Produced by Duncan Harrod
KENNEDY SQUARE
By F. Hopkinson Smith
Author's Preface:
“Kennedy Square, in the late fifties, was a place of birds and trees and
flowers; of rude stone benches, sagging arbors smothered in vines, and
cool dirt paths bordered by sweet-smelling box. Giant magnolias filled
the air with their fragrance, and climbing roses played hide-and-seek
among the railings of the rotting fence. Along the shaded walks laughing
boys and girls romped all day, with hoop and ball, attended by old black
mammies in white aprons and gayly colored bandannas; while in the more
secluded corners, sheltered by protecting shrubs, happy lovers sat and
talked, tired wayfarers rested with hats off, and staid old gentlemen
read by the hour, their noses in their books.
“Outside of all this color, perfume, and old-time charm; outside the
grass-line and the rickety wooden fence that framed them in, ran an
uneven pavement splashed with cool shadows and stained with green mould.
Here, in summer, the watermelon man stopped his cart; and there, in
winter, upon its broken bricks, old Moses unhooked his bucket of oysters
and ceased for a moment his droning call.
“On the shady side of the square, and half hidden in ivy, was a Noah's
Ark church, topped by a quaint belfry holding a bell that had not rung
for years, and faced by a clock-dial all weather-stains and cracks,
around which travelled a single rusty hand. In its shadow to the right
lay the home of the archdeacon, a stately mansion with Corinthian
columns reaching to the roof and surrounded by a spacious garden filled
with damask roses and bushes of sweet syringa. To the left crouched
a row of dingy houses built of brick, their iron balconies hung in
flowering vines, the windows glistening with panes of wavy glass purpled
by age.
“On the sunny side of the square, opposite the church, were more houses,
high and low: one all garden, filled with broken-nosed statues hiding
behind still more magnolias; and another all veranda and honeysuckle,
big rocking-chairs and swinging hammocks; and still others with porticos
curtained by white jasmine or Virginia creeper.”--From “The Fortunes of
Oliver Horn.”
KENNEDY SQUARE
CHAPTER I
On the precise day on which this story opens--some sixty or more years
ago, to be exact--a bullet-headed, merry-eyed, mahogany-colored young
darky stood on the top step of an old-fashioned, high-stoop house,
craning his head up and down and across Kennedy Square in the effort to
get the first glimpse of his master, St. George Wilmot Temple, attorney
and counsellor-at-law, who was expected home from a ducking trip down
the bay.
Whether it was the need of this very diet, or whether St. George had
felt a sudden longing for the out-of-doors, is a matter of doubt, but
certain it is that some weeks before the very best shot in the county
had betaken himself to the Eastern Shore of Maryland, accompanied by
his guns, his four dogs, and two or three choice men of fashion--young
bloods of the time--men with whom we shall become better acquainted as
these chronicles go on--there to search for the toothsome and elusive
canvas-back for which his State was famous.
That the darky was without a hat and in his shirt-sleeves, and it
winter--the middle of January, really--the only warm thing about him
being the green baize apron tied about his waist, his customary livery
when attending to his morning duties--did not trouble him in the least.
Marse George might come any minute, and he wanted to be the first to
welcome him.
For the past few weeks Todd had had the house to himself. Coal-black
Aunt Jemima, with her knotted pig-tails, capacious bosom, and unconfined
waist, forty years his senior and ten shades darker in color, it is
true, looked after the pots and pans, to say nothing of a particular
spit on which her master's joints and game were roasted; but the upper
part of the house, which covered the drawing-room, dining-room, bedroom,
and dressing-room in the rear, as well as the outside of the dwelling,
including even the green-painted front door and the slant of white
marble steps that dropped to the brick sidewalk, were the especial
property of the chocolate-colored darky.
To these duties was added the exclusive care of the master himself--a
care which gave the boy the keenest delight, and which embraced every
service from the drawing off of St. George Wilmot Temple's boots to the
shortening of that gentleman's slightly gray hair; the supervision of
his linen, clothes, and table, with such side issues as the custody of
his well-stocked cellar, to say nothing of the compounding of various
combinations, sweet, sour, and strong, the betrayal of whose secrets
would have cost the darky his place.
“Place” is the word, for Todd was not St. George's slave, but the
property of a well-born, if slightly impoverished, gentleman who lived
on the Eastern Shore, and whose chief source of income was the hiring
out to his friends and acquaintances of just such likely young darkies
as Todd--a custom common to the impecunious of those days.
