Kennedy Square

CHAPTER XXIV

One winter evening some weeks after St. George's departure, Pawson sat before a smouldering fire in Temple's front room, reading by the light of a low lamp. He had rearranged the furniture—what was left of it—both in this and the adjoining room, in the expectation that Fogbin (Gorsuch's attorney) would move in, but so far he had not appeared, nor had any word come from either Gorsuch or Colonel Rutter; nor had any one either written or called upon him in regard to the overdue payment; neither had any legal papers been served.

This prolonged and ominous silence disturbed him; so much so that he had made it a point to be as much in his office as possible should his enemy spring any unexpected trap.

It was, therefore, with some misgivings that he answered a quick, impatient rap on his front door at the unusual hour of ten o'clock. If it were Fogbin he had everything ready for his comfort; if it were any one else he would meet him as best he could: no legal papers, at any rate, could be served at that hour.

He swung back the door and a full-bearded, tightly-knit, well-built man in rough clothes stepped in. In the dim light of the overhead lamp he caught the flash of a pair of determined eyes set in a strong, forceful face.

“I want Mr. Temple,” said the man, who had now removed his cap and stood looking about him, as if making an inventory of the scanty furniture.

“He is not here,” replied Pawson, rummaging the intruder's face for some clew to his identity and purpose in calling at so late an hour.

“Are you sure?” There was doubt as well as marked surprise in the man's tone. He evidently did not believe a word of the statement.

“Very sure,” rejoined the attorney in a more positive tone, his eyes still on the stranger. “He left town some weeks ago.”

The intruder turned sharply, and with a brisk inquisitive movement strode past him and pushed open the dining-room door. There he stood for a moment, his eyes roaming over the meagre appointments of the interior—the sideboard, bare of everything but a pitcher and some tumblers—the old mahogany table littered with law books and papers—the mantel stripped of its clock and candelabras. Then he stepped inside, and without explanation of any kind, crossed the room, opened the door of St. George's bedroom, and swept a comprehensive glance around the despoiled interior. Once he stopped and peered into the gloom as if expecting to find the object of his search concealed in its shadows.

“What has happened here?” he demanded in a voice which plainly showed his disappointment.

“Do you mean what has become of the rest of the furniture?” asked the attorney in reply, gaining time to decide upon his course.

“Yes, who is responsible for this business?” he exclaimed angrily. “Has it been done during his absence?”

Pawson hesitated. That the intruder was one of Gorsuch's men, and that he had been sent in advance on an errand of investigation, was no longer to be doubted. He, however, did not want to add any fuel to his increasing heat, so he answered simply:

“Mr. Temple got caught in the Patapsco failure and it went pretty hard with him, and so what he didn't actually need he sold.”

The man gave a start, his features hardening; but whether of surprise or dissatisfaction Pawson could not tell.

“And when it was all gone he went away—is that what you mean?” This came in a softened tone.

“Yes—that seems to be the size of it. I suppose you come about—some”—again he hesitated, not knowing exactly where the man stood—“about some money due you?—Am I right?”

“No, I came to see Mr. Temple, and I must see him, and at once. How long will he be gone?”

“All winter—perhaps longer.” The attorney had begun to breathe again. The situation might not be as serious as he had supposed. If he wanted to see Mr. Temple himself, and no one else would do, there was still chance of delay in the wiping out of the property.

Again the man's eyes roamed over the room, the bareness of which seemed still to impress him. Then he asked simply: “Where will a letter reach him?”

“I can't say exactly. I thought he had gone to Virginia—but he doesn't answer any of my communications.”

A look of suspicion crept into the intruder's eyes.

“You're not trying to deceive me, are you? It is very important that I should see Mr. Temple, and at once.” Then his manner altered. “You've forgotten me, Mr. Pawson, but I have not forgotten you—my name is Rutter. I lived here with Mr. Temple before I went to sea, three years ago. I am just home—I left the ship an hour ago. I'll sit down if you don't mind—I've still got my sea-legs on and am a little wobbly.”

Pawson twisted his thin body and bent his neck, his eyes glued to the speaker's face. There was not a trace of young Harry in the features.

“Well, you don't look like him,” he replied incredulously—“he was slender—not half your size, and—”

“Yes—I don't blame you. I am a good deal heavier; may be too a beard makes some change in a man's face. But you don't really doubt me, do you? Have you forgotten the bills that man Gadgem brought in?—the five hundred dollars due Slater, and the horse Hampson sold me—the one I shot?” and one of his old musical laughs rose to his lips.

