CHAPTER IV
While all this gayety was going on in the ballroom another and equally joyous gathering was besieging the serving tables in the colonel's private den—a room leading out of the larger supper room, where he kept his guns and shooting togs, and which had been pressed into service for this one night.
These thirsty gentlemen were of all ages and tastes, from the young men just entering society to the few wrinkled bald-pates whose legs had given out and who, therefore, preferred the colonel's Madeira and terrapin to the lighter pleasures of the dance.
In and out of the groups, his ruddy, handsome face radiant with the joy that welled up in his heart, moved St. George Temple. Never had he been in finer form or feather—never had he looked so well—(not all the clothes that Poole of London cut came to Moorlands). Something of the same glow filtered through him that he had felt on the night when the two lovers had settled their difficulties, and he had swung back through the park at peace with all the world.
All this could be seen in the way he threw back his head, smiling right and left; the way he moved his hands—using them as some men do words or their eyebrows—now uplifting them in surprise at the first glimpse of some unexpected face, his long delicate fingers outspread in exclamations of delight; now closing them tight when he had those of the new arrival in his grasp—now curving them, palms up, as he lifted to his lips the fingers of a grande dame. “Keep your eyes on St. George,” whispered Mrs. Cheston, who never missed a point in friend or foe and whose fun at a festivity often lay in commenting on her neighbors, praise or blame being impartially mixed as her fancy was touched. “And by all means watch his hands, my dear. They are like the baton of an orchestra leader and tell the whole story. Only men whose blood and lineage have earned them freedom from toil, or men whose brains throb clear to their finger-tips, have such hands. Yes! St. George is very happy to-night, and I know why. He has something on his mind that he means to tell us later on.”
Mrs. Cheston was right: she generally was—St. George did have something on his mind—something very particular on his mind—a little speech really which was a dead secret to everybody except prying Mrs. Cheston—one which was to precede the uncorking of that wonderful old Madeira, and the final announcement of the engagement—a little speech in which he meant to refer to their two dear mothers when they were girls, recalling traits and episodes forgotten by most, but which from their very loveliness had always lingered in his heart and memory.
Before this important event took place, however, there were some matters which he intended to look after himself, one of them being the bowl of punch and its contiguous beverages in the colonel's den. This seemed to be the storm centre to-night, and here he determined, even at the risk of offending his host, to set up danger-signals at the first puff of wind. The old fellows, if they chose, might empty innumerable ladles full of apple toddy or compounds of Santa Cruz rum and pineapples into their own persons, but not the younger bloods! His beloved Kate had suffered enough because of these roysterers. There should be one ball around Kennedy Square in which everybody would behave themselves, and he did not intend to mince his words when the time came. He had discussed the matter with the colonel when the ball opened, but little encouragement came from that quarter.
“So far as these young sprigs are concerned, St. George,” Rutter had flashed back, “they must look out for themselves. I can't curtail my hospitality to suit their babyships. As for Harry, you're only wasting your time. He is made of different stuff—it's not in his blood and couldn't be. Whatever else he may become he will never be a sot. Let him have his fling: once a Rutter, always a Rutter,” and then, with a ring in his voice, “when my son ceases to be a gentleman, St. George, I will show him the door, but drink will never do it.”
Dr. Teackle had also been on the alert. He was a young physician just coming into practice, many of the younger set being his patients, and he often acted as a curb when they broke loose. He, with St. George's whispered caution in his ears, had also tried to frame a word of protest to the colonel, suggesting in the mildest way that that particular bowl of apple toddy be not replenished—but the Lord of the Manor had silenced him with a withering glance before he had completed his sentence. In this dilemma he had again sought out St. George.
“Look out for Willits, Uncle George. He'll be staggering in among the ladies if he gets another crack at that toddy. It's an infernal shame to bring these relays of punch in here. I tried to warn the colonel, but he came near eating me up. Willits has had very little experience in this sort of thing and is mixing his eggnog with everything within his reach. That will split his head wide open in the morning.”
