Kennedy Square Part 33

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 n.o.body 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, Ma.r.s.e 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 pa.s.sed 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 'la.s.ses--only we ain't got no 'la.s.ses. I was a-thinkin' dem two ol' cheers in de garret 'd come in handy; ain't n.o.body 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' 'la.s.ses. I kin take 'em down to de same place dat Gadgem man tol' me to take de big bra.s.s 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) sc.r.a.ps 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 a.s.sist 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 inst.i.tutions, 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 Sh.o.r.e, 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 acc.u.mulating 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, Ma.r.s.e George, dey ain't none o' dem gwine down in dere pockets till de constable gits 'em. I jes' wish Ma.r.s.e 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 Ma.r.s.e 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 G.o.d 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.

CHAPTER XXIII

With the closing in of the autumn and the coming of the first winter cold, the denizens of Kennedy Square gave themselves over to the season's entertainments. Mrs. Cheston, as was her usual custom, issued invitations for a ball--this one in honor of the officers who had distinguished themselves in the Mexican War. Major Clayton, Bowdoin, the Murdochs, Stirlings, and Howards--all persons of the highest quality--inaugurated a series of chess tournaments, the several players and those who came to look on to be thereafter comforted with such toothsome solids as wild turkey, terrapin, and olio, and such delectable liquids as were stored in the cellars of their hosts. Old Judge Pancoast, yielding to the general demand, gave an oyster roast--his enormous kitchen being the place of all others for such a function. On this occasion two long wooden tables were scoured to an unprecedented whiteness--the young girls in white ap.r.o.ns and the young men in white jackets serving as waiters--and laid with wooden plates, and two big wooden bowls--one for the hot, sizzling sh.e.l.ls just off their bed of hickory coals banked on the kitchen hearth, and the other for the empty ones--the fun continuing until the wee sma' hours of the morning.

The Honorable Prim and his charming daughter, not to be outdone by their neighbors, cleared the front drawing-room of its heavy furniture, covered every inch of the tufted carpet with linen crash, and with old black Jones as fiddler and M. Robinette--a French exile--as instructor in the cutting of pigeon wings and the proper turning out of ankles and toes, opened the first of a series of morning soirees for the young folk of the neighborhood, to which were invited not only their mothers, but their black mammies as well.

Mr. and Mrs. Richard Horn, not having any blithesome daughter, nor any full-grown son--Oliver being but a child of six--and Richard and his charming wife having long since given up their dancing-slippers--were good enough to announce--(and it was astonishing what an excitement it raised)--that "On the Monday night following Mr. Horn would read aloud, to such of his friends as would do him the honor of being present, the latest Christmas story by Mr. Charles d.i.c.kens, ent.i.tled 'The Cricket on the Hearth.'" For this occasion Mr. Kennedy had loaned him his own copy, one of the earliest bound volumes, bearing on its fly-leaf an inscription in the great master's own handwriting in which he thanked the distinguished author of "Swallow Barn" for the many kindnesses he had shown him during his visit to America, and begged his indulgence for his third attempt to express between covers the sentiment and feeling of the Christmas season.

Not that this was an unusual form of entertainment, nor one that excited special comment. Almost every neighborhood had its morning (and often its evening) "Readings," presided over by some one who read well and without fatigue--some sweet old maid, perhaps, who knew how to grow old gracefully. At these times a table would be rolled into the library by the deferential servant of the house, on which he would place the dear lady's spectacles and a book, its ivory marker showing where the last reading had ended--it might be Prescott's "Ferdinand and Isabella," or Irving's "Granada," or Thackeray's "Vanity Fair," or perhaps, d.i.c.kens's "Martin Chuzzlewit."

At eleven o'clock the girls would begin to arrive, each one bringing her needle-work of some kind--worsted, or embroidery, or knitting--something she could manage without discomfort to herself or anybody about her, and when the last young lady was in her seat, the same noiseless darky would tiptoe in and take his place behind the old maid's chair. Then he would slip a stool under her absurdly small slippers and tiptoe out again, shutting the door behind him as quietly as if he found the dear lady asleep--and so the reading would begin.

A reading by Richard, however, was always an event of unusual importance, and an invitation to be present was never declined whether received by letter or by word of mouth.

St. George had been looking forward eagerly to the night, and when the shadows began to fall in his now almost bare bedroom, he sent for Todd to help him dress.

"Have you got a shirt for me, Todd?"

"Got seben oh 'em. Dey wants a li'l' trimmin' roun' de aidges, but I reckon we kin make 'em do--Aunt Jemima sont 'em home dis mawnin'. She's been a-workin' on 'em, she says. Looks ter me like a goat had a moufful outer dis yere sleeve, but I da.s.sent tell er so. Lot o' dem b.u.t.ters wanderin' roun' dat Marsh market lookin' fer sumpin' to eat; lemme gib dem boots anudder tech."

Todd skipped downstairs with the boots and St. George continued dressing; selecting his best and most becoming scarf; pinning down the lapels of his buff waistcoat; scissoring the points of his high collar, and with Todd's a.s.sistance working his arms between the slits in the silk lining of the sleeves of his blue cloth, bra.s.s-b.u.t.toned coat, which he finally pulled into place across his chest.

And a well-dressed man he was in spite of the frayed edges of his collar and shirt ruffles and the shiny spots in his trousers and coat where the nap was worn smooth, nor was there any man of his age who wore his clothes as well, no matter what their condition, or one who made so debonair an appearance.