St. George had now reached the last stage of his poverty. The selling or
pawning of the few valuables left him had been consummated and with the
greatest delicacy, so as best to spare his feelings. That he had been
assisted by hitherto unknown friends who had sacrificed their own
balances in his behalf, added temporarily to his comforts but did not
lessen the gravity of the present situation. The fact remained that with
the exception of a few possible assets he was practically penniless.
Every old debt that could be collected--and Gadgem had been a scourge
and a flaming sword as the weeks went on in their gathering--had been
rounded up. Even his minor interests in two small ground rents had,
thanks to Pawson, been cashed some years in advance. His available
resources were now represented by some guns, old books, bridles, another
saddle, his rare Chinese punch-bowl and its teakwood stand, and a few
remaining odds and ends.
He could hope for no payment from the Patapsco--certainly not for some
years; nor could he raise money even on these hopes, the general opinion
being that despite the efforts of John Gorsuch, Rutter, and Harding to
punish the guilty and resuscitate the innocent, the bank would finally
collapse without a cent being paid the depositors. As for that old
family suit, it had been in the courts for forty-odd years and it was
likely to be there forty-odd years more before a penny would be realized
from the settlement.
Had he been differently constructed--he a man with scores and scores of
friends, many of whom would gladly have helped him--he might have made
his wants known; but such was not his make-up. The men to whom he
could apply--men like Horn, the archdeacon, Murdoch, and one or two
others--had no money of their own to spare, and as for wealthier
men--men like Rutter and Harding--starvation itself would be preferable
to an indebtedness of that kind. Then again, he did not want his poverty
known. He had defied Talbot Rutter, and had practically shown him the
door when the colonel doubted his ability to pay Harry's debts and
still live, and no humiliation would be greater than to see Rutter's
satisfaction over his abject surrender. No--if the worst came to the
worst, he would slip back to Wesley, where he was always welcome and
take up the practice of the law, which he had abandoned since his
father's death, and thus earn money enough not to be a burden to Peggy.
In the meantime something might turn up. Perhaps another of Gadgem's
thumb-screws could be fastened on some delinquent and thus extort a
drop or two; or the bank might begin paying ten per cent.; or another
prepayment might be squeezed out of a ground rent. If none of these
things turned out to his advantage, then Gadgem and Pawson must continue
their search for customers who would have the rare opportunity of
purchasing, direct “from the private collection of a gentleman,” etc.,
etc., “one first-class English saddle,” etc., etc.
“The meantime,” however, brought no relief. Indeed so acute had the
financial strain become that another and a greater sacrifice--one that
fairly cut his heart in two--faced him--the parting with his dogs. That
four mouths besides his own and Todd's were too many to feed had of late
become painfully evident. He might send them to Wesley of course, but
then he remembered that no one at Tom Coston's ever had a gun in their
hands, and they would only be a charge and a nuisance to Peggy. Or he
might send them up into Carroll County to a farmer friend, but in that
case he would have to pay their keep, and he needed the money for those
at home. And so he waited and pondered.
A coachman from across the park solved the difficulty a day or two
later with a whispered word in Todd's ear, which set the boy's temper
ablaze--for he dearly loved the dogs himself--until he had talked it
over with Pawson and Gadgem, and had then broken the news to his master
as best he could.
“Dem dogs is eatin' dere haids off,” he began, fidgeting about the
table, brushing the crumbs on to a tray only to spill half of them on
the floor--“an' Mister Floyd's coachman done say dat his young marster's
jes' a-dyin' for 'em an' don't cyar what he pay for 'em, dat is if ye--”
but St. George cut him short.
“What did you say, Todd?”
“Why dat young marster dat's jes' come up f'om Ann'rundel--got mo' money
den he kin th'ow 'way I yere.”
“And they are eating their heads off, are they?--and he wants to swap
his dirty money for my--Yes--I know. They think they can buy anything
with a banknote. And its Floe and Dandy and Sue and Rupert, is it?
And I'm to sell them--I who have slept with them and ate with them
and hugged them a thousand times. Of course they eat their heads off.
Yes--don't say another word. Send them up one at a time--Floe first!”
The scene that followed always lingered in his mind. For days thereafter
he could not mention their name, even to Todd, without the tears
springing to his eyes.