As Mr. Temple, however, did not come under either one of the
above-mentioned classes--the “slightly impoverished gentleman” never
having laid eyes on him in his life--the negotiations had to be
conducted with a certain formality. Todd had therefore, on his arrival,
unpinned from the inside of his jacket a portentous document signed
with his owner's name and sealed with a red wafer, which after such
felicitous phrases as--“I have the distinguished honor,” etc.--gave the
boy's age (21), weight (140 pounds), and height (5 feet 10 inches)--all
valuable data for identification in case the chattel conceived a notion
of moving further north (an unnecessary precaution in Todd's case).
To this was added the further information that the boy had been raised
under his master's heels, that he therefore knew his pedigree, and that
his sole and only reason for sparing him from his own immediate service
was his own poverty and the fact that while under St. George's care the
boy could learn how “to wait on quality.”
As to the house itself--the “Temple Mansion,” as it was called--that
was as much a part of Kennedy Square as the giant magnolias gracing the
park, or the Noah's Ark church, with its quaint belfry and cracked bell,
which faced its shady walks. Nobody, of course, remembered how long it
had been built--that is, nobody then alive--I mean the very date. Such
authorities as Major Clayton were positive that the bricks had been
brought from Holland; while Richard Horn, the rising young scientist,
was sure that all the iron and brass work outside were the product of
Sheffield; but in what year they had all been put together had always
been a disputed question.
That, however, which was certain and beyond doubt, was that St. George's
father, old General Dorsey Temple, had purchased the property near the
close of the preceding century; that he had, with his characteristic
vehemence, pushed up the roof, thrust in two dormer windows, and smashed
out the rear wall, thus enlarging the dining-room and giving increased
space for a glass-covered porch ending in a broad flight of wooden steps
descending to a rose-garden surrounded by a high brick wall; that thus
encouraged he had widened the fireplaces, wainscoted the hall, built a
new mahogany spider-web staircase leading to his library on the second
floor, and had otherwise disported himself after the manner of a man
who, having suddenly fallen heir to a big pot of money, had ever after
continued oblivious to the fact that the more holes he punched in
its bottom the less water would spill over its top. The alterations
complete, balls, routs, and dinners followed to such distinguished
people as Count Rochambeau, the Marquis de Castellux, Marquis de
Lafayette, and other high dignitaries, coming-of-age parties for the
young bloods--quite English in his tastes was the old gentleman--not
to mention many other extravagances which were still discussed by the
gossips of the day.
With the general's death--it had occurred some twenty years before--the
expected had happened. Not only was the pot nearly empty, but the
various drains which it had sustained had so undermined the family
rent-roll that an equally disastrous effect had been produced on the
mansion itself (one of the few pieces of property, by the way, that
the father had left to his only son and heir unencumbered, with the
exception of a suit in chancery from which nobody ever expected a
penny), the only dry spots in St. George's finances being the few ground
rents remaining from his grandmother's legacy and the little he could
pick up at the law.
It is not to be wondered at, therefore, that certain changes and
deteriorations had taken place inside and out of the historic
building--changes which never in the slightest degree affected the
even-tempered St. George, who had retained his own private apartments
regardless of the rest of the house--but changes which, in all justice
to the irascible old spendthrift, would have lifted that gentleman out
of his grave could he have realized their effect and extent. What a
shock, for instance, would the most punctilious man of his time have
received when he found his front basement rented for a law office, to
say nothing of a disreputable tin sign nailed to a shutter--where in
the olden time he and his cronies had toasted their shins before blazing
logs, the toddies kept hot on the hearth! And what a row would he have
raised had he known that the rose-garden was entirely neglected and
given over to the dogs and their kennels; the library in the second
story stripped of its books and turned into a guest-chamber, and the
books themselves consigned to the basement; the oak-panelled dining-room
transformed into a bedchamber for St. George, and the white-and-gold
drawing-room fronting the street reduced to a mere living-room where his
son and heir made merry with his friends! And then the shrinkages all
about! When a room could be dispensed with, it was locked up. When a
shingle broke loose, it stayed loose; and so did the bricks capping the
chimneys, and the leaky rain-spouts that spattered the dingy bricks, as
well as the cracks and crannies that marred the ceilings and walls.
