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Discovering Diverse Content Through
Random Scribd Documents
He sprang to his feet at the sound of that eager voice calling “papa,”
a quick flush leaping into his cheeks, an intense, peculiar light into
his eyes, and, approaching the young girl, with a courteous bow,
observed in a quiet tone of respect:
“Mr. Brewster went out a few moments ago. Can I do anything for
you, Al—Miss Brewster?”
A look of astonishment swept over the fair maiden’s face, and for an
instant she made no reply. Then her ruby lips parted and a peal of
silvery laughter rang through the room, while her vivacious face
dimpled and gleamed with irrepressible merriment.
“‘Miss Brewster!’” she repeated, with a saucy toss of her head, that
set every spotless plume upon her hat nodding a playful reproof at
her companion for his unprecedented formality; for they had known
each other for years, and, hitherto, had always addressed each other
by their Christian names. “Why, Gerald; how formal! Since when
have you become so strictly ceremonious?”
“Since Mr. Brewster announced a day or two ago, when some one
spoke of you by your given name, that hereafter you were to be
addressed as Miss Brewster,” the young man responded, flushing
slightly, although a smile of sympathetic amusement curled his own
expressive lips.
“Did papa say that?” questioned Allison, with a shrug of her graceful
shoulders. “What nonsense! Why, I have been running in and out of
the bank ever since I was able to walk, and it seems absurd putting
on such airs, when everybody knows me so well.”
“Still, you are a young lady now, and it does seem a trifle familiar to
address you as if you were only a child,” Gerald thoughtfully
observed.
Allison stood considering the matter for a moment; then she gravely
remarked:
“I say, Gerald, I shall not mind the change very much from the
others; but,” with an independent toss of her pretty head, “I won’t
be ‘Miss Brewster’ to you.”
Gerald shot a quick, bright glance at the speaker.
“Thank you—I am sure I appreciate this mark of your esteem,” he
said, in tones that were a trifle tremulous, “but,” a roguish twinkle in
his fine, dark eyes, “how about obeying orders from one’s chief?”
“Well, perhaps you’ll have to do as papa wishes, when you are here
with the other clerks; but, Gerald”—appealingly, yet half-defiantly
—“when—when we are by ourselves, I—just won’t stand it; it will
spoil all our nice times, and make us too stiff and prim for anything.
Do you want me to call you Mr. Winchester?”
“I am sure I do not,” he answered, laughing at her injured air.
“Well, but I shall—if you go to playing at formality with me”—this
with a charming little pout as she threw herself into a chair, seized a
fan from the desk near her, and began to sway it back and forth with
piquant grace, while her companion watched her with admiring
interest.
“I am sorry papa is out,” she resumed, after a minute, and
apparently regarding the other topic as settled, “for I want some
money. I suppose I can have everything charged, but I do so enjoy
having a lot of nice, fresh, crisp bills in my own hands to pay for
what I buy. Will he be in soon, do you think?”
“I am sure I cannot tell,” replied the young man, glancing at the
clock, then back, with an expression of yearning tenderness, to the
graceful figure in the chair opposite him.
His color came and went, and his heart was beating heavily with an
emotion which he was striving to conceal, for he feared that it would
never do to betray to his proud employer’s daughter that he had
dared to love her with all the strength of his intensely strong nature.
At least, he would not presume to betray his secret for a long while
yet; perhaps, if fortune’s wheel should some time turn in his favor,
he might dare to confess his affection for the lovely heiress, provided
she remained the sweet and unaffected girl she had always hitherto
been.
Gerald Winchester was no ordinary young man.
Confided to the care of an aunt, Miss Honor Winchester—almost
from the hour of his birth, shortly after which his mother had died—
he had been reared in very limited circumstances, although Miss
Winchester was a well-educated and cultivated woman, and had
given him careful training, both morally and intellectually.
She had a small annuity, which, as the boy grew older, she found
insufficient for their mutual needs, and, desirous of doing her utmost
for her charge, she resolved to leave the small town in Rhode Island,
which for many years had been her home, and go to New York,
where she hoped to get something to do to increase her slender
income.
The move was made, and Miss Winchester, being an attractive,
sensible woman, found plenty of work as seamstress in wealthy
families; thus she was enabled to send Gerald to school until he was
fourteen years of age, and had entered the second year of the high-
school course.
But, one morning, the lad had found his best, and almost only
friend, lying cold and still in her bed. She had died of heart-disease
during the night, and thus he was left alone and destitute in the
world, for the woman’s annuity ceased with her life.
The boy broke up their home, where they had been so quietly happy
and comfortable for several years, selling off all their furniture, with
the exception of an old-fashioned cricket, which his aunt had, upon
one or two occasions, charged him never to part with, since it was a
precious heirloom, having been brought from England during the
reign of Queen Elizabeth by a remote ancestor.
It was a queer-looking, rather clumsy affair, of solid mahogany,
having claw feet tipped with brass, its surface upholstered with some
bright, silk patchwork, which Miss Winchester had made to replace a
former defaced covering.
Gerald had almost a mind to let the thing go with the other
household goods, in spite of his aunt’s wish, for he felt that it would
never be anything but a burden to him; but he finally stowed it away
in the bottom of a trunk, which contained all he possessed in the
world, and removing to a small, cheap room, started forth to seek a
situation where he could earn his own living.
At first he was cash-boy in one of the large stores of the city; later
he was office boy for an eminent physician, and finally drifted into
Adam Brewster’s banking-house, where he had remained until now,
working slowly and steadily upward, gaining his employer’s
confidence and favor, until he had proved himself so capable,
trustworthy, and faithful that the man regarded him almost in the
light of a confidential clerk.
