There was no one at home when Harry returned except Todd, who, having
kept his position outside the dining-room door during the heated
encounter, had missed nothing of the interview. What had puzzled the
darky--astounded him really--was that no pistol-shot had followed his
master's denouncement and defiance of the Lord of Moorlands. What had
puzzled him still more was hearing these same antagonists ten minutes
later passing the time o' day, St. George bowing low and the colonel
touching his hat as he passed out and down to where Matthew and his
horses were waiting.
It was not surprising, therefore, that Todd's recital to Harry came in a
more or less disjointed and disconnected form.
“You say, Todd,” he exclaimed in astonishment, “that my father was
here!” Our young hero was convinced that the visit did not concern
himself, as he was no longer an object of interest to any one at home
except his mother and Alec.
“Dat he was, sah, an' b'ilin' mad. Dey bofe was, on'y Marse George lay
low an' de colonel purty nigh rid ober de top ob de fence. Fust Marse
George sass him an' den de colonel sass him back. Purty soon Marse
George say he gwinter speak his min'--and he call de colonel a brute an'
den de colonel riz up an' say Marse George was a beggar and a puttin'
on airs when he didn't hab 'nough money to buy hisse'f a 'tater; an' den
Marse George r'ared and pitched--Oh I tell ye he ken be mighty sof' and
persimmony when he's tame--and he's mos' allers dat way--but when his
dander's up, and it suttinly riz to-day, he kin make de fur fly. Dat's
de time you wanter git outer de way or you'll git hurted.”
“Who did you say was the beggar?” It was all Greek to Harry.
“Why, Marse George was--he was de one what was gwine hongry. De colonel
'lowed dat de bank was busted an'--”
“What bank?”
“Why de 'Tapsco--whar Marse George keep his money. Ain't you see me
comin' from dar mos' ebery day?”
“But it hasn't failed, has it?” He was still wondering what the quarrel
was about.
“Wall, I dunno, but I reckon sumpin's de matter, for no sooner did de
colonel git on his horse and ride away dan Marse George go git his hat
and coat hisse'f and make tracks th'ou' de park by de short cut--and you
know he neber do dat 'cept when he's in a hurry, and den in 'bout a ha'f
hour he come back ag'in lookin' like he'd seed de yahoo, only he was
mad plump th'ou'; den he hollered for me quick like, and sont me down
underneaf yere to Mr. Pawson to know was he in, and he was, and I done
tol' him, and he's dar now. He ain't neber done sont me down dar 'cept
once sence I been yere, and dat was de day dat Gadgem man come snuffin'
roun'. Trouble comin'.”
Harry had now begun to take in the situation. It was evidently a matter
of some moment or Pawson would not have been consulted.
“I'll go down myself, Todd,” he said with sudden resolve.
“Better lem'me tell him you're yere, Marse Harry.”
“No, I'll go now,” and he turned on his heel and descended the front
steps.
On the street side of the house, level with the bricks, was a door
opening into a low-ceiled, shabbily furnished room, where in the old
days General Dorsey Temple, as has been said, shared his toddies with
his cronies. There he found St. George seated at a long table piled
high with law books and papers--the top covered with a green baize cloth
embroidered with mice holes and decorated with ink stains. Beside him
was a thin, light-haired, young man, with a long, flexible neck and
abnormally high forehead, over-doming a shrewd but not unkindly face.
The two were poring over a collection of papers.
The young lawyer rose to his feet, a sickly, deferential smile playing
along his straight lips. Young aristocrats of Harry's blood and breeding
did not often darken Pawson's door, and he was extremely anxious that
his guest should in some way be made aware of his appreciation of that
fact. St. George did not move, nor did he take any other notice of
the boy's appearance than to fasten his eyes upon him for a moment in
recognition of his presence.
But Harry could not wait.
“Todd has just told me, Uncle George, that”--he caught the grave
expression on Temple's face--“Why!--Uncle George--there isn't anything
the matter, is there? It isn't true that the--”
St. George raised his head: “What isn't true, Harry?”
“That the Patapsco Bank is in trouble?”
“No, I don't think so. The bank, so far as I know, is all right; it's
the depositors who are in trouble,” and one of his quaint smiles lighted
up his face.
“Broken!--failed!” cried Harry, still in doubt as to the extent of the
catastrophe, but wishing to be sympathetic and proportionably astounded
as any well-bred young man should be when his best friend was unhappy.
“I'm afraid it is, Harry--in fact I know it is--bankrupt in character as
well as in balances--a bad-smelling, nasty mess, to tell you the truth.
That's not only my own opinion, but the opinion of every man whom I
have seen, and there was quite an angry mob when I reached the teller's
window this morning. That is your own opinion also, is it not, Mr.
Pawson?--your legal summing up, I mean.”
The young attorney stretched out his spare colorless hands; opened wide
his long, double-jointed fingers; pressed their ten little cushions
together, and see-sawing the bunch in front of his concave waistcoat,
answered in his best professional voice:
“As to being bankrupt of funds I should say there was no doubt of that
being their condition; as to any criminal intent or practices--that, of
course, gentlemen”--and he shrugged his shoulders in a non-committal,
non-actionable way--“is not for me to decide.”
“But you think it will be months, and perhaps years, before the
depositors get a penny of their money--do you not?” persisted St.
George.
Again Pawson performed the sleight-of-hand trick, and again he
was non-committal--a second shrug alone expressing his views, the
performance ending by his pushing a wooden chair in the direction of
Harry, who was still on his feet.
Harry settled himself on its edge and fixed his eyes on his uncle. St.
George again became absorbed in the several papers, Pawson once more
assisting him, the visitor having now been duly provided for.
This raking of ashes in the hope of finding something of value
unscorched was not a pleasant task for the young lawyer. He had, years
before, conceived the greatest admiration for his landlord and was never
tired of telling his associates of how kind and considerate St. George
had always been, and of his patience in the earlier days of his lease,
Mr. Temple often refusing the rent until he was quite ready to pay
it. He took a certain pride, too, in living under the same roof, so
to speak, with one universally known as a gentleman of the old school,
whose birth, education, and habits made him the standard among his
fellows--a man without pretence or sham, living a simple and wholesome
life; with dogs, guns, priceless Madeira and Port, as well as unlimited
clothes of various patterns adapted to every conceivable service and
function--to say nothing of his being part of the best society that
Kennedy Square could afford.
Even to bow to his distinguished landlord as he was descending his front
steps was in itself one of his greatest pleasures. That he might not
miss it, he would peer from behind his office shutters until the shapely
legs of his patron could be seen between the twisted iron railing. Then
appearing suddenly and with assumed surprise, he would lift his hat with
so great a flourish that his long, thin arms and body were jerked into
semaphore angles, his face meanwhile beaming with ill-concealed delight.
Should any one of St. George's personal friends accompany him--men like
Kennedy, or General Hardisty, or some well-known man from the Eastern
Shore--one of the Dennises, or Joyneses, or Irvings--the pleasure was
intensified, the incident being of great professional advantage. “I have
just met old General Hardisty,” he would say--“he was at our house,” the
knowing ones passing a wink around, and the uninitiated having all
the greater respect and, therefore, all the greater confidence in that
rising young firm of “Pawson & Pawson, Attorneys and Counsellors at
Law--Wills drawn and Estates looked after.”
That this rarest of gentlemen, of all men in the world, should be made
the victim of a group of schemers who had really tricked him of
almost all that was left of his patrimony, and he a member of his own
profession, was to Pawson one of the great sorrows of his life. That
he himself had unwittingly helped in its culmination made it all the
keener. Only a few weeks had passed since that eventful day when St.
George had sent Todd down to arrange for an interview, an event
which was followed almost immediately by that gentleman in person. He
remembered his delight at the honor conferred upon him; he recalled
how he had spent the whole of that and the next day in the attempt to
negotiate the mortgage on the old home at a reasonable rate of interest;
he recalled, too, how he could have lowered the rate had St. George
allowed him more time. “No, pay it and get rid of them!” St. George had
said, the “them” being part of the very accounts over which the two were
poring. And his patron had showed the same impatience when it came
to placing the money in the bank. Although his own lips were sealed
professionally by reason of the interests of another client, he had
begged St. George, almost to the verge of interference, not to give it
to the Patapsco, until he had been silenced with: “Have them put it to
my credit, sir. I have known every member of that bank for years.”
All these things were, of course, unknown to Harry, the ultimate
beneficiary. Who had filled the bucket, and how and why, were
unimportant facts to him. That it was full, and ready for his use,
brought with it the same sense of pleasure he would have felt on a hot
day at Moorlands when he had gone to the old well, drawn up the ice-cold
water, and, plunging in the sweet-smelling gourd, had drank to his
heart's content.
This was what wells were made for; and so were fathers, and big,
generous men like his Uncle George, who had dozens of friends ready to
cram money into his pocket for him to hand over to whoever wanted it and
without a moment's hesitation--just as Slater had handed him the money
he needed when Gilbert wanted it in a hurry.
Nor could it be expected that Harry, even with the examination of St.
George's accounts with the Patapsco and other institutions going on
under his very eyes, understood fully just what a bank failure really
meant. Half a dozen banks, he remembered, had gone to smash some few
years before, sending his father to town one morning at daylight, where
he stayed for a week, but no change, so far as he could recall, had
happened because of it at Moorlands. Indeed, his father had bought a new
coach for his mother the very next week, out of what he had “saved from
the wreck,” so he had told her.
It was not until the hurried overhauling of a mass of papers beneath
his uncle's hand, and the subsequent finding of a certain stray sheet
by Pawson, that the boy was aroused to a sense of the gravity of the
situation. And even then his interest did not become acute until,
the missing document identified, St. George had turned to Pawson and,
pointing to an item halfway down the column, had said in a lowered tone,
as if fearing to be overheard:
“You have the receipts, have you not, for everything on this
list?--Slater's account too, and Hampson's?”
“They are in the file beside you, sir.”
“Well, that's a comfort, anyhow.”
“And the balance”--here he examined a small book which lay open beside
him--“amounting to”--he paused--“is of course locked up in their
vaults?”
Harry had craned his head in instant attention. His quickened ears had
caught two familiar names. It was Slater who had loaned him the five
hundred dollars which he gave to Gilbert, which his father had commended
him for borrowing; and it was Hampson who had sold him the wretched
horse that had stumbled and broken his leg and had afterwards to be
shot.
“Slater, did you say, Uncle George--and Hampson? Aren't they my old
accounts?”
“Quite right, Mr. Rutter--quite right, sir.” St. George tried to stop
him with a frown, but Pawson's face was turned towards Harry and he
failed to get the signal. “Quite right, and quite lucky; they were both
important items in Mr. Gadgem's list, and both checks passed through the
bank and were paid before the smash came.”
The tones of Pawson's voice, the twisting together of his bony hands in
a sort of satisfied contentment, and the weary look on his uncle's face
were the opening of so many windows in the boy's brain. At the same
instant one of those creepy chills common to a man when some hitherto
undiscovered vista of impending disaster widens out before him, started
at the base of Harry's spine, crept up his shoulder-blades, shivered
along his arms, and lost itself in his benumbed fingers. This was
followed by a lump in his throat that nearly strangled him. He left his
chair and touched Pawson on the shoulder.
“Does this mean, Mr. Pawson--this money being locked up in the bank
vaults and not coming out for months--and may be never--does it mean
that Mr. Temple--well, that Uncle George--won't have enough money to
live on?” There was an anxious, vibrant tone in Harry's voice that
aroused St. George to a sense of the boy's share in the calamity and the
privations he must suffer because of it. Pawson hesitated and was about
to belittle the gravity of the situation when St. George stopped him.
“Yes--tell him--tell him everything, I have no secrets from Mr. Rutter.
Stop!--I'll tell him. It means, Harry”--and a brave smile played about
his lips--“that we will have to live on hog and hominy, may be, or
pretty nigh it--certainly for a while--not bad, old fellow, when you get
accustomed to it. Aunt Jemima makes very good hominy and--”
He stopped; the brave smile had faded from his face.
“By Jove!--that's something I didn't think of!--What will I do with the
dear old woman--It would break her heart--and Todd?”
Here was indeed something on which he had not counted! For him to forego
the luxuries that enriched his daily life was easy--he had often in his
hunting trips lived for weeks on sweet potato and a handful of cornmeal,
and slept on the bare ground with only a blanket over him, but that his
servants should be reduced to similar privations suggested possibilities
which appalled him. For the first time since the cruel announcement fell
from Rutter's lips the real situation, with all that it meant to his own
future and those dependent upon him, stared him in the face.
He looked up and caught Harry's anxious eyes scanning his own. His
old-time, unruffled spirit came to his assistance.
“No, son!” he cried in his cheeriest voice, springing to his feet--“no,
we won't worry. It will all come out right--we'll buckle down to it
together, you and I. Don't take it too much to heart--we'll get on
somehow.”
But the boy was not reassured; in fact, he had become more anxious than
ever. Not only did the chill continue, but the lump in his throat grew
larger every minute.
“But, Uncle George--you told me you borrowed the money to pay those
bills my father sent me. And will you now have to pay that back as
well?” He did not ask of whom he had borrowed it, nor on what security,
nor would either Pawson or his uncle have told him, that being a
confidential matter.
“Well, that depends, Harry; but we won't have to pay it right away,
which is one comfort. And then again, I can go back to the law. I have
yet to make my maiden speech before a jury, but I can do it. Think
of it!--everybody in tears, the judge mopping his eyes--court-room
breathless. Oh, you just wait until your old uncle gets on his feet
before a bench and jury. Come along, old fellow--let us go up into the
house.” Then in a serious tone--his back to Harry--“Pawson, please bring
the full accounts with you in the morning, and now let me thank you for
your courtesy. You have been extremely civil, sir, and I appreciate it
most highly.”