And yet so great was Todd's care over the outside fittings of the
house--details which were necessarily in evidence, and which determined
at a glance the quality of the folks inside--that these several
crumblings, shake-downs, and shrinkages were seldom noticed by the
passer-by. The old adage that a well-brushed hat, a clean collar,
polished shoes, and immaculate gloves--all terminal details--make
the well-dressed man, no matter how shabby or how ill-fitting his
intermediate apparel, applied, according to Todd's standards, to houses
as well as Brummels. He it was who soused the windows of purple glass,
polished the brass knobs, rubbed bright the brass knocker and brass
balls at the top and bottom of the delightful iron railings, to say
nothing of the white marble steps, which he attacked with a slab of
sandstone and cake of fuller's-earth, bringing them to so high a state
of perfection that one wanted to apologize for stepping on them. Thus
it was that the weather-beaten rainspouts, stained bricks, sagging roof,
and blistered window-sashes were no longer in evidence. Indeed, their
very shabbiness so enhanced the brilliancy of Todd's handiwork that the
most casual passers-by were convinced at a glance that gentlefolk lived
within.
On this particular morning, then, Todd had spent most of the time since
daylight--it was now eight o'clock--in the effort to descry his master
making his way along the street, either afoot or by some conveyance, his
eyes dancing, his ears alert as a rabbit's, his restless feet marking
the limit of his eagerness. In his impatience he had practised every
step known to darkydom in single and double shuffle; had patted juba on
one and both knees, keeping time with his heels to the rhythm; had slid
down and climbed up the railings a dozen times, his eyes on the turn in
the street, and had otherwise conducted himself as would any other boy,
black or white, who was at his wits' end to know what to do with the
next second of his time.
Aunt Jemima had listened to the racket until she had lost all patience,
and at last threw up the basement window:
“Go in an' shet dat do'--'fo' I come up dar an' smack ye--'nough ter
make a body deef ter hear ye,” she called, her black shining face
dividing the curtains. “How you know he's a-comin'?”
Todd leaned over the railing and peered down: “Mister Harry Rutter done
tol' me--said dey all 's a-comin'--de jedge an' Doctor Teackle an'
Marse George an' de hull kit an' bilin'. Dey's been gone mos' two weeks
now,--dey's a-comin' I tell ye--be yere any minute.”
“I b'liebe dat when I sees it. Fool nigger like you b'liebe anything.
You better go inside 'fo' you catch yo' dea'f. I gin ye fair warnin'
right now dat I ain't gwineter nuss ye,--d'ye yere?--standin' out dar
like a tarr-pin wid yo' haid out. Go in I tell ye!” and she shut the
window with a bang and made her way to the kitchen.
Todd kept up his double shuffle with everything going--hands, feet,
and knees--thrashed his arms about his chest and back to keep up the
circulation and with a final grimace in the direction of the old cook
maintained his watch.
“I spec's it's de fog dat's kep' 'em,” he muttered anxiously, his feet
still in action. “Dat bay boat's mos' allus late,--can't tell when
she'll git in. Only las' week--Golly!--dar he is--DAT'S HIM!”
A mud-bespattered gig was swinging around the corner into the Square,
and with a swerve in its course was heading to where Todd stood.
The boy sprang down the steps:
“Yere he is, Aunt Jemima!” he shouted, as if the old cook could have
heard him through three brick walls.
The gig came to a stand-still and began to unload: first the dogs, who
had been stowed under their master's feet since they left the steamboat
wharf, and who with a clear bound to the sidewalk began scouring in mad
circles, one after another, up and down Todd's immaculate steps, the
four in full cry until the entire neighborhood was aroused, the late
sleepers turning over with the remark--“Temple's at home,” and the early
risers sticking their heads out of the windows to count the ducks as
they were passed out. Next the master: One shapely leg encased in
an English-made ducking boot, then its mate, until the whole of his
handsome, well-knit, perfectly healthy and perfectly delightful body was
clear of the cramped conveyance.
“Hello, Todd!” he burst out, his face aglow with his drive from the
boat-landing--“glad to see you! Here, take hold of these guns---easy
now, they won't hurt you; one at a time, you lunkhead! And now pull
those ducks from under the seat. How's Aunt Jemima?--Oh, is that
you aunty?” She had come on the run as soon as she heard the dogs.
“Everything all right, aunty--howdy--” and he shook her hand heartily.
The old woman had made a feint to pull her sleeves down over her plump
black arms and then, begrudging the delay, had grasped his outstretched
hand, her face in a broad grin.
“Yes, sah, dat's me. Clar' to goodness, Marse George, I's glad ter
git ye home. Lawd-a-massy, see dem ducks! Purty fat, ain't dey, sah?
My!--dat pair's jes' a-bustin'! G'long you fool nigger an' let me hab
'em! G'way f'om dere I tell ye!”