From time to time the banker, pitying his homeless and friendless
condition, had invited him to his own home, where he had spent
many a delightful hour with Allison, who, from the first, had
conceived a strong friendship for the handsome, manly fellow.
For a long time Mr. Brewster did not once think that any serious
result would be likely to follow this “boy-and-girl acquaintance.”
Allison, his idolized daughter, was happy to have Gerald come to tea;
to drive with her in the park on Saturday afternoons or holidays; to
have him to dinner with them now and then on Sundays, and he was
ever indulgent to her lightest wish.
But of late—during the last five or six months—he had suddenly
awakened to the fear that there might be danger ahead if these
relations were continued.
He had become very fond of Gerald—he knew him to be a noble,
whole-hearted, high-principled fellow; but he was not to be
considered, for a moment, as a possible son-in-law. No struggling,
plodding clerk who had his fortune to make by his own unaided
efforts would be a suitable mate for the banker’s heiress, whose
million, or more, in prospect, must be matched by at least an equal
amount and a position as enviable and secure as her own.
So, during the last half-year, Gerald had received no invitations to
the banker’s princely home—there was always some excuse of extra
office work or special and important errands whenever Allison
proposed his coming, and thus she saw him only when, occasionally,
she slipped into the bank upon some pretense. This was the first
time for months that they had been alone in each other’s presence,
and Allison, making the most of her opportunity, gave herself up to
the pleasure of the moment, and chatted, girllike, of anything and
everything that came into her pretty head.
Gerald, also, thawing out beneath her sunny influence, dropped the
formality which he had assumed upon her entrance, and, during the
half-hour that followed, feasted his heart upon her beauty and the
charm of her companionship.
Into this little banquet of love there suddenly intruded a man of
perhaps thirty-five years—a tall, gaunt figure, with a slight stoop in
his shoulders, but faultlessly attired. His face was thin, and
absolutely colorless, save for the faint tinge of red in his lips and the
cold blue of his eyes, which contrasted strangely with the intense
black of his hair and mustache.
His eyes lighted with sudden fire as they fell upon the dainty figure
and bright beauty of Allison Brewster.
“Ah, good morning, Miss Allison,” he remarked, in bland, oily tones,
his thin lips relaxing into a smile that revealed a ghastly row of dead-
white teeth beneath the black mustache. “This is an unexpected
pleasure. I do not need to inquire if you are well—your blooming
appearance speaks for itself.”
“Yes, thank you, I am well,” the girl quietly replied, but without
bestowing a second glance upon him.
The man then turned to Gerald, a vicious smile just curling the
corners of his mouth.
“Ahem! Winchester, here is a message that must go immediately to
the Second National Bank.”
“Is it imperative?” Gerald questioned.
“Yes; it must go at once.”
“I am sorry, Mr. Hubbard, but Mr. Brewster is out, and, as you know,
I am not allowed to leave the office during his absence,” the young
man replied.
Mr. Hubbard frowned, and then his gaze wandered again to Allison,
with an eager look.
“Yes, I know that is the rule,” he said, “but you will have to break it
for once. The bank closes at twelve to-day, being Saturday, and the
message must be delivered before that. Miss Brewster will doubtless
excuse you,” he added, with the suspicion of a sneer, “and I will
entertain her during your absence, or until Mr. Brewster returns.”
Gerald glanced at the clock, and a troubled expression flitted over
his face, but after another moment of thought, he said quietly but
firmly:
“I would like to oblige you, Mr. Hubbard, but Mr. Brewster’s orders to
me are imperative. I can, under no circumstances, leave the office
during his absence.”
“But I tell you this is an unusual case,” said the man impatiently;
“there is no messenger in just now—we are very busy to-day, and
you will have to go.”
“It is impossible—I cannot leave my post without orders direct from
Mr. Brewster,” Gerald responded, an unmistakable note of
determination in his tones; “you will have to ask one of the clerks in
the other room to take the message.”
John Hubbard turned sharply upon his heel, muttering something
under his breath, and abruptly left the room.
Allison suddenly threw down her fan and shrugged her shapely
shoulders.
“Ugh!” she said, shivering slightly. “I don’t need that any more—I
always get a chill whenever that man comes near me.”
Gerald smiled, yet he looked somewhat disconcerted, for, of late, he
had been conscious of a growing barrier between himself and this
strangely clever man, who was an expert accountant, a talented
lawyer, a director of the bank, and one at whose touch everything
seemed to turn into gold.
“But Mr. Hubbard is very valuable to Mr. Brewster and the bank,” he
said, in reply to Allison’s remark; “he inspects all accounts, manages
all law business, and has recently been made one of the directors of
the bank.”
“Is that so?” queried the young girl, with some surprise.
“Yes; he owns quite a good deal of stock.”
But Allison Brewster was not much interested to know who owned
stock in the bank; business had little attraction for her beyond its
results, which, of course, were a necessary factor in her life, while
John Hubbard and his affairs were of no moment whatever to her.
“Gerald!” she exclaimed, after a moment, and abruptly changing the
subject, “I almost forgot a part of my errand here. Papa is going to
let me give a lawn-party before we go to Newport—and I am going
to send out my invitations for two weeks from to-day—I set it for
Saturday because you are at liberty so much earlier on that day. Will
you come?”
Gerald’s eyes glowed, and the color mounted to his temples at this
evidence of her thought for him. His voice thrilled with repressed
emotion as he replied:
“That was certainly very kind of you, Al—Miss——”
“Take care, Gerald!” suddenly interposed the fair girl, as she raised a
finger menacingly at him. “I will not be ‘missed’ by you—at least”—
with a gleam of roguishness in her dancing eyes—“until I am gone
for the summer, and then you may miss me as much as you like.
