While all this gayety was going on in the ballroom another and equally
joyous gathering was besieging the serving tables in the colonel's
private den--a room leading out of the larger supper room, where he kept
his guns and shooting togs, and which had been pressed into service for
this one night.
These thirsty gentlemen were of all ages and tastes, from the young
men just entering society to the few wrinkled bald-pates whose legs
had given out and who, therefore, preferred the colonel's Madeira and
terrapin to the lighter pleasures of the dance.
In and out of the groups, his ruddy, handsome face radiant with the joy
that welled up in his heart, moved St. George Temple. Never had he been
in finer form or feather--never had he looked so well--(not all the
clothes that Poole of London cut came to Moorlands). Something of the
same glow filtered through him that he had felt on the night when the
two lovers had settled their difficulties, and he had swung back through
the park at peace with all the world.
All this could be seen in the way he threw back his head, smiling right
and left; the way he moved his hands--using them as some men do words or
their eyebrows--now uplifting them in surprise at the first glimpse
of some unexpected face, his long delicate fingers outspread in
exclamations of delight; now closing them tight when he had those of the
new arrival in his grasp--now curving them, palms up, as he lifted to
his lips the fingers of a grande dame. “Keep your eyes on St. George,”
whispered Mrs. Cheston, who never missed a point in friend or foe and
whose fun at a festivity often lay in commenting on her neighbors,
praise or blame being impartially mixed as her fancy was touched. “And
by all means watch his hands, my dear. They are like the baton of an
orchestra leader and tell the whole story. Only men whose blood and
lineage have earned them freedom from toil, or men whose brains throb
clear to their finger-tips, have such hands. Yes! St. George is very
happy to-night, and I know why. He has something on his mind that he
means to tell us later on.”
Mrs. Cheston was right: she generally was--St. George did have something
on his mind--something very particular on his mind--a little speech
really which was a dead secret to everybody except prying Mrs.
Cheston--one which was to precede the uncorking of that wonderful old
Madeira, and the final announcement of the engagement--a little speech
in which he meant to refer to their two dear mothers when they were
girls, recalling traits and episodes forgotten by most, but which from
their very loveliness had always lingered in his heart and memory.
Before this important event took place, however, there were some matters
which he intended to look after himself, one of them being the bowl of
punch and its contiguous beverages in the colonel's den. This seemed to
be the storm centre to-night, and here he determined, even at the risk
of offending his host, to set up danger-signals at the first puff of
wind. The old fellows, if they chose, might empty innumerable ladles
full of apple toddy or compounds of Santa Cruz rum and pineapples into
their own persons, but not the younger bloods! His beloved Kate had
suffered enough because of these roysterers. There should be one ball
around Kennedy Square in which everybody would behave themselves, and he
did not intend to mince his words when the time came. He had
discussed the matter with the colonel when the ball opened, but little
encouragement came from that quarter.
“So far as these young sprigs are concerned, St. George,” Rutter had
flashed back, “they must look out for themselves. I can't curtail my
hospitality to suit their babyships. As for Harry, you're only wasting
your time. He is made of different stuff--it's not in his blood and
couldn't be. Whatever else he may become he will never be a sot. Let him
have his fling: once a Rutter, always a Rutter,” and then, with a ring
in his voice, “when my son ceases to be a gentleman, St. George, I will
show him the door, but drink will never do it.”
Dr. Teackle had also been on the alert. He was a young physician just
coming into practice, many of the younger set being his patients, and
he often acted as a curb when they broke loose. He, with St. George's
whispered caution in his ears, had also tried to frame a word of protest
to the colonel, suggesting in the mildest way that that particular
bowl of apple toddy be not replenished--but the Lord of the Manor
had silenced him with a withering glance before he had completed his
sentence. In this dilemma he had again sought out St. George.
“Look out for Willits, Uncle George. He'll be staggering in among the
ladies if he gets another crack at that toddy. It's an infernal shame to
bring these relays of punch in here. I tried to warn the colonel, but he
came near eating me up. Willits has had very little experience in this
sort of thing and is mixing his eggnog with everything within his reach.
That will split his head wide open in the morning.”