“No,--you pick them up, Todd--they're too heavy for you, aunty. You go
back to your kitchen and hurry up breakfast--waffles, remember,--and
some corn pone and a scallop shell or two--I'm as hungry as a bear.”
The whole party were mounting the steps now, St. George carrying the
guns, Todd loaded down with the game--ten brace of canvas-backs and
redheads strung together by their bills--the driver of the gig following
with the master's big ducking overcoat and smaller traps--the four dogs
crowding up trying to nose past for a dash into the wide hall as soon as
Todd opened the door.
“Anybody been here lately, Todd?” his master asked, stopping for a
moment to get a better grip of his heaviest duck gun.
“Ain't nobody been yere partic'ler 'cept Mister Harry Rutter. Dey alls
knowed you was away. Been yere mos' ev'ry day--come ag'in yisterday.”
“Mr. Rutter been here!--Well, what did he want?”
“Dunno, sah,--didn't say. Seemed consid'ble shook up when he foun' you
warn't to home. I done tol' him you might be back to-day an' den ag'in
you mightn't--'pended on de way de ducks was flyin'. Spec' he'll be
roun' ag'in purty soon--seemed ter hab sumpin' on his min'. I'll tu'n de
knob, sah. Yere--git down, you imp o' darkness,--you Floe!--you Dandy!
Drat dem dogs!--Yere, YERE!” but all four dogs were inside now, making
a sweepstakes of the living-room, the rugs and cushions flying in every
direction.
Although Todd had spent most of the minutes since daylight peering up
and down the Square, eager for the first sight of the man whom he loved
with an idolatry only to be found in the negro for a white man whom he
respects, and who is kind to him, he had not neglected any of his other
duties. There was a roaring wood fire behind brass andirons and fender.
There was a breakfast table set for two--St. George's invariable custom.
“Somebody might drop in, you know, Todd.” There was a big easy-chair
moved up within warming distance of the cheery blaze; there were pipes
and tobacco within reach of the master's hand; there was the
weekly newspaper folded neatly on the mantel, and a tray holding an
old-fashioned squat decanter and the necessary glasses--in fact, all
the comforts possible and necessary for a man who having at twenty-five
given up all hope of wedded life, found himself at fifty becoming
accustomed to its loss.
St. George seized the nearest dog by the collar, cuffed him into
obedience as an example to the others, ordered the four to the hearth
rug, ran his eye along the mantel to see what letters had arrived in his
absence, and disappeared into his bedroom. From thence he emerged
half an hour later attired in the costume of the day--a jaunty
brown velveteen jacket, loose red scarf, speckled white
waistcoat--single-breasted and of his own pattern and cut--dove-gray
trousers, and white gaiters. No town clothes for St. George as long as
his measure was in London and his friends were good enough to bring
him a trunk full every year or two. “Well-cut garments may not make
a gentleman,” he would often say to the youngsters about him, “but
slip-shod clothes can spoil one.”
He had drawn up to the table now, Todd in white jacket hovering about
him, bringing relays of waffles, hot coffee, and more particularly the
first of a series of great scallop-shells filled with oysters which he
had placed on the well-brushed hearth to keep hot while his master was
dressing.
Fifty he was by the almanac, and by the old family Bible as well, and
yet he did not look it. Six feet and an inch; straight, ruddy-checked,
broad-shouldered, well-rounded, but with his waist measure still under
control; slightly gray at the temples, with clean-shaven face, laughing
eyes, white teeth, and finely moulded nose, brow, and chin, he was
everything his friends claimed--the perfect embodiment of all that was
best in his class and station, and of all that his blood had bequeathed
him.
And fine old fellows they were if we can believe the historians of the
seventeenth century: “Wearing the falchion and the rapier, the cloth
coat lined with plush and embroidered belt, the gold hat-band and the
feathers, silk stockings and garters, besides signet rings and other
jewels; wainscoting the walls of their principal rooms in black oak and
loading their sideboards with a deal of rich and massive silver plate
upon which was carved the arms of their ancestors;--drinking, too,
strong punch and sack from 'silver sack-cups'--(sack being their
favorite)--and feasting upon oysters and the most delicious of all the
ducks of the world.”