“Go and find him, Teackle, and bring him to me,” cried St. George; “I'll stay here until you get him. Tell him I want to see him—and Alec”—this to the old butler who was skimming past, his hands laden with dishes—“don't you bring another drop of punch into this room until you see me.”
“But de colonel say dat—”
“—I don't care what the colonel says; if he wants to know why, tell him I ordered it. I'm not going to have this night spoiled by any tomfoolery of Talbot's, I don't care what he says. You hear me, Alec? Not a drop. Take out those half-empty bowls and don't you serve another thimbleful of anything until I say so.” Here he turned to the young doctor, who seemed rather surprised at St. George's dictatorial air—one rarely seen in him. “Yes—brutal, I know, Teackle, and perhaps a little ill-mannered, this interfering with another man's hospitality, but if you knew how Kate has suffered over this same stupidity you would say I was right. Talbot never thinks—never cares. Because he's got a head as steady as a town clock and can put away a bottle of port without winking an eyelid, he believes anybody else can do the same. I tell you this sort of thing has got to stop or sooner or later these young bloods will break the hearts of half the girls in town.... Careful! here comes Willits—not another word.... Oh, Mr. Willits, here you are! I was just going to send for you. I want to talk to you about that mare of yours—is she still for sale?” His nonchalance was delightful.
“No, Mr. Temple; I had thought of keeping her, sir,” the young man rejoined blandly, greatly flattered at having been specially singled out by the distinguished Mr. Temple. “But if you are thinking of buying my mare, I should be most delighted to consider it. If you will permit me—I will call upon you in the morning.” This last came with elaborate effusiveness. “But you haven't a drop of anything to drink, Mr. Temple, nor you either, doctor! Egad! What am I thinking of! Come, won't you join me? The colonel's mixtures are—”
“Better wait, Mr. Willits,” interrupted St. George calmly and with the air of one conversant with the resources of the house. “Alec has just taken out a half-emptied bowl of toddy.” He had seen at a glance that Teackle's diagnosis of the young man's condition was correct.
“Then let us have a swig at the colonel's port—it's the best in the county.”
“No, hold on till the punch comes. You young fellows don't know how to take care of your stomachs. You ought to stick to your tipple as you do to your sweetheart—you should only have one.”
“—At a time,” laughed Teackle.
“No, one ALL the time, you dog! When I was your age, Mr. Willits, if I drank Madeira I continued to drink Madeira, not to mix it up with everything on the table.”
“By Jove, you're right, Mr. Temple! I'm sticking to one girl—Miss Kate's my girl to-night. I'm going to dance the Virginia reel with her.”
St. George eyed him steadily. He saw that the liquor had already reached his head or he would not have spoken of Kate as he did. “Your choice is most admirable, Mr. Willits,” he said suavely, “but let Harry have Miss Kate to-night,” adding, as he laid his hand confidingly on the young man's shoulder—“they were made to step that dance together.”
“But she said she would dance it with me!” he flung back—he did not mean to be defrauded.
“Really?” It was wonderful how soft St. George's voice could be. Teackle could not have handled a refractory patient the better.
“Well, that is,” rejoined Willits, modified by Temple's tone—“she is to let me know—that was the bargain.”
Still another soft cadence crept into St. George's voice: “Well, even if she did say she would let you know, do be a little generous. Miss Seymour is always so obliging; but she ought really to dance the reel with Harry to-night.” He used Kate's full name, but Willits's head was buzzing too loudly for him to notice the delicately suggested rebuke.
“Well, I don't see that, and I'm not going to see it, either. Harry's always coming in between us; he tried to get Miss Kate away from me a little while ago, but he didn't succeed.”
“Noblesse oblige, my dear Mr. Willits,” rejoined St. George in a more positive tone. “He is host, you know, and the ball is given to Miss Seymour, and Harry can do nothing else but be attentive.” He felt like strangling the cub, but it was neither the time nor place—nothing should disturb Kate's triumph if he could help it. One way was to keep Willits sober, and this he intended to do whether the young man liked it or not—if he talked to him all night.
“But it is my dance,” Willits broke out. “You ask him if it isn't my dance—he heard what Miss Kate said. Here comes Harry now.”
