"Drive to the New York steamer."
"She's off, boss. Past her time."
"Drive, I tell you."
The negro coachman cracked his whip, his two rawboned steeds broke into
a gallop; the loose-jointed landau behind clattered and danced over the
stones.
"Faster," said Paul.
The negro stood up, he shook the reins over the backs of his team with a
galloping motion that corresponded with the sound of their feet; in
addition, he yelled without intermission. They swayed round corners,
they lurched against railings and other carriages; every head turned,
people made way for them as for a fire-engine; at last they reached the
harbor, and went clattering down the descent to the dock. Here there met
them the usual assemblage of loiterers, who were watching the steamer,
which was already half a mile distant, churning the blue water into foam
behind her, her nose pointed straight towards Sumter.
Paul watched the line of her smoke for a moment; then he got out of his
carriage, paid the coachman mechanically, told him to take his luggage
to the Charleston Hotel, and walked away, unconscious alike of the
mingled derision and sympathy which his late arrival had drawn from the
group--boys with market-baskets, girls with baby-wagons, slouching
mulattoes with fishing-tackle, and little negroes of tender age with
spongy lips and bare prehensile toes, to whose minds the departure of
the steamer was a daily drama of intensest interest and excitement.
There was nothing to be done until evening, when he could take the fast
train to New York. Paul went to the Battery; but noticed nothing. A band
from the arsenal began to play; immediately over all the windows of the
tall old houses which looked seaward the white shades descended;
Northern music was not wanted there. He went up Meeting Street; and
noticed nothing. Yet on each side, within sight, were picturesque ruins,
and St. Michael's spire bore the marks of the bomb-shells of the siege.
He opened the gate of the church-yard of the little Huguenot church and
entered; the long inscriptions on the flat stones were quaint, but he
did not read them. He walked into the country by the shaded road across
the neck. Then he came back again. He strolled hither and thither, he
stared at the old Manigault House. Finally, at three o'clock, he went to
the hotel.
Half an hour later an omnibus came up; waiters in white and bell-boys
with wisp-brushes rushed out, dusty travellers descended; Paul, standing
under the white marble columns, looked on. He still stood there after
the omnibus had rolled away, and all was quiet, so quiet that a cat
stole out and crossed the street, walking daintily on its clean white
paving-stones, and disappearing under a wall opposite.
A figure came to the doorway behind, Paul became conscious that he was
undergoing inspection; he turned, and scanned the gazer. It proved to be
a muscular, broad-shouldered man of thirty-five, with a short yellow
beard and clumsy features, which were, however, lighted by keen blue
eyes; his clothes were dusty, he carried a travelling-bag; evidently he
was one of the travellers who had just arrived, coming from the Northern
train. A bell-boy came out and looked up and down the colonnade; then,
with his wisp-brush, he indicated Paul.
"Dat's him, sah.--You was a-asking."
"All right," said the traveller. Putting his travelling-bag on a bench,
he walked up to Paul. "Think I know you. Mr. Tennant, isn't it--Port aux
Pins? Saw your name on the book. I'm Dr. Knox--the one who was with your
brother."
Paul's face changed, its fixed look disappeared. "Will you come to my
room?"
"In twenty minutes. I must have a wash first, and something to eat. Be
here long?"
"I go North at six o'clock."
"All right, I'll look sharp, then; we'll have time."
In twenty minutes he appeared at Paul's door. The door was open,
revealing the usual bachelor's room, with one window, a narrow bed, a
washstand, one chair, a red velvet sofa, with a table before it; the bed
was draped in white mosquito netting; the open window looked down upon a
garden, where were half a dozen negro nurses with their charges--pretty
little white children, overdressed, and chattering in the sweet voices
of South Carolina.
"Curious that I should have run against you here, when this very moment
I am on my way to hunt you up," said Knox, trying first the chair, and
then the sofa. "I landed twenty-four hours ago in New York; been off on
a long yachting excursion; started immediately after your brother's
death,--perhaps Miss Abercrombie told you? Whole thing entirely
unexpected; had to decide in ten minutes, and go on board in an hour, or
lose the chance; big salary, expenses paid; couldn't afford to lose it.
I'd have written before starting, if it had been possible; but it
wasn't. And after I was once off, my eyes gave way suddenly, and I had
to give them a rest. It wasn't a thing to write, anyway; it was a thing
to _tell_. There was nothing to be done in any case, and such kind of
news will keep; so I decided that as soon as I landed, I'd come down
here and find out about you and Miss Abercrombie; then I was going up to
Port aux Pins--or wherever you were--to see you."
"I suppose you can tell me--in three words--what all this is about,"
said Paul, who had not seated himself.
"Yes, easy. What do you suppose was the cause of your brother's death?"
"Pistol-shot," Paul answered, curtly.
"No, that was over, I had cured him of that; I telegraphed you that the
wound wasn't dangerous, and it wasn't. No, sir; he died of a spree--of a
series of 'em."
Paul sat down.
"I say, have some brandy? No? Well, then I'll go on, and get it over.
But don't you go to thinking that I'm down on Ferdie; I'm not, I just
loved that fellow; I don't know when I've seen anybody that took me so.
I was called to him, you know, after those negroes shot him. 'Twasn't in
itself a vital wound; only a tedious one; the difficulty was fever, but
after a while we subdued that. Of course I saw what was behind,--he had
had an attack of something like delirium tremens; it was that which
complicated matters. Well, I went over there every day, sometimes twice
a day; I took the biggest sort of interest in the case, and, besides, we
got to be first-rate chums. I set about doing everything I could for
him, not only in the regular line of business, but also morally, as one
may call it; as a friend. You see, I wanted to open his eyes to the
danger he was in; he hadn't the least conception of it. He thought that
it was only a question of will, and that his will was particularly
strong;--_that_ sort of talk. Well, after rather a slow job of it, I
pronounced him cured--as far as the wound was concerned; all he needed
was rest. Did he take it? By George, sir, he didn't! He slipped off to
Savannah, not letting me know a gleam of it, and there he was joined
by--I don't know whether you have heard that there was a woman in the
case?"
Paul nodded.
"And she wasn't the only one, though she supposed she was. From the
first, the drink got hold of him again. And this time it killed him,--he
led an awful life of it there for days. As soon as I found out that he
had gone--which wasn't at once, as I had given up going over there
regularly--I chased up to Savannah after him as fast as I could tear,--I
had the feeling that he was going to the devil! I couldn't find him at
first, though I scoured the town. And when I did, he was past
helping;--all I could do was to try to get him back to Romney; I wanted
him to die decently, at home, and not up there among those-- Well, sir,
he died the next day. I couldn't tell those women down there--Miss
Abercrombie, Mrs. Singleton, and her aunt, Miss Peggy. They were all
there, of course, and crying; but they would have cried a great deal
worse if they had known the truth, and, as there was nothing to be
gained by it for any one, it seemed cruel to tell them. For good women
are awful fools, you know; they are a great deal harder than we are;
they think nothing of sending a man to hell; they're awfully intolerant.
'Tany rate, I made up my mind that I'd say nothing except to you,
leaving it to you to inform the wife or not, as you thought best. Then,
suddenly, off I had to go on that yachting expedition. But as soon as I
landed I started; and, here I am--on the first stage of the journey."
Paul did not speak.
"I say, do you take it so hard, then?" said Knox, with an embarrassed
laugh.
Paul got up. "You have done me the greatest service that one man can do
another." He put out his hand.
Knox, much relieved, gave it a prolonged shake. "Faults and all, he was
the biggest kind of a trump, wasn't he? Drunkards are death to the
women--to the wives and mothers and sisters; but some of 'em are more
lovable than lots of the moral skinflints that go nagging about, saving
a penny, and grinding everybody but themselves. The trouble with Ferdie
was that he was born without any conscience, just as some people have no
ear for music; it was a case of heredity; and heredity, you know--"
"You needn't excuse him to _me_," said Paul.