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

So there was a little scowl on her face as she turned around, that did not lessen when she beheld Miss Kling standing in her door-way. For Miss Rogers did not, to speak candidly, find her landlady a congenial spirit, and only remained upon her premises because being there was a lesser evil than living in that most unhomelike of all places, a boarding-house.

"I thought I would make you a call," the unwelcome visitor remarked, rubbing her nose, that from constant friction had become red and shining; "I have been lonesome to-day. I usually run into Mrs. Simonson's in the afternoon, but she has been out since twelve o'clock. I can't make out—" musingly, "where she can have gone! not that she is just the company I desire. She has never been used to anything above the common, poor soul, and will say 'them rooms,' but she is better than no one, and at least can appreciate in others the culture and standing she has never attained," and Miss Kling sneezed, and glanced at Nattie with an expression that plainly said her lodger would do well to imitate, in this last respect, the lady in question.

"I am very little acquainted with Mrs. Simonson," Nattie replied, with a tinge of scorn curling her lip, for, in truth, she had little reverence for Miss Kling's blue blood. "Her lodgers like her very much, I believe; at least, Quimby speaks of her in the highest terms."

"Quimby!" repeated Miss Kling, with a sniffle of contempt. "A blundering, awkward creature, who is always doing or saying some shocking thing!"

"I know that he is neither elegant nor talented, and is often very awkward, but he is honest and kind-hearted, and one is willing to overlook other deficiencies for such rare qualities," Nattie replied, a little warmly, "and so Mrs. Simonson feels, I am confident."

Miss Kling eyed her sharply.

"Not at all! Allow me, Miss Rogers, to know! Mrs. Simonson endures his blunders, because, as she says, he can live on the interest of his money, 'on a pinch,' and she thinks such a lodger something of which to boast. On a pinch, indeed!" added Miss Kling, with a sneeze, and giving the principal feature in her face something very like the exclamation, "a very tight pinch it would be, I am thinking!" Then somewhat spitefully she continued, "But I was not aware, Miss Rogers, that you and this Quimby were so intimate! The admiration is mutual, I suppose?"

"There is no admiration," replied Nattie, with a flash of her gray eyes, inwardly indignant that any one should insinuate she admired Quimby—honest, blundering Quimby, whom no one ever allowed a handle to his name, and who was so clever, but like all clever people, such a dreadful bore. "I have only met him two or three times since that evening you introduced us in the hall, so there has hardly been an opportunity for anything of that kind."

"You spoke so warmly!" Miss Kling remarked. "However," conciliatingly, "I don't suppose by any means that you are in love with Quimby! You are much too sensible a young lady for such folly!"

Nattie shrugged her shoulders, as if tired of the subject, and after a spasm of sneezing, Miss Kling continued:

"As you intimate, he means all right, poor fellow! and that is more than I should be willing to acknowledge regarding Mrs. Simonson's other lodger, that Mr. Norton, who calls himself an artist. I am sure I never saw any one except a convict wear such short hair!" and Miss Kling shook her head insinuatingly.

From this beginning, to Nattie's dismay, Miss Kling proceeded to the dissection of their neighbors who lived in the suite above, Celeste Fishblate and her father. The former, Miss Kling declared, was setting her cap for Quimby. Mr. Fishblate being an unquestionably disagreeable specimen of the genus homo, with a somewhat startling habit of exploding in short, but expressive sentences—never using more than three consecutive words—Nattie naturally expected to hear him even more severely anathematized than any one else. But to her surprise, the lady conducting the conversation declared him a "fine sensible man!" At which Nattie first stared, and then smiled, as it occurred to her that Mr. Fishblate was a widower, and might it not be that Miss Kling contemplated the possibility of his becoming that other self not yet attained?

Fortunately Miss Kling did not observe her lodger's looks, so intent was she in admiration of Mr. Fishblate's fine points, and soon took her leave.

After her departure, Nattie changed her inky dress, and put on her hat to go out for something forgotten until now. As she stepped into the hall, a tall young man, with extremely long arms and legs, and mouth, that, although shaded by a faint outline of a mustache, invariably suggested an alligator, opened the door of Mrs. Simonson's rooms, opposite, and seeing Nattie, started back in a sort of nervous bashfulness. Recovering himself, he then darted out with such impetuosity that his foot caught in a rug, he fell, and went headlong down stairs, dragging with him a fire-bucket, at which he clutched in a vain effort to save himself, the two jointly making a noise that echoed through the silent halls, and brought out the inhabitants of the rooms in alarm.

"What is it? Is any one killed?" shrieked from above, a voice, recognizable as that of Celeste Fishblate—two names that could never by any possibility sound harmonious.

"What is the matter now?" screamed Miss Kling, appearing at her door with the query.

"Have you hurt yourself?" Nattie asked, as she went down to where the hero of the catastrophe sat on the bottom stair, ruefully rubbing his elbow, but who now picked up his hat and the fire-bucket, and rose to explain.

"It's nothing—nothing at all, you know!" he said, looking upward, and bowing to the voices; "I caught my foot in the rug, and—"

"Did you tear the rug?" here anxiously interrupted the listening Mrs. Simonson, suddenly appearing at the banisters; not that she felt for her lodger less, but for the rug more, a distinction arising from that constant struggle with the "ways and means."

"Oh, no! I assure you, there was no damage done to the rug—or fire-bucket," the victim responded, reassuringly, and in perfect good faith. "Or myself," he added modestly, as if the latter was scarce worth speaking of. "I—I am used to it, you know," reverting to his usual expression in accidents of all descriptions.