“Go and find him, Teackle, and bring him to me,” cried St. George; “I'll
stay here until you get him. Tell him I want to see him--and Alec”--this
to the old butler who was skimming past, his hands laden with
dishes--“don't you bring another drop of punch into this room until you
see me.”
“But de colonel say dat--”
“--I don't care what the colonel says; if he wants to know why, tell him
I ordered it. I'm not going to have this night spoiled by any tomfoolery
of Talbot's, I don't care what he says. You hear me, Alec? Not a drop.
Take out those half-empty bowls and don't you serve another thimbleful
of anything until I say so.” Here he turned to the young doctor, who
seemed rather surprised at St. George's dictatorial air--one rarely
seen in him. “Yes--brutal, I know, Teackle, and perhaps a little
ill-mannered, this interfering with another man's hospitality, but if
you knew how Kate has suffered over this same stupidity you would say I
was right. Talbot never thinks--never cares. Because he's got a head as
steady as a town clock and can put away a bottle of port without winking
an eyelid, he believes anybody else can do the same. I tell you this
sort of thing has got to stop or sooner or later these young bloods
will break the hearts of half the girls in town.... Careful! here comes
Willits--not another word.... Oh, Mr. Willits, here you are! I was
just going to send for you. I want to talk to you about that mare of
yours--is she still for sale?” His nonchalance was delightful.
“No, Mr. Temple; I had thought of keeping her, sir,” the young man
rejoined blandly, greatly flattered at having been specially singled out
by the distinguished Mr. Temple. “But if you are thinking of buying
my mare, I should be most delighted to consider it. If you will permit
me--I will call upon you in the morning.” This last came with elaborate
effusiveness. “But you haven't a drop of anything to drink, Mr. Temple,
nor you either, doctor! Egad! What am I thinking of! Come, won't you
join me? The colonel's mixtures are--”
“Better wait, Mr. Willits,” interrupted St. George calmly and with the
air of one conversant with the resources of the house. “Alec has just
taken out a half-emptied bowl of toddy.” He had seen at a glance that
Teackle's diagnosis of the young man's condition was correct.
“Then let us have a swig at the colonel's port--it's the best in the
county.”
“No, hold on till the punch comes. You young fellows don't know how to
take care of your stomachs. You ought to stick to your tipple as you do
to your sweetheart--you should only have one.”
“--At a time,” laughed Teackle.
“No, one ALL the time, you dog! When I was your age, Mr. Willits, if
I drank Madeira I continued to drink Madeira, not to mix it up with
everything on the table.”
“By Jove, you're right, Mr. Temple! I'm sticking to one girl--Miss
Kate's my girl to-night. I'm going to dance the Virginia reel with her.”
St. George eyed him steadily. He saw that the liquor had already reached
his head or he would not have spoken of Kate as he did. “Your choice is
most admirable, Mr. Willits,” he said suavely, “but let Harry have Miss
Kate to-night,” adding, as he laid his hand confidingly on the young
man's shoulder--“they were made to step that dance together.”
“But she said she would dance it with me!” he flung back--he did not
mean to be defrauded.
“Really?” It was wonderful how soft St. George's voice could be. Teackle
could not have handled a refractory patient the better.
“Well, that is,” rejoined Willits, modified by Temple's tone--“she is to
let me know--that was the bargain.”
Still another soft cadence crept into St. George's voice: “Well, even
if she did say she would let you know, do be a little generous. Miss
Seymour is always so obliging; but she ought really to dance the reel
with Harry to-night.” He used Kate's full name, but Willits's head was
buzzing too loudly for him to notice the delicately suggested rebuke.
“Well, I don't see that, and I'm not going to see it, either. Harry's
always coming in between us; he tried to get Miss Kate away from me a
little while ago, but he didn't succeed.”
“Noblesse oblige, my dear Mr. Willits,” rejoined St. George in a more
positive tone. “He is host, you know, and the ball is given to Miss
Seymour, and Harry can do nothing else but be attentive.” He felt like
strangling the cub, but it was neither the time nor place--nothing
should disturb Kate's triumph if he could help it. One way was to keep
Willits sober, and this he intended to do whether the young man liked it
or not--if he talked to him all night.