Like a breath of west wind our young prince blew in, his face radiant, his eyes sparkling. He had entirely forgotten the incident on the stairs in the rapture of Kate's kisses, and Willits was once more one of the many guests he was ready to serve and be courteous to.
“Ah, gentlemen—I hope you have everything you want!” he cried with a joyous wave of his hand. “Where will I get an ice for Kate, Uncle George? We are just about beginning the Virginia reel and she is so warm. Oh, we have had such a lovely waltz! Why are you fellows not dancing? Send them in, Uncle George.” He was brimming over with happiness.
Willits moved closer: “What did you say? The Virginia reel? Has it begun?” His head was too muddled for quick thinking.
“Not yet, Willits, but it will right away—everybody is on the floor now,” returned Harry, his eyes in search of something to hold Kate's refreshment.
“Then it is my dance, Harry. I thought the reel was to be just before supper or I would have hunted Miss Kate up.”
“So it is,” laughed Harry, catching up an empty plate from the serving table and moving to where the ices were spread. “You ought to know, for you told her yourself. It is about to begin. They were taking their partners when I left.”
“Then that's MY reel,” Willits insisted. “You heard what Miss Kate said, Harry—that's what I told you too, Mr. Temple,” and he turned to St. George for confirmation.
“Oh, but you are mistaken, Langdon,” continued Harry, bending over the dish. “She said she would decide later on whether to give you the reel or a schottische—and she has. Miss Kate dances this reel with me.” There was a flash in his eye as he spoke, but he was still the host.
“And I suppose you will want the one after supper too,” snapped Willits. He had edged closer and was now speaking to Harry's bent back.
“Why, certainly, if Miss Kate is willing and wishes it,” rejoined Harry simply, still too intent on having the ice reach his sweetheart at the earliest possible moment to notice either Willits's condition or his tone of voice.
Willits sprang forward just as Harry regained his erect position. “No you won't, sir!” he cried angrily. “I've got some rights here and I'm going to protect them. I'll ask Miss Kate myself and find out whether I am to be made a fool of like this,” and before St. George could prevent started for the door.
Harry dropped the plate on the table and blocked the enraged man's exit with his outstretched arm. He was awake now—wide awake—and to the cause.
“You'll do nothing of the kind, Langdon—not in your present state. Pull yourself together, man! Miss Seymour is not accustomed to be spoken of in that way and you know it. Now don't be foolish—stay here with Uncle George and the doctor until you cool down. There are the best of reasons why I should dance the reel with Miss Kate, but I can't explain them now.”
“Neither am I, Mr. Harry Rutter, accustomed to be spoken to in that way by you or anybody else. I don't care a rap for your explanations. Get out of my way, or you'll be sorry,” and he sprang one side and flung himself out of the room before Harry could realize the full meaning of his words.
St. George saw the flash in the boy's eyes, and stretching out his hand laid it on Harry's arm.
“Steady, my boy! Let him go—Kate will take care of him.”
“No! I'll take care of him!—and now!” He was out of the room and the door shut behind him before Temple could frame a reply.
St. George shot an anxious, inquiring look at Teackle, who nodded his head in assent, and the two hurried from the room and across the expanse of white crash, Willits striding ahead, Harry at his heels, St. George and the doctor following close behind.
Kate stood near the far door, her radiant eyes fixed on Harry's approaching figure—the others she did not see. Willits reached her first:
“Miss Kate, isn't this my dance?” he burst out—“didn't you promise me?”
Kate started and for a moment her face flushed. If she had forgotten any promise she had made it certainly was not intentional. Then her mind acted. There must be no bad blood here—certainly not between Harry and Willits.
“No, not quite that, Mr. Willits,” she answered in her sweetest voice, a certain roguish coquetry in its tones. “I said I'd think it over, and you never came near me, and so Harry and I are—”
“But you DID promise me.” His voice could be heard all over the room—even the colonel, who was talking to a group of ladies, raised his head to listen, his companions thinking the commotion was due to the proper arranging of the dance.
Harry's eyes flashed; angry blood was mounting to his cheeks. He was amazed at Willits's outburst.
