# Wired Love/Chapter 4

A novel published in 1880 by W. F. Johnston in New York.
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CHAPTER IV.
NEIGHBORLY CALLS.
N the opinion of Miss Betsey Kling, a lone young woman, who possessed three large trunks, a more than average share of good looks, and who went out and came in at irregular and unheard-of hours, was a person to be looked after and inquired about; accordingly, while Miss Archer was making the acquaintance of Nattie, and of the invisible "C," Miss Kling descended upon Mrs. Simonson, with the object of dragging from that lady all possible information she might be possessed of, regarding her latest lodger. As a result, Miss Kling learned that Miss Archer was studying to become an opera singer, that she occasionally now sang at concerts, meeting with encouraging success, and further, that she possessed the best of references. But Miss Kling gave a sniffle of distrust.
"Public characters are not to be trusted. Do you remember," she asked solemnly, "do you remember the young man you once had here, who ran away with your teaspoons and your tooth-brush?"
Ah, yes! Mrs. Simonson remembered him ​perfectly. Was she likely to forget him? But he, Mrs. Simonson respectfully submitted, was not a singer, but a commercial traveler.
Miss Kling shook her head.
"That experience should be a warning! You cannot deny that no young woman of a modest and retiring disposition would seek to place herself in a public position. Can you imagine me upon the stage?" concluded Miss Kling with great dignity.
Mrs. Simonson was free to admit that her imagination could contemplate no such possibility, and then, neither desirous of criticising a good paying lodger, or of offending Miss Kling—that struggle with the ways and means having taught her to offend no one if it could possibly be avoided—she changed the subject by expatiating at length upon a topic she always found safe—the weather. But Miss Celeste Fishblate coming in, Miss Kling left 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 pre-judging the new-comer. ​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 pre-occupied, 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 bed-room 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 note-book?"
"Only that a man to-day, 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 was; the 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 tortoise-shell 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 proposition.
"It would be better," replied Miss Archer. "Let me see—Mrs. Simonson does not play——"
"Mr. Norton does!" interrupted Quimby, forgetting the door, in his eagerness to be of service. "I—I would willingly ask him to join us, if you will allow me!"
"That queer young artist who lodges here, you mean?" inquired Miss Archer.
"Oh! But he is a dreadful Bohemian!" commented Nattie, distrustfully, before Quimby could reply.
"Is he?" laughed Miss Archer. "Then ask him in by all means! I am something of a Bohemian myself, and shall be delighted to meet a kindred ​soul! I do not know as I have ever observed the gentleman particularly, but if I remember rightly, he wears his hair very closely cropped, and is not a model of beauty?"
"But he is just as nice a fellow as if he was handsome outside!" said Quimby earnestly, doubtless aware of his own shortcomings in the Adonis line. "He is a little queer to be sure, doesn't believe in love or sentiment or anything of that sort, you know, and he says he wears his hair cropped close because people have a general idea that artists are long-haired, lackadaisical fellows,—not to say untidy, you know,—and he is determined that no one shall be able to say it of him!"
Miss Archer was much amused at this description.
"He certainly is an odd genius, and decidedly worth knowing. Bring him in, I beg of you," she said.
But Quimby hesitated and glanced at Nattie.
"He is not very unconventional, I—I do not think he will shock you very much if you do not get him at it, you know!" he said to her apologetically.
"Oh! I am not at all alarmed!" said Nattie, adding, as her thoughts reverted to Miss Kling, "I think, after all, a Bohemian is better than a perfect model of conventionalism!"
Miss Archer heartily indorsed this sentiment, ​and Quimby went in quest of Mr. Norton, with whom he soon returned.
Unlike enough to the melancholy artist of romantic fame was Mr. Norton. Short, rather stout, inclined to be red in the face, large-nosed, scrupulously neat in dress, clean shaven, and closely-cropped hair—all this the observing Miss Archer saw at a glance as she bowed to him in response to Quimby's introduction. But the second glance showed her that the expression of his face was so jovial that its plainness vanished as if by magic on his first smile.
