AT THE RED HOUSE
Burton could have found his way to the Red House without any further
direction than the clerk had given him, and it was chiefly curiosity
that made him try another experiment on the way. He had come by the
side street, and half a block away he saw the large red house facing
toward Rowan street. At the rear ran a high board fence, separating
the grounds belonging to the house from an alley which cut through the
middle of the block. As he passed the end of the alley, he noticed a
man and a woman talking together by the gate which opened into the
house grounds. The woman's excited gestures caught his attention. She
was shaking her hands at the man in a way that might have meant anger
or impatience or merely dismissal, but which certainly meant something
in a superlative and violent degree. Then she darted in through the
gate, slamming it shut, and the man came running down the alley toward
the street with a curious low lope that covered the ground amazingly,
though it seemed effortless.
Burton had stopped, at first to see whether it were a case that called
for interference. Now, as the man jumped out just in front of him, he
spoke to him,--as much from a desire to see the face of a man who ran
so furtively as from curiosity as to the effect the doctor's name
would have. "Pardon me," he said. "Can you tell me if this is where
Dr. Underwood lives?"
But this time his cast drew nothing. The man stopped a moment, cast a
sharp though furtive glance up at his questioner, and shook his head.
"Don't know," he said curtly, and hurried on. Burton took the liberty
of believing that the man had lied.
The Red House had a character and quality of its own that set it
immediately apart from the rest of this half-baked town. It was a
large house, with signs of age that were grateful to him, set back in
extensive grounds which were surrounded by high hedges of shrubbery.
The house itself was shaded by old trees, and the general effect of
the place was one of aloofness, as different as possible from the
cheap, new, easy-going publicity of the rest of the street. If it be
true that human beings mould their surrounding to reflect their own
characters, then the Underwoods were certainly not commonplace people.
Burton was sensitive to influences, and as he stepped inside the
grounds and let the gate shut behind him, he had an indefinable
feeling that he had stepped into an alien territory. He glanced back
at the street outside as an adventurer who has strayed into an
enchanted land may look back for reassurance to the safe and
commonplace country he has left.
A man in the rough dress of a gardener was down on his knees beside a
flower-bed in the garden, and Burton approached him.
"Is this Dr. Underwood's house?"
"He lives here," the man said coolly, without glancing up.
"You mean he doesn't own it?" Burton asked, more for the sake of
pursuing the conversation than from any special interest in Dr.
Underwood's tax list.
"He couldn't own that, could he?" asked the man, pointing dramatically
at the tulip about which he had been building up the earth.
"You are a philosopher as well as a gardener."
"I?" The man stood up, and Burton saw that he was young, and that his
face, in spite of its somberness, was intelligent and not
unattractive. "Oh, I am a human being, like the rest of the
impertinent race. I try to forget what I am, but I have no right to.
You do well to remind me."
"Why do you wish to forget?" asked Burton curiously.
"Who that is human would not wish to forget? Who that is human would
not wish at times that he were a tulip, blooming in perfect beauty,
and so doing all that could be asked of him? Or an oak, like that one,
fulfilling its nature without blame and without harm?"
"Are you Ben Bussey?" Burton asked on a sudden impulse, remembering
the name of the young man whom the hotel clerk had mentioned as being
the subject of popular stories. This young man was certainly queer
enough to give rise to legends.
He was not prepared for the effect of his question. The young man drew
back as though he had been struck, while a look where fear and
distaste and reproach were mingled darkened his face.
"Who are you?" he asked harshly. "What do you know about Ben Bussey?"
"I have heard the name mentioned, that's all, as that of a young man
living with Dr. Underwood. I assure you I meant nothing offensive."
Unconsciously he had adopted the tone of one speaking to an equal.
This was no common gardener.
"No, I am not Ben Bussey," the young man said, after a pause in which
he obviously struggled to regain his self-control. "I have often
wished I were, however. I am Henry Underwood." He looked up with a
sharp defiance in his eyes as he spoke the name. It was as though he
expected to see some sign of repulsion.
"I am very glad to meet you, then. My name is Burton. Mrs. Overman, of
Putney, asked me to bring a message to your sister."
