# Wired Love/Chapter 9

A novel published in 1880 by W. F. Johnston in New York.
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CHAPTER IX.
UNEXPECTED VISITORS.
"T must be Miss Kling, overpowered by curiosity!" murmured Nattie.
"No!" answered Cyn in a stage whisper, "the knock is too timid. Good gracious! there it is again! Stand in front of the gas stove, Nat, lest it be Mrs. Simonson, while I go and invent some excuse for not letting in whoever it is."
And having given these hasty directions, Cyn opened the door the smallest possible crack. As she did so, and before she could speak, it was pushed back violently, almost knocking her over, and in burst Quimby. This, however, might not have much disconcerted them, as he could have been disposed of easily enough, had not at his heels came a tall, fine-looking young man, a perfect stranger to both Cyn and Nattie.
"You see I keep my word!" was the enigmatical remark the smiling Quimby made as he entered. Then, catching sight of the festive board, he stopped short and stared, with an utterly confounded face, at that, at the embarrassed Nattie, at Cyn, behind the door, and at the saucepan cover, which, embellished ​with potato parings, occupied a prominent position in the middle of the floor.
His companion also paused, a surprised and amused smile lurking in his merry brown eyes as he looked at Nattie, seemingly regardless of anything else in the room.
Cyn was the first to recover from the general petrifaction, and with the involuntary thought, "what an excellent stage situation!" came from behind the door, where Quimby's impetuous entrance had thrust her, saying, with as much ease as she could possibly gather together,
"Don't be frightened at what you see, friend Quimby; we were only extemporizing a little feast, that is all. Will you join us?"
But Quimby only stared harder than ever; he was evidently struck speechless.
His companion, thus placed in the awkward position of an unintroduced intruder, withdrew his eyes from Nattie, took in the situation at a glance, and turning to Cyn, said, smiling,
"I think we owe you an apology for our intrusion; my friend Quimby, on whom I called to day, in pity for my being a stranger in the city, kindly offered to introduce me to some friends of his. He informed me we were expected, but I fear we have made a mistake."
​At this Quimby recovered his voice.
"No!" he cried, in stentorian tones, "it was not—I cannot have made a mistake this time, you know! Cyn"—looking at her reproachfully—"you knew about it! I met you a short time ago, and asked you—and you said we might come, you know!"
Half amazed and half amused, Cyn shook her head in denial, at which action Quimby started and turned pale.
"Why I—I beg pardon—but in the hall! you said, 'certainly,' you know!"
"Oh!" said Cyn, a light breaking in upon her, "I see, but I did not then understand you, I suppose;" rallying from her embarrassment, "my mind was so occupied with our feast, I was incapable of thinking of anything else; so please consider this an apology for the condition in which you find us, to yourself and your friend, whom, you will pardon me for reminding you, you have not introduced," and Cyn looking laughingly at the stranger, who also laughed.
"Oh! I—I beg pardon, I am sure, for—for all my stupidities. I—I am always doing something wrong, but I—I am used to it, you know," said the disconcerted Quimby; then wiping the perspiration from his forehead, he added clumsily, "my friend, Mr. Stanwood—Cyn—and Miss—Miss Rogers."
Mr. Stanwood gayly shook hands with Cyn, ​whom Quimby had nervously forgotten to honor with a Miss, and then advanced to Nattie, who had not stirred from her position as screen for the gas stove, saying,
"I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Rogers."
And as Nattie accepted his proffered hand, in an embarrassed way, not yet being able to rise to the situation, and observed the peculiarly roguish expression with which he regarded her, she suddenly became aware that she had seen him on some previous occasion, but where she was utterly at loss to remember.
Cyn, too, was struck by something a little odd in his manner to Nattie, and glanced at him curiously, as she said in her most cordial tones,
"And now, gentlemen, as we have exchanged apologies all around, please be seated."
Quimby immediately bounced up from the music-stool, on which, in his agitation, he had involuntarily dropped.
"Oh, no!" he exclaimed hastily. "We—we didnbsp;did not come to dinner, you know!"
Cyn smiled at Quimby's anxiety to disclaim intentions no one thought of attributing to him, and turning to Mr. Stanwood, asked, thereby greatly scandalizing Nattie,
​"But supposing you were invited to stay and share our banquet, would you?"