“You mean to contradict Miss Kate! Are you crazy, Willits?”
“No, I am entirely sane,” he retorted, an ugly ring in his voice.
Everybody had ceased talking now. Good-natured disputes over the young girls were not uncommon among the young men, but this one seemed to have an ominous sound. Colonel Rutter evidently thought so, for he had now risen from his seat and was crossing the room to where Harry and the group stood.
“Well, you neither act nor talk as if you were sane,” rejoined Harry in cold, incisive tones, inching his way nearer Kate, as if to be the better prepared to defend her.
Willits's lip curled. “I am not beholden to you, sir, for my conduct, although I can be later on for my words. Let me see your dancing-card, Miss Kate,” and he caught it from her unresisting hand. “There—what did I tell you!” This came with a flare of indignation. “It was a blank when I saw it last and you've filled it in, sir, of your own accord!” Here he faced Harry. “That's your handwriting—I'll leave it to you, Mr. Temple, if it isn't his handwriting.”
Harry flushed scarlet and his eyes blazed as he stepped toward the speaker. Kate shrank back in alarm—she had read Harry's face and knew what was behind it.
“Take that back, Langdon—quick! You are my guest, but you mustn't say things like that here. I put my name on the card because Miss Kate asked me to. Take it back, sir—NOW!—and then make an humble apology to Miss Seymour.
“I'll take back nothing! I've been cheated out of a dance. Here—take her—and take this with her!” and he tore Kate's card in half and threw the pieces in his host's face.
With the spring of a cat, Harry lunged forward and raised his arm as if to strike Willits in the face: Willits drew himself up to his full height and confronted him: Kate shrivelled within herself, all the color gone from her cheeks. Whether to call out for help or withdraw quietly, was what puzzled her. Both would concentrate the attention of the whole room on the dispute.
St. George, who was boiling with indignation and disgust, but still cool and himself, pushed his way into the middle of the group.
“Not a word, Harry,” he whispered in low, frigid tones. “This can be settled in another way.” Then in his kindest voice, so loud that all could hear—“Teackle, will you and Mr. Willits please meet me in the colonel's den—that, perhaps, is the best place after all to straighten out these tangles. I'll join you there as soon as I have Miss Kate safely settled.” He bent over her: “Kate, dear, perhaps you had better sit alongside of Mrs. Rutter until I can get these young fellows cooled off”—and in a still lower key—“you behaved admirably, my girl—admirably. I'm proud of you. Mr. Willits has had too much to drink—that is what is the matter with him, but it will be all over in a minute—and, Harry, my boy, suppose you help me look up Teackle,” and he laid his hand with an authoritative pressure on the boy's arm.
The colonel had by this time reached the group and stood trying to catch the cue. He had heard the closing sentence of St. George's instructions, but he had missed the provocation, although he had seen Harry's uplifted fist.
“What's the matter, St. George?” he inquired nervously.
“Just a little misunderstanding, Talbot, as to who was to dance with our precious Kate,” St. George answered with a laugh, as he gripped Harry's arm the tighter. “She is such a darling that it is as much as I can do to keep these young Romeos from running each other through the body, they are so madly in love with her. I am thinking of making off with her myself as the only way to keep the peace. Yes, you dear girl, I'll come back. Hold the music up for a little while, Talbot, until I can straighten them all out,” and with his arm still tight through Harry's, the two walked the length of the room and closed the far door behind them.
Kate looked after them and her heart sank all the lower. She knew the feeling between the two men, and she knew Harry's hot, ungovernable temper—the temper of the Rutters. Patient as he often was, and tender-hearted as he could be, there flashed into his eyes now and then something that frightened her—something that recalled an incident in the history of his house. He had learned from his gentle mother to forgive affronts to himself; she had seen him do it many times, overlooking what another man would have resented, but an affront to herself or any other woman was a different matter: that he would never forgive. She knew, too, that he had just cause to be offended, for in all her life no one had ever been so rude to her. That she herself was partly to blame only intensified her anxiety. Willits loved her, for he had told her so, not once, but several times, although she had answered him only with laughter. She should have been honest and not played the coquette: and yet, although the fault was partly her own, never had she been more astonished than at his outburst. In all her acquaintance with him he had never lost his temper. Harry, of course, would lay it to Willits's lack of breeding—to the taint in his blood. But she knew better—it was the insanity produced by drink, combined with his jealousy of Harry, which had caused the gross outrage. If she had only told Willits herself of her betrothal and not waited to surprise him before the assembled guests, it would have been fairer and spared every one this scene.