“But it is my dance,” Willits broke out. “You ask him if it isn't my
dance--he heard what Miss Kate said. Here comes Harry now.”
Like a breath of west wind our young prince blew in, his face radiant,
his eyes sparkling. He had entirely forgotten the incident on the stairs
in the rapture of Kate's kisses, and Willits was once more one of the
many guests he was ready to serve and be courteous to.
“Ah, gentlemen--I hope you have everything you want!” he cried with
a joyous wave of his hand. “Where will I get an ice for Kate, Uncle
George? We are just about beginning the Virginia reel and she is so
warm. Oh, we have had such a lovely waltz! Why are you fellows not
dancing? Send them in, Uncle George.” He was brimming over with
happiness.
Willits moved closer: “What did you say? The Virginia reel? Has it
begun?” His head was too muddled for quick thinking.
“Not yet, Willits, but it will right away--everybody is on the floor
now,” returned Harry, his eyes in search of something to hold Kate's
refreshment.
“Then it is my dance, Harry. I thought the reel was to be just before
supper or I would have hunted Miss Kate up.”
“So it is,” laughed Harry, catching up an empty plate from the serving
table and moving to where the ices were spread. “You ought to know,
for you told her yourself. It is about to begin. They were taking their
partners when I left.”
“Then that's MY reel,” Willits insisted. “You heard what Miss Kate said,
Harry--that's what I told you too, Mr. Temple,” and he turned to St.
George for confirmation.
“Oh, but you are mistaken, Langdon,” continued Harry, bending over the
dish. “She said she would decide later on whether to give you the reel
or a schottische--and she has. Miss Kate dances this reel with me.”
There was a flash in his eye as he spoke, but he was still the host.
“And I suppose you will want the one after supper too,” snapped Willits.
He had edged closer and was now speaking to Harry's bent back.
“Why, certainly, if Miss Kate is willing and wishes it,” rejoined Harry
simply, still too intent on having the ice reach his sweetheart at the
earliest possible moment to notice either Willits's condition or his
tone of voice.
Willits sprang forward just as Harry regained his erect position. “No
you won't, sir!” he cried angrily. “I've got some rights here and I'm
going to protect them. I'll ask Miss Kate myself and find out whether I
am to be made a fool of like this,” and before St. George could prevent
started for the door.
Harry dropped the plate on the table and blocked the enraged man's exit
with his outstretched arm. He was awake now--wide awake--and to the
cause.
“You'll do nothing of the kind, Langdon--not in your present state. Pull
yourself together, man! Miss Seymour is not accustomed to be spoken of
in that way and you know it. Now don't be foolish--stay here with Uncle
George and the doctor until you cool down. There are the best of reasons
why I should dance the reel with Miss Kate, but I can't explain them
now.”
“Neither am I, Mr. Harry Rutter, accustomed to be spoken to in that way
by you or anybody else. I don't care a rap for your explanations. Get
out of my way, or you'll be sorry,” and he sprang one side and flung
himself out of the room before Harry could realize the full meaning of
his words.
St. George saw the flash in the boy's eyes, and stretching out his hand
laid it on Harry's arm.
“Steady, my boy! Let him go--Kate will take care of him.”
“No! I'll take care of him!--and now!” He was out of the room and the
door shut behind him before Temple could frame a reply.
St. George shot an anxious, inquiring look at Teackle, who nodded his
head in assent, and the two hurried from the room and across the expanse
of white crash, Willits striding ahead, Harry at his heels, St. George
and the doctor following close behind.
Kate stood near the far door, her radiant eyes fixed on Harry's
approaching figure--the others she did not see. Willits reached her
first:
“Miss Kate, isn't this my dance?” he burst out--“didn't you promise me?”
Kate started and for a moment her face flushed. If she had forgotten
any promise she had made it certainly was not intentional. Then her mind
acted. There must be no bad blood here--certainly not between Harry and
Willits.
“No, not quite that, Mr. Willits,” she answered in her sweetest voice,
a certain roguish coquetry in its tones. “I said I'd think it over, and
you never came near me, and so Harry and I are--”
“But you DID promise me.” His voice could be heard all over the
room--even the colonel, who was talking to a group of ladies, raised
his head to listen, his companions thinking the commotion was due to the
proper arranging of the dance.
