on whatever she saw with the freshness of a girl.
"Do you think Norman is happy?" she suddenly asked Keith.
"Why--yes; don't you think so? He has everything on earth to make him happy," said Keith, with some surprise. But even at the moment it flitted across his mind that there was something which he had felt rather than observed in Mrs. Wentworth's attitude toward her husband.
"Except that he has married a fool," said the old lady, briefly. "Don't you marry a fool, you hear?"
"I believe she is devoted to Norman and to her children," Keith began, but Miss Abigail interrupted him.
"And why shouldn't she be? Isn't she his wife? She gives him, perhaps, what is left over after her devotion to herself, her house, her frocks, her jewels, and--Adonis."
"Oh, I don't believe she cares for him," declared Keith. "It is impossible."
"I don't believe she does either, but she cares for herself, and he flatters her. The idea of a Norman-Wentworth's wife being flattered by the attention of a tinker's grandson!"
When the ball broke up and Mrs. Lancaster's carriage was called, several men escorted her to it. Wickersham, who was trying to recover ground which something told him he had lost, followed her down the stairway with one or two other men, and after she had entered the carriage stood leaning in at the door while he made his adieus and peace at the same moment.
"You were not always so cruel to me," he said in a low tone.
Mrs. Lancaster laughed genuinely.
"I was never cruel to you, Ferdy; you mistake leniency for harshness."
"No one else would say that to me."
"So much the more pity. You would be a better man if you had the truth told you oftener."
"When did you become such an advocate of Truth? Is it this man?"
"What man?"
"Keith. If it is, I want to tell you that he is not what he pretends."
A change came over Mrs. Lancaster's face.
"He is a gentleman," she said coldly.
"Oh, is he? He was a stage-driver."
Mrs. Lancaster drew herself up.
"If he was--" she began. But she stopped suddenly, glanced beyond Wickersham, and moved over to the further side of the carriage.
Just then a hand was laid on Wickersham's arm, and a voice behind him said:
"I beg your pardon."
Wickersham knew the voice, and without looking around stood aside for the speaker to make his adieus. Keith stepped into the carriage and pulled to the door before the footman could close it.
At the sound the impatient horses started off, leaving three men standing in the street looking very blank. Stirling was the first to speak; he turned to the others in amazement.
"Who is Keith?" he demanded.
"Oh, a fellow from the South somewhere."
"Well, Keith knows his business!" said Mr. Stirling, with a nod of genuine admiration.
Wickersham uttered an imprecation and turned back into the house.
Next day Mr. Stirling caught Wickersham in a group of young men at the club, and told them the story.
"Look out for Keith," he said. "He gave me a lesson."
Wickersham growled an inaudible reply.
"Who was the lady? Wickersham tries to capture so many prizes, what you say gives us no light," said Mr. Minturn, one of the men.
"Oh, no. I'll only tell you it's not the one you think," said the jolly bachelor. "But I am going to take lessons of that man Keith. These countrymen surprise me sometimes."
"He was a d----d stage-driver," said Wickersham.
"Then you had better take lessons from him, Ferdy," said Stirling. "He drives well. He's a veteran."
When Keith reached his room he lit a cigar and flung himself into a chair. Somehow, the evening had not left a pleasant impression on his mind. Was this the Alice Yorke he had worshipped, revered? Was this the woman whom he had canonized throughout these years? Why was she carrying on an affair with Ferdy Wickersham? What did he mean by those last words at the carriage? She said she knew him. Then she must know what his reputation was. Now and then it came to Keith that it was nothing to him. Mrs. Lancaster was married, and her affairs could not concern him. But they did concern him. They had agreed to be old friends--old friends. He would be a true friend to her.
He rose and threw away his half-smoked cigar.
