_ CHAPTER XXX. "SNUGGLERS' ROOST"
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; _not_ Mr. 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. _