Harry's eyes flashed; angry blood was mounting to his cheeks. He was
amazed at Willits's outburst.
“You mean to contradict Miss Kate! Are you crazy, Willits?”
“No, I am entirely sane,” he retorted, an ugly ring in his voice.
Everybody had ceased talking now. Good-natured disputes over the young
girls were not uncommon among the young men, but this one seemed to have
an ominous sound. Colonel Rutter evidently thought so, for he had now
risen from his seat and was crossing the room to where Harry and the
group stood.
“Well, you neither act nor talk as if you were sane,” rejoined Harry
in cold, incisive tones, inching his way nearer Kate, as if to be the
better prepared to defend her.
Willits's lip curled. “I am not beholden to you, sir, for my conduct,
although I can be later on for my words. Let me see your dancing-card,
Miss Kate,” and he caught it from her unresisting hand. “There--what did
I tell you!” This came with a flare of indignation. “It was a blank when
I saw it last and you've filled it in, sir, of your own accord!” Here he
faced Harry. “That's your handwriting--I'll leave it to you, Mr. Temple,
if it isn't his handwriting.”
Harry flushed scarlet and his eyes blazed as he stepped toward the
speaker. Kate shrank back in alarm--she had read Harry's face and knew
what was behind it.
“Take that back, Langdon--quick! You are my guest, but you mustn't say
things like that here. I put my name on the card because Miss Kate asked
me to. Take it back, sir--NOW!--and then make an humble apology to Miss
Seymour.
“I'll take back nothing! I've been cheated out of a dance. Here--take
her--and take this with her!” and he tore Kate's card in half and threw
the pieces in his host's face.
With the spring of a cat, Harry lunged forward and raised his arm as
if to strike Willits in the face: Willits drew himself up to his full
height and confronted him: Kate shrivelled within herself, all the color
gone from her cheeks. Whether to call out for help or withdraw quietly,
was what puzzled her. Both would concentrate the attention of the whole
room on the dispute.
St. George, who was boiling with indignation and disgust, but still cool
and himself, pushed his way into the middle of the group.
“Not a word, Harry,” he whispered in low, frigid tones. “This can be
settled in another way.” Then in his kindest voice, so loud that all
could hear--“Teackle, will you and Mr. Willits please meet me in the
colonel's den--that, perhaps, is the best place after all to straighten
out these tangles. I'll join you there as soon as I have Miss Kate
safely settled.” He bent over her: “Kate, dear, perhaps you had better
sit alongside of Mrs. Rutter until I can get these young fellows
cooled off”--and in a still lower key--“you behaved admirably, my
girl--admirably. I'm proud of you. Mr. Willits has had too much to
drink--that is what is the matter with him, but it will be all over in a
minute--and, Harry, my boy, suppose you help me look up Teackle,” and he
laid his hand with an authoritative pressure on the boy's arm.
The colonel had by this time reached the group and stood trying to catch
the cue. He had heard the closing sentence of St. George's instructions,
but he had missed the provocation, although he had seen Harry's uplifted
fist.
“What's the matter, St. George?” he inquired nervously.
“Just a little misunderstanding, Talbot, as to who was to dance with our
precious Kate,” St. George answered with a laugh, as he gripped Harry's
arm the tighter. “She is such a darling that it is as much as I can do
to keep these young Romeos from running each other through the body,
they are so madly in love with her. I am thinking of making off with her
myself as the only way to keep the peace. Yes, you dear girl, I'll
come back. Hold the music up for a little while, Talbot, until I can
straighten them all out,” and with his arm still tight through Harry's,
the two walked the length of the room and closed the far door behind
them.
