Wired Love by Ella Cheever Thayer (most interesting books to read txt) 📕

"Red hair, all bear's grease, and everything to match!"

"Do you mean to tell me," Mr. Stanwood asked, looking at her earnestly, and speaking with great energy, "that a person, such as you describe, called on you and represented himself to be 'C'?"

"Exactly," Nattie replied; "first telling me he was going away to substitute for a day, and then coming upon me in all his odiousness."

"The story seems to interest you," added Cyn, glancing at him scrutinizingly.

Mr. Stanwood looked at her, at Nattie, mused a moment, and then burst into a laugh, equal even to the one Quimby had caused.

"It does interest me," he said, as soon as he could speak; "very much, indeed. It is really the best joke—considered from one point—I ever heard. And, of course, after that day, 'C' was cut?"

"Indeed he was," Nattie replied, scornfully.

"The circuit was broken after that!" Jo added, technically.

"And a romance was spoiled in the first act," added Cyn, rising from the now vanished feast.

"Poor 'C'!" said Mr. Stanwood, following her example. "Really, Miss Archer, I have enjoyed this dinner better than any I ever had, and the climax is the best of all!"

"I wish we might have such a feast every day!" said Jo, regretfully.

"And, except the damage—I don't refer to any done myself, I—I am used to it, you know—I quite agree with you about the dinner. And as for the joke—I—I—really it was quite a serious one to Miss Rogers, at the time, I assure you. Bless my soul! You should have seen how—how blue she was for a week, you know!" said Quimby.

Nattie colored as Mr. Stanwood glanced at her, and knowing he could not but notice the blush, thought angrily, "How dreadful it is to have such honest, outspoken people as Quimby about!"

"Come, Nat, and help me clear away the remains," said Cyn. Apparently glad enough was Nattie to obey, and turn aside her burning face from the sight of those merry brown eyes.

In a very few moments the banqueting hall was transformed to a parlor, with only Quimby sucking an orange on his stool that he refused to leave, Jo cracking nuts, and the Duchess eating a fig, to tell of what had been.

Mr. Stanwood sat down at the table where Nattie was looking over Cyn's album, and seemed to have become very thoughtful; Cyn meanwhile busied herself in dressing an ugly gash the ever-unfortunate Quimby had managed to inflict on his hand.

Suddenly Nattie was disturbed by Mr. Stanwood drumming with a pencil on the marble top of the table, and glancing up casually, observed his eyes fixed upon her with a peculiar expression, and at the same moment her ear seemed to catch a familiar sound. With a slight start she listened more attentively to his seemingly idle drumming. Yes—whether knowingly, or by accident, he certainly was making dots and dashes, and what is more, was making N's!

"I will soon ascertain if he means it or not!" thought Nattie, and seizing a pair of scissors, the only adaptable instrument handy, she drummed out, slowly, on account of the imperfectness of her impromptu key—pretending all the while to be entirely absorbed in the album,

"Are you an operator?"

Mr. Stanwood, in his turn, seemingly deeply engaged in the contents of a book, immediately drummed in response,

"Yes."

Nattie felt the color come into her face.

"Oh, dear!" she thought, "and Cyn told him that ridiculous story! Every operator in town will know it now." Then with the scissors she asked,

"Why didn't you say so? Where is your office?"

"I have none now," the pencil answered, while Cyn, glancing across the room, wondered to see the two so studious, and unsuspiciously asked Quimby if he supposed they were practicing for a drum corps? After a few meaningless dots, the pencil went on,

"A little girl at B m was dreadfully sold one day!"

The album Nattie held fell from her hands as she stared petrified at her vis-a-vis, who kept his eyes on his book with the most innocent expression imaginable, one that even a Chinaman could not have equaled. Where could he have heard those words, once so familiar? A moment's thought gave her the most probable key.

"You are in the main office of this city, and have heard me talking with
'C'!" she wrote, as fast as the scissors would let her.

"No, to the first of your surmise," came from the pencil, "and yes to the last."

"What office were you in?" the scissors asked.

"X n," responded the pencil.

"What! with 'C'?" asked the scissors, and if ever there was a pair of excited scissors, these were the ones.

"Well—yes," replied the pencil with provoking slowness. "Don't you 'C' the point? Can't you 'C' that you did not 'C' the 'C' you thought you did 'C' that day?"

Nattie's breath came fast, and her hand trembled so she could not hold the scissors. With a crash they dropped on the table, making one loud, long dash. But the imperturbable pencil went on calmly,

"It was all a mistake. I am—'C'!"

Disdaining scissors and pencil, Nattie started up, exclaiming vehemently,

"What do you mean? it can't be possible!"

The consternation of Cyn, who was just informing Quimby that his wound would do very well now, the horror of the patient, and the surprise of Jo Norton at this emphatic and unaccountable outburst from the hitherto so silent Nattie was indescribable.

"Good gracious, Nat! what in the world is the matter?" cried Cyn, starting up and bringing the bottle of liniment she held in violent contact with Quimby's head, a circumstance that even the victim did not notice, so absorbed was he in amazement.

At Nattie's exclamation, Mr. Stanwood threw aside his book, pencil, and innocent countenance together, and regardless of any one but her, sprang to his feet, advanced with both hands extended, and shining eyes, saying,

"I mean just what I said, it is possible!"

Hardly knowing what she did, utterly confused and bewildered, Nattie placed her hand in the two that clasped it, while Cyn stared with distended eyes, Quimby with wide-open mouth, and Jo gave a long whistle. Cyn was first to recover, and began to scold.