All these thoughts coursed through her mind as with head still proudly erect she crossed the room on the colonel's arm, to a seat beside her future mother-in-law, who had noticed nothing, and to whom not a syllable of the affair would have been mentioned, all such matters being invariably concealed from the dear lady.
Old Mrs. Cheston, however, was more alert; not only had she caught the anger in Harry's eyes, but she had followed the flight of the torn card as its pieces fell to the floor. She had once been present at a reception given by a prime minister when a similar fracas had occurred. Then it was a lady's glove and not a dancing-card which was thrown in a rival's face, and it was a rapier that flashed and not a clenched fist.
“What was the matter over there, Talbot?” she demanded, speaking from behind her fan when the colonel came within hearing.
“Nothing! Some little disagreement about who should lead the Virginia reel with Kate. I have stopped the music until they fix it up.”
“Don't talk nonsense, Talbot Rutter, not to me. There was bad blood over there—you better look after them. There'll be trouble if you don't.”
The colonel tucked the edge of a rebellious ruffle inside his embroidered waistcoat and with a quiet laugh said: “St. George is attending to them.”
“St. George is as big a fool as you are about such things. Go, I tell you, and see what they are doing in there with the door shut.”
“But, my dear Mrs. Cheston,” echoed her host with a deprecating wave of his hand—“my Harry would no more attack a man under his own roof than you would cut off your right hand. He's not born that way—none of us are.”
“You talk like a perfect idiot, Talbot!” she retorted angrily. “You seem to have forgotten everything you knew. These young fellows here are so many tinder boxes. There will be trouble I tell you—go out there and find out what is going on,” she reiterated, her voice increasing in intensity. “They've had time enough to fix up a dozen Virginia reels—and besides, Kate is waiting, and they know it. Look! there's some one coming out—it's that young Teackle. Call him over here and find out!”
The doctor, who had halted at the door, was now scrutinizing the faces of the guests as if in search of some one. Then he moved swiftly to the far side of the room, touched Mark Gilbert, Harry's most intimate friend, on the shoulder, and the two left the floor.
Kate sat silent, a fixed smile on her face that ill concealed her anxiety. She had heard every word of the talk between Mrs. Cheston and the colonel, but she did not share the old lady's alarm as to any actual conflict. She would trust Uncle George to avoid that. But what kept Harry? Why leave her thus abruptly and send no word back? In her dilemma she leaned forward and touched the colonel's arm.
“You don't think anything is the matter, dear colonel, do you?”
“With whom, Kate?”
“Between Harry and Mr. Willits. Harry might resent it—he was very angry.” Her lips were quivering, her eyes strained. She could hide her anxiety from her immediate companions, but the colonel was Harry's father.
The colonel turned quickly: “Resent it here! under his own roof, and the man his guest? That is one thing, my dear, a Rutter never violates, no matter what the provocation. I have made a special exception in Mr. Willits's favor to-night and Harry knows it. It was at your dear father's request that I invited the young fellow. And then again, I hear the most delightful things about his own father, who though a plain man is of great service to his county—one of Mr. Clay's warmest adherents. All this, you see, makes it all the more incumbent that both my son and myself should treat him with the utmost consideration, and, as I have said, Harry understands this perfectly. You don't know my boy; I would disown him, Kate, if he laid a hand on Mr. Willits—and so should you.”