Pawson sprang forward and seized the intruder's hand. He would recognize that laugh among a thousand:

“Yes—I know you now! It's all come back to me,” he cried joyously. “But you gave me a terrible start, Mr. Rutter. I thought you had come to clear up what was left. Oh!—but I AM glad you are back. Your uncle—you always called him so, I remember—your uncle has had an awful hard time of it—had to sell most of his things—terrible—terrible! And then, too, he has grieved so over you—asking me, sometimes two or three times a day, for letters from you—asking me questions and worrying over your not coming and not answering. Oh, this is fine. Now may be we can save the situation. You don't mind my shaking your hand again, do you? It's so good to know there is somebody who can help. I have been all alone so far except Gadgem—who has been a treasure. You remember him. Why didn't you let Mr. Temple know you were coming?”

“I couldn't. I have been up in the mountains of Brazil, and coming home went ashore—got wrecked. These clothes I bought from a sailor,” and he opened his rough jacket the wider.

“Yes—that's exactly what I heard him say—that's what he thought—that is, that you were where you couldn't write, although I never heard him say anything about shipwreck. I remember his telling Mr. Willits and Miss Seymour that same thing the morning he left—that you couldn't write. They came to see him off.”

Harry edged his chair nearer the fireplace and propped one shoe on the fender as if to dry it, although the night was fair. The mention of Kate's and her suitor's names had sent the blood to his head and he was using the subterfuge in the effort to regain control of himself before Pawson should read all his secrets.

Shifting his body he rested his head on his hand, the light of the lamp bringing into clearer relief his fresh, healthy skin, finely modelled nose, and wide brow, the brown hair, clipped close to his head, still holding its glossy sheen. For some seconds he did not speak: the low song of the fire seemed to absorb him. Now and then Pawson, who was watching him intently, heard him strangle a rebellious sigh, as if some old memory were troubling him. His hand dropped and with a quick movement he faced his companion again.

“I have been away a long time, Mr. Pawson,” he said in a thoughtful tone. “For three months—four now—I have had no letters from anybody. It was my fault partly, but let that go. I want you to answer some questions, and I want you to tell me the truth—all the truth. I haven't any use for any other kind of man—do you understand? Is my mother alive?”

“Yes.”

“And Alec? Is he all right?”

Pawson nodded.

“And my uncle? Is he ruined?—so badly ruined that he is suffering? Tell me.” There was a peculiar pathos in his tone—so much so that Pawson, who had been standing, settled into a chair beside him that his answers might, if possible, be the more intimate and sympathetic.

“I'm afraid he is. The only hope is the postponement in some way of the foreclosure of the mortgage on this house until times get better. It wouldn't bring its face value to-day.”

Harry caught his breath: “My God!—you don't tell me so! Poor Uncle George—so fine and splendid—so good to everybody, and he has come to this! And about this mortgage—who owns it?”

“Mr. Gorsuch, I understand, owns it now: he bought it of the Tyson estate.”

“You mean John Gorsuch—my father's man of business?”

“Yes.”

“And was there nothing left?—no money coming in from anywhere?”

Pawson shook his head: “We collected all that some time ago—it came from some old ground rents.”

“And how has he lived since?” He wanted to hear it all; he could help better if he knew how far down the ladder to begin.

“From hand to mouth, really.” And then there followed his own and Gadgem's efforts to keep the wolf from the door; the sale of the guns, saddles, and furniture; the wrench over the Castullux cup—and what a godsend it was that Kirk got such a good price for it—down to the parting with the last article that either or both of them could sell or pawn, including his four splendid setters.

As the sad story fell from the attorney's sympathetic lips Harry would now and then cover his face with his hands in the effort to hide the tears. He knew that the ruin was now complete. He knew, too, that he had been the cause of it. Then his thoughts reverted to the old regime and its comforts: those which his uncle had shared with him so generously.

“And what has become of my uncle's servants?” he asked—“his cook, Aunt Jemima, and his body-servant, Todd?”

“I don't know what has become of the cook, but he took Todd with him.”

Harry heaved a sigh of relief. If Todd was with him life would still be made bearable for his uncle. Perhaps, after all, a winter with Tom Coston was the wisest thing he could have done.

One other question now trembled on his lips. It was one he felt he had no right to ask—not of Pawson—but it was his only opportunity, and he must know the truth if he was to carry out the other plans he had in view the day he dropped everything and came home without warning. At last he asked casually:

“Do you know whether my father returned to Uncle George the money he paid out for me?” Not that it was important—more as if he wanted to be posted on current events.

“He tried, but Mr. Temple wouldn't take it. I had the matter in hand, and know. This was some three years ago. He has never offered it since—not to my knowledge.”

Harry's face lightened. Some trace of decency was still left in the Rutter blood! This money was in all honor owed by his father and might still become an asset if he and his uncle should ever become reconciled.

“And can you tell me how they all are—out at Moorlands? Have you seen my father lately?”

“Not your father, but I met your old servant, Alec, a few days ago.”

“Alec!—dear old Alec! Tell me about him. And my mother—was she all right? What did Alec say, and how did the old man look?”