See?”
And, detaching one of the three beautiful pink rosebuds from her
corsage, she playfully tossed it at him, and with such unerring aim
that it brushed his cheek with its fragrant petals, and then lodged
upon his shoulder. Gerald captured it with a hand that tingled in
every nerve.
“Yes, Allison, I see,” he said, smiling into the piquant face. “Thanks
for this souvenir—I never saw anything more lovely.”
But he was not looking at the rose as he spoke—he was gazing
straight into the blue eyes of beautiful Allison Brewster.
“Now will you promise to come to my party?” she asked, rising to go.
“Yes, if——”
“‘If!’” she repeated sharply, a quick flush mantling her face.
“If there is no extra work to be done and I can get off,” he
explained.
“Of course you can get off on Saturday afternoon,” said the girl
impatiently; then added appealingly: “Gerald, you must come—it will
just spoil the whole thing for me if you do not. Now, good-by—tell
papa I could not wait any longer. I have an appointment with my
dressmaker at one, and I have a lot of shopping to do before that.”
And nodding a smiling adieu to Gerald, she tripped away, while the
young man turned to a window and watched her out of sight, a
tremulous smile upon his lips, a tender gleam in his handsome
brown eyes.
 CHAPTER II.
“WHATEVER STANDS IN MY PATH!”
“Did she really mean it, I wonder? Would it spoil her party for her if I
should not go?” mused Gerald Winchester, as the daintily ruffled
skirts of Allison Brewster disappeared around a corner and his glance
shifted to the lovely rosebud which he still held, “or is it just her
sweet, impulsive way of saying pleasant things to make one feel
comfortable and happy?”
As he concluded this soliloquy, he raised the bud to his lips and
bestowed a light caress upon it.
At the same instant a step behind him caused him to turn suddenly,
to find himself again confronted by the sneering face of Mr. John
Hubbard.
“Very pretty! very interesting, truly; but rather a dangerous
sentiment, and presumptuous, as well, for a boy to indulge in, with
only fifteen dollars a week,” the man sarcastically observed.
Then without giving Gerald time to reply, had he been so disposed,
he added sharply:
“Have you copied those papers relating to the Wynn estate?”
“Yes, I have just finished them,” the young man returned, as he took
a package from his desk and passed it to his companion, who
observed that his hand was trembling and that he had grown very
white about the mouth, while there was a gleam of fire in his eyes
which betrayed that he was not lacking in spirit, although he was
able to hold it under perfect control.
As John Hubbard took the papers he managed to brush to the floor
the rosebud which Gerald had laid upon the desk.
“Take care, please,” said the young man, and stooping eagerly to
recover his treasure.
But he was not quick enough, for the other ruthlessly set his foot
upon it, crushing it flat and destroying all its beauty.
For a minute the boy and the man stood looking straight into each
other’s eyes, their faces as colorless as the collars about their necks.
“That is typical of what happens to everything that stands in my
way; so beware! young beggar, that you do not covet what is
beyond your reach,” said John Hubbard menacingly.
Gerald Winchester’s hands were clenched so fiercely that the nail of
every finger turned purple; but his bearing was that of a hero who
could face a cannon’s mouth and never flinch.
Presently he drew in a long, deep breath, his hands relaxed; then he
said, as quietly as if he were making the most commonplace
observation imaginable:
“Nothing is unattainable, Mr. Hubbard, to him who is determined to
win.”
“Aha! say you so? You speak with the impulse and inexperience of
youth; but, look there, and—be warned,” sneered his companion, as,
lifting his foot he made a gesture indicating the mutilated bud.
Then turning abruptly, he left the office, while Gerald, with a ghastly
face and trembling hands, stooped to recover the ruined flower.
He tenderly gathered up every discolored leaf and petal, arranging
them neatly upon a sheet of blank paper, which he carefully folded
and placed within an envelope.
“It shall be my mascot,” he muttered, with a determined gleam in his
eyes, as he put it in an inside pocket of his vest, “and as sure as I
live, Mr. John Hubbard, you will find me no mean rival. I will yet
stand where I can ask for what I want and not be accused of being
a fortune-hunter, either.”
Mr. Brewster came in, a few minutes later, and Gerald’s thoughts
were turned into other channels, although throughout the day he
was never for a moment unconscious of that bruised and discolored
bud which lay so near his heart.
Two weeks slipped rapidly by, and the day set for Allison Brewster’s
lawn-party dawned clear and beautiful.
Gerald had, meantime, received by mail a formal card of invitation
with the words “Come early” delicately penciled in one corner, and
he had been looking eagerly forward to the occasion, although he
said nothing to any one of his intention to be present.
In his heart he knew that Mr. Brewster, in spite of his own fondness
for him, would not approve of the existence of any tender relations
between him and his peerless daughter, and he greatly feared,
should he intimate that he had been bidden to the approaching
festival, that some extra work would be forthcoming to keep him
away.
While he would not wilfully betray the confidence of his employer,
he, at the same time, believed that he had a perfect right to love
Allison, since, morally and intellectually, he was her equal, if not her
superior; while he felt sure, so sanguine is youth, that he would
eventually work his way up to a position no less enviable than hers—
both socially and financially.
“I will take no unfair advantage,” he said to himself, “but I will make
the most of my opportunities; and, if by and by, Allison should
respond to my affection, I will claim her right to act for herself, and
my right to abide by her choice, and”—with a flash of fire in his dark
eyes—“I am no fragile bud to be crushed by the heel of any man’s
boot.”
