Ben let him in.
He came as an apparition, the old butler balancing the door in his hand,
as if undecided what to do, trying to account for the change in the
young man's appearance--the width of shoulders, the rough clothes, and
the determined glance of his eye.
“Fo' Gawd, it's Marse Harry!” was all he said when he could get his
mouth open.
“Yes, Ben--go and tell your mistress I am here,” and he brushed past
him and pushed back the drawing-room door. Once inside he crossed to the
mantel and stood with his back to the hearth, his sailor's cap in his
hand, his eyes fixed on the door he had just closed behind him. Through
it would come the beginning or the end of his life. Ben's noiseless
entrance and exit a moment after, with his mistress's message neither
raised nor depressed his hopes. He had known all along she would not
refuse to see him: what would come after was the wall that loomed up.
She had not hesitated, nor did she keep him waiting. Her eyes were still
red with weeping, her hair partly dishevelled, when Ben found her--but
she did not seem to care. Nor was she frightened--nor eager. She just
lifted her cheek from Mammy Henny's caressing hand--pushed back the
hair from her face with a movement as if she was trying to collect her
thoughts, and without rising from her knees heard Ben's message to the
end. Then she answered calmly:
“Did you say Mr. Harry Rutter, Ben? Tell him I'll be down in a moment.”
She entered with that same graceful movement which he loved so well--her
head up, her face turned frankly toward him, one hand extended in
welcome.
“Uncle George told me you were back, Harry. It was very good of you to
come,” and sank on the sofa.
It had been but a few steps to him--the space between the open door and
the hearth rug on which he stood--and it had taken her but a few seconds
to cross it, but in that brief interval the heavens had opened above
her. The old Harry was there--the smile--the flash in the eyes--the joy
of seeing her--the quick movement of his hand in gracious salute; then
there had followed a sense of his strength, of the calm poise of his
body, of the clearness of his skin. She saw, too, how much handsomer he
had grown,--and noted the rough sailor's clothes. How well they fitted
his robust frame! And the clear, calm eyes and finely cut features--no
shrinking from responsibility in that face; no faltering--the old ideal
of her early love and the new ideal of her sailor boy--the one Richard's
voice had conjured--welded into one personality!
“I heard you had just been in to see Uncle George, Kate, and I tried to
overtake you.”
Not much: nothing in fact. Playwriters tell us that the dramatic
situation is the thing, and that the spoken word is as unimportant
to the play as the foot-lights--except as a means of illuminating the
situation.
“Yes--I have just left him, Harry. Uncle George looks very badly--don't
you think so? Is there anything very serious the matter? I sent Ben to
Dr. Teackle's, but he was not in his office.”
He had moved up a chair and sat devouring every vibration of her lips,
every glance of her wondrous eyes--all the little movements of her
beautiful body--her dress--the way the stray strands of hair had escaped
to her shoulders. His Kate!--and yet he dare not touch her!
“No, he is not ill. He took a severe cold and only needs rest and a
little care. I am glad you went and--” then the pent-up flood broke
loose. “Are you glad to see me, Kate?”
“I am always glad to see you, Harry--and you look so well. It has been
nearly three years, hasn't it?” Her calmness was maddening; she spoke as
if she was reciting a part in which she had no personal interest.
“I don't know--I haven't counted--not that way. I have lain awake too
many nights and suffered too much to count by years. I count by--”
She raised her hand in protest: “Don't Harry--please don't. All the
suffering has not been yours!” The impersonal tone was gone--there was a
note of agony in her voice.
His manner softened: “Don't think I blame you, Kate. I love you too much
to blame you--you did right. The suffering has only done me good--I am
a different man from the one you once knew. I see life with a wider
vision. I know what it is to be hungry; I know, too, what it is to
earn the bread that has kept me alive. I came home to look after Uncle
George. When I go back I want to take him with me. I won't count the
years nor all the suffering I have gone through if I can pay him back
what I owe him. He stood by me when everybody else deserted me.”
She winced a little at the thrust, as if he had touched some sore spot,
sending a shiver of pain through her frame, but she did not defend
herself.
“You mustn't take him away, Harry--leave Uncle George to me,” not as if
she demanded it--more as if she was stating a fact.
“Why not? He will be another man out in Brazil--and he can live there
like a gentleman on what he will have left--so Pawson thinks.”
“Because I love him dearly--and when he is gone I have nobody left,” she
answered in a hopeless tone.
Harry hesitated, then he asked: “And so what Uncle George told me about
Mr. Willits is true?”
Kate looked at him furtively--as if afraid to read his thoughts and for
reply bowed her head in assent.
