But all outings must come to an end. And so when the marsh grass on
the lowlands lay in serried waves of dappled satin, and the corn on the
uplands was waist high and the roses a mob of beauty, Kate threw her
arms around Peggy and kissed her over and over again, her whole heart
flowing through her lips; and then the judge got his good-by on his
wrinkled cheek, and the children on any clean spot which she found on
their molasses-covered faces; and then the cavalcade took up its line of
march for the boat-landing, Willits going as far as the wharf, where he
and Kate had a long talk in low tones, in which he seemed to be doing
all the talking and she all the listening--“But nuthin' mo'n jes' a
han'shake” (so Todd told St. George), “he lookin' like he wanter eat
her up an' she kinder sayin' dat de cake ain't brown 'nough yit fur
tastin'--but one thing I know fo' sho'--an' dat is she didn't let 'im
kiss 'er. I wuz leadin' his horse pas' whar dey wuz standin', an'
de sorrel varmint got cuttin' up an' I kep' him prancin' till Mister
Willits couldn't stay wid her no longer. Drat dat red-haided--”
“Stop, Todd--be careful--you mustn't speak that way of Mr. Willits.”
“Well, Marse George, I won't--but I ain't neber like him f'om de fust.
He ain't quality an' he neber kin be. How Miss Kate don' stan' him is
mo'n I kin tell.”
Kate drove up to her father's house in state, with Ben as special envoy
to see that she and her belongings were properly cared for. St. George
with Todd and the four dogs--six in all--arrived, despite Kate's
protestations, on foot.
Pawson met him at the door. He had given up his boarding-house and had
transferred his traps and parcels to the floor above--into Harry's
old room, really--in order that the additional rent--(he had now taken
entire charge of Temple's finances)--might help in the payment of the
interest on the mortgage. He had thought this all out while St. George
was at Wesley and had moved in without notifying him, that being the
best way to solve the problem--St. George still retaining his bedroom
and dining-room and the use of the front door. Jemima, too, had gone.
She wanted, so she had told her master the day he left with Kate, to
take a holiday and visit some of her people who lived down by the Marsh
Market in an old rookery near the Falls, and would come back when he
sent for her; but Todd had settled all that the morning of his arrival,
the moment he caught sight of her black face.
“Ain't no use yo' comin' back,” the darky blurted out. “I'm gwineter do
de cookin' and de chamber-wo'k. Dere ain't 'nough to eat fo' mo'n two.
When dem white-livered, no-count, onery gemmens dat stole Marse George's
money git in de chain-gang, whar dey b'longs, den may be we'll hab
sumpin' to go to market on, but dat ain't yit; an' don't ye tell Marse
George I tol' yer or I'll ha'nt ye like dat witch I done heared 'bout
down to Wesley--ha'nt ye so ye'll think de debble's got ye.” To his
master, his only explanation was that Jemima had gone to look after her
sister, who had been taken “wid a mis'ry in her back.”
If St. George knew anything of the common talk going on around him
no one was ever the wiser. He continued the even tenor of his life,
visiting and receiving his friends, entertaining his friends in a simple
and inexpensive way: Once Poe had spent an evening with him, when he
made a manly, straightforward apology for his conduct the night of the
dinner, and on another occasion Mr. Kennedy had made an especial point
of missing a train to Washington to have an hour's chat with him. In the
afternoons he would have a rubber of whist with the archdeacon who
lived across the Square--a broad-minded ecclesiastic, who believed in
relaxation, although, of course, he was never seen at the club; or he
might drop into the Chesapeake for a talk with Richard or sit beside him
in his curious laboratory at the rear of his house where he worked out
many of the problems that absorbed his mind and inspired his hopes. At
night, however late or early--whenever he reached home--there was always
a romp with his dogs. This last he rarely omitted. The click of the
front-door latch, followed by his firm step overhead, was their signal,
and up they would come, tumbling over each other in their eagerness to
reach his cheeks--straight up, their paws scraping his clothes; then a
swoop into the dining-room, when they would be “downed” to the floor,
their eyes following his every movement.
Nor had his own financial situation begun as yet to trouble him. Todd
and Pawson, however, had long since become nervous. More than once had
they put their heads together for some plan by which sufficient money
could be raised for current expenses. In this praiseworthy effort, to
Todd's unbounded astonishment, Pawson had one night developed a plan
in which the greatly feared and much-despised Gadgem was to hold first
place. Indeed on the very morning succeeding the receipt of Pawson's
letter and at an hour when St. George would be absent at the club, there
had come a brisk rat-a-tat on the front door and Gadgem had sidled in.
Todd had not seen the collector since that eventful morning when he
stood by ready to pick up the pieces of that gentleman's dismembered
body when his master was about to throw him into the street for doubting
his word, and he now studied him with the greatest interest. The first
thing that struck him was the collector's clothes. As the summer was
approaching he had changed his winter suit for a combination of brown
linen bound with black--(second hand, of course, its former owner
having gone out of mourning) and at the moment sported a moth-eaten,
crape-encircled white beaver with a floppy, two-inch brim, a rusty black
stock that grabbed him close under the chin, completely submerging his
collar, and a pair of congress gaiters very much run down at the heel.
He was evidently master of himself and the situation, for he stood
looking from Todd to the young lawyer, a furtive, anxious expression
on his face that betokened both a surprise at being sent for and a
curiosity to learn the cause, although no word of inquiry passed his
lips.
Pawson's opening remark calmed the collector's suspicions.
“EXactly,” he answered in a relieved tone, when the plot had been fully
developed, dragging a mate of the red bandanna--a blue one--from his
pocket and blowing his nose in an impressive manner. “EXactly--quite
right--quite right--difficult perhaps--ENORmously difficult
but--yes--quite right.”
Then there had followed a hurried consultation, during which the
bullet-headed darky absorbed every word, his eyes rolling about in his
head, his breath ending somewhere near his jugular vein.
These details duly agreed upon, Gadgem bowed himself out of the
dining-room, carrying with him a note-book filled with such data as:
2 fowling pieces made by Purdey, 1838.
3 heavy duck guns.
2 English saddles.
1 silver loving cup.
2 silver coasters, etc, etc.,
a list which Todd the night before had prompted and which Pawson, in
his clear, round hand, had transferred to a sheet of foolscap ready for
Gadgem in the morning.
On reaching the front door the collector stopped and looked furtively
up the stairs. He was wondering with professional caution whether St.
George had returned and was within hearing distance. If so much as a
hint should reach Temple's ears the whole scheme would come to naught.
Still in doubt, he called out in his sharpest business voice, as if
prolonging a conversation which had been carried on inside:
“Yes, Mr. Pawson, please say to Mr. Temple that it is GADgem, of
GADgem & Coombs--and say that I will be here at ten o'clock
to-morrow--sharp--on the minute; I am ALways on the minute in matters of
this kind. Only five minutes of his time--five minutes, remember--” and
he passed out of hearing.
Todd, now duly installed as co-conspirator, opened the ball the next
morning at breakfast. St. George had slept late, and the hands of the
marble clock marked but a few minutes of the hour of Gadgem's expected
arrival, and not a moment could be lost.
“Dat Gadgem man done come yere yisterday,” he began, drawing out his
master's chair with an extra flourish to hide his nervousness, “an' he
say he's commin' ag'in dis mornin' at ten o'clock. Clar to goodness it's
dat now! I done forgot to tell ye.”
“What does he want, Todd?” asked St. George, dropping into his seat.
“I dunno, sah--said he was lookin' fo' sumpin' fo' a frien' ob his--I
think it was a gun--an' he wanted to know what kind to buy fur him--Yes,
sah, dem waffles 's jes' off de fire. He 'lowed he didn't know nuffin'
'bout guns--butter, sah?--an' den Mister Pawson spoke up an' said he'd
better ask you. He's tame dis time--leastways he 'peared so.”
“A fine gun is rather a difficult thing to get in these days, Todd,”
replied St. George, opening his napkin. “Since old Joe Manton died I
don't know but one good maker--and that's Purdey, of London, and he, I
hear, has orders to last him five years. No, Todd--I'd rather have the
toast.”
“Yes, sah--I knowed ye couldn't do nuffln' fur him--Take de top
piece--dat's de brownest--but he seemed so cut up 'bout it dat I tol'
him he might see ye fur a minute if he come 'long 'bout ten o'clock,
when you was fru' yo' bre'kfus', 'fo' ye got tangled up wid yo' letters
an' de papers. Dat's him now, I spec's. Shall I show him in?”
“Yes, show him in, Todd. Gadgem isn't a bad sort of fellow after all.
He only wants his pound of flesh, like the others. Ah, good-morning,
Mr. Gadgem.” The front door had been purposely left open, and though
the bill collector had knocked by way of warning, he had paused for no
answer and was already in the room. The little man laid his battered hat
silently on a chair near the door, pulled down his tight linen sleeves
with the funereal binding, adjusted his high black stock, and with
half-creeping, half-cringing movement, advanced to where St. George sat.
“I said good-morning, Mr. Gadgem,” repeated St. George in his most
captivating tone of voice. He had been greatly amused at Gadgem's
antics.
“I heard you, sir--I heard you DIStinctly, sir--I was only seeking a
place on which to rest my hat, sir--not a very inSPIRing hat-quite the
contrary--but all I have. Yes, sir--you are quite right--it is a VERY
good morning--a most deLIGHTful morning. I was convinced of that when I
crossed the park, sir. The trees--”
“Never mind the trees, Gadgem. We will take those up later on. Tell me
what I can do for you--what do you want?”
“A GUN, sir--a plain, straightforward GUN--one that can be relied upon.
Not for mySELF, sir--I am not murderously inclined--but for a friend
who has commissioned me--the exact word, sir--although the percentage
is small--comMISsioned me to acquire for him a fowling piece of the
pattern, weight, and build of those belonging to St. George W. Temple,
Esquire, of Kennedy Square-and so I made bold, sir, to--”
“You won't find it, Gadgem,” replied St. George, buttering the toast. “I
have two that I have shot with for years that haven't their match in the
State. Todd, bring me one of those small bird guns--there, behind the
door in the rack. Hand it to Mr. Gadgem. Now, can you see by the shape
of--take hold of it, man. But do you know anything about guns?”
“Only enough to keep away from their muzzles, sir.” He had it in his
hand now--holding it by the end of the barrel, Todd instinctively
dodging out of the way, although he knew it was not loaded. “No, sir,
I don't know anything--not the very SMALLest thing about guns. There is
nothing, in fact, I know so little about as a gun--that is why I have
come to you.”
St. George recovered the piece and laid it as gently on the table beside
his plate as if it had been a newly laid egg.
“No, I don't think you do,” he laughed, “or you wouldn't hold it upside
down. Now go on and give me the rest.”
Gadgem emitted a chuckle--the nearest he ever came to a laugh: “To have
it go ON, sir, is infinitely preferable than to have it go OFF, sir.
He-he! And you have, I believe you said, two of these highly valuable
implements of death?”
“Yes, five altogether--two of this kind. Here, Todd”--and he picked up
the gun--“put it back behind the door.”
Gadgem felt in his inside pocket, produced and consulted a memorandum
with the air of a man who wanted to be entirely sure, and in a bland
voice said:
“I should think at your time of life--if you will permit me, sir--that
one less gun would not seriously inconvenience you. Would you permit me,
sir, to hope that--”
St. George looked up from his plate and a peculiar expression flitted
across his face.
“You mean you want to buy it?”
The bill collector made a little movement forward and scrutinized St.
George's face with the eye of a hawk. For a man of Temple's kidney to be
without a fowling piece was like a king being without a crown. This
was the crucial moment. Gadgem knew Temple's class, and knew just how
delicately he must be handled. If St. George's pride, or his love for
his favorite chattels--things personal to himself--should overcome him,
the whole scheme would fall to the ground. That any gentleman of
his standing had ever seen the inside of a pawn-shop in his life was
unthinkable. This was what Gadgem faced. As for Todd, he had not drawn a
full breath since Gadgem opened his case.
“Not EXactly buy it, sir,” purred Gadgem, twisting his body into
an obsequious spiral. “Men of your position do not traffic in such
things--but if you would be persuaded, sir, for a money consideration
which you would fix yourself--say the ORIGinal cost of the gun--to
spare one of your five--you would greatly delight--in fact, you would
overWHELM with gratitude--a friend of mine.”
St. George hesitated, looked out of the window and a brand-new thought
forced its way into his mind--as if a closet had been suddenly opened,
revealing a skeleton he had either forgotten or had put permanently
out of sight. There WAS need of this “original cost”--instant
need--something he had entirely forgotten. Jemima would soon need
it--perhaps needed it at that very minute. He had, it was true, often
kept her waiting: but that was when he could pay at his pleasure; now,
perhaps, he couldn't pay at all.
“All right, Gadgem,” he said slowly, a far-away, thoughtful look on his
face--“come to think of it I don't need two guns of this calibre, and
I am quite willing to let this one go, if it will oblige your friend.”
Here Todd breathed a sigh of relief so loud and deep that his master
turned his head in inquiry. “As to the price--I'll look that up. Come
and see me again in a day or two. Better take the gun with you now.”
The fight had been won, but the risk had been great. Even Pawson could
hardly believe his ears when Gadgem, five minutes later, related the
outcome of the interview.
“Well, then, it will be plain sailing so long as the rest of the things
last,” said Pawson, handling the piece with a covetous touch. He too
liked a day off when he could get it. “Who will you sell the gun to,
Gadgem?”
“God knows--I don't! I'll borrow the money on it somehow--but I can't
see him suffer--no, sir--can't see him SUFfer. It's a pleasure to serve
him--real gentleman--REAL--do you hear, Pawson? No veneer--no sham--no
lies! Damn few such men, I tell you. Never met one before-never will
meet one again. Gave up everything he had for a rattle-brain young
scamp--BEGgared himself to pay his debts--not a drop of the fellow's
blood in his veins either--incredible--inCREDible! Got to handle him
like gunpowder or he'll blow everything into matchsticks. Find out the
price and I'll bring the money to-morrow. Do you pay it to him; I can't.
I'd feel too damn mean after lying to him the way I have. Feel that way
now. Good-day.”
The same scene was practically repeated the following month. It was an
English saddle this time, St. George having two. And it was the same
unknown gentleman who figured as “the much-obliged friend,” Pawson
conducting the negotiations and securing the owner's consent. On this
occasion Gadgem sold the saddle outright to the keeper of a livery
stable, whose bills he collected, paying the difference between the
asking and the selling price out of his own pocket.
Gradually, however, St. George awoke to certain unsuspected features of
what was going on around him. The discovery was made one morning when
the go-between was closeted in Pawson's lower office, Pawson conducting
the negotiations in St. George's dining-room. The young attorney,
with Gadgem's assistance, had staved off some accounts until a legal
ultimatum had been reached, and, having but few resources of his
own left, had, with Todd's help, decided that the silver loving-cup
presented to his client's father by the Marquis de Castullux could alone
save the situation--a decision which brought an emphatic refusal from
the owner. This and the discovery of Pawson's and Gadgem's treachery had
greatly incensed him.
“And you tell me, Pawson, that that scoundrel, Gadgem, has--Todd go
down and bring him up here immediately--has had the audacity to run a
pawnshop for my benefit without so much as asking my leave?--peddling
my things?--lying to me straight through?” Here the door opened and
Gadgem's face peered in. He had, as was his custom, crept upstairs so as
to be within instant call when wanted.
“Yes--I am speaking of you, sir. Come inside and shut that door behind
you. You too, Todd. What the devil do you mean, Gadgem, by deceiving me
in this way? Don't you know I would rather have starved to death than--”
Gadgem raised his hand in protest:
“EXactly so, sir. That's what we were afraid of, sir--such an
uncomfortable thing to starve to death, sir--I couldn't permit it,
sir--I'd rather walk my feet off than permit it. I did walk them off--”
“But who asked you to tramp the streets with my things uuder your arm?
And you lied to me about it--you said you wanted to oblige a friend.
There wasn't a word of truth in it, and you know it.”
Again Gadgem's hand went out with a pleading “Please-don't” gesture.
“Less than a word, sir--a whole dictionary, less, sir, and UNabridged
at that, if I might be permitted to say it. My friend still has the
implement of death, and not only does he still possess it, but he is
ENORmously obliged. Indeed, I have never SEEN him so happy.”
“You mean to tell me, Gadgem,” St. George burst out, “that the money you
paid me for the gun really came from a friend of yours?”
“I do, sir.” Gadgem's gimlet eye was worming itself into Temple's.
“What's his name?”
“Gadgem, sir--John Gadgem, of Gadgem & Coombs--Gadgem sole survivor,
since Coombs is with the angels; the foreclosure having taken place last
month: hence these weeds.” And he lifted the tails of his black coat in
evidence.
“Out of your own money?”
“Yes, sir--some I had laid away.”
St. George wheeled suddenly and stood looking first at Gadgem, then at
Pawson, and last at Todd, as if for confirmation. Then a light broke in
upon him--one that played over his face in uncertain flashes.
“And you did this for me?” he asked thoughtfully, fixing his gaze on
Gadgem.
“I did, sir,” came the answer in a meek voice, as if he had been
detected in filching an apple from a stand; “and I would do it again--do
it over and over again. And it has been a great pleasure for me to do
it. I might say, sir, that it has been a kind of exTREME bliss to do
it.”
“Why?” There was a tremor now in Temple's voice that even Todd had never
noticed before.
Gadgem turned his head away. “I don't know, sir,” he replied in a lower
tone. “I couldn't explain it on oath; I don't care to explain it, sir.”
No lie could serve him now--better make a clean breast of the villany.
“And you still own the gun?” Todd had never seen his master so gentle
before--not under a provocation such as this.
“I do, sir.” Gadgem's voice was barely audible.
“Then it means that you have locked up just that much of your own money
for a thing you can never use yourself and can't sell. Am I right?”
Gadgem lowered his head and for a moment studied the carpet. His
activities, now that the cat was out of the bag, were fair subjects for
discussion, but not his charities.
“I prefer not to answer, sir, and--” the last words died in his throat.
“But it's true, isn't it?” persisted St. George. He had never once taken
his eyes from Gadgem.
“Yes, it's true.”
St. George turned on his heel, walked to the mantel, stood for an
instant gazing into the empty fireplace, and then, with that same
straightening of his shoulders and lift of his head which his friends
knew so well when he was deeply stirred, confronted the collector again:
“Gadgem!” He stopped and caught his breath. For a moment it seemed as
if something in his throat choked his utterance. “Gadgem--give me your
hand! Do you know you are a gentleman and a thoroughbred! No--don't
speak--don't explain. We understand each other. Todd, bring three
glasses and hand me what is left of the old Port. And do you join us,
Pawson.”
Todd, whose eyes had been popping from his head during the entire
interview, and who was still amazed at the outcome, suddenly woke to
the dangers of the situation: on no account must his master's straits be
further revealed. He raised his hand as a signal to St. George, who
was still looking into Gadgem's eyes, screwed his face into a tangle
of puckers and in a husky whisper muttered, so low that only his master
could hear:
“Dat Port, Marse George”--one eye now went entirely out in a wink--“is
gittin' a leetle mite low” (there hadn't been a drop of it in the house
for six months) “an' if--”
“Well, then, that old Brown Sherry--get a fresh bottle, Todd--” St.
George was quite honest, and so, for that matter, was Todd: the Brown
Sherry had also seen its day.
“Yes, sah--but how would dat fine ol' peach brandy de jedge gin ye do?
It's sp'ilin' to be tasted, sah.” Both eyes were now in eclipse in
the effort to apprise his master that with the exception of some badly
corked Madeira, Tom Coston's peach brandy was about the only beverage
left in the cellar.
“Well, the old peach brandy, then--get it at once and serve it in the
large glasses.”