Up the kitchen flight they tumbled--not one at a time, but all in a
scramble, bounding straight at him, slobbering all over his face and
hands, their paws scraping his clothes--each trying to climb into his
lap--big Gordon setters, all four. He swept them off and ranged them in
a row before his arm-chair with their noses flat to the carpet, their
brown agate eyes following his every movement.
“Todd says you eat too much, you damned rascals!” he cried in enforced
gayety, leaning forward, shaking his finger in their faces. “What the
devil do you mean, coming into a gentleman's private apartments and
eating him out of house and home!--and that's what you're doing.
I'm going to sell you!--do you hear that?--sell you to some stingy
curmudgeon who'll starve you to death, and that's what you deserve!...
Come here, Floe--you dear old doggie, you--nice Floe!... Here,
Dandy--Rupert--Sue!” They were all in his arms, their cold noses
snuggled under his warm chin. But this time he didn't care what they
did to his clothes--nor what he did to them. He was alone; Todd had
gone down to the kitchen--only he and the four companions so dear to his
heart. “Come here, you imp of the devil,” he continued, rubbing Floe's
ears--he loved her best--pinching her nose until her teeth showed;
patting her flanks, crooning over her as a woman would over a child,
talking to himself all the time. “I wonder if Floyd will be good to
them! If I thought he wouldn't I'd rather starve than--No--I reckon it's
all right--he's got plenty of room and plenty of people to look
after them.” Then he rose from his chair and drew his hand across
his forehead. “Got to sell my dogs, eh? Turned traitor, have you, Mr.
Temple, and gone back on your best friends? By God! I wonder what will
come next?” He strode across the room, rang for Todd, and bending down
loosened a collar from Dandy's neck, on which his own name was engraved,
“St. George Wilmot Temple, Esquire.” “Esquire, eh?” he muttered, reading
the plate. “What a damned lie! Property of a pauper living on pawnshops
and a bill collector! Nice piece of business, St. George--fine record
for your blood and breeding! Ah, Todd--that you? Well, take them
downstairs and send word to Mr. Floyd's man to call for them to-night,
and when you come back I'll have a letter ready for you. Come here, you
rascals, and let me hug one or two of you. Good Floe--good doggie.”
Then the long-fought choke in his throat strangled him. “Take them away,
Todd,” he said in a husky voice, straightening his shoulders as if the
better to get his breath, and with a deep indrawn sigh walked slowly
into his bedroom and shut the door behind him.
Half an hour later there followed a short note, written on one of his
few remaining sheets of English paper, addressed to the new owner, in
which he informed that gentleman that he bespoke for his late companions
the same care and attention which he had always given them himself,
and which they so richly deserved, and which he felt sure they would
continue to receive while in the service of his esteemed and honored
correspondent. This he sealed in wax and stamped with his crest; and
this was duly delivered by Todd--and so the painful incident had come to
an end.
The dogs disposed of, there still remained to him another issue to
meet--the wages he owed Jemima. Although she had not allowed the subject
to pass her lips--not even to Todd--St. George knew that she needed the
money--she being a free woman and her earnings her own--not a master's.
He had twice before determined to set aside enough money from former
cash receipts to liquidate Jemima's debt--once from the proceeds of
Gadgem's gun and again from what Floyd paid him for the dogs--but Todd
had insisted with such vehemence that he needed it for the marketing,
that he had let it go over.
The one remaining object of real value was the famous loving-cup. With
this turned into money he would be able to pay Jemima in full. For days
he debated the matter with himself, putting the question in a dozen
different lights: it was not really HIS cup, but belonged to the family,
he being only its custodian; it would reflect on his personal honor if
he traded so distinguished a gift--one marking the esteem in which his
dead father had been held, etc. Then the round, good-natured face and
bent figure of his old stand-by and comfort--who had worked for him and
for his father almost all her life--rose before him, she bending over
her tubs earning the bread to keep her alive, and with this picture in
his mind all his fine-spun theories vanished into thin air. Todd was
summoned and thus the last connecting link between the past and
present was broken and the precious heirloom turned over to Kirk, the
silversmith, who the next day found a purchaser with one of the French
secretaries in Washington, a descendant of the marquis.
With the whole of the purchase money in his hands and his mind firmly
made up he rang for his servant:
“Come along, Todd--show me where Aunt Jemima lives--it's somewhere down
by the market, I hear--I'm going now.”