“Didn't he love you enough?” There was a certain reproach in his tone,
as if no one could love this woman enough to satisfy her.
“Yes.”
“What was the matter then? Was it--” He stopped--his eagerness had
led him onto dangerous, if not discourteous, grounds. “No, you needn't
answer--forgive me for asking--I had no right. I am not myself, Kate--I
didn't mean to--”
“Yes, I'll tell you. I told Uncle George. I didn't like him well
enough--that's all.” All this time she was looking him calmly in the
face. If she had done anything to be ashamed of she did not intend to
conceal it from her former lover.
“And will Uncle George take his place now that he's gone? Do you ever
know your own heart, Kate?” There was no bitterness in his question.
Her frankness had disarmed him of that. It was more in the nature of an
inquiry, as if he was probing for something on which he could build a
hope.
For a brief instant she made no answer; then she said slowly and with a
certain positiveness:
“If I had I would have saved myself and you a great deal of misery.”
“And Langdon Willits?”
“No, he cannot complain--he does not--I promised him nothing. But I have
been so beaten about, and I have tried so hard to do right; and it has
all crumbled to pieces. As for you and me, Harry, let us both forget
that we have ever had any differences. I can't bear to think that
whenever you come home we must avoid each other. We were friends
once--let us be friends again. It was very kind of you to come. I'm glad
you didn't wait. Don't be bitter in your heart toward me.”
Harry left his chair and settled down on the sofa beside her, and in
pleading, tender tones said:
“Kate--When was I ever bitter toward you in my heart? Look at me! Do you
realize how I love you?--Do you know it sets me half crazy to hear you
talk like that? I haven't come here to-day to reproach you--I have come
to do what I can to help you, if you want my help. I told you the last
time we talked in the park that I wouldn't stay in Kennedy Square a day
longer even if you begged me to. That is over now; I'll do now anything
you wish me to do; I'll go or I'll stay. I love you too much to do
anything else.”
“No, you don't love me!--you can't love me! I wouldn't let you love me
after all the misery I have caused you! I didn't know how much until I
began to suffer myself and saw Mr. Willits suffer. I am not worthy of
any man's love. I will never trust myself again--I can only try to be to
the men about me as Uncle George is to everyone. Oh, Harry!--Harry!--Why
was I born this way--headstrong wilful--never satisfied? Why am I
different from the other women?”
He tried to take her hand, but she drew it away.
“No!--not that!--not that! Let us be just as we were when--Just as we
used to be. Sit over there where I can see you better and watch your
face as you talk. Tell me all you have done--what you have seen and what
sort of places you have been in. We heard from you through--”
He squared his shoulders and faced her, his voice ringing clear, his
eyes flashing: something of the old Dutch admiral was in his face.
“Kate--I will have none of it! Don't talk such nonsense to me; I won't
listen. If you don't know your own heart I know mine; you've GOT to love
me!--you MUST love me! Look at me. In all the years I have been away
from you I have lived the life you would have me live--every request you
ever made of me I have carried out. I did this knowing you would never
be my wife and you would be Willits's! I did it because you were my
Madonna and my religion and I loved the soul of you and lived for you
as men live to please the God they have never seen. There were days and
nights when I never expected to see you or any one else whom I loved
again--but you never failed--your light never went out in my heart.
Don't you see now why you've got to love me? What was it you loved in
me once that I haven't got now? How am I different? What do I lack?
Look into my eyes--close--deep down--read my heart! Never, as God is my
judge, have I done a thing since I last kissed your forehead, that you
would have been ashamed of. Do you think, now that you are free, that I
am going back without you? I am not that kind of a man.”
She half started from her seat: “Harry!” she cried in a helpless
tone--“you do not know what you are saying--you must not--”
He leaned over and took both her hands firmly in his own.
“Look at me! Tell me the truth--as you would to your God! Do you love
me?”
She made an effort to withdraw her hands, then she sank back.
“I--I--don't know--” she murmured.
“YOU DO--search again--way down in your heart. Go over every day we have
lived--when we were children and played together--all that horror at
Moorlands when I shot Willits--the night of Mrs. Cheston's ball when
I was drunk--all the hours I have held you in my arms, my lips to
yours--All of it--every hour of it--balance one against the other. Think
of your loneliness--not mine--yours--and then tell me you do not know!
You DO know! Oh, my God, Kate!--you must love me! What else would you
want a man to do for you that I have not done?”
He stretched out his arms, but she sprang to her feet and put out her
palms as a barrier.