CHAPTER V
When Dr. Teackle shut the door of the ballroom upon himself and Mark Gilbert the two did not tarry long in the colonel's den, which was still occupied by half a dozen of the older men, who were being beguiled by a relay of hot terrapin that Alec had just served. On the contrary, they continued on past the serving tables, past old Cobden Dorsey, who was steeped to the eyes in Santa Cruz rum punch; past John Purviance, and Gatchell and Murdoch, smacking their lips over the colonel's Madeira, dived through a door leading first to a dark passage, mounted to a short flight of steps leading to another dark passage, and so on through a second door until they reached a small room level with the ground. This was the colonel's business office, where he conducted the affairs of the estate—a room remote from the great house and never entered except on the colonel's special invitation and only then when business of importance necessitated its use.
That business of the very highest importance—not in any way connected with the colonel, though of the very gravest moment—was being enacted here to-night, could be seen the instant Teackle, with Gilbert at his heels, threw open the door. St. George and Harry were in one corner—Harry backed against the wall. The boy was pale, but perfectly calm and silent. On his face was the look of a man who had a duty to perform and who intended to go through with it come what might. On the opposite side of the room stood Willits with two young men, his most intimate friends. They had followed him out of the ballroom to learn the cause of his sudden outburst, and so far had only heard Willits's side of the affair. He was now perfectly sober and seemed to feel his position, but he showed no fear. On the desk lay a mahogany case containing the colonel's duelling pistols. Harry had taken them from his father's closet as he passed through the colonel's den.
St. George turned to the young doctor. His face was calm and thoughtful, and he seemed to realize fully the gravity of the situation.
“It's no use, Teackle,” St. George said with an expressive lift of his fingers. “I have done everything a man could, but there is only one way out of it. I have tried my best to save Kate from every unhappiness to-night, but this is something much more important than woman's tears, and that is her lover's honor.”
“You mean to tell me, Uncle George, that you can't stop this!” Teackle whispered with some heat, his eyes strained, his lips twitching. Here he faced Harry. “You sha'n't go on with this affair, I tell you, Harry. What will Kate say? Do you think she wants you murdered for a foolish thing like this!—and that's about what will happen.”
The boy made no reply, except to shake his head. He knew what Kate would say—knew what she would do, and knew what she would command him to do, could she have heard Willits's continued insults in this very room but a moment before while St. George was trying to make him apologize to his host and so end the disgraceful incident.
“Then I'll go and bring in the colonel and see what he can do!” burst out Teackle, starting for the door. “It's an outrage that—”
“You'll stay here, Teackle,” commanded St. George—“right where you stand! This is no place for a father. Harry is of age.”
“But what an ending to a night like this!”
“I know it—horrible!—frightful!—but I would rather see the boy lying dead at my feet than not defend the woman he loves.” This came in a decisive tone, as if he had long since made up his mind to this phase of the situation.
“But Langdon is Harry's guest,” Teackle pleaded, dropping his voice still lower to escape being heard by the group at the opposite end of the room—“and he is still under his roof. It is never done—it is against the code. Besides”—and his voice became a whisper—“Harry never levelled a pistol at a man in his life, and this is not Langdon's first meeting. We can fix it in the morning. I tell you we must fix it.”
Harry, who had been listening quietly, reached across the table, picked up the case of pistols, handed it to Gilbert, whom he had chosen as his second, and in a calm, clear, staccato tone—each word a bullet rammed home—said:
“No—Teackle, there will be no delay until to-morrow. Mr. Willits has forfeited every claim to being my guest and I will fight him here and now. I could never look Kate in the face, nor would she ever speak to me again, if I took any other course. You forget that he virtually told Kate she lied,” and he gazed steadily at Willits as if waiting for the effect of his shot.
St. George's eyes kindled. There was the ring of a man in the boy's words. He had seen the same look on the elder Rutter's face in a similar situation twenty years before. As a last resort he walked toward where Willits stood conferring with his second.
“I ask you once more, Mr. Willits”—he spoke in his most courteous tones (Willits's pluck had greatly raised him in his estimation)—“to apologize like a man and a gentleman. There is no question in my mind that you have insulted your host in his own house and been discourteous to the woman he expects to marry, and that the amende honorable should come from you. I am twice your age and have had many experiences of this kind, and I would neither ask you to do a dishonorable thing nor would I permit you to do it if I could prevent it. Make a square, manly apology to Harry.”