Having settled matters thus in his own mind, Gerald looked eagerly
forward to the fulfilment of his promise to Allison.
On Saturday morning, however, John Hubbard presented himself
before Mr. Brewster—Gerald being out on some errand—and stated
that a matter of importance in Jersey City needed prompt attention,
and it would be necessary to despatch some trustworthy person to
deliver certain valuable documents into the hands of the party whom
they most concerned.
“I would go myself,” said the wily expert and confidential lawyer,
“but I have to prepare for that case that is coming off on Monday,
and I cannot attend to both matters.”
“Very well, send whom you like to Jersey,” said the banker briefly.
“I think perhaps that Winchester might go—that is, if you can spare
him; he is reliable and as prompt as the clock,” said the crafty
schemer, who, for two weeks, had borne this thing in mind for the
very purpose of keeping Gerald from the lawn-party.
“Yes, I can spare him,” replied Mr. Brewster, “and you are right—
Gerald is as true as steel, and can be trusted with any commission.”
John Hubbard’s white teeth gleamed for a moment beneath his
mustache in a sinister smile at this high tribute to the young man;
then remarking that he would make up the package, he disappeared
from the room, chuckling to himself as he went.
A half hour later he took the parcel to Gerald, who with difficulty
concealed his disappointment when he was told what was required
of him, for he knew that it would be utterly impossible for him to go
to Jersey City to perform his errand and return in season to keep his
promise to Allison; at least, it would be evening before he could
reach Yonkers, where Mr. Brewster’s country home was located, and
the party would be over by that time.
He felt very sure from the mocking gleam in his eye as he handed
the paper to him, that John Hubbard had cunningly contrived this
strategy for the express purpose of making him miss the pleasure he
was anticipating. But he must obey orders, and he departed upon
his mission without a word of protest.
He first made his way to a florist’s, however, to order a dainty basket
of forget-me-nots sent by express to Allison, inserting in the box
with them a card upon which he hastily wrote the following:
 “New York, 11 A. M.—I am at this moment unexpectedly
sent out of town upon important business, and so cannot
go to Y., as I promised. Am very sorry, but my offering will
prove that I am not unmindful of the occasion. G. W.”

Having seen his tribute despatched, Gerald went on his way with
what grace he could muster, although a feeling of bitterness against
the marplot of his pleasure rankled sorely in his heart.
“What can it matter to him whether I am fond of Allison or not?” he
mused, as he boarded a car for the ferry. “He is a man twice her
age, and he cannot be so deluded as to think that she would ever
marry him. It would be monstrous,” and a mocking laugh broke from
him at the thought and the remembrance of what Allison had said
about “getting a chill,” whenever John Hubbard came near her.
Nevertheless, at that very moment John Hubbard was seated in the
private office of Adam Brewster, making a formal proposal for the
hand of the banker’s daughter.
“You know I am a man of few words,” he remarked, coming to the
point at once, as he took the chair his employer indicated, “and so I
am here to confess to you, Mr. Brewster, that I love your daughter
and to ask your permission to win her for my wife.”
The banker regarded the man in speechless astonishment as he
paused, after making the above startling declaration. It was a full
minute before he could recover himself sufficiently to reply.
“You want to marry my daughter!” he at last burst forth, with
unconscious emphasis upon the pronoun. “Good Heaven! she is only
a child!”
“I know that she is very young, sir, and, of course, I do not expect
your sanction to a union under two or three years,” John Hubbard
returned, shooting a searching look at his companion from his crafty
eyes. “I simply want your consent to such an arrangement, and your
influence in my favor with Miss Allison——”
“But——” began Mr. Brewster, with white lips and an evident effort at
self-control.
“Believe me,” interposed his companion. “I appreciate your
affectionate desires for her, and realize that you aspire to an assured
position for her; but I believe I can realize even your most
extravagant wishes for her in that respect. You know something of
my circumstances, Mr. Brewster, but I have to tell you that my
interest in this bank, my estates in New Jersey and Virginia are but a
small part of my wealth. Let me ask you to examine this
memoranda, and then possibly you will realize that my offer is not
one to be despised,” said John Hubbard, as he took a small book
from his pocket and passed it to his companion.
Mr. Brewster took it mechanically and silently examined the pages
for several minutes, his face growing strangely grave and rigid as he
did so.
Finally he lifted his glance to the expert’s face.
“John, I had no idea you were so rich a man,” he observed.
“Will I do for a son-in-law?” queried the man flippantly, and with a
little smile of triumph.
“That is a difficult question to answer,” said Mr. Brewster, flushing a
deep crimson with the effort he made to restrain his impulse to kick
the man from his presence for his vulgarity and presumption, for,
clever as he had become as a business man, he was possessed of no
natural refinement, and the banker would far rather have seen
Allison immured in a convent than the wife of such a man, useful as
he was in certain ways.
“Why is it a difficult question?” sharply demanded the would-be
suitor.
“Well, first and foremost, Allison is far too young to have any
matrimonial ideas instilled into her mind; she has two years yet to
go to school——”
“I told you I would wait—I expected to wait,” interposed John
Hubbard impatiently, and with a fiery gleam in his eyes. “I have
already waited and toiled years, with this one hope in view—for I
have loved the child ever since she was a little girl—strange as it
may seem—and a few years more will not matter so very much,
provided I have your consent and influence to back me. Meantime, I
shall be growing richer,” he concluded, as if that were the one
inducement to be considered.