And in none of their other distinguishing qualities was their descendant
lacking. In the very lift of his head and brace of his shoulders; in the
grace and ease with which he crossed the room, one could see at a glance
something of the dash and often the repose of the cavalier from whom
he had sprung. And the sympathy, kindness, and courtesy of the man
that showed in every glance of his eye and every movement of his
body--despite his occasional explosive temper--a sympathy that drifted
in to an ungovernable impulse to divide everything he owned into two
parts, and his own half into two once more if the other fellow needed
it; a kindness that made every man his friend, and a courtesy which,
even in a time when men lifted their hats to men, as well as to women,
had gained for him, the town over, the soubriquet of “Gentleman George”;
while to every young girl and youth under twenty he was just “dear Uncle
George”--the one man in all Kennedy Square who held their secrets.
But to our breakfast once more. All four dogs were on their feet now,
their tails wagging expectantly, their noses at each of his knees, where
they were regaled at regular intervals with choice bits from his plate,
the snapping of their solemn jaws expressing their thanks. A second
scallop-shell was next lifted from the hearth with the tongs, and
deposited sizzling hot on a plate beside the master, the aroma of the
oysters filling the room. These having disappeared, as had the former
one, together with the waffles and coffee, and the master's appetite
being now on the wane, general conversation became possible.
“Did Mr. Rutter look ill, Todd?” he continued, picking up the thread of
the talk where he had left it. “He wasn't very well when I left.”
“No, sah,--neber see him look better. Been up a li'l' late I
reckon,--Marse Harry mos' gen'ally is a li'l' mite late, sah--” Todd
chuckled. “But dat ain't nuthin' to dese gemmans. But he sho' do wanter
see ye. Maybe he stayed all night at Mister Seymour's. If he did an' he
yered de rumpus dese rapscallions kicked up--yes--dat's you I'm talkin'
to”--and he looked toward the dogs--“he'll be roun' yere 'fo' ye gits
fru yo' bre'kfus'. Dey do say as how Marse Harry's mighty sweet in dat
quarter. Mister Langdon Willits's snoopin' roun' too, but Miss Kate
ain't got no use fer him. He ain't quality dey say.”
His master let him run on; Aunt Jemima was Todd's only outlet during
his master's absence, and as this was sometimes clogged by an uplifted
broom, he made the best use he could of the opportunities when he
and his master were alone. When “comp'ny” were present he was as
close-mouthed as a clam and as noiseless as a crab.
“Who told you all this gossip, Todd?” exclaimed St. George with a smile,
laying down his knife and fork.
“Ain't nary one tol' me--ain't no use bein' tol'. All ye got to do is
to keep yo' eyes open. Be a weddin' dar 'fo' spring. Look out, sah--dat
shell's still a-sizzlin'. Mo' coffee, sah? Wait till I gits some hot
waffles--won't take a minute!” and he was out of the room and downstairs
before his master could answer.
Hardly had he slammed the kitchen door behind him when the clatter and
stamp of a horse's hoofs were heard Outside, followed by an impatient
rat-a-tat-tat on the knocker.
The boy dropped his dishes: “Fo' Gawd, dat's Mister Harry!” he cried as
he started on a run for the door. “Don't nobody bang de do' down like
dat but him.”
A slender, thoroughly graceful young fellow of twenty-one or two, booted
and spurred, his dark eyes flashing, his face tingling with the sting of
the early morning air, dashed past the obsequious darky and burst into
Temple's presence with the rush of a north-west breeze. He had ridden
ten miles since he vaulted into the saddle, had never drawn rein uphill
or down, and neither he nor the thoroughbred pawing the mud outside had
turned a hair.
“Hello, Uncle George!” Temple, as has been said, was Uncle George to
every girl and youth in Kennedy Square.
“Why, Harry!” He had sprung from his seat, napkin in hand and had him
by both shoulders, looking into his eyes as if he wanted to hug him, and
would the first thing he knew. “Where are you from--Moorlands? What a
rollicking chap you are, and you look so well and handsome, you dog!
And now tell me of your dear mother and your father. But first down
with you--here--right opposite--always your place, my dear Harry. Todd,
another shell of oysters and more waffles and coffee--everything, Todd,
and blazing hot: two shells, Todd--the sight of you, Harry, makes me
ravenous again, and I could have eaten my boots, when I got home an hour
ago, I was so hungry. But the mare”--here he moved to the window--“is
she all right? Spitfire, I suppose--you'd kill anything else, you
rascal! But you haven't tied her!”
“No--never tie her--break her heart if I did. Todd, hang up this coat
and hat in the hall before you go.”
“That's what you said of that horse you bought of Hampson--ran away,
didn't he?” persisted his host, his eyes on the mare, which had now
become quiet.
“Yes, and broke his leg. But Spitfire's all right--she'll stand. Where
will I sit--here? And now what kind of a time did you have, and who were
with you?”