Willits gazed at him with a certain ill-concealed contempt on his face. He was at the time loosening the white silk scarf about his throat in preparation for the expected encounter. He evidently did not believe a word of that part of the statement which referred to Harry's engagement. If Kate had been engaged to Harry she would have told him so.
“You are only wasting your time, Mr. Temple,” he answered with an impatient lift of his chin as he stripped his coat from his broad shoulders. “You have just said there is only one way to settle this—I am ready—so are my friends. You will please meet me outside—there is plenty of firelight under the trees, and the sooner we get through this the better. The apology should not come from me, and will not. Come, gentlemen,” and he stepped out into the now drizzling night, the glare of the torches falling on his determined face and white shirt as he strode down the path followed by his seconds.
Seven gentlemen hurriedly gathered together, one a doctor and another in full possession of a mahogany case containing two duelling pistols with their accompanying ammunition, G. D. gun caps, powder-horn, swabs and rammers, and it past eleven o'clock at night, would have excited but little interest to the average darky—especially one unaccustomed to the portents and outcomes of such proceedings.
Not so Alec, who had absorbed the situation at a glance. He had accompanied his master on two such occasions—one at Bladensburg and the other on a neighboring estate, when the same suggestive tokens had been visible, except that those fights took place at daybreak, and after every requirement of the code had been complied with, instead of under the flare of smoking pine torches and within a step of the contestant's front door. He had, besides, a most intimate knowledge of the contents of the mahogany case, it being part of his duty to see that these defenders of the honor of all the Rutters—and they had been in frequent use—were kept constantly oiled and cleaned. He had even cast some bullets the month before under the colonel's direction. That he was present to-night was entirely due to the fact that having made a short cut to the kitchen door in order to hurry some dishes, he had by the merest chance, and at the precise psychological moment, run bump up against the warlike party just before they had reached the duelling ground. This was a well-lighted path but a stone's throw from the porch, and sufficiently hidden by shrubbery to be out of sight of the ballroom windows.
The next moment the old man was in full cry to the house. He had heard the beginning of the trouble while he was carrying out St. George's orders regarding the two half-emptied bowls of punch and understood exactly what was going to happen, and why.
“Got de colonel's pistols!” he choked as he sped along the gravel walk toward the front door the quicker to reach the ballroom—“and Marse Harry nothin' but a baby! Gor-a-Mighty! Gor-a-Mighty!” Had they all been grown-ups he might not have minded—but his “Marse Harry,” the child he brought up, his idol—his chum!—“Fo' Gawd, dey sha'n't kill 'im—dey sha'n't!—DEY SHA'N'T!!”
He had reached the porch now, swung back the door, and with a sudden spring—it was wonderful how quick he moved—had dashed into the ballroom, now a maze of whirling figures—a polka having struck up to keep everybody occupied until the reel was finally made up.
“Marse Talbot!—Marse Talbot!” All domestic training was cast aside, not a moment could be lost—“All on ye!—dey's murder outside—somebody go git de colonel!—Oh, Gawd!—somebody git 'im quick!”
Few heard him and nobody paid any attention to his entreaties; nor could anybody, when they did listen, understand what he wanted—the men swearing under their breath, the girls indignant that he had blocked their way. Mrs. Rutter, who had seen his in-rush, sat aghast. Had Alec, too, given way, she wondered—old Alec who had had full charge of the wine cellar for years! But the old man pressed on, still shouting, his voice almost gone, his eyes bursting from his head.
“Dey's gwineter murder Marse Harry—I seen 'em! Oh!—whar's de colonel! Won't somebody please—Oh, my Gawd!—dis is awful! Don't I tell ye dey's gwineter kill Marse Harry!”
Mrs. Cheston, sitting beside Kate, was the only one who seemed to understand.
“Alec!” she called in her imperious voice—“Alec!—come to me at once! What is the matter?”
The old butler shambled forward and stood trembling, the tears streaming down his cheeks.
“Yes, mum—I'm yere! Oh, can't ye git de colonel—ain't nobody else'll do—”
“Is it a duel?”