“But Allison’s wishes must be considered,” said the banker, a trifle
nervously. He could not bind himself to sell his darling, and yet he
knew that this man would make a dangerous foe; there were certain
reasons why he did not wish to excite his enmity. “At least,” he
added, “I cannot force her affections—she must choose her own
husband.”
“Ah! do you intend to allow her to do that? Suppose she should love
and choose a poor man—a common clerk, for instance, with a mere
pittance?” and the expert’s eyes gleamed maliciously.
“Humph! Ah! well—I don’t think I could quite agree to that,” coldly
responded the banker. “The man who marries Allison must at least
be able to match her fortune dollar for dollar.”
“I can very nearly do that now.”
“I see you can, John, and I own that you have been very clever—far
more clever than I gave you credit for being. I cannot quite
understand it. I am greatly surprised and—and, of course, am—
ahem!—honored by your proposal——”
“Then be kind enough to give me some definite answer,” bluntly
interposed Mr. Hubbard.
“Really, John, you must give me time—this has come upon me so
unexpectedly, I am wholly unprepared to pledge myself to anything,”
Mr. Brewster replied thoughtfully, and beginning to recover
something of his habitual dignity.
“Very well, take time; but, meantime, give me a chance. By the way,
I believe you have a lawn-party, or something of the kind, out at
Lakeview to-day, do you not?”
Again Adam Brewster flushed, and he longed to show his companion
the door and tell him never to come into his presence again; but, as
previously intimated, there were reasons why he dared not offend
him.
So, restraining his anger, he called a smile to his lips and blandly
responded:
“Yes, my daughter is going to entertain some of her friends this
afternoon; it will be rather a juvenile affair; but perhaps you would
enjoy seeing the young folks amuse themselves; if so, come home
with me and look on for a while.”
“Thank you, I shall be happy to do so,” promptly returned John
Hubbard, with a vicious gleam of his ghastly teeth.
And thus it happened that just as Allison Brewster came downstairs
to receive her first guests she was confronted by “the man who
always gave her a chill,” and who now drove all the brightness from
her face, and made her feel that her party was doubly spoiled by his
presence and Gerald’s absence.
“Why couldn’t papa have sent him, instead of Gerald, on that errand
rather than bring him here, where he isn’t wanted?” she said to
herself, with a feeling of resentment.
But she was a well-bred little lady, and, bowing courteously to her
self-invited guest, she thanked him politely for the bouquet of
magnificent roses with which he presented her, but which she quietly
handed to a servant, charging her to put them in water, and—never
thought of them again.
But upon her breast—nestling among the cascade of filmy lace that
trimmed her spotless dress of India lawn—there was a lovely cluster
of forget-me-nots, which, with a thrill of delight—in spite of her
disappointment at his enforced absence—she had culled from
Gerald’s dainty basket, which was now standing upon the dressing-
case in her room, to gladden no eyes but her own.
Almost unconsciously her hand fluttered caressingly among the
delicate blossoms, even while she stood talking with John Hubbard;
then, all at once, glancing out upon the lawn, she gave a little cry of
joyous surprise and sprang forward to meet—Gerald himself!
 CHAPTER III.
LOVE SPEAKS FOR ITSELF.
The fair girl was as unaffected and as ingenuous as nature itself. She
was heartily glad to see Gerald, she knew of no reason why she
should not give free expression to her joy, and the flush of delighted
surprise that overspread her lovely face, the welcoming light which
shone in her beautiful eyes, sent a thrill of ecstasy through Gerald’s
heart, while they at the same time caused a frown of annoyance and
hate to settle upon John Hubbard’s brow.
Mr. Brewster was also an interested observer of Allison’s greeting of
his young clerk, and he congratulated himself that they were so
soon going to Newport, where the gaieties of the season, the
mingling with companions in her own sphere of life, would crowd
this “handsome young beggar” out of her mind.
“I am so glad that you could manage to come, after all,” Allison said,
with earnest sincerity. “I was so disappointed when I received your
note saying you had to go out of town. And now I want you to act
as captain of the swanboat on the lake; you understand it perfectly,
and I shall feel safer with you at the helm than with any one else.”
But before Gerald could reply, John Hubbard stepped forward and
inquired, in a sharp, curt tone:
“How is this, young man? You surely have not had time to attend to
the business upon which you were sent, and it was far too important
to be entrusted to a common messenger.”
Gerald flushed hotly, more at the man’s tone and insolent bearing
than at his words, but he had learned to hold himself well in hand.
“I was about to explain to Mr. Brewster,” he quietly remarked, as he
turned to that gentleman without replying to the expert’s inquiry.
“The package is perfectly safe, sir,” he continued, addressing his
employer; “I delivered it into Mr. Bartlett’s own hands, according to
your instructions. I had just reached the ferry when I met him
coming off the boat, and so was not obliged to cross to Jersey City.
Here is a message, acknowledging the safe delivery of the papers.”
As he concluded, he passed to Mr. Brewster a slip of paper, which
was evidently a leaf that had been torn from a note-book, and upon
which there had been penciled a few lines.
“It is all right, Gerald,” Mr. Brewster responded, as he read them,
“and you were fortunate to meet Mr. Bartlett. If you had gone to
Jersey City, you would have missed him and might have had to wait
many hours before you could have obeyed the charge to deliver the
papers into his own hands. And now I think, as Al—Miss Brewster
suggests, you will be just the one to manage the boat for the
company,” the banker concluded, in a tone that brought a quick flush
to the young man’s cheek; for it seemed to imply that he was not
regarded as an invited guest, but, rather, as a part of the machinery
necessary to contribute to the pleasure of the company in general.