The darky's face got as near white as his skin would allow: this was the
last thing he had expected.
“Dat ain't no fit place for ye, Marse George,” he stammered. “I'll
go an' git her an' bring her up; she tol' me when I carried dat las'
washin' down she wuz a-comin' dis week.”
“No, her sister is sick and she is needed where she is. Get your basket
and come along--you can do your marketing down there. Bring me my hat
and cane. What's the matter with her sister, do you know?”
Again the darky hedged: “Dunno, sah--some kin' o' mis'ry in her back
I reckon. Las' time Aunt Jemima was yere she say de doctor 'lowed her
kittens was 'fected.” (It was another invalid limping past the front
steps who had put that in his head.)
St. George roared: “Well, whatever she's got, I'm going to pay my
respects to her; I've neglected Aunt Jemima too long. No--my best
hat--don't forget that I'm going to call on a very distinguished colored
lady. Come, out with it. How far does she live from the market?”
“Jes' 'bout's far's from yere to de church. Is you gwine now? I got a
heap o' cleanin' ter do--dem steps is all gormed up, dey's dat dirty.
Maybe we better go when--”
“Not another word out of you! I'm going now.” He could feel the money in
his pocket and he could not wait. “Get your basket.”
Todd led the way and the two crossed the park and struck out for the
lower part of the city, near Jones Falls, into a district surrounded by
one-and two-story houses inhabited by the poorer class of whites and the
more well-to-do free negroes. Here the streets, especially those which
ran to the wharves, were narrow and ill-paved, their rough cobbles
being often obstructed by idle drays, heavy anchors, and rusting
anchor-chains, all on free storage. Up one of these crooked streets,
screened from the brick sidewalk by a measly wooden fence, stood a
two-story wooden house, its front yard decorated with clothes-lines
running criss-cross from thumbs of fence-posts to fingers of shutters--a
sort of cat's-cradle along whose meshes Aunt Jemima hung her wet
clothes.
On this particular day what was left of St. George Temple's wardrobe and
bed linen, with the exception of what that gentleman had on his back,
was either waving in the cool air of the morning or being clothes-pinned
so that it might wave later on.
Todd's anxious face was the first to thrust itself from around the
corner of a sagging, sloppy sheet. The two had entered the gate in the
fence at the same moment, but St. George had been lost in the maze of
dripping linen.
“Go'way f'om dar, you fool nigger, mussin' up my wash! Keep yo' black
haid off'er dem sheets, I tell ye, 'fo' I smack ye! An' ye needn't come
down yere a-sassin' me 'bout Marse George's clo'es, 'cause dey ain't
done--” (here Temple's head came into view, his face in a broad smile).
“Well, fer de lan's sakes, Marse George. What ye come down yere fer?
Here--lemme git dat basket outer yo' way--No, dem hands ain't fit fer
nobody to shake--My!--but I's mighty glad ter see ye! Don't tell me
ye come fer dat wash--I been so pestered wid de weather--nothin' don't
dry.”
He had dodged a wet sheet and had the old woman by the hand now, her
face in a broad grin at sight of him.
“No, aunty--I came down to pay you some money.”
“You don't owe me no money--leastwise you don't owe me nothin' till ye
kin pay it,” and she darted an annihilating glance at Todd.
“Yes, I do--but let me see where you live. What a fine place--plenty of
room except on wash-days. All those mine?--I didn't know I had that many
clothes left. Pick up that basket, Todd, and bring it in for aunty.” The
two made their way between the wet linen and found themselves in front
of the dwelling. “And is this all yours?”
“De fust flo' front an 'back is mine an' de top flo' I rents out. Got a
white man in dere now dat works in de lumber yard. Jes' come up an' see
how I fixed it up.”
“And tell me about your sister--is she better?” he continued.
The old woman put her arms akimbo: “Lawd bress ye, Marse George!--who
done tol' ye dat fool lie! I ain't got no sister--not yere!”
“Why, I thought you couldn't come back to me because you had to nurse
some member of your family who had kittens, or some such misery in her
spine--wasn't that it, Todd?” said St. George trying to conceal a smile.
Todd shot a beseeching look at Jemima to confirm his picturesque yarn,
but the old woman would have none of it.