"Well," she exclaimed, "this is a pretty piece of business, never yet played on any stage, I should think! Nat, will you, or will somebody have the goodness to explain this sudden and extraordinary scene?"

"I—I don't understand!" Nattie murmured faintly, and looking half-frightened, and half-beseechingly at Mr. Stanwood, who in response smiled and said, with a firmer clasp of the hand he still held,

"I will explain in a very few moments how it is possible that I am the real 'C'!"

"What!" screamed Cyn.

"What!" shouted Jo.

"What!!" absolutely yelled Quimby.

"There has been a mistake!" Mr. Stanwood said, now looking at Cyn.

"A mistake!" she repeated excitedly, "what do you mean? YOU 'C,' our
'C,' of the wire? Nonsense! You are joking!"

"Yes, he is joking!" Quimby reiterated, but his teeth chattered as he spoke. "He is a dreadful fellow to joke, Clem is!"

"Clem!" cried Cyn and Nattie, in the same breath.

"Do you begin to believe me?" said the gentleman who had caused all this disturbance, and looking at Nattic, who now, becoming conscious that her hand was yet in his, withdrew it hastily, with a deep blush.

"I don't know what to think!" cried Cyn.

"Do explain something, quick, or I shall burst a blood-vessel with impatience; I know I shall!" exclaimed Jo.

Mr. Stanwood complied, by saying,

"The fact of the case is simply this. That red-haired young man, so graphically described by you girls, that 'odious creature,' was the operator I went to substitute for that day!"

"Oh!" said Nattie, a light beginning to break upon her.

"But how—" commenced Cyn.

"I will tell you how, if you will be patient," Mr. Stanwood interrupted, smiling. "His office, as you," looking at Nattie, "remember, had once been on our wire. He had heard 'N' and I talking, and in fact had often annoyed us by breaking. So, as he was at the city, he took the opportunity to pass himself off for me; perhaps for the sake of a joke, perhaps from more malicious motives. I recognized his description at once, from your story to-day, and I remember, too, his telling me on his return, that he knew the best joke of the season; a remark I did not notice, never supposing it concerned me."

"Yes!" said Nattie, eagerly, "and he was very particular to ask me not to mention his call, on the wire."

"I do not suppose he imagined but we would eventually discover the fraud, however; and so we should, had not you," looking rather reproachfully at Nattie, "in your haste to drop so undesirable an acquaintance, avoided the least hint of the true cause. How the dickens was I to know what was the matter? I puzzled my brains enough over it, I assure you."

"And that red-headed impostor has been chuckling in his sleeve ever since, I suppose," said Cyn, indignantly; then seizing. Mr. Stanwood by the arms, she cried, in a transport of delight, "and it really is true? you are our 'C?'"

"What! am I not yet believed?" he questioned, laughing; "what more shall I do to convince you of my identity? you accepted our red-headed friend readily enough!"

"Oh! I believe you!" cried Nattie, eagerly; then stopped, and colored, abashed at her own so plainly shown delight.

But Mr. Stanwood looked at her with a gratified expression in his brown eyes.

"And you will not snub me any more, will you?" he said, pleadingly; "because I never use bear's grease or musk, and my hair isn't red a bit!"

"I will try and make amends," Nattie answered, shyly; adding, "I ought to have known there was some mistake. I never could reconcile that creature and—and 'C'!"

"Then I may flatter myself that I am an improvement?" asked Mr. Stanwood, merrily; at which Nattie murmured something about fishing for compliments, and Cyn replied gayly,

"Yes; because you have curly hair! You remember what I said on the wire, via Nat?"

"Could I forget?" he replied, gallantly.

"And it isn't a dream! You are 'C', the real 'C,'" replied Cyn, pinching herself, and then seizing Nattie, who, from the suddenness of it all was yet in a semi-bewildered state—there was not a bit of unhappiness in it, though—waltzed ecstatically around the room, crying, "Oh! I am so glad! I am so glad!"

At this point Quimby, who, during the preceding explanation had listened with a face illustrating every variety of consternation and dismay, attracted attention to himself by an audible groan, observing which, he muttered something about his "wound"—the word had a double meaning for him then, poor fellow!—and rising, came forward, took his friend by the shoulder, and asked, solemnly,

"Now, Clem—I—I beg pardon—but is it—is this all true, and—and not one of your jokes, you know? Honestly, are you that—that 'C'?"

"Here is a doubting Thomas for you!" cried Clem, gayly. "But, upon my word of honor, old boy, I truly and honestly am 'that C,' and I suppose you were the 'other visitor of no consequence,' who called with Miss Archer that day I was favored by an introduction to her. How little I thought it then!"

"How little I thought it!" groaned Quimby, as his hand fell dejectedly from Clem's shoulder. "But I—I am used to it, you know!" So saying he sank into a chair. That he had brought about such a result as this—that he had resurrected the dreaded "C" from the grave of musk and bear's grease was too much.

"But now that all is explained, I am really not sorry for the mistake," Clem said, utterly unconscious of his friend's state of mind. "For, had it not been for that I should never have learned, as I have to-day, from you two ladies, what a very interesting and agreeable fellow I am!" and he bowed profoundly, with a twinkle of merriment in his eyes.

"Over the wire," Nattie added, pointedly.

"Of course, over the wire!" he said, with another bow. "But it shall be my endeavor to make good my reputation, minus the wire!"

"You will have to work very hard to place Mr. Stanwood where 'C' was in our good graces!" said Cyn, archly.

"Then suppose we drop the Mr. Stanwood,