“No. Let me tell you something. We must have no more
misunderstandings--you must be sure--I must be sure. I have no right to
take your heart in my hands again. It is I who have broken my faith with
you, not you with me. I was truly your wife when I promised you here on
the sofa that last time. I knew then that you would, perhaps, lose your
head again, and yet I loved you so much that I could not give you up.
Then came the night of your father's ball and all the misery, and I was
a coward and shut myself up instead of keeping my arms around you and
holding you up to the best that was in you, just as Uncle George begged
me to do. And when your father turned against you and drove you from
your home, all because you had tried to defend me from insult, I saw
only the disgrace and did not see the man behind it; and then you went
away and I stretched out my arms for you to come back to me and only
your words echoed in my ears that you would never come back to me until
you were satisfied with yourself. Then I gave up and argued it out and
said it was all over--”
He had left his seat and at every sentence had tried to take her in his
arms, but she kept her palms toward him.
“No, don't touch me! You SHALL hear me out; I must empty all my heart!
I was lonely and heart-sore and driven half wild with doubts and what
people said, my father worse than all of them. And Mr. Willits was kind
and always at my beck and call--and so thoughtful and attentive--and
I tried and tried--but I couldn't. I always had you before me--and you
haunted me day and night, and sometimes when he would come in that door
I used to start, hoping it might be you.”
“It IS me, my darling!” he cried, springing toward her. “I don't want to
hear any more--I must--I will--”
“But you SHALL! There IS something more. It went on and on and I got so
that I did not care, and one day I thought I would give him my promise
and the next day all my soul rebelled against it and it was that way
until one night Mr. Horn read aloud a story--and it all came over me and
I saw everything plain as if it had been on a stage, and myself and you
and Mr. Willits--and what it meant--and what would come of it--and he
walked home with me and I told him frankly, and I have never seen him
since. And now here is the last and you must hear it out. There is not
a word I have said to him which I would recall--not a thing I am ashamed
of. Your lips were the last that touched my own. There, my darling,
it is all told. I love you with my whole heart and soul and mind and
body--I have never loved anybody else--I have tried and tried and
couldn't. I am so tired of thinking for myself,--so tired,--so tired.
Take me and do with me as you will!”
Again the plot is too strong for the dialogue. He had her fast in his
arms before her confession was finished. Then the two sank on the sofa
where she lay sobbing her heart out, he crooning over her--patting her
cheeks, kissing away the tears from her eyelids; smoothing the strands
of her hair with his strong, firm fingers. It was his Kate that lay in
his grasp--close--tightly pressed--her heart beating against his, her
warm, throbbing body next his own, her heart swept of every doubt and
care, all her will gone.
As she grew quiet she stretched up her hand, touching his cheek as if
to reassure herself that it was really her lover. Yes! It was Harry--HER
Harry--Harry who was dead and is alive again--to whom she had stripped
her soul naked--and who still trusted and loved her.
A little later she loosened herself from his embrace and taking his
face in her small, white hands looked long and earnestly into his eyes,
smoothing back the hair from his brow as she used to do; kissing him
on the forehead, on each eyelid, and then on the mouth--one of their
old-time caresses. Still remembering the old days, she threw back his
coat and let her hands wander over his full-corded throat and chest
and arms. How big and strong he had become! and how handsome he had
grown--the boy merged into the man. And that other something! (and
another and stronger thrill shot through her)--that other something
which seemed to flow out of him;--that dominating force that betokened
leadership, compelling her to follow--not the imperiousness of
his father, brooking no opposition no matter at what cost, but the
leadership of experience, courage, and self-reliance.
With this the sense of possession swept over her. He was all her own and
for ever! A man to lean upon; a man to be proud of; one who would listen
and understand: to whom she could surrender her last stronghold--her
will. And the comfort of it all; the rest, the quiet, the assurance of
everlasting peace: she who had been so torn and buffeted and heart-sore.
For many minutes she lay still from sheer happiness, thrilled by the
warmth and pressure of his strong arms. At last, when another thought
could squeeze itself into her mind, she said: “Won't Uncle George be
glad, Harry?”
“Yes,” he answered, releasing her just far enough to look into her
eyes. “It will make him well. You made him very happy this morning. His
troubles are over, I hear--he's going to get a lot of his money back.”
“Oh, I'm so glad. And will we take him with us?” she asked wonderingly,
smoothing back his hair as she spoke.
“Take him where, darling?” he laughed.
“To where we are going--No, you needn't laugh--I mean it. I don't care
where we go,” and she looked at him intently. “I'll go with you anywhere
in the world you say, and I'll start to-morrow.”