“Dere ain't been nobody to tek care ob but des me. I come yere 'cause
I knowed ye didn't hab no money to keep me, an' I got back de ol'
furniture what I had fo' I come to lib wid ye, an' went to washin', an'
if dat yaller skunk's been tellin' any lies 'bout me I'm gwineter wring
his neck.”
“No, let Todd alone,” laughed St. George, his heart warming to the old
woman at this further proof of her love for him. “The Lord has already
forgiven him that lie, and so have I. And now what have you got
upstairs?”
They had mounted the steps by this time and St. George was peering into
a clean, simply furnished room. “First rate, aunty--your lumber-yard
man is in luck. And now put that in your pocket,” and he handed her the
package.
“What's dis?”
“Nearly half a year's wages.”
“I ain't gwineter take it,” she snapped back in a positive tone.
St. George laid his hand tenderly on the old woman's shoulder. She had
served him faithfully for many years and he was very fond of her.
“Tuck it in your bosom, aunty--it should have been paid long ago.”
She looked at him shrewdly: “Did de bank pay ye yit, Marse George?”
No
“Den I ain't gwineter tech it--I ain't gwineter tech a fip ob it!” she
exploded. “How I know ye ain't a-sufferin' fer it! See dat wash?--an' I
got anudder room to rent if I'm min' ter scrunch up a leetle mo'. I kin
git 'long.”
St. George's hand again tightened on her shoulder.
“Take it when you can get it, aunty,” he said in a more serious tone,
and turning on his heel joined Todd below, leaving the old woman in
tears at the top of the stairs, the money on her limp outspread fingers.
All the way back to his home--they had stopped to replenish the larder
at the market--St. George kept up his spirits. Absurd as it was--he
a man tottering on the brink of dire poverty--the situation from his
stand-point was far from perilous. He had discharged the one debt that
had caused him the most anxiety--the money due the faithful old cook; he
had a basketful of good things--among them half a dozen quail and three
diamond-back terrapin--the cheapest food in the market--and he had funds
left for his immediate wants.
With this feeling of contentment permeating his mind something of the
old feeling of independence, with its indifference toward the dollar and
what it meant and could bring him, welled up in his heart. For a time at
least the spectre of debt lay hidden. A certain old-time happiness began
to show itself in his face and bearing. So evident was this that before
many days had passed even Todd noticed the return of his old buoyancy,
and so felt privileged to discuss his own feelings, now that the secret
of their mode of earning a common livelihood was no longer a bugbear to
his master.
“Dem taters what we got outer de extry sterrups of dat ridin'-saddle is
mos' gone,” he ventured one morning at breakfast, when the remains of
the cup money had reached a low ebb. “Shall I tote de udder saddle down
to dat Gadgem man”--(he never called him anything else, although of late
he had conceived a marked respect for the collector)--“or shall I keep
it fer some mo' sugar?”
“What else is short, Todd?” said St. George, good-naturedly, helping
himself to another piece of corn bread.
“Well, dere's plenty ob dose decanter crackers and de pair ob andirons
is still holdin' out wid de mango pickles an' de cheese, but dat pair
ob ridin'-boots is mos' gone. We got half barrel ob flour an' a bag o'
coffee, ye 'member, wid dem boots. I done seen some smoked herrin' in
de market yisterday mawnin' 'd go mighty good wid de buckwheat cakes an'
sugar-house 'lasses--only we ain't got no 'lasses. I was a-thinkin' dem
two ol' cheers in de garret 'd come in handy; ain't nobody sot in em
since I been yere; de bottoms is outen one o' dem, but de legs an' backs
is good 'nough fer a quart o' 'lasses. I kin take 'em down to de same
place dat Gadgem man tol' me to take de big brass shovel an' tongs--”
“All right, Todd,” rejoined St. George, highly amused at the boy's
economic resources. “Anything that Mr. Gadgem recommends I agree to.
Yes--take him the chairs--both of them.”
Even the men at the club had noticed the change and congratulated him on
his good spirits. None of them knew of his desperate straits, although
many of them had remarked on the differences in his hospitality, while
some of the younger gallants--men who made a study of the height
and roll of the collars of their coats and the latest cut of
waistcoats--especially the increased width of the frogs on the
lapels--had whispered to each other that Temple's clothes certainly
needed overhauling; more particularly his shirts, which were much
the worse for wear: one critic laying the seeming indifference to the
carelessness of a man who was growing old; another shaking his head with
the remark that it was Poole's bill which was growing old--older by a
good deal than the clothes, and that it would have to be patched and
darned with one of old George Brown's (the banker's) scraps of paper
before the wearer could regain his reputation of being the best-dressed
man in or out of the club.