Kate looked after them and her heart sank all the lower. She knew the
feeling between the two men, and she knew Harry's hot, ungovernable
temper--the temper of the Rutters. Patient as he often was, and
tender-hearted as he could be, there flashed into his eyes now and then
something that frightened her--something that recalled an incident
in the history of his house. He had learned from his gentle mother
to forgive affronts to himself; she had seen him do it many times,
overlooking what another man would have resented, but an affront to
herself or any other woman was a different matter: that he would never
forgive. She knew, too, that he had just cause to be offended, for in
all her life no one had ever been so rude to her. That she herself was
partly to blame only intensified her anxiety. Willits loved her, for he
had told her so, not once, but several times, although she had answered
him only with laughter. She should have been honest and not played the
coquette: and yet, although the fault was partly her own, never had she
been more astonished than at his outburst. In all her acquaintance with
him he had never lost his temper. Harry, of course, would lay it to
Willits's lack of breeding--to the taint in his blood. But she knew
better--it was the insanity produced by drink, combined with his
jealousy of Harry, which had caused the gross outrage. If she had only
told Willits herself of her betrothal and not waited to surprise him
before the assembled guests, it would have been fairer and spared every
one this scene.
All these thoughts coursed through her mind as with head still proudly
erect she crossed the room on the colonel's arm, to a seat beside
her future mother-in-law, who had noticed nothing, and to whom not a
syllable of the affair would have been mentioned, all such matters being
invariably concealed from the dear lady.
Old Mrs. Cheston, however, was more alert; not only had she caught the
anger in Harry's eyes, but she had followed the flight of the torn
card as its pieces fell to the floor. She had once been present at a
reception given by a prime minister when a similar fracas had occurred.
Then it was a lady's glove and not a dancing-card which was thrown in a
rival's face, and it was a rapier that flashed and not a clenched fist.
“What was the matter over there, Talbot?” she demanded, speaking from
behind her fan when the colonel came within hearing.
“Nothing! Some little disagreement about who should lead the Virginia
reel with Kate. I have stopped the music until they fix it up.”
“Don't talk nonsense, Talbot Rutter, not to me. There was bad blood over
there--you better look after them. There'll be trouble if you don't.”
The colonel tucked the edge of a rebellious ruffle inside his
embroidered waistcoat and with a quiet laugh said: “St. George is
attending to them.”
“St. George is as big a fool as you are about such things. Go, I tell
you, and see what they are doing in there with the door shut.”
“But, my dear Mrs. Cheston,” echoed her host with a deprecating wave of
his hand--“my Harry would no more attack a man under his own roof than
you would cut off your right hand. He's not born that way--none of us
are.”
“You talk like a perfect idiot, Talbot!” she retorted angrily. “You seem
to have forgotten everything you knew. These young fellows here are so
many tinder boxes. There will be trouble I tell you--go out there and
find out what is going on,” she reiterated, her voice increasing
in intensity. “They've had time enough to fix up a dozen Virginia
reels--and besides, Kate is waiting, and they know it. Look! there's
some one coming out--it's that young Teackle. Call him over here and
find out!”
The doctor, who had halted at the door, was now scrutinizing the faces
of the guests as if in search of some one. Then he moved swiftly to
the far side of the room, touched Mark Gilbert, Harry's most intimate
friend, on the shoulder, and the two left the floor.
Kate sat silent, a fixed smile on her face that ill concealed her
anxiety. She had heard every word of the talk between Mrs. Cheston and
the colonel, but she did not share the old lady's alarm as to any actual
conflict. She would trust Uncle George to avoid that. But what kept
Harry? Why leave her thus abruptly and send no word back? In her dilemma
she leaned forward and touched the colonel's arm.
“You don't think anything is the matter, dear colonel, do you?”
“With whom, Kate?”
“Between Harry and Mr. Willits. Harry might resent it--he was very
angry.” Her lips were quivering, her eyes strained. She could hide
her anxiety from her immediate companions, but the colonel was Harry's
father.
The colonel turned quickly: “Resent it here! under his own roof, and the
man his guest? That is one thing, my dear, a Rutter never violates,
no matter what the provocation. I have made a special exception in
Mr. Willits's favor to-night and Harry knows it. It was at your dear
father's request that I invited the young fellow. And then again, I hear
the most delightful things about his own father, who though a plain man
is of great service to his county--one of Mr. Clay's warmest adherents.
All this, you see, makes it all the more incumbent that both my son and
myself should treat him with the utmost consideration, and, as I have
said, Harry understands this perfectly. You don't know my boy; I would
disown him, Kate, if he laid a hand on Mr. Willits--and so should you.”