If Nattie, possibly a trifle prejudiced in his disfavor, expected him to outrage common propriety in some way, such as keeping on his hat, smoking a black pipe, or turning up his pantaloons leg, she was utterly—shall we say disappointed? Truth to tell, before ten minutes had elapsed from the time of his arrival, she was wishing she knew more "Bohemians," and even hoping "C" was one!
At home as soon as he entered the room, in a very short time the strangers of a moment ago were his life-long friends. Full of anecdotes and quaint remarks, he was the life of the little party. Miss Archer, however, was a very able backer—Cyn, as they all found themselves calling her soon after Jo Norton's advent, and forevermore.
​"Cyn was," as its owner said, "short" for the samewhat lofty name of Cynthia.
Doubtless, the fact of these two, who were partners, beating nearly every game they played, was not without its effect in promoting their most genial feelings. A result brought about, not so much by their skill, as by Quimby's perpetually forgetting what was trumps, confounding the right and left bowers, and disregarding the power of the joker.
And in truth Quimby's mind was more on his partner than on the game, and he was becoming more and more awake to the fact that his heart was fast filling with admiration and adoration of which she was the object, and inevitably must soon overflow! For Nattie was really looking her very best this evening. It was excitement and animation that her face depended upon for its beauty. Miss Archer's companionship, too, was doing much towards promoting the cheerfulness that brought so clear a light to her eyes—the light that was now dazzling Quimby. For Cyn was one of those people who live always in the sunshine, and seem to carry its own brightness around with them, while Nattie, on the contrary, oftentimes dwelt among the shadows, and a touch of their somberness hung over her, and showed itself upon her face.
But none of these lurking shadows were there ​to-night, and as a consequence, Quimby was unable to keep his eyes off her, and sighed, and made misdeals, and became generally mixed. His embarrassment was not lessened when Cyn mischievously informed him he had certainly found favor in the eyes of Miss Fishblate—who had called upon her the day before. He dropped the pack of cards he happened to have in his hand at the moment, all over the floor, and then dived so hastily to pick them up that his head came in violent contact with the edge of the table, and for a moment he was almost stunned.
But in answer to Cyn's anxious inquiry if he was hurt, he replied,
"It's nothing! I—I am used to it, you know!" Notwithstanding which assertion his forehead developed such a sudden and terrific bump of benevolence, that Cyn insisted upon binding her handkerchief over it. Thus, with his head tied up, and secretly lamenting the unornamental figure he now presented to the eyes of his partner and charmer, Quimby resumed the game. But what with this cause of uneasiness, and a latent fear that Cyn's jesting remark about Celeste might be true, a fear he had privately been conscious of previously, although the least conceited of mortals, Quimby played so badly—and indeed would undoubtedly ​have answered "checkers," had he been asked suddenly what game he was playing, on account of his meditations on a checkered existence—that the cards were soon abandoned, and Cyn delighted them with several songs, and a recitation of "Lady Clara Vere de Vere."
While Cyn was singing, Nattie happened to glance at Mr. Norton, and suddenly remembering a sentence in a lately-read novel about some one looking with "his soul in his eyes," wondered if that was not exactly what Mr. Norton was doing now? She did not notice, however, that it was certainly what Quimby was trying not to do! She wondered too, if the young artist was paying Cyn some private compliments, for they seemed to be talking together apart, as all were bidding each other good-night. If so, she could not understand why Cyn should look so mischievous over it. It was but a momentary thought, however, forgotten as they all mutually agreed that the pleasant evening just passed should be but the beginning of many. The circumstance was recalled to her mind, however, and explained the next day, for on returning from the office she found under her door a pen and ink sketch, of which she knew at once Cyn was the designer, and Mr. Norton the executor. It represented two rooms, one on each side of a partition; ​in one was a table, containing the ordinary telegraphic apparatus, before which sat a young lady strangely resembling Miss Nattie Rogers, with her face beaming with smiles, and her hand grasping the key. In the other, a young man with a very battered hat knelt before the sounder on his table, while behind him an urchin with a message in his hand stared unnoticed, open-mouthed and unheard; far above was Cupid, connecting the wires that ran from the gentleman to the lady.
"What nonsense!" murmured Nattie, laughing to herself; but she put the picture away in her writing desk as carefully as she might some cherished memento.