“Clayton, Doctor Teackle, and the judge.”
“And how many ducks did you get?” and he dropped into his chair.
“Twenty-one,” answered St. George, dry-washing his white shapely hands,
as he took his seat--a habit of his when greatly pleased.
“All canvas-backs?”
“No--five redheads and a mallard.”
“Where did you put up?” echoed Harry, loosening his riding-jacket to
give his knife and fork freer play.
“I spent a week at Tom Coston's and a week at Craddock. Another lump of
sugar, Todd.”
The boy laughed gently: “Lazy Tom's?”
“Lazy Tom's--and the best-hearted fellow in the world. They're going to
make him a judge, they say and--”
“--What of--peach brandy? No cream in mine, Todd.”
“No--you scurrilous dog--of the Common Court,” retorted St. George,
looking at him over the top of his cup. “Very good lawyer is Tom--got
horse sense and can speak the truth--make a very good judge.”
Again Harry laughed--rather a forced laugh this time, as if he were
trying to make himself agreeable but with so anxious a ring through it
that Todd busied himself about the table before going below for fresh
supplies, making excuse of collecting the used dishes. If there were to
be any revelations concerning the situation at the Seymour house, he did
not intend to miss any part of them.
“Better put Mrs. Coston on the bench and set Tom to rocking the cradle,”
said the young man, reaching for the plate of corn pone. “She's a
thoroughbred if ever I saw one, and does credit to her blood. But go
on--tell me about the birds. Are they flying high?--and the duck blinds;
have they fixed them up? They were all going to pot when I was there
last.”
“Birds out of range, most of them--hard work getting what I did. As to
the blinds, they are still half full of water--got soaking wet trying to
use one. I shot most of mine from the boat just as the day broke,” and
then followed a full account of what the party had bagged, with details
of every day's adventures. This done, St. George pushed back his chair
and faced the young man.
“And now you take the witness-stand, sir--look me in the eyes, put your
hand on your fob-pocket and tell me the truth. Todd says you have
been here every day for a week looking as if you had lost your last
fip-penny-bit and wild to see me. What has happened?”
“Todd has a vivid imagination.” He turned in his seat, stretched out
his hand, and catching one of the dogs by the nose rubbed his head
vigorously.
“Go on--all of it--no dodging the king's counsellor. What's the matter?”
The young man glanced furtively at Todd, grabbed another dog, rubbed
their two ears together in play, and in a lowered voice, through which a
tinge of sadness was only too apparent, murmured:
“Miss Kate--we've had a falling out.”
St. George lowered his head suddenly and gave a low whistle:--“Falling
out?--what about?”
Again young Rutter glanced at Todd, whose back was turned, but whose
ears were stretched to splitting point. His host nodded understandingly.
“There, Todd--that will do; now go down and get your breakfast. No
more waffles, tell Aunt Jemima. Bring the pipes over here and throw on
another log... that's right.” A great sputtering of sparks followed--a
spider-legged, mahogany table was wheeled into place, and the dejected
darky left the room for the regions below.
“So you two have had a quarrel! Oh, Harry!--when will you learn to think
twice before you speak? Whose fault was it?” sighed St. George, filling
the bowl of his pipe with his slender fingers, slowly tucking in each
shred and grain.
“Mine.”
“What did you say?” (Puff-puff.)
“Nothing--I couldn't. She came in and saw it all.” The boy had his
elbows on the table now, his cheeks sunk in his hands.
St. George looked up: “Drunk, were you?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“At Mrs. Cheston's ball last week.”
“Have you seen her since?”
“No--she won't let me come near her. Mr. Seymour passed me yesterday and
hardly spoke to me.”
St. George canted his chair and zigzagged it toward the blazing hearth;
then he said thoughtfully, without looking at the young man:
“Well, this is a pretty kettle of fish! Have you told your father?”
“No--he wouldn't understand.”
“And I know you didn't tell your mother.” This came with the tone of
positive conviction.
“No--and don't you. Mother is daft on the subject. If she had her way,
father would never put a drop of wine on the table. She says it is
ruining the county--but that's mother's way.”
St. George stooped over, fondled one of the dogs for a moment--two had
followed Todd out of the room--settled back in his chair again, and
still looking into the fire, said slowly:
“Bad business--bad business, Harry! Kate is as proud as Lucifer and
dislikes nothing on earth so much as being made conspicuous. Tell me
exactly what happened.”
“Well, there isn't anything to tell,” replied the young fellow, raising
his head and leaning back in his chair, his face the picture of despair.