John Hubbard’s lips curled in an aggravating sneer, showing that he
thoroughly appreciated the situation, and this did not tend to make
Gerald’s mortification any the easier to bear.
But Allison came bravely to the rescue, and her blue eyes flashed
angry defiance upon both gentlemen, while she tossed back her
golden head with an independent air that spoke volumes.
“But, Gerald,” she said eagerly, as she moved nearer to him, “the
boat is not to be used at present, there is to be an archery contest
first, and the guests are already getting ready to dance under the
pavilion. Here is my card. I want you to put your name down for the
waltz-galop, and the military schottische; yes, and the minuet, too—
you always do them so nicely with me. That’s it. Now, come, I want
to introduce you to Annie, Cousin Charlie Manning’s wife, who is
here to matronize the affair, and she has just the dearest little girl
you ever saw—one of those Dresden china children that sets
everybody wild. Good-by,” she added carelessly, and nodding over
her shoulder at the two gentlemen as she slipped her hand within
Gerald’s arm to lead him away. “I hope you will enjoy looking on at
the fun.”
And with that she hurried her companion forward to a tall, graceful
lady, who stood under a neighboring tree, and to whom she
introduced him with as much ceremony as if he had been the son of
a millionaire.
“Humph! your daughter appears to be exceedingly fond of your
office boy, and vice versa,” John Hubbard observed, with an ugly
frown, as he glowered after the youthful pair; “it might be wise for
you to nip such a tendency in the bud.”
“Pooh! it is only a boy-and-girl fancy that doesn’t amount to
anything,” the banker responded lightly, but with an uneasy gleam in
his eyes.
“These boy-and-girl fancies sometimes prove to be the most lasting
and dangerous,” his companion retorted, with a sullen air, as he
turned to a rustic seat, where he could command a view of all that
was occurring upon the lawn.
Meantime Allison was trying to obliterate the remembrance of the
wound which her lover had received from her father.
“Oh, Gerald! I was so disappointed when your note came,” she
exclaimed, with a heartiness which betrayed her sincerity, “but it was
just lovely of you to send these,” with a shy glance at the bouquet
pinned to her corsage, “and, you see, since I thought I could not
have you here, I tried to console myself by wearing your flowers.”
“You honor me, Allison,” said the young man, his tones thrilling with
emotion.
“Ah! but there was an element of selfishness about it,” she replied,
with a saucy smile, “for I am very, very fond of these dear little
forget-me-nots.”
“Yes, I know you are,” said her companion, looking fondly into the
lovely, uplifted eyes, and wondering which were the bluer—they or
the flowers.
“How fortunate it was that you met that Mr. Bartlett,” Allison
continued, in a satisfied tone; “you were in luck, and now we will
have just as good a time as we can. Oh, dear, I wish we were not
going to Newport on Monday,” she concluded, with a regretful sigh.
“Why! I have always supposed that you have very gay times at
Newport,” Gerald observed, with surprise.
“Yes, we do—too gay, and that is just the reason I don’t like it.
Everything is so forced—everybody trying to outdo everybody else,
just to gratify their vanity and be conspicuous. There isn’t any heart
in it—it is all a sort of ‘Vanity Fair’ parade; no matter where you go,
you are scrutinized to see if your sleeves are of the latest cut; if your
skirts have the right number of gores and measure the correct
number of yards; if the crown of your hat is too high or too low, or if
you carry the same parasols you had last year. I do like new and
pretty things, but I don’t like to be measured and dissected
wherever I go, and the probable condition of Adam Brewster’s
finances judged accordingly.”
Gerald laughed.
“I think it must be only women who are so well versed in such
analytical processes. I am sure the other sex are always impressed
by the general effect—the tout ensemble,” he said, as he ran an
admiring eye over the dainty figure beside him, and thinking he had
never seen Allison more lovely than she appeared at that moment.
She was clad in the finest of India lawn, trimmed with yards and
yards of beautiful Valenciennes lace. A rich, white, satin ribbon
girdled her waist and floated to the hem of her dress, and costly
white kid boots incased her small, shapely feet. The only dash of
color about her was the gleaming gold of her hair and the forget-
me-nots upon her bosom.
“I reckon you are right, Gerald,” she gravely replied, “the men are
more kind and sensible in their judgment. If one is tastefully
dressed, and looks pretty, the cost and style do not matter so much.
Ah! here is Gladys,” she interposed, as a lovely child came running to
meet her. “Now, isn’t she sweet?”
Gerald paused to talk to the little one for a few moments, and then
the young couple hurried away to the pavilion, where they were
soon whirling among the gay dancers and conscious only of the joy
of being in each other’s presence.
It was an ideal afternoon to them both, although it meant a great
deal more to Gerald than to Allison, for she was just at an age to
enjoy a good time for the good time’s sake; she was standing where
“The brook and river meet,”
and had not yet awakened to the fact of a line of demarcation.
She was conscious of being very fond of her young friend, of
realizing that he was more congenial to her than other gentlemen of
her acquaintance, but had never paused to ask the reason why. The
sacred depths of her woman’s nature had never yet been sounded,
as her ingenuous manner betrayed.
The two men who watched the girl from a distance, noting her every
look and gesture, realized that it would need but a word or a breath
to arouse the latent fire of a deep and absorbing love, and settle her
fate for all time.
Both saw the danger and secretly vowed that it must and should be
avoided in the future. Adam Brewster told himself that, after to-day,
Allison and Gerald should not meet again, at least, until the former
was the promised wife of another; while John Hubbard swore far
more radical measures—swore that Gerald Winchester should be
crushed—ruined; that he should be so compromised as to character
and reputation that he would never dare to declare his love for
Allison Brewster, or that, in the event of such a betrayal, she would
spurn him from her with contempt.
