While all this talk filled the air it is worthy of comment that after
his denunciation of Pancoast's views at the club, St. George never
again discussed the duel and its outcome. His mind was filled with more
important things:--one in particular--a burning desire to bring the
lovers together, no matter at what cost nor how great the barriers. He
had not, despite his silence, altered a hair-line of the opinion he had
held on the night he ordered the gig, fastened Harry's heavy coat around
the young man's shoulders, and started back with him through the rain
to his house on Kennedy Square; nor did he intend to. This, summed up,
meant that the colonel was a tyrant, Willits a vulgarian, and Harry a
hot-headed young knight, who, having been forced into a position where
he could neither breathe nor move, had gallantly fought his way out.
The one problem that gave him serious trouble was the selection of the
precise moment when he should make a strategic move on Kate's heart;
lesser problems were his manner of approaching her and the excuses
he would offer for Harry's behavior. These not only kept him awake at
night, but pursued him like an avenging spirit when he sought the quiet
paths of the old square, the dogs at his heels. The greatest of all
barriers, he felt assured, would be Kate herself. He had seen enough of
her in that last interview, when his tender pleading had restored the
harmonies between herself and Harry, to know that she was no longer the
child whose sweetness he loved, or the girl whose beauty he was proud
of--but the woman whose judgment he must satisfy. Nor could he see that
any immediate change in her mental attitude was likely to occur. Some
time had now passed since Harry's arrival at his house, and every day
the boy had begged for admission at Kate's door, only to be denied by
Ben, the old butler. His mother, who had visited her exiled son almost
daily, had then called on her, bearing two important pieces of news--one
being that after hours of pleading Harry had consented to return to
Moorlands and beg his father's pardon, provided that irate gentleman
should send for him, and the other the recounting of a message of
condolence and sympathy which Willits had sent Harry from his sick-bed,
in which he admitted that he had been greatly to blame. (An admission
which fairly bubbled out of him when he learned that Harry had assisted
Teackle in dressing his wound.)
And yet with all this pressure the young girl had held her own. To every
one outside the Rutter clan she had insisted that she was sorry for
Harry, but that she could never marry a man whose temper she could
not trust. She never put this into words in answering the well-meant
inquiries of such girl friends as Nellie Murdoch, Sue Dorsey, and the
others; then her eyes would only fill with tears as she begged them not
to question her further. Nor had she said as much to her father, who on
one occasion had asked her the plump question--“Do you still intend to
marry that hot-head?”--to which she had returned the equally positive
answer--“No, I never shall!” She reserved her full meaning for St.
George when he should again entreat her--as she knew he would at the
first opportunity--to forget the past and begin the old life once more.
At the end of the second week St. George had made up his mind as to
his course; and at the end of the third the old diplomat, who had dared
defeat before, boldly mounted the Seymour steps. He would appeal to
Harry's love for her, and all would be well. He had done so before,
picturing the misery the boy was suffering, and he would try it again.
If he could only reach her heart through the armor of her reserve she
would yield.
She answered his cheery call up the stairway in person, greeting him
silently, but with arms extended, leading him to a seat beside her,
where she buried her face in her hands and burst into tears.
“Harry has tried to see you every day, Kate,” he began, patting her
shoulders lovingly in the effort to calm her. “I found him under your
window the other night; he walks the streets by the hour, then he
comes home exhausted, throws himself on his bed, and lies awake till
daylight.”
The girl raised her head and looked at him for a moment. She knew
what he had come for--she knew, too, how sorry he felt for her--for
Harry--for everybody who had suffered because of this horror.
“Uncle George,” she answered, choking back her tears, speaking slowly,
weighing each word--“you've known me from a little girl--ever since my
dear mother died. You have been a big brother to me many, many times and
I love you for it. If I were determined to do anything that would
hurt me, and you found it out in time, you would come and tell me so,
wouldn't you?”
St. George nodded his head in answer, but he did not interrupt. Her
heart was being slowly unrolled before him, and he would wait until it
was all bare.
“Now,” she continued, “the case is reversed, and you want me to do
something which I know will hurt me.”
“But you love him, Kate?”
“Yes--that is the worst part of it all,” she answered with a stifled
sob--“yes, I love him.” She lifted herself higher on the cushions and
put her beautiful arms above her head, her eyes looking into space as
if she was trying to solve the problem of what her present resolve would
mean to both herself and Harry.
St. George began again: “And you remember how--”
She turned impatiently and dropped one hand until it rested on his own.