“We were all in the library and the place was boiling-hot, and they had
two big bowls, one full of eggnog and the other full of apple-toddy: and
the next thing I knew I was out in the hall and met Kate on the stairs.
She gave a little smothered scream, and moaned--'Oh, Harry!--and you
promised me!'--and then she put her hands to her face, as if to shut me
out of her sight. That sobered me somewhat, and after I got out on the
porch into the night air and had pulled myself together, I tried to find
her and apologize, but she had gone home, although the ball wasn't half
over.
“Then this was not the first time?” He was still at the hot coals, both
hands outfanned, to screen his face from the blaze.
“No--I'm sorry to say it wasn't. I told her I would never fail her
again, and she forgave me, but I don't know what she'll do now. She
never forgives anybody who breaks his word--she's very queer about
it. That's what I came to see you about. I haven't slept much nights,
thinking it over, and so I had the mare saddled, as soon as it got
light, hoping you would be home. Todd thought you might be--he saw Dr.
Teackle's Joe, who said you were all coming to-day.”
Again there was a long pause, during which Temple continued to study the
coals through his open fingers, the young man sitting hunched up in
his chair, his handsome head dropped between his shoulders, his glossy
chestnut hair, a-frouze with his morning ride, fringing his collar
behind.
“Harry,” said St. George, knocking the ashes slowly from his pipe on
the edge of the fender, and turning his face for the first time toward
him,--“didn't I hear something before I went away about a ball at your
father's--or a dance--or something, when your engagement was to be
announced?”
The boy nodded.
“And was it not to be something out of the ordinary?” he continued,
looking at the boy from under his eyelids--“Teackle certainly told me
so--said that your mother had already begun to get the house in order--”
Again Harry nodded--as if he had been listening to an indictment, every
word of which he knew was true.
St. George roused himself and faced his guest: “And yet you took this
time, Harry, to--”
The boy threw up both hands in protest:
“Don't!--DON'T! Uncle George! It's the ball that makes it all the worse.
That's why I've got no time to lose; that's why I've haunted this place
waiting for you to get back. Mother will be heart-broken if she finds
out and I don't know what father would do.”
St. George laid his empty pipe on the table and straightened his body
in the chair until his broad shoulders filled the back. Then his brow
darkened; his indignation was getting the better of him.
“I don't know what has come over you young fellows, Harry!” he at last
broke out, his eyes searching the boy's. “You don't seem to know how
to live. You've got to pull a shoat out of a trough to keep it from
overeating itself, but you shouldn't be obliged to pull a gentleman away
from his glass. Good wine is good food and should be treated as such. My
cellar is stocked with old Madeira--some port--some fine sherries--so
is your father's. Have you ever seen him abuse them?--have you ever
seen Mr. Horn or Mr. Kennedy, or any of our gentlemen around here, abuse
them? It's scandalous, Harry! damnable! I love you, my son--love you
in a way you know nothing of, but you've got to stop this sort of thing
right off. And so have these young roysterers you associate with. It's
getting worse every day. I don't wonder your dear mother feels about it
as she does. But she's always been that way, and she's always been right
about it, too, although I didn't use to think so.” This last came with
a lowered voice and a deep, indrawn sigh, and for the moment checked the
flow of his wrath.
Harry hung his head still lower, but he did not attempt to defend
himself.
“Who else were making vulgarians of themselves at Mrs. Cheston's?” St.
George continued in a calmer tone, stretching his shapely legs until the
soles of his shoes touched the fender.
“Mark Gilbert, Tom Murdoch, Langdon Willits, and--”
“Willits, eh?--Well, I should expect it of Willits. He wasn't born a
gentleman--that is, his grandfather wasn't a gentleman--married his
overseer's daughter, if I remember right:--but you come of the
best blood in the State,--egad!--none better! You have something to
maintain--some standard to keep up. A Rutter should never be found
guilty of anything that would degrade his name. You seem to forget
that--you--damn me, Harry!--when I think of it all--and of Kate--my
sweet, lovely Kate,--and how you have made her suffer--for she loves
you--no question of that--I feel like wringing your neck! What the devil
do you mean, Sir?” He was up on his feet now, pacing the room, the dogs
following his every movement with their brown agate eyes, their soft,
silky ears straightening and falling.
So far the young fellow had not moved nor had he offered a word in
defence. He knew his Uncle George--better let him blow it all out, then
the two could come together. At last he said in a contrite tone--his
hands upraised:
“Don't scold me, Uncle George. I've scolded myself enough--just say
something to help me. I can't give Kate up--I'd sooner die. I've always
made a fool of myself--maybe I'll quit doing it after this. Tell me how
I can straighten this out. She won't see me--maybe her father won't.