“Yes, mum! I jes' done see 'em! Dey's gwineter kill my Marse Harry!”
Kate sprang up. “Where are they?” she cried, shivering with fear. The old man's face had told the story.
“Out by de greenhouse—dey was measurin' off de groun'—dey's got de colonel's pistols—you kin see 'em from de winder!”
In an instant she had parted the heavy silk curtains and lifted the sash. She would have thrown herself from it if Mrs. Cheston had not held her, although it was but a few feet from the ground.
“Harry!” she shrieked—an agonizing shriek that reverberated through the ballroom, bringing everybody and everything to a stand-still. The dancers looked at each other in astonishment. What had happened? Who had fainted?
The colonel now passed through the room. He had been looking after the proper handling of the famous Madeira, and had just heard that Alec wanted him, and was uncertain as to the cause of the disturbance. A woman's scream had reached his ears, but he did not know it was Kate's or he would have quickened his steps.
Again Kate's voice pierced the room:
“Harry! HARRY!”—this time in helpless agony. She had peered into the darkness made denser by the light rain, and had caught a glimpse of a man standing erect without his coat, the light of the torches bringing his figure into high relief—whose she could not tell, the bushes were so thick.
The colonel brushed everybody aside and pulled Kate, half fainting, into the room. Then he faced Mrs. Cheston.
“What has happened?” he asked sharply. “What is going on outside?”
“Just what I told you. Those fools are out there trying to murder each other!”
Two shots in rapid succession rang clear on the night air.
The colonel stood perfectly still. No need to tell him now what had happened, and worse yet, no need to tell him what WOULD happen if he showed the slightest agitation. He was a cool man, accustomed to critical situations, and one who never lost his head in an emergency. Only a few years before he had stopped a runaway hunter, with a girl clinging to a stirrup, by springing straight at the horse's head and bringing them both to the ground unhurt. It only required the same instantaneous concentration of all his forces, he said to himself, as he gazed into old Alec's terror-stricken face framed by the open window. Once let the truth be known and the house would be in a panic—women fainting, men rushing out, taking sides with the combatants, with perhaps other duels to follow—Mrs. Rutter frantic, the ball suddenly broken up, and this, too, near midnight, with most of his guests ten miles and more from home.
Murmurs of alarm were already reaching his ears: What was it?—who had fainted?—did the scream come from inside or outside the room?—what was the firing about?
He turned to allay Kate's anxiety, but she had cleared the open window at a bound and was already speeding toward where she had seen the light on the man's shirt. For an instant he peered after her into the darkness, and then, his mind made up, closed the sash with a quick movement, flung together the silk curtains and raised his hand to command attention.
“Keep on with the dance, my friends; I'll go and find out what has happened—but it's nothing that need worry anybody—only a little burnt powder. Alec, go and tell Mr. Grant, the overseer, to keep better order outside. In the meantime let everybody get ready for the Virginia reel; supper will be served in a few minutes. Will you young gentlemen please choose your partners, and will some one of you kindly ask the music to start up?”
Slowly, and quite as if he had been called to the front door to welcome some belated guest, he walked the length of the room preceded by Alec, who, agonized at his master's measured delay, had forged ahead to open the door. This closed and they out of sight, the two hurried down the path.
Willits lay flat on the ground, one arm stretched above his head. He had measured his full length, the weight of his shoulder breaking some flower-pots as he fell. Over his right eye gaped an ugly wound from which oozed a stream of blood that stained his cheek and throat. Dr. Teackle, on one knee, was searching the patient's heart, while Kate, her pretty frock soiled with mud, her hair dishevelled, sat crouched in the dirt rubbing his hands—sobbing bitterly—crying out whenever Harry, who was kneeling beside her, tried to soothe her:—“No!—No!—My heart's broken—don't speak to me—go away!”
The colonel, towering above them, looked the scene over, then he confronted Harry, who had straightened to his feet on seeing his father.
“A pretty piece of work—and on a night like this! A damnable piece of work, I should say, sir!... Has he killed him, Teackle?”
The young doctor shook his head ominously.
“I cannot tell yet—his heart is still beating.”
St. George now joined the group. