Kennedy Square Part 36

Her distress was so marked and her voice so pleading that he was about to tell her the whole story, even to that of the shifts he had been put to to get food for himself and Todd, when he caught sight of Willits making his way through the throng to where they sat. His lips closed tight. This man would always be a barrier between him and the girl he had loved ever since her babyhood.

"Well, my dear Kate," he replied calmly, his eyes still on Willits, who in approaching from the other room had been detained by a guest, "you see I must go. Mr. Pawson wants me out of the way while he fixes up some of my accounts, and so he suggested that I go back to Wesley for a few months." He paused for an instant and, still keeping his eye on Willets, added: "And now one thing more, my dear Kate, before your escort claims you"--here his voice sank to a whisper--"promise me that if Harry writes to you you will send him a kind, friendly letter in return. It can do you no harm now, nor would Harry misunderstand it--your wedding is so near. A letter would greatly cheer him in his loneliness."

"But he won't write!" she exclaimed with some bitterness--she had not yet noticed Willits's approach--"he'll never write or speak to me again."

"But you will if he does?" pleaded St. George, the thought of his boy's loneliness overmastering every other feeling.

"But he won't, I tell you--never--NEVER!"

"But if he should, my child? If--"

He stopped and raised his head. Willits stood gazing down at them, searching St. George's face, as if to learn the meaning of the conference: he knew that he did not favor his suit.

Kate looked up and her face flushed.

"Yes--in one minute, Mr. Willits," and without a word of any kind to St. George she rose from the sofa and with her arm in Willits's left the room.

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 ident.i.ty 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 ash.o.r.e--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.