"You will find her in the house, I suppose," the young man answered
carelessly. He turned indifferently away, as though he had no further
interest in his visitor, and in a few minutes he was bent over another
flower-bed, absorbed in his work.
Burton walked up to the house, his pulses curiously atingle. No wonder
the Underwoods got themselves talked about in the neighborhood, if
this was a sample of the way in which they met the advances of
strangers! After ringing the bell, he glanced back at Henry Underwood.
He had risen from the ground and stood with bared head looking up into
the branches of the oak with an expression that struck Burton even at
that distance as inexpressibly sad.
The door was opened by a middle-aged servant, in whom Burton
recognized the woman he had seen gesticulating so violently in the
back yard. She looked out at him with surprise and caution, and with
the obvious intent of not admitting him without cause shown.
"Is Miss Underwood at home?" he asked.
"I don't know. Likely she is," the woman answered, still with that
uncomprehending look of wonder at his intrusion.
"Will you take her my card, please?" And with a little more muscular
effort than he was in the habit of using when entering a house, he
forced the door far enough back to enable him to pass the guarded
portal, and with an air of assurance that was largely factitious,
walked into a room opening from the hall, which he judged to be a
reception room.
The woman followed him to the door and looked dubiously from him to
his card, which she still held in her hand.
"I will wait here while you see if Miss Underwood is at home and
whether she can see me. Please look her up at once," he said
positively. The tone was effective. The woman departed.
The same evidences of old-time dignity and present-day decay that he
had noted in the grounds struck Burton in the drawing-room. The room
was a stately one, built according to the old ideas of spaciousness
and leisure, but the carpet was worn, the upholstery dingy, and a
general air of disuse showed that the days of receptions must be long
past. Evidently the Underwoods were not living in the heyday of
prosperity. To do Rachel justice, she would not care about that except
incidentally. But she would care a great deal about the family's
social standing. Burton tried, to the best of his masculine ability,
to take an inventory of things that would enable him to answer the
questions she was sure to pour out upon him,--always supposing his
mission were in any degree successful.
He walked to the window and looked out upon the side garden. Not far
from the house was a rustic seat, and here a lady was sitting,--a
tall, gray-haired lady, reading a ponderous book. The conviction that
this must be Mrs. Underwood made him look at her with the liveliest
interest. The servant to whom Burton had given his card came out, in
obvious haste and excitement, but the reading lady merely lifted a
calm hand to check her, and turned her page without raising her eyes.
But she shook her head, seemingly in answer to some question, and the
messenger returned hastily to the house. The lady continued to read.
Burton smiled to himself over the little scene. Mrs. Underwood, if
this were she, would be able to give points in self-possession to
Rachel herself.
But the moment that Leslie Underwood entered the room, Burton forgot
all his hesitations and reluctances. In the instant while he bowed
before her, his mind took a right-about-face. It was not merely that
she was unexpectedly beautiful. That would account for Philip's
infatuation, but Burton was a keener judge of human nature. Behind the
girl's mask of beauty there looked out a spirit so direct, so genuine,
that it was like a touchstone to prove those qualities in others.
Burton felt something pull him erect as he looked at her. Philip had
drawn a prize which he probably neither understood nor deserved,--and
the High Ridge tales about Dr. Underwood were preposterous
absurdities. All this in the flash of an eye!
"You wished to see me?" she asked. Her voice had a vibrant ring.
"Yes,--though I am merely an ambassador." (No thought now of modifying
his commission!) "I come from Philip Overman."
Her face flushed sensitively at the name.
"Philip has been seriously ill," he said.
"I am sorry to hear it."
"Even yet his condition causes keen anxiety to his mother."
A little change passed over her sensitive face,--could it have been a
flicker of amusement? The suspicion helped to restore his nerve. Who
was this young woman after all, that she should dare to smile at
Rachel Overman's anxiety for her boy? People who knew Mrs. Overman
were accustomed to treat even her whims with respect. He continued a
thought more stiffly.
"His physician, I may say, admits that her fears are justified. He is
in an extremely nervous and excitable condition, and it is considered
that the best hope for his recovery lies in removing the cause of the
mental disturbance which is at the root of his physical overthrow. His
unhappiness is sending him into a decline."
She looked at him quizzically. There was no question now about the
hidden amusement that brought that gleam into her eyes. And she
answered with a rocking, monotonous cadence that flared its mockery in
his ears.
"Men have died, and worms have eaten them," she said slowly, "but--not
for love."
Burton flushed to the roots of his hair. He knew that he had not been
honest in his plea,--that it was for Rachel's sake and not for
Philip's (confound the boy!) that he had turned special pleader in the
case,--but for heaven's sake, why couldn't the girl have pretended
with him for a little while? Couldn't she see that he had to present
the best side of his cause?
"I think possibly the matter is more serious than you realize," he
said, dropping his eyes. "Philip is a high-strung young man. His
disappointment was profound. It has seemingly shattered his ambition
and his interest in life."
"Philip is a self-willed young man," she said, in a carefully modulated
voice that was so palpable a mimicry of his own that he was torn
between a desire to applaud her skill and to box her ears for her
impertinence. "He cried for the moon, and when he couldn't have it,
he evidently made things uncomfortable for his dear mamma and his
self-sacrificing friend. But I believe, speaking under correction,
that the best modern authorities, as well as the classic one I have
already quoted, agree that the probabilities are highly in favor of a
complete recovery,--in time. Don't you agree with me?"
"I am sorry not to be able to do so. In the first place I have been
retained as a witness by the other side. In the second place, I can
judge, as you cannot, of the rarity of the treasure that he thinks he
has lost. I cannot say that his despair is excessive."
She smiled appreciatively.
"That was really very well done, under the circumstances. Well, now
that these polite preliminaries have passed, what is the real object
of your visit?"
"Allow me to point out that you make an ambassador's task unusually
difficult by pressing so immediately to the point, but, since that is
your way, I can only meet you in the same direct manner. My object is
to ask whether it is not possible for you to reconsider your refusal
to marry Philip Overman."
She lifted her head with a look of surprise. There was a sparkle in
her eyes and this time it was not amusement.
"Did he send you?" she asked.
"He raved of you in his delirium. He talked of you incessantly. He has
begged me times without number to ask you to come and let him see you
for a minute,--for an hour. We pulled him through the fever and the
rest of it, but his physical recovery has not restored his mental
tone. He will not take up his life in the old way. He vows now that as
soon as we let go our present surveillance, he will enlist and get
himself sent to the Philippines. I think he means it. And it would be
rather a pity, for in his state of health, to go to the Philippines as
a common soldier would mean a fairly expeditious form of suicide. It
would, beyond the slightest question, break his mother's heart. And
she has no one else,--her husband died less than a year ago. Philip's
death would mean a rather sad end for a good old family that has
written its name in its country's history more than once."
She had dropped her eyes when he began, but at the last word she
looked up.
"And what of my family?" she asked. There was a vibrant undertone of
suppressed feeling in her voice which made Burton look at her
questioningly. Exactly what feeling was it that brought such a
challenging light into her eyes? He took refuge in a generalization.
"In America, the families of the high contracting parties come in only
for secondary consideration, don't they?" he suggested. "But I have
discharged my commission very poorly if I have failed to make you
understand that Philip's family is waiting to welcome you with entire
love and--respect." In spite of himself, he had hesitated before the
last word.
She laughed,--a forlorn little laugh that was anything but mirthful;
but whatever answer she might have made was interrupted by the sounds
of an unusual commotion outside. A woman's excited voice was heard in
exclamations that were at first only half distinguishable.
"Oh, doctor, doctor, for the love of heaven what have you been in,
now? What have you done to yourself? You're hurt, doctor, I can see
that you're hurt!"
"Nonsense, Mrs. Bussey, don't make a fuss," a man's voice answered
impatiently.
But the housekeeper who had admitted Burton now rushed into the
drawing-room, calling hysterically: "Oh, Miss Leslie, your father is
killed!" And thereupon she threw her apron up over her head to render
her more effective in the emergency.
She was followed almost immediately by a sufficiently startling
apparition,--a powerfully built man of more than middle age, with a
keen blue eye and an eager face. But just now the face was disfigured
by the blood that flowed freely from a wound on his temple, and he
supported himself by the door as though he could not well stand alone.
Leslie ran toward him with a cry.
"Father! Oh, father, what has happened?"