Keith called on Mrs. Lancaster just before he left for the South. Though he had no such motive when he put off his visit, he could not have done a wiser thing. It was a novel experience for her to invite a man to call on her and not have him jump at the proposal, appear promptly next day, frock-coat, kid gloves, smooth flattery, and all; and when Keith had not appeared on the third day after the ball, it set her to thinking. She imagined at first that he must have been called out of town, but Mrs. Norman, whom she met, dispelled this idea. Keith had dined with them informally the evening before.
"He appeared to be in high spirits," added the lady. "His scheme has succeeded, and he is about to go South. Norman took it up and put it through for him."
"I know it," said Mrs. Lancaster, demurely.
Mrs. Wentworth's form stiffened slightly; but her manner soon became gracious again. "Ferdy says there is nothing in it."
Could he be offended, or afraid--of himself? reflected Mrs. Lancaster. Mrs. Wentworth's next observation disposed of this theory also. "You ought to hear him talk of you. By the way, I have found out who that ghost was."
Mrs. Lancaster threw a mask over her face.
"He says you have more than fulfilled the promise of your girlhood: that you are the handsomest woman he has seen in New York, my dear," pursued the other, looking down at her own shapely figure. "Of course, I do not agree with him, quite," she laughed. "But, then, people will differ."
"Louise Wentworth, vanity is a deadly sin," said the other, smiling, "and we are told in the Commandments--I forget which one--to envy nothing of our neighbor's."
"He said he wanted to go to see you; that you had kindly invited him, and he wished very much to meet Mr. Lancaster," said Mrs. Wentworth, blandly.
"Yes, I am sure they will like each other," said Mrs. Lancaster, with dignity. "Mamma also is very anxious to see him. She used to know him when--when he was a boy, and liked him very much, too, though she would not acknowledge it to me then." She laughed softly at some recollection.
"He spoke of your mother most pleasantly," declared Mrs. Wentworth, not without Mrs. Lancaster noticing that she was claiming to stand as Keith's friend.
"Well, I shall not be at home to-morrow," she began. "I have promised to go out to-morrow afternoon."
"Oh, sha'n't you? Why, what a pity! because he said he was going to pay his calls to-morrow, as he expected to leave to-morrow night. I think he would be very sorry not to see you."
"Oh, well, then, I will stay in. My other engagement is of no consequence."
Her friend looked benign.
Recollecting Mrs. Wentworth's expression, Mrs. Lancaster determined that she would not be at home the following afternoon. She would show Mrs. Wentworth that she could not gauge her so easily as she fancied. But at the last moment, after putting on her hat, she changed her mind. She remained in, and ended by inviting Keith to dinner that evening, an invitation which was so graciously seconded by Mr. Lancaster that Keith, finding that he could take a later train, accepted. Mrs. Yorke was at the dinner, too, and how gracious she was to Keith! She "could scarcely believe he was the same man she had known a few years before." She "had heard a great deal of him, and had come around to dinner on purpose to meet him." This was true.
"And you have done so well, too, I hear. Your friends are very pleased to know of your success," she said graciously.
Keith smilingly admitted that he had had, perhaps, better fortune than he deserved; but this Mrs. Yorke amiably would by no means allow.
"Mrs. Wentworth--not Louise--I mean the elder Mrs. Wentworth--was speaking of you. You and Norman were great friends when you were boys, she tells me. They were great friends of ours, you know, long before we met you."
He wondered how much the Wentworths' indorsement counted for in securing Mrs. Yorke's invitation. For a good deal, he knew; but as much credit as he gave it he was within the mark.
It was only her environment. She could no more escape from that than if she were in prison. She gauged every one by what others thought, and she possessed no other gauge. Yet there was a certain friendliness, too, in Mrs. Yorke. The good lady had softened with the years, and at heart she had always liked Keith.
Most of her conversation was of her friends and their position. Alice was thinking of going abroad soon to visit some friends on the other side, "of a very distinguished family," she told Keith.
When Keith left the Lancaster house that night Alice Lancaster knew that he had wholly recovered. _