None of these lapses from his former well-to-do estate made any
difference, however, to St. George's intimates when it came to the
selection of important guests for places at table or to assist in the
success of some unusual function. Almost every one in and around Kennedy
Square had been crippled in their finances by the failure, not only
of the Patapsco, but by kindred institutions, during the preceding few
years. Why, then, they argued, should any one criticise such economies
as Temple was practising? He was still living in his house with his
servants--one or two less, perhaps--but still in comfort, and if he did
not entertain as heretofore, what of it? His old love of sport, as was
shown by his frequent visits to his estates on the Eastern Shore, might
account for some of the changes in his hospitable habits, there not
being money enough to keep up establishments both in country and town.
These changes, of course, could only be temporary. His properties on
the peninsula--(almost everybody had “properties” in those days, whether
imaginary or real)--would come up some day, and then all would be well
again.
The House of Seymour was particularly in the dark. The Honorable Prim,
in his dense ignorance, had even asked St. George to join in one of his
commercial enterprises--the building of a new clipper ship--while Kate,
who had never waited five minutes in all her life for anything that
a dollar could buy, had begged a subscription for a charity she was
managing, and which she received with a kiss and a laugh, and without a
moment's hesitation, from a purse shrinking steadily by the hour.
Only when some idle jest or well-meant inquiry diverted his mind to
the chain of events leading up to Harry's exile was his insistent
cheerfulness under his fast accumulating misfortunes ever checked.
Todd was the cruel disturber on this particular day, with a bit of
information which, by reason of its source, St. George judged must be
true, and which because of its import brought him infinite pain.
“Purty soon we won't hab 'nough spoons to stir a toddy wid,” Todd had
begun. “I tell ye, Marse George, dey ain't none o' dem gwine down in
dere pockets till de constable gits 'em. I jes' wish Marse Harry was
yere--he'd fix 'em. 'Fo' dey knowed whar dey wuz he'd hab 'em full o'
holes. Dat red-haided, no-count gemman what's a-makin up to Miss Kate is
gwineter git her fo' sho--”
It was here that St. George had raised his head, his heart in his mouth.
“How do you know, Todd?” he asked in a serious tone. He had long since
ceased correcting Todd for his oustpoken reflections on Kate's suitor as
a useless expenditure of time.
“'Cause Mammy Henny done tol' Aunt Jemima so--an' she purty nigh cried
her eyes out when she said it. Ye ain't heared nothin' 'bout Marse Harry
comin' home, is ye?”
“No--not a word--not for many months, Todd. He's up in the mountains, so
his mother tells me.”
Whereupon Todd had gulped down an imprecation expressive of his feelings
and had gone about his duties, while St. George had buried himself
in his easy-chair, his eyes fixed on vacancy, his soul all the more
a-hungered for the boy he loved. He wondered where the lad was--why he
hadn't written. Whether the fever had overtaken him and he laid up
in some filthy hospital. Almost every week his mother had either come
herself or sent in for news, accompanied by messages expressing some new
phase of her anxiety. Or had he grown and broadened out and become big
and strong?--whom had he met, and how had they treated him?--and would
he want to leave home again when once he came back? Then, as always,
there came a feeling of intense relief. He thanked God that Harry WASN'T
at home; a daily witness of the shrinkage of his resources and the
shifts to which he was being put. This would be ten times worse for
him to bear than the loss of the boy's companionship. Harry would then
upbraid him for the sacrifices he had made for him, as if he would
not take every step over again! Take them!--of course he would take
them!--so would any other gentleman. Not to have come to Harry's rescue
in that the most critical hour of his life, when he was disowned by his
father, rejected by his sweetheart, and hounded by creditors, not one of
whom did he justly owe, was unthinkable, absolutely unthinkable, and not
worth a moment's consideration.
And so he would sit and muse, his head in his hand, his well-rounded
legs stretched toward the fire, his white, shapely fingers tapping
the arms of his chair--each click so many telegraphic records of the
workings of his mind.