The lawn-party appeared to be a grand success. Everybody seemed
to enter into the spirit of the occasion with a zest and heartiness
that bespoke real enjoyment. Allison had taken pains to introduce
Gerald very generally to her friends, to whom he was so attentive
and kind that he soon became an acknowledged favorite, a coveted
partner and cavalier, and the fair little hostess was secretly very
proud of him.
After a bounteous repast had been served in another pavilion,
erected for that purpose, a party was formed for a row upon the
lake, Gerald heading the company as “captain.”
The boat was a handsome and commodious affair shaped like a
swan, and gaily canopied with red-and-white bunting. A couple of
men had been hired to do the rowing, while Gerald managed the
rudder.
Everything went well until the last party were returning. A short way
out in the lake an artificial island had been made. Upon this there
was a charming little grotto and fountain, and an arched rustic
bridge spanned the water between this pretty spot and the
mainland.
Just as the boat, with its merry company, was about to pass beneath
the bridge, a sweet little voice from above called out gaily:
“Hurrah! Allison, hurrah! See! I’ve got a pretty flag!”
Allison, who was seated in the stern of the boat, beside Gerald,
glanced up at the sound, to see little Gladys Manning leaning far out
through one of the spaces of the bridge above. For once she had
escaped the watchful eyes of her mother, and had run out upon the
bridge “to see the pretty bird swim on the water.” Some one had
given her a little silken flag, and this she was now waving merrily at
Allison.
“Take care, Gladys! Back! back!” cried Allison, almost breathless from
fear as the boat shot under the arch, and the child leaned out
farther to watch it.
But she spoke too late, for already the little one had lost her
balance, and, with a shriek of fear, fell headlong into the water and
disappeared from sight.
Cries and screams now filled the air, and for a moment a panic in the
boat seemed inevitable.
“Sit still, everybody, and be quiet!” cried Gerald, in ringing,
authoritative tones, while at the same moment he whisked off his
coat and vest and slipped off his shoes. The next instant he sprang
upon the seat, then dived out of sight.
Allison sat still in her place, her hands convulsively clasped upon her
breast, her face as white as her dress. She scarcely seemed to
breathe, and her agonized glance was fastened upon the spot where
Gerald had disappeared.
The child had not risen to the surface, and it seemed an age before
the young man reappeared.
But a great sigh, that seemed like a single moan, went up from
every heart when he at length came up alone, gasping for breath.
The next moment he went down again, and, after what seemed an
interminable age, although barely two minutes had elapsed, he
came up, and now the limp form of little Gladys was seen in his
arms.
The child’s clothing had caught upon a spike in one of the supports
of the bridge, and thus she had been held at the bottom of the lake.
Gerald made straight for the boat with his lifeless burden.
“Can you help me, Allison?” he questioned, as he laid hold upon the
stern.
She put forth her arms, grasped the child, and with his help soon
had her in her lap.
“Now, you——” she gasped, looking anxiously into his white face.
“No—row! row with all your might,” Gerald shouted to the men,
“never mind me, but the child must have help.”
They needed no second bidding, and two minutes later they were at
the landing, where willing hands were extended to take Allison’s
lifeless burden from her.
“Stop!” cried Gerald, as they were about to bear her away to the
house.
He seized the child, laid her upon the greensward, fell upon his
knees, and began to work upon her as he had once seen a physician
try to resuscitate a man who had nearly drowned.
“Go for a doctor, somebody, and then bring blankets,” he continued,
without suspending his efforts.
For fifteen minutes or more he worked for dear life, assisted by
others; then a physician appearing upon the scene, he was only too
glad to relinquish his patient to him, for suspense and excitement,
together with the strength he had expended in the water, had nearly
exhausted him, and he willingly obeyed Mr. Brewster, who ordered
him to “come to his rooms, have a bath, and get into dry clothing.”
The child soon recovered under the physician’s treatment, and
appeared as bright and well as ever.
Gerald, who was about the size of Mr. Manning, was provided with
necessary apparel from that gentleman’s wardrobe, and ere long
reappeared among the company, looking a trifle pale, perhaps, but
very handsome and attractive after his act of heroism.
Allison also came down in a fresh toilet in season to receive the
adieus of her friends, who declared they had had a delightful time in
spite of their recent fright.
No one would acquiesce in Gerald’s going back to the city that night.
Mr. Brewster, with an unusual thrill of feeling in his voice, told him to
“stay and make himself at home.”
An hour later the gentleman left his niece, Mrs. Manning, with Allison
and Gerald, sitting upon the broad balcony overlooking the lake,
where a glorious full moon shed its silver light all around them, and
went to the library.
Fifteen minutes afterward Gladys called “mama” from above, and
Mrs. Manning went up to see what was wanted, when, finding the
child restless and nervous, she lay down beside her, where they both
soon fell asleep.
Allison and Gerald, thus left alone, had a long, cozy chat together,
until the great clock in the hall struck ten, when the former sprang
to her feet.
“That means bedtime for me,” she said, laughing, “and papa is so
ridiculously particular about it I suppose I must say good night.
What a day this has been!” she added, with a deep sigh; “it is a
long, long while since I have had such a lovely time. But for the
accident there would have been nothing to mar it—at least after you
came.”
Gerald’s pulses leaped at those last words, but he dared not betray
how they had moved him, and so he replied with what composure
he could:
“But that—the accident—only interrupted things for a little while.”