He and my father--so Tom Warfield told me yesterday--had a talk at the
club. What they said I don't know, but Mr. Seymour was pretty mad--that
is, for him--so Tom thought from the way he spoke.”
“And he ought to be mad--raging mad! He's only got one daughter, and she
the proudest and loveliest thing on earth, and that one he intends to
give to you”--Harry looked up in surprise--“Yes--he told me so. And here
you are breaking her heart before he has announced it to the world. It's
worse than damnable, Harry--it's a CRIME!”
For some minutes he continued his walk, stopping to look out of the
window, his eyes on the mare who, with head up and restless eyes, was on
the watch for her master's return; then he picked up his pipe from the
table, threw himself into his chair again, and broke into one of his
ringing laughs.
“I reckon it's because you're twenty, Harry, I forgot that. Hot
blood--hot temper,--madcap dare-devil that you are--not a grain of
common-sense. But what can you expect?--I was just like you at your age.
Come, now, what shall we do first?”
The young fellow rose and a smile of intense relief crept over his face.
He had had many such overhaulings from his uncle, and always with this
ending. Whenever St. George let out one of those big, spontaneous,
bubbling laughs straight from his heart, the trouble, no matter how
serious, was over. What some men gained by anger and invective St.
George gained by good humor, ranging from the faint smile of toleration
to the roar of merriment. One reason why he had so few enemies--none,
practically--was that he could invariably disarm an adversary with a
laugh. It was a fine old blade that he wielded; only a few times in his
life had he been called upon to use any other--when some under-dog was
maltreated, or his own good name or that of a friend was traduced, or
some wrong had to be righted--then his face would become as hot steel
and there would belch out a flame of denunciation that would scorch
and blind in its intensity. None of these fiercer moods did the boy
know;--what he knew was his uncle's merry side--his sympathetic, loving
side,--and so, following up his advantage, he strode across the room,
settled down on the arm of his uncle's chair, and put his arm about his
shoulders.
“Won't you go and see her, please?” he pleaded, patting his back,
affectionately.
“What good will that do? Hand me a match, Harry.”
“Everything--that's what I came for.”
“Not with Kate! She isn't a child--she's a woman,” he echoed back
between the puffs, his indignation again on the rise. “And she is
different from the girls about here,” he added, tossing the burned match
in the fire. “When she once makes up her mind it stays made up.”
“Don't let her make it up! Go and see her and tell her how I love her
and how miserable I am. Tell her I'll never break another promise to
her as long as I live. Nobody ever holds out against you. Please, Uncle
George! I'll never come to you for anything else in the world if you'll
help me this time. And I won't drink another drop of anything you don't
want me to drink--I don't care what father or anybody else says. Oh,
you've GOT to go to her!--I can't stand it any longer! Every time I
think of Kate hidden away over there where I can't get at her, it drives
me wild. I wouldn't ask you to go if I could go myself and talk it out
with her--but she won't let me near her--I've tried, and tried; and Ben
says she isn't at home, and knows he lies when he says it! You will go,
won't you?”
The smoke from his uncle's pipe was coming freer now--most of it
escaping up the throat of the chimney with a gentle swoop.
“When do you want me to go?” He had already surrendered. When had he
ever held out when a love affair was to be patched up?
“Now, right away.”
“No,--I'll go to-night,--she will be at home then,” he said at last,
as if he had just made up his mind, the pipe having helped--“and do
you come in about nine and--let me know when you are there, or--better
still, wait in the hall until I come for you.”
“But couldn't I steal in while you are talking?”
“No--you do just as I tell you. Not a sound out of you, remember, until
I call you.”
“But how am I to know? She might go out the other door and--”
“You'll know when I come for you.”
“And you think it will be all right, don't you?” he pleaded. “You'll
tell her what an awful time I've had, won't you, Uncle George?”
“Yes, every word of it.”
“And that I haven't slept a wink since--”
“Yes--and that you are going to drown yourself and blow your head off
and swallow poison. Now off with you and let me think how I am to begin
straightening out this idiotic mess. Nine o'clock, remember, and in the
hall until I come for you.”
“Yes--nine o'clock! Oh!--you good Uncle George! I'll never forget you
for it,” and with a grasp of St. George's hand and another outpouring
of gratitude, the young fellow swung wide the door, clattered down the
steps, threw his leg over Spitfire, and dashed up the street.