He caught her again in his arms, kissed her for the hundredth time, and
then suddenly relaxing his hold asked in assumed alarm: “And what about
your father? What do you think he will say? He always thought me a
madcap scapegrace--didn't he?” The memory brought up no regret. He
didn't care a rap what the Honorable Prim thought of him.
“Yes--he thinks so now,” she echoed, wondering how anybody could have
formed any such ideas of her Harry.
“Well, he will get over it when I talk with him about his coffee people.
Some of his agents out there want looking after.”
“Oh!--how lovely, my precious; talking coffee will be much pleasanter
than talking me!--and yet we have got to do it somehow when he comes
home.”
And down went her head again, she nestling the closer as if terrified at
the thought of the impending meeting; then another kiss
followed--dozens of them--neither of them keeping count, and then--and
then--...................................
And then--Ben tapped gently and announced that dinner was served, and
Harry stared at the moon-faced dial and saw that it was long after two
o'clock, and wondered what in the world had become of the four hours
that had passed since he had rushed down from his uncle's and into
Kate's arms.
And so we will leave them--playing housekeeping--Harry pulling out
her chair, she spreading her dainty skirts and saying “Thank you, Mr.
Rutter--” and Ben with his face in so broad a grin that it got set
that way--Aunt Dinah, the cook, having to ask him three times “Was he
gwineter hab a fit” before he could answer by reason of the chuckle
which was suffocating him.
And now as we must close the door for a brief space on the happy
couple--never so happy in all their lives--it will be just as well for
us to find out what the mischief is going on at the club--for there is
something going on--and that of unusual importance.
Everybody is out on the front steps. Old Bowdoin is craning his short
neck, and Judge Pancoast is saying that it is impossible and then
instatly changing his mind, saying: “By jove it is!”--and Richard
Horn and Warfield and Murdoch are leaning over the balcony rail still
unconvinced and old Harding is pounding his fat thigh with his pudgy
hand in ill-concealed delight.
Yes--there is no doubt of it--hasn't been any doubt of it since the
judge shouted out the glad tidings which emptied every chair in the
club: Across the park, beyond the rickety, vine-covered fence and close
beside the Temple Mansion, stands a four-in-hand, the afternoon sun
flashing from the silver mountings of the harness and glinting on the
polished body and wheels of the coach. Then a crack of the whip, a wind
of the horn, and they are off--the leaders stretching the traces, two
men on the box, two grooms in the rear. Hurrah! Well, by thunder, who
would have believed it--that's Temple inside on the back seat! “There
he is waving his hand and Todd is with him. And yes! Why of course it's
Rutter! See him clear that curb! Not a man in this county can drive like
that but Talbot.”
Round they come--the colonel straight as a whip--dusty-brown
overcoat, flowers in his buttonhole--bell-crowned hat, brown driving
gloves--perfectly appointed, even if he is a trifle pale and half blind.
More horn--a long joyous note now, as if they were heralding the peace
of the world, the colonel bowing like a grand duke as he passes the
assembled crowd--a gathering of the reins together, a sudden pull-up
at Seymours', everybody on the front porch--Kate peeping over Harry's
shoulder--and last and best of all, St. George's cheery voice ringing
out:
“Where are you two sweethearts!” Not a weak note anywhere; regular
fog-horn of a voice blown to help shipwrecked mariners.
“All aboard for Moorlands, you turtle-doves--never mind your clothes,
Kate--nor you either, Harry. Your father will send for them later. Up
with you.”
“All true, Harry,” called back the colonel from the top of the coach
(nobody alighted but the grooms--there wasn't time--) “Your mother
wouldn't wait another hour and sent me for you, and Teackle said St.
George could go, and we bundled him up and brought him along and you are
all going to stay a month. No, don't wait a minute, Kate; I want to get
home before dark. One of my men will be in with the carryall and bring
out your mammy and your clothes and whatever you want. Your father is
away I hear, and so nobody will miss you. Get your heavy driving coat,
my dear; I brought one of mine in for Harry--it will be cold before we
get home. Matthew, your eyes are better than mine, get down and see
what the devil is the matter with that horse. No, it's all right--the
check-rein bothered him.”
And so ended the day that had been so happily begun, and the night was
no less joyful with the mother's arms about her beloved boy and Kate
on a stool beside her and Talbot and St. George deep in certain
vintages--or perhaps certain vintages deep in Talbot and St.
George--especially that particular and peculiar old Madeira of 1800,
which his friend Mr. Jefferson had sent him from Monticello, and which
was never served except to some such distinguished guest as his highly
esteemed and well-beloved friend of many years, St. George Wilmot Temple
of Kennedy Square.