Wired Love, Ella Cheever Thayer [hot novels to read .txt] 📗

the weather to take care of itself, and returned to the more interesting discussion, to her, of Miss Archer.

Celeste, a young lady favored with a countenance that impressed the beholder as being principally nose and teeth, and possessing a large share of the commodity known as gush, was ready enough to be the recipient of her neighbor’s collection of gossip. But, to Miss Kling’s no small disgust, she was rather lukewarm in prejudging the newcomer. In truth, although somewhat alarmed at the “three trunks,” lest she should be out-dressed, she was already debating within herself whether Miss Archer, as a medium by which more frequent access to Mrs. Simonson’s gentlemen lodgers could be obtained, was not a person whose acquaintance it was desirable to cultivate. Moreover, the words opera singer raised ecstatic visions of a possible future introduction to some “ravishing tenor,” the remote idea of which caused her to be so visibly preoccupied, that Miss Kling took her leave with angry sniffles, and returned home to ponder over what she had heard.

A few days after, Nattie, who had quite paralyzed Miss Kling by refusing to listen to what she boldly termed unfounded gossip about her new friend, went to spend an evening with her.

Miss Archer occupied a suite of rooms, consisting of a parlor and a very small bedroom that had been Mrs. Simonson’s own, but which on account of the “ways and means” she had given up now, confining herself exclusively to the kitchen, fitted up to look as much like a parlor as a kitchen could.

“And how is C?” asked Miss Archer as she warmly welcomed her visitor.

“Still as agreeable as ever,” Nattie replied. “I told him I was coming to see you this evening and he sent his regards, and wished he could be of the party.”

“I wish he might. But that would spoil the mystery,” rejoined Miss Archer. “Do you know what the C is for?”

“ ‘Clem,’ he says. His other name I don’t know. He would give me some outlandish cognomen if I should ask. But it isn’t of much consequence.”

“It might be if you should really fall in love with him,” laughed Miss Archer.

“Fall in love! Over the wire! That is absurd, especially as I am not susceptible,” Nattie answered, coloring a trifle, however, as she remembered how utterly disconsolate she had been all that morning, because a “cross” on the wire had for several hours cut off communication between her office and “X n.”

“You think it would be too romantic for real life? Doubtless you are right. And the funny incidents⁠—have you anything new in your notebook?”

“Only that a man today, who had perhaps just dined, wanted to know the tariff to the U⁠—nited St⁠—at⁠—ates,” answered Nattie, glancing at some autumn leaves tastefully arranged on the walls and curtains. “But C was telling me about a mistake that was lately made⁠—not by him, he vehemently asserts, although I am inclined to think it message as originally sent was, ‘John is dead, be at home at three,’ when it was delivered it read, ‘John is dead beat; home at three.’ ”

“How was that possible?” asked Miss Archer, laughing,

“I suppose the sending operator did not leave space enough between the words; we leave a small space between letters, and a longer one between words,” explained Nattie.

“The operator who received it must have been rather stupid not to have seen the mistake,” Miss Archer said. “I have too good an opinion of your C to believe it was he. But every profession has its comic side as well as its tricks, I suppose; mine, I am sure, does. But I am learning something every day, and I am determined,” energetically, “to fight my way up!”

Stirred by Miss Archer’s earnestness, there came to Nattie an uneasy consciousness that she herself was making no progress towards her only dreamed of ambition, and a shade crossed her face; but without observing it, Miss Archer continued,

“I always had a passion for the lyric stage, and now there is nothing to prevent⁠—” did a slight shadow here darken also her sunny eyes, gone instantly?⁠—“I shall make music my life’s aim. Fortunately I have money of my own to enable me to study, and⁠—”

Miss Archer’s speech was here interrupted in a somewhat startling manner, by the door suddenly flying open, banging against the piano with a prodigious crash, and disclosing Quimby, red and abashed, outside.

Nattie jumped, Miss Archer gave a little scream, and the Duchess, Mrs. Simonson’s handsome tortoiseshell cat, so named from her extreme dignity, who lay at full length upon a rug, drew herself up in haughty displeasure.

“I⁠—I beg pardon, I am sure!” stammered the more agitated intruder. “Really, I⁠—I am so ashamed I⁠—I can hardly speak! I was unfortunate enough to stumble⁠—I’m used to it, you know⁠—and I give you my word of honor I never saw such a⁠—such an extremely lively door!”

“It is of no consequence,” Miss Archer assured him. “Will you come in?”

“Thank you, I⁠—I fear I intrude,” answered Quimby, clutching his watch-chain, and glancing at Nattie, guiltily conscious of the strong desire to do so that had taken possession of him since the sound of her voice had penetrated to his apartment, and in perfect agony lest she should surmise it. However, upon Miss Archer’s assuring him that they would be very glad of his company, he ventured to enter. But the door still weighed upon his mind, for after carefully closing it, he stood and stared at it with a very perplexed face.

“Never saw such a lively door, you know!” he repeated, finally sitting down on the piano-stool, and folding both arms across one knee, letting a hand droop dismally on either side, while he looked alternately at Miss Archer, Nattie, and the part of the room mentioned, at which the former laughed, and then, with the kind intention of drawing his mind from the subject of his forced appearance, suggested a game of cards.

“Then we shall have to have one more person, shall we not?” Nattie asked, at this