"Were I sure the invitation was heartfelt, I should be sorely tempted; wouldn't you, Quimby?" Mr. Stanwood replied, easily.
Poor Quimby twirled his thumbs confusedly, and murmured something about leaving the ladies to enjoy their "feast" alone.
"We have eatables enough for six, as Nat was just now intimating," went on Cyn, who certainly had a touch of true Bohemianism in her composition, as well as Jo Norton. "But our dishes, 'ay, there's the rub,'" and she laughingly held up the coffee-urn, while the less adaptable Nattie thought apprehensively of the propensity of things to cool.
Undaunted by the urn, Mr. Stanwood said, with humorous wistfulness, but looking at Nattie,
"You won't force us to eat the dishes, will you? and that steak smells so nice, and I haven't had any dinner!"
"Then away with ceremony and sit down to the banquet!" said the reckless Cyn, regardless of the protest in Nattie's face; and truth to tell, the former young lady was not at all averse to this addition to their number.
And to the consternation of Quimby, and dismay of Nattie, and possibly a little to the surprise of ​Cyn, Mr. Stanwood replied by seating himself down in a rocking-chair, and saying gayly,
"I feel positive that I am about to enjoy myself as I have not since I was a boy, and stole eggs, and cooked them on a flat rock behind my uncle's barn, and bad raw turnip for dessert. Sit down, Quimby!"
Upon this Quimby, with a blushing protest against an intrusion, that did not seem to trouble his merry friend in the least, also sat down.
As he did so, Nattie screamed; but too late. On the crowning glory of the feast, on those enticing Charlotte Russes, crowded from the table on to a chair, there was Quimby!
"Bless my soul! what is the matter?" he asked, staring astounded at Nattie's scream, but still sitting there, entirely unconscious of the ruin he had wrought.
Cyn's anguish knew no bounds, as she saw what had happened.
"Get up!" she cried, wringing her hands, "can't you get up? good gracious! don't you know what you are sitting on?"
"Eh?" he queried, rising obediently, and looking at her with a blank expression. "Sitting on?" then following her frantic gesture, he turned and looked at the chair behind him, and instantly horror overspread his countenance.
​"Bless my soul!" he gasped, turning round and round, trying to get a glimpse of his own coat-tails. "How did it come there? what is it?"
"It is—was Charlotte Russe!" said Nattie, in gloomy despair.
"Charlotte Russe!" echoed Quimby, still turning himself around like a revolving light. "It—it don't look much like it, you know!"
At this, Mr. Stanwood, who had with difficulty suppressed his laughter until now, burst into an uncontrollable roar, in which he was joined by Cyn, and then by Nattie. They laughed until utterly exhausted, Quimby all the time keeping up his rotatory motion, with a face whose lugubriousness cannot be described.
"I—I—bless my soul! I will replace what I have destroyed! I—I assure you, I will!" the unfortunate Quimby groaned, as soon as he could be heard. "I—what can I say, to express my sorrow—I—" and suddenly ceasing to revolve, he snatched Mr. Stanwood's hat, and started for the door.
"Where are you going!" his friend questioned as gravely as he could.
"More Charlotte Russes!" he responded incoherently, and with an agonized face.
"If I may be permitted to make a suggestion," said Mr. Stanwood with labored gravity, "I should ​say, some little change in your toilet would be quite appropriate before going on the street, and moreover, that my hat will not fit your head!"
At this, Quimby dropped the hat he held as if it had been red-hot, glanced at the chair whereon he had so lately distinguished himself, took up the tails of his coat one in each hand, revolved again, and then without a word darted from the room.
As well as she could from laughing, Cyn called after him, telling him not to mind about getting the Charlotte Russes, and to hurry back, but he made no response.
"Poor Quimby!" said Mr. Stanwood, wiping the tears of excessive mirth from his eyes. "He is such a good fellow, it is too bad he always is in hot water."
"Yes," assented Cyn, removing the chair with the remains of what had been clinging to it from sight, Nattie following it with a somewhat rueful glance. "Shall we wait for him? I fear our dinner is getting cold."
"I don't think we had better," Nattie, who had long been filled with a similar presentiment, responded. "There is no knowing whether he will return or not, and it's no use in having everything spoiled."
"I do not think he will expect us to wait," Mr. Stanwood said.