He thought he had never seen her look so lovely and never so unhappy.
Then she said in pleading tones--her eyes blinded by half-restrained
tears:
“Don't ask me to REMEMBER, dear Uncle George--help me to forget! You can
do no kinder thing for both of us.”
“But think of your whole future happiness, Kate--think how important it
is to you--to Harry--to everybody--that you should not shut him out of
your life.”
“I have thought! God knows I have thought until sometimes I think I
shall go mad. He first breaks his promise about drinking and I forgive
him; then he yields to a sudden impulse and behaves like a mad-man and
you ask me to forgive him again. He never once thinks of me, nor of my
humiliation!” Her lips were quivering, but her voice rang clear.
“He thinks of nothing else BUT you,” he pleaded. “Let your heart
work--don't throw him into the street as his father has done. He loves
you so.”
“_I_--throw HIM in the street! He has thrown ME--mortified me before
everybody--behaved like a--No,--I can't--I won't discuss it!”
“May I--”
“No--not another word. I love you too much to let this come between us.
Let us talk of something else--anything--ANYTHING.”
The whole chart of her heart had been unrolled. Her head and not her
heart was dominant. He felt, moreover, that no argument of his would
be of any use. Time might work out the solution, but this he could not
hasten. Nor, if the truth be told, did he blame her. It was, from
the girl's point of view, most unfortunate, of course, that the two
calamities of Harry's drunkenness and the duel had come so close
together. Perhaps--and for the first time in his life he weakened before
her tears--perhaps if he had thrown the case of pistols out of the
window, sent one man to his father and the other back to Kennedy Square,
it might all have been different--but then again, could this have been
done, and if it had been, would not all have to be done over again the
next day? At last he asked hopelessly:
“Have you no message for Harry?”
“None,” she answered resolutely.
“And you will not see him?”
“No--we can never heal wounds by keeping them open.” This came calmly,
and as if she had made up her mind, and in so determined a tone that he
saw it meant an end to the interview.
He rose from his seat and without another word turned toward the door.
She gained her feet slowly, as if the very movement caused her pain; put
her arms around his neck, kissed him on the cheek, followed him to the
door, waved her hand to him as she watched him pick his way across the
square, and threw herself on her lounge in an agony of tears.
That night St. George and Harry sat by the smouldering wood fire; the
early spring days were warm and joyous, but the nights were still cool.
The boy sat hunched up in his chair, his face drawn into lines from the
anxiety of the past week; his mind absorbed in the story that St. George
had brought from the Seymour house. As in all ardent temperaments, these
differences with Kate, which had started as a spark, had now developed
into a conflagration which was burning out his heart. His love for Kate
was not a part of his life--it was ALL of his life. He was ready now for
any sacrifice, no matter how humiliating. He would go down on his knees
to his father if she wished it. He would beg Willits's pardon--he would
abase himself in any way St. George should suggest. He had done what
he thought was right, and he would do it over again under like
circumstances, but he would grovel at Kate's feet and kiss the ground
she stepped on if she required it of him.
St. George, who had sat quiet, examining closely the backs of his finely
modelled hands as if to find some solution of the difficulty written in
their delicate articulated curves, heard his outburst in silence.
Now and then he would call to Todd, who was never out of reach of his
voice--no matter what the hour--to replenish the fire or snuff the
candles, but he answered only in nods and monosyllables to Harry. One
suggestion only of the heart-broken lover seemed to promise any
result, and that was his making it up with his father as his mother
had suggested. This wall being broken down, and Willits no longer
an invalid, perhaps Kate would see matters in a different and more
favorable light.
“But suppose father doesn't send for me, Uncle George, what will I do
then?”
“Well, he is your father, Harry.”
“And you think then I had better go home and have it out with him?”
St. George hesitated. He himself would have seen Rutter in Hades before
he would have apologized to him. In fact his anger choked him so every
time he thought of the brutal and disgraceful scene he had witnessed
when the boy had been ordered from his home, that he could hardly get
his breath. But then Kate was not his sweetheart, much as he loved her.
“I don't know, Harry. I am not his son,” he answered in an undecided
way. Then something the boy's mother had said rose in his mind: “Didn't
your mother say that your father's loneliness without you was having its
effect?--and wasn't her advice to wait until he should send for you?”
“Yes--that was about it.”
“Well, your mother would know best. Put that question to her next time
she comes in--I'm not competent to answer it. And now let us go to
bed--you are tired out, and so am I.”