“Yes; your mother was well. He said they were all well, except Colonel Rutter, whose eyes troubled him. Alec seemed pretty much the same—may be a little older.”

Harry's mind began to wander. The room and his companion were forgotten. He was again at Moorlands, the old negro following him about, his dear mother sitting by his bed or kissing him goodnight.

For an instant he sat gazing into the smouldering embers absorbed in his thoughts. Then as if some new vista had opened out before him he asked suddenly:

“You don't know what he was doing in town, do you? Was my mother with him?”

“No, he was alone. He had brought some things in for Mr. Seymour—some game or something, if I remember right. There's to be a wedding there soon, so I hear. Yes, now I think of it, it WAS game—some partridges, perhaps, your father had sent in. The old man asked about you—he always does. And now, Mr. Rutter, tell me about yourself—have you done well?” He didn't think he had, judging from his general appearance, but he wanted to be sure in case St. George asked him.

Harry settled in his chair, his broad shoulders filling the back. The news of Kate's wedding was what he had expected. Perhaps it was already over. He was glad, however, the information had come to him unsought. For an instant he made no reply to Pawson's inquiry, then he answered slowly: “Yes, and no. I have made a little money—not much—but some—not enough to pay Uncle George everything I owe him—not yet; another time I shall do better. I was down with fever for a while and that cost me a good deal of what I had saved. But I HAD to come back. I met a man who told me Uncle George was ruined; that he had left this house and that somebody had put a sign on it, I thought at first that this must refer to you and your old arrangement in the basement, until I questioned him closer. I knew how careless he had always been about his money transactions, and was afraid some one had taken advantage of him. That's why I was so upset when I came in a while ago: I thought they had stolen his furniture as well. The ship Mohican—one of the old Barkeley line—was sailing the day I reached the coast and I got aboard and worked my passage home. I learned to do that on my way out. I learned to wear a beard too. Not very becoming, is it?”—and a low, forced laugh escaped his lips. “But shaving is not easy aboard ship or in the mines.”

Pawson made no reply. He had been studying his guest the closer while he was talking, his mind more on the man than on what he was saying. The old Harry, which the dim light of the hall and room had hidden, was slowly coming back to him:—the quick turn of the head; the way his lips quivered when he laughed; the exquisitely modelled nose and brow, and the way the hair grew on the temples. The tones of his voice, too, had the old musical ring. It was the same madcap, daredevil boy mellowed and strengthened by contact with the outside world. Next he scrutinized his hands, their backs bronzed and roughened by contact with the weather, and waited eagerly until some gesture opened the delicately turned fingers, exposing the white palms, and felt relieved and glad when he saw that they showed no rough usage. His glance rested on his well-turned thighs, slender waist, and broad, strong shoulders and arms—and then his eyes—so clear, and his skin so smooth and fresh—a clean soul in a clean body! What joy would be Temple's when he got his arms around this young fellow once more!

The wanderer reached for his cap and pushed back his chair. For an instant he stood gazing into the smouldering coals as if he hated to leave their warmth, his brow clouded, his shoulders drawn back. He had all the information he wanted—all he had come in search of, although it was not exactly what he wished or what he had expected:—his uncle ruined and an exile; his father half blind and Kate's wedding expected any week. That was enough at least for one night.

He stepped forward and grasped Pawson's hand, his well-knit, alert body in contrast to the loosely jointed, long-legged, young attorney.

“I must thank you, Mr. Pawson,” he said in his old outspoken, hearty way “for your frankness, and I must also apologize for my apparent rudeness when I first entered your door; but, as I told you, I was so astounded and angry at what I saw that I hardly knew what I was doing. And now one thing more before I take my leave: if Mr. Temple does not want his present retreat known—and I gather from the mysterious way in which you have spoken that he does not—let me tell you that I do not want mine known either. Please do not say to any one that you have seen me, or answer any questions—not for a time, at least. Good-night!”

With the closing of the front door behind him the exile came to a standstill on the top step and looked about him. Across the park—beyond the trees, close sheltered under the wide protecting roof, lay Kate. All the weary miles out and back had this picture been fixed in his mind. She was doubtless asleep as it was now past eleven o'clock: he would know by the lights. But even the sight of the roof that sheltered her would, in itself, be a comfort. It had been many long years since he had breathed the same air with her; slept under the same stars; walked where her feet had trodden. For some seconds he stood undecided. Should he return to the Sailors' House where he had left his few belongings and banish all thoughts of her from his mind now that his worst fears had been confirmed? or should he yield to the strain on his heart-strings? If she were asleep the whole house would be dark; if she were at some neighbor's and Mammy Henny was sitting up for her, the windows in the bedroom would be dark and the hall lamp still burning—he had watched it so often before and knew the signs.

Drawing the collar of his rough peajacket close about his throat and crowding his cap to his ears, he descended the steps and with one of his quick, decided movements plunged into the park, now silent and deserted.

As he neared the Seymour house he became conscious, from the glow of lights gleaming between the leafless branches of the trees, that something out of the common was going on inside. The house was ablaze from the basement to the roof, with every window-shade illumined. Outside the steps, and as far out as the curb, lounged groups of attendants, while in the side street, sheltered by the ghostly trees, there could be made out the wheels and hoods of carryalls and the glint of harness. Now and then the door would open and a bevy of muffled figures—the men in cloaks, the girls in nubias wound about their heads and shoulders—would pass out. The Seymours were evidently giving a ball, or was it—and the blood left his face and little chills ran loose through his hair—was it Kate's wedding night? Pawson had said that a marriage would soon take place, and in the immediate future. It was either this or an important function of some kind, and on a much more lavish scale than had been old Prim's custom in the days when he knew him. Then the contents of Alec's basket rose in his mind. That was why his father had sent the pheasants! Perhaps both he and his mother were inside!

Sick at heart he turned on his heel and with quickened pace retraced his steps. He would not be a spy, and he could not he an eavesdropper. As the thought forced itself on his mind, the fear that he might meet some one whom he would know, or who would know him, overtook him. So great was his anxiety that it was only when he had left the park far behind him on his way back to the Sailors' House, that he regained his composure. He was prepared to face the truth, and all of it whatever it held in store for him; but he must first confront his father and learn just how he stood with him; then he would see his mother and Alec, and then he would find St. George: Kate must come last.

The news that his father had offered to pay his debts—although he did not intend that that should relieve him in any way of his own responsibility to his uncle—kindled fresh hopes in his heart and buoyed him up. Now that his father had tried repeatedly to repair the wrong he had done it might only be necessary to throw himself on his knees before him and be taken back into his heart and arms. To see him, then, was his first duty and this he would begin to carry out in the morning. As to his meeting his mother and Alec—should he fail with his father—that must be undertaken with more care, for he could not place himself in the position of sneaking home and using the joy his return would bring them as a means to soften his father's heart. Yes, he would find his father first, then his mother and Alec. If his father received him the others would follow. If he was repulsed, he must seek out some other way.

This over he would find St. George. He knew exactly where his uncle was, although he had not said so to Pawson. He was not at Coston's, nor anywhere in the vicinity of Wesley, but at Craddock, on the bay—a small country house some miles distant, where he and his dogs had often spent days and weeks during the ducking season. St. George had settled down there to rest and get away from his troubles; that was why he had not answered Pawson's letters.

Striding along with his alert, springing step, he swung through the deserted and unguarded Marsh Market, picked his way between the piles of produce and market carts, and plunging down a narrow street leading to the wharf, halted before a door over which swung a lantern burning a green light. Here he entered.

Although it was now near midnight, there were still eight or ten seafaring men in the room—several of them members of his own crew aboard the Mohican. Two were playing checkers, the others crowded about a square table where a game of cards was in progress; wavy lines of tobacco smoke floated beneath the dingy ceiling; at one end was a small bar where a man in a woollen shirt was filling some short, thick tumblers from an earthen jug. It was the ordinary sailors' retreat where the men put up before, between, and after their voyages.

One of them at the card-table looked up from his game as Harry entered, and called out:

“Man been lookin' for you—comin' back, he says. My trick! Hearts, wasn't it?” (this to his companions).

“Do I know him?” asked Harry with a slight start, pausing on his way to his bedroom upstairs, where he had left his bag of clothes two hours before. Could he have been recognized and shadowed?

“No—don't think so; he's a street vendor. Got some China silks to sell—carries his pack on his back and looks as if he'd took up a extry 'ole in his belt. Hungry, I wouldn't wonder. Wanted to h'ist 'em fur a glass o' grog an' a night's lodgin', but Cap wouldn't let him—said you'd be back and might help him. Wasn't that it, Cap?”—this to the landlord, who nodded in reply.

“How could I help him?” asked Harry, selecting a tallow dip from a row on a shelf, but in a tone that implied his own doubt in the query, as well as his relief, now that the man was really a stranger.

“Well, this is your port, so I 'ear. Some o' them high-flyers up 'round the park might lend a hand, may be, if you'd tip 'em a wink, or some o' their women folks might take a shine to 'em.”

“Looked hungry, did you say?” Harry asked, lighting the dip at an oil lamp that swung near the bar.

“Yes—holler's a drum—see straight through him; tired too—beat out. You'd think so if you see him. My play—clubs.”

Harry turned to the landlord: “If this man comes in again give him food and lodging,” and he handed him a bank bill. “If he is here in the morning let me see him. I'm going to bed now. Good-night, men!”