​"Well then," said Cyn, "here is a chair for you, Mr. Stanwood. It's all right, so you need not look before sitting. Luckily you are taller than we, and need no books to raise you. Now the question is, what shall we give you to eat from? Ah! here is the bread plate! Nat, can't you find another wooden cover? No? Then spread a piece of brown paper over 'Scribner's.' How fortunate we have an extra knife and fork; you don't mind their being oyster forks? I thought not! Nat and I will use the same spoon, so you can have a whole one. Nat, you and I will have to drink from that cracked tumbler."
"Allow me," interrupted Mr. Stanwood. "Do you know," solemnly, "a cracked tumbler is and always was the height of my ambition."
"Well then, we are all right!" said the jovial Cyn. "But I fear," she added, helping to steak, "if Quimby comes before we finish, he will have to go foraging for his own dishes!"
Mr. Stanwood was praising the steak, which he certainly ate as if the admiration was genuine, when a timid rap announced Quimby's reappearance on the scene. In complete change of raiment, smelling like a field of new-mown hay, and figuratively clothed in sackcloth and ashes, he entered.
"I—I beg pardon," he said, looking not at those ​he addressed, but humbly at the Duchess, who had been walking the floor impatiently and indignantly, but was now contentedly chewing. "I—I assure you I shall be delighted to go out and get Charlotte Russes to replace those I so wantonly destroyed. Will you—may I be allowed?"
"Not on any account," said Cyn, quickly. "Besides, the stores are closed to-day."
"So they are, so they are!" he exclaimed, putting his hand to his head dejectedly.
"But we can exist without Charlotte Russes, I think," Nattie said. She had quite recovered her good humor, and was reconciled even to Mr. Stanwood's company; indeed, had secretly confessed he was really an acquisition. Such is the power of good beefsteak!
"Some other time we will talk about it," Cyn said. "And now, we must improvise you a cup, plate, knife, fork, and spoon. I know you must be hungry after your exploit."
Quimby blushed.
"I—you shall have fifty Charlotte Russes tomorrow!" he ejaculated. "But the articles you mention—I—have in my room, and will bring them. You see I—sometimes have a little private lunch myself, you know," and departing, he in a moment returned with his dinner accouterments which Cyn ​commanded him to put down at once, lest he demolish them.
"Let me see," she added, as he meekly deposited his burden on the nearest piece of furniture—which happened to be the piano. "I can make room for you here, next me, I think."
"No! no!" he exclaimed quickly; "if you will be so kind, I—I would rather sit on that little stool in the corner, where I can do no damage, you know!"
"Oh! we must not make a martyr of you!" laughed Nattie, as she cut a pie with a very dull knife, which caused the very unsteady table to shake, so that every one's coffee slopped over.
"No, indeed; there is plenty of room here," added Mr. Stanwood, steadying his cracked tumbler. But Quimby shook his head.
"Now, really—I—I shall feel much more comfortable if I may—if you will allow me to sit on the stool. I—I am used to it, you know! 'Pon my word, I—I mean all right, but some way I always make a mess of it!"
Cyn would have remonstrated further, but Mr. Stanwood said, "We had better let him be happy in his own way; I suppose he will not be easy unless we do!"
And so Quimby, much to his satisfaction, was ​allowed to eat his share of the feast on a low stool, in the corner, like a naughty school-boy.
Visitors were destined to be numerous to-day, for hardly had Quimby been served, when a knock at the door was followed by the ppearance of Jo, who tip-toed into the room, and in a mysterious whisper, said,
"I saw Quimby enter this room, bearing utensils that could only be used for one purpose! I smelt a savory odor! and here I am!"
"And welcome, too!" said Cyn, laughing; "come, sit here by me. Are you and Mr. Stanwood acquainted?"
"Oh, yes!" replied Jo, perching himself on the arm of a rocking-chair close to Cyn, and appropriating a wooden cover for a plate as he spoke. "He and Quimby did me the honor to call on me to-day, but left for metal more attractive—whether the dinner or you ladies, I will not pretend to say!"
"It was we ladies, you dreadful matter-of-fact creature!" said Nattie." Their presence at the dinner was quite accidental; Cyn and I started out for a little quiet feast, and behold the result! Bohemian enough for even you, isn't it, Jo?"
"Exactly what I like!" replied Jo—and very close indeed to Cyn had Jo managed to get, but then the table was very small—"But the idea of you two ​girls proposing to selfishly enjoy such a feast all alone!"
"I begin to think we did make a mistake, in not making preparations for, and inviting a larger party," acquiesced Cyn.
"I wonder if Miss Rogers has overcome her anger towards offending me?" questioned Mr. Stanwood, looking at her roguishly, as she helped him to a second piece of pie.
"My anger towards you?" repeated Nattie, coloring.
"Yes; you did not want me to accept Miss Archer's most kind invitation, and remain; now confess, did you?" he asked, laughing.
Nattie was rather embarrassed at this instance of the young gentleman's perceptive faculties, and not exactly able to refute the charge, was somewhat at loss how to reply.
"I—I do not get acquainted quite so easily as Cyn," she stammered.
"Except on the wire!" Cyn added.
"Except on the wire," repeated Nattie, with a smile; then meeting the curious glance of Mr. Stanwood, it suddenly flashed upon her that he was the same young gentleman who had called at the office, and inquired about the tariff to Washington, for the sole object of talking, as she then supposed,
​"I have seen you before!" she exclaimed, on the impulse of the moment.
"That sounds like a novel! what is coming now?" ejaculated Jo, with his mouth full of pie.
Mr. Stanwood laughed very heartily at Nattie's exclamation, and asked in reply,
"Have you just discovered it? I recognized you the moment I entered the room to-day. That is one reason I was so anxious to remain. She snubbed me most outrageously," he added to Cyn, in explanation, "and simply because I tried to be agreeable to her one day at the office."
"But you had no business to be agreeable!" said Nattie, also laughing, and not at all displeased.
"Of course you had not," interrupted Jo.
"I never talk to strangers," concluded Nattie.
"Except, perhaps, on the wire, as you said just now!" he suggested.
"You have caught her now!" said Cyn gayly, as she peeled an orange. "But you will never do even that again, will you, Nat?"
"One such experience is quite enough for me," Nattie replied.
"Still, the next one might not have red hair, or smell of musk!" Jo remarked.
"He might be even worse, though!" interposed the penitent on the stool.
​With a strangely puzzled look, Mr. Stanwood glanced from one to the other, observing which, Cyn said,
"You don't understand, of course. May I tell him, Nat?"
"Ah! well—yes!" Nattie replied with an air of vexed resignation. "I suppose I may as well make up my mind to be laughed at on account of that story forever and a day."
"I am as much of a victim as you, for I was intensely interested in the unknown," laughed Cyn; then turning to Mr. Stanwood, she went on. "It appears telegraph operators have a way of talking together over the wire, knowing little about each other, and nothing at all of their mutual personal appearance. In this manner, Nat became acquainted with a young man whom she knew as 'C,' and grew, to speak mildly, interested in him—Now, Nat, you know you did—and so, as I remarked previously, did I—we were introduced over the wire. In fact, he seemed everything that was nice and agreeable, and if we did not actually fall in love with him—you see, I am sharing your glory all I can, Nat—it is a wonder."
"If this 'C' knew the impression he made on two young ladies, he would certainly feel ​complimentedmented," Mr. Stanwood, who was playing with his knife and fork, here interrupted.
"Fortunately, he never really knew," replied Cyn, while Nattie looked somewhat gloomily at her goblet of coffee, in memory of the romance that collapsed. "To continue this ower true tale!—Thus far all was mysterious, enchanting, romantic. But now comes the dark sequel. One day 'C' called—bodily."
Mr. Stanwood started and looked quickly up at Nattie, who, without observing his glance, murmured contemptuously,
"Odious creature!"
At this he turned with a perplexed look again to Cyn, who proceeded.
"Yes, an odious creature he proved to be. Only think, he had red hair, and dreadful teeth, smelt of musk, wore cheap jewelry, and, in short, was decidedly vulgar!"
"What!" exclaimed Mr. Stanwood, staring at her as if he thought she was bereft of her senses. "What!" and he dropped his knife and fork, and pushed his chair back violently, to the alarm of the Duchess, who was immediately behind.
Cyn appeared astonished at his vehemence; but Nattie, too occupied with thoughts of this newly-revived grievance to observe it, repeated,
​"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.