"I declare I don't know what you will do next!" muttered Mrs. Simonson, retreating to examine the rug.

"I think you must be in love, Quimby!" giggled Celeste; an assertion that caused Miss Kling to give vent to a contemptuous "Humph" and awakened in its subject the most excruciating embarrassment. The poor fellow glanced at Nattie, blushed, perspired, and frantically clutching at the fire-bucket, stammered a protest,—

"Now really—I—now!—you are mistaken, you know!"

"But people who are in love are always absent-minded," persisted
Celeste, with another giggle. "So it is useless to—"

But exactly what was useless did not appear, as at this point a stentorian voice, the voice of Miss Kling's "fine, sensible man," roared,

"Enough!"

At which, to Quimby's relief, Celeste, always in mortal fear of her father, hastily withdrew. Not so Miss Kling. She silently waited to see if Nattie and Quimby would go out together, and was rewarded by hearing the latter ask, as Nattie made a movement towards the door,—

"May I—might I be so bold as to—as to ask to be your escort?"

"I should be pleased," Nattie answered, adding with a mischievous glance, but in a low tone, aware of the listening ears above,—

"That is, if you will consent to dispense with the fire-bucket!"

Quimby started, and dropping the article in question, as if it had suddenly turned red-hot, ejaculated,—

"Bless my soul! really I—I beg pardon, I am sure!" then bashfully offering his arm, they went out, while Miss Kling balefully shook her head.

"So, Celeste will insist upon it that you are in love, because you tripped and fell down stairs!" Nattie said, by way of opening a conversation as they walked along—a remark that did not tend to lessen his evident disquietude. And having now no fire-bucket, he clutched at his necktie, twirling it all awry, not at all to the improvement of his personal appearance, as he replied,—

"Oh! really, you know! its no matter! I—I am used to it, you know!"

"Used to falling in love?" queried Nattie, with raised eyebrows.

"No—no—the other, you know, that is—" gasped Quimby, hopelessly lost for a substantive. "I mean, it's a mistake, you know" then with a desperate rush away from the embarrassing subject, "Did you know we—that is, Mrs. Simonson, was going to have a new lodger?"

"No, is she?" asked Nattie.

"Yes, a young lady coming to-morrow, a—a sort of an actress—no, a prima donna, you know. A Miss Archer. If you and she should happen to like each other, it would be pleasant for you, now wouldn't it?" asked Quimby eagerly, with a devout hope that such might be, for then should he not be a gainer by seeing more often the young lady by his side, whose gray eyes had already made havoc in his honest and susceptible heart.

"It would be pleasant," acquiesced Nattie, in utter unconsciousness of Quimby's selfish hidden thought; "for I am lonely sometimes. Miss Kling is not—not—"

"Oh, certainly! of course not!" Quimby responded sympathetically and understandingly, as Nattie hesitated for a word that would express her meaning. "They never are very adaptable—old maids, you know!"

"But it isn't because they are unmarried," said Nattie, perhaps feeling called upon to defend her future self, "but because they were born so!"

"Exactly, you know, that's why no fellow ever marries them!" said
Quimby, with a glance of bashful admiration at his companion.

Nattie laughed.

"And this Miss Archer. Did you say she was a prima donna?" she questioned.

"Yes—that is, a sort of a kind of a one, or going to be, or some way musical or theatrical, you know," was Quimby's lucid reply. "I'll make it a point to—to introduce you if you will allow me that pleasure?"

"Certainly," responded Nattie, and added, "I shall be quite rich, for me, in acquaintances soon, if I continue as I have begun. I made a new one on the wire to-day."

"On the—I beg pardon—on the what?" asked Quimby, with visions of tight-ropes flashing through his mind.

"On the wire," repeated Nattie, to whom the phrase was so common, that it never occurred to her as needing any explanation.

"Oh!" said the puzzled Quimby, not at all comprehending, but unwilling to confess his ignorance.

"The worst of it is, I don't know the sex of my new friend, which makes it a little awkward," continued Nattie.

Quimby stared.

"Don't—I beg pardon—don't know her—his—sex?" he repeated, with wide-open eyes.

"No, it was on the wire, you know!" again explained Nattie, privately thinking him unusually stupid; "about seventy miles away. We first quarreled and then had a pleasant talk."

"Talk—seventy miles—" faltered the perplexed Quimby; then brightening,
"Oh! I see! a telephone, you know!"

"No indeed!" replied Nattie, laughing at his incomprehensibility. "We don't need telephones. We can talk without—did you not know that? And what is better, no one but those who understand our language can know what we say!"

"Exactly!" answered Quimby, relapsing again into wonder. "Exactly—on the wire!"

"Yes, we talk in a language of dots and dashes, that even Miss Kling might listen to in vain. And do you know," she went on confidentially, "somehow, I am very much interested in my new friend. I wish I knew—its so awkward, as I said—but I really think it's a gentleman!"

"Exactly—exactly so!" responded Quimby, somewhat dejectedly. And during the remainder of their walk he was very much harassed in his mind over this interest Nattie confessed in her new friend—"on the wire,"—who would appear as a tight-rope performer to his perturbed imagination. And he felt in his inmost heart that it would be a great relief to his mind if this mysterious person should prove a lady, even though, if a gentleman, he was many miles away. For Quimby, with all his obtusity, had an inkling of the power of mystery, and was already far enough on the road to love to be jealous.

Of these thoughts Nattie was of course wholly unaware, and chatted gayly, now of the distant "C" and now of the coming Miss Archer, to her somewhat abstracted, but always devoted companion.

With perhaps one or two less