“Yes, thanks to you,” said Allison, as she laid her hand upon the back
of his chair, and bent to look into his upturned face. “Oh, Gerald!
what should we have done if you had not been there? I shall never
forget how you seemed to know just what to do—never! You dear,
brave, splendid hero!”
Actuated by the impulse of the moment, and the gratitude of her
tender heart, she leaned forward and lightly touched his brow with
her sweet, red lips.
Then, frightened at what she had done, she would have fled, but
Gerald, every nerve in his body thrilling with ecstasy from that soft
caress, sprang to his feet, seized her hands, and drew her gently
toward him, looking eagerly down into her blushing face.
“Allison! Allison!” he whispered, all the mighty love within him
breaking every barrier down and asserting its God-given right to
speak for itself.
There was no mistaking the emotion that vibrated through every
syllable of that tenderly uttered name, and, like a flash, it revealed
to the beautiful girl what she was to Gerald Winchester—what he
was to her, and would be for all time. She lifted one startled,
comprehending look to him.
“Gerald!” she breathed softly; then their lips met in a mute caress.
The next instant the young lover found himself alone.
 CHAPTER IV.
“I WOULD STAKE MY FORTUNE.”
When Gerald and Allison met at the breakfast-table the next morning
the fond glances of the one and the shy blushes of the other warned
Mr. Brewster that Cupid was surely in ambush, and it would behoove
him to be keenly on the alert. It was his custom to attend church
every Sabbath morning, and Allison always accompanied him;
accordingly, this morning, notwithstanding the excitement of the
previous day, was no exception to his rule.
He courteously invited Gerald to accompany him, but the young man
excused himself, as he wished to get back to the city by the next
train.
Mr. Brewster offered to drop him at the station, as it lay on their way
to church, and he experienced a sense of intense relief when the
young man sprang from the carriage, just in season to board the
train.
Not that he was not fond of Gerald for his faithfulness to him and his
many noble qualities, while his heroism of the previous day had
aroused his deepest gratitude, and increased his admiration for him
a hundredfold. Had he been his own son, he would have gloried in
him, or had he been the son of a man in his own sphere of life, he
would have eagerly welcomed him as a suitor for his daughter’s
hand. But pride, that relentless tyrant of the human heart, would
never swerve out of the beaten track for a struggling clerk, even
though he were of irreproachable morals or noblest aspirations.
One day, shortly after the departure of his family for Newport, Mr.
Brewster, on entering his office, laid a tiny package upon Gerald’s
desk.
“Something that Mrs. Manning commissioned me to hand to you,” he
remarked.
It proved to be a small box, which, upon opening, Gerald found to
contain a modest—as to size—but flawless diamond, in the form of a
stud.
On an accompanying card were written these words:
“With grateful remembrance and kindest regards.
“Charles and Annie Manning.”
Gerald was deeply touched by the testimonial, and greatly delighted
with the beautiful gift.
He did not once see or hear from Allison throughout the summer,
although, for years, he had never failed to receive an invitation to
spend a day or two at Newport with the family, but the memory of
those few last moments on that never-to-be-forgotten night at
Lakeview—that lingering, betraying caress, and the trustful, loving
look in the sweet, startled eyes uplifted to his, was a source of
never-failing joy to him.
“I will yet be worthy to claim her, morally, intellectually, and—
financially,” he often said to himself, with that same look of
determination with which he had once told John Hubbard that
nothing was unattainable to him who is bound to win.
The Brewsters remained at the fashionable watering-place until the
middle of September, when Mr. and Mrs. Manning went abroad for
an extended tour. Allison returned to Smith College, at Northampton,
where she had two years more of study before her, and the banker
settled himself in his winter home on Madison Avenue.
Thus another twelve months passed. John Hubbard still continued,
apparently, to prosper in his worldly affairs, while he seemed to have
utterly forgotten his enmity against Gerald.
But from time to time Gerald observed that his employer seemed
preoccupied, and wore an anxious look. He was often taciturn, and
occasionally harshly impatient, while, upon two or three occasions,
he made strenuous efforts to tide over the meeting of certain
obligations, which both surprised and troubled his confidential clerk.
Then there came a day, just after the close of Allison’s school year,
that carried dismay to the hearts of all of the banker’s friends. He
dropped senseless in his office just before the closing of the bank,
and was borne to his home paralyzed and speechless. Eminent
physicians were summoned, and every known remedy employed for
his relief. His debility was purely physical, however—his mental
faculties appearing to be as keen as ever.
Meantime, John Hubbard assumed the control of affairs at the bank,
though, of course, under the authority of Mr. Brewster, and now
Gerald began to realize that the tentacles of this human octopus
were beginning to close around both himself and his employer.
From time to time the expert would call his attention to the fact that
there were mistakes in his work. He could never account for these
errors—he could have sworn that his work had been correctly done;
but upon reviewing it, he was forced to confess that appearances
were against him.
“You’ll have to be more careful, Winchester,” Mr. Hubbard sternly
remarked to him one day in December, when, for the third time, he
pointed out to him some discrepancies; “this kind of thing has been
going on too long altogether; I have been looking back over some of
Mr. Brewster’s private accounts, and I find numerous errors covering
more than a year. If the man were well, I should disclose the fact to
him and have you instantly discharged.”
Gerald flushed crimson. He could have taken his oath that he had
never made an error in his work—at least, an uncorrected one.
“Mr. Brewster has never complained,” he began, when his
companion curtly interrupted him with the trite remark:
“Figures don’t lie, young man.”
“Figures have been made to lie,” was on the tip of Gerald’s tongue as
he darted a suspicious look at his companion; but he resolutely
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