When they had reached the front walk and were about to climb the
immaculate steps, St. George, still determined to divert the boy's
thoughts from his own financial straits, said with a laugh:
“Todd told you, of course, about your father paying me a visit this
morning, did he not?”
“Oh, yes!--a most extraordinary account. You must have enjoyed it,”
replied Harry, trying to fall into his uncle's mood, his heart growing
heavier every moment. “What did he want?”
One of St. George's heat-lightning smiles played over his face: “He
wanted two things. He first wanted you, and then he wanted a receipt for
a month's board--YOUR board, remember! He went away without either.”
A new perspective suddenly opened up in Harry's mind; one that had a
gleam of sunshine athwart it.
“But, Uncle George!” he burst out--“don't forget that my father owes
you all the money you paid for me! That, of course, will eventually come
back to you.” This came in a tone of great relief, as if the money was
already in his hand.
St. George's face hardened: “None of it will come back to me,” he
rejoined in a positive tone. “He doesn't owe me one single penny and he
never will. That money he owes to you. Whatever you may happen to owe me
can wait until you are able to pay it. And now while I am talking about
it, there is another thing your father owes you, and that is an humble
apology, and that he will pay one of these days in tears and agony. You
are neither a beggar nor a cringing dog, and you never will be so long
as I can help it!” He stopped, rested his hand on the boy's shoulder,
and with a quiver in his voice added:
“Your hand, my son. Short commons after this, may be, but we will make
the fight together.”
When the two passed through the front door and stepped into the
dining-room they found it filled with gentlemen--friends who had heard
of the crash and who had come either to extend their sympathy or offer
their bank accounts. They had heard of the catastrophe at the club and
had instantly left their seats and walked across the park in a body.
To one and all St. George gave a warm pressure of the hand and a bright
smile. Had he been the master of ceremonies at a state reception he
could not have been more self-possessed or more gallant; his troubles
were for himself, never for his guests.
“All in a lifetime--but I am not worrying. The Patapsco pulled out once
before and it may again. My only regret is that I cannot, at least for
a time, have as many of you as I would wish under my mahogany. But don't
let us borrow any trouble; certainly not to-day. Todd, get some glasses
and bring me that bottle of Madeira--the one there on the sideboard!”
Here he took the precious fluid from Todd's hand and holding high the
crusted bottle said with a dry smile--one his friends knew when his
irony was aroused: “That wine, gentlemen, saw the light at a time when
a man locked his money in an iron box to keep outside thieves from
stealing it; to-day he locks his money in a bank's vault and locks the
thieves in with it. Extraordinary, is it not, how we gentlemen trust
each other? Here, Todd, draw the cork!... Slowly.... Now hand me the
bottle--yes--Clayton, that's the same wine that you and Kennedy liked so
much the night we had Mr. Poe with us. It is really about all there is
left of my father's Black Warrior of 1810. I thought it was all gone,
but Todd found two more the other day, one of which I sent to Kennedy.
This is the other. Kennedy writes me he is keeping his until we can
drink it together. Is everybody's glass full? Then my old toast if you
will permit me: 'Here's to love and laughter, and every true friend of
my true friend my own!'”
Before the groups had dispersed Harry had the facts in his
possession--principally from Judge Pancoast, who gave him a full account
of the bank's collapse, some papers having been handed up to him on the
bench that morning. Summed up, his uncle was practically ruined--and he,
Harry, was the cause of it--the innocent cause, perhaps, but the cause
all the same: but for his father's cruelty and his own debts St. George
would never have mortgaged his home. That an additional sum--his uncle's
entire deposit--had been swallowed up in the crash was but part of the
same misfortune. Poe's lines were true, then--never so true as now:
“Some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster Followed fast and followed
faster...”
This, then, was ever after to be his place in life--to bring misery
wherever he went.
He caught up his hat and walked through the park beside the judge,
hoping for some further details of his uncle's present plight and future
condition, but the only thing his Honor added to what he already knew
was his wonderment over the fact that St. George, having no immediate
use for the money except to pay his bills, should have raised so large a
sum on a mortgage instead of borrowing it from his friends. It was here
that Harry's heart gave a bound:--no one, then, but his uncle, Pawson,
and himself knew that he alone was responsible for the catastrophe!
That his father should have learned of his share in it did not enter the
boy's head.
Todd answered his knock on his return, and in reply to his inquiry
informed him that he must not sit up, as “Marse George” had left word
that he would be detained until late at a meeting of the creditors of
the bank.
And so the unhappy lad, his supper over, sought his bed and, as had
occurred more than once before, spent the earlier hours of the night
gazing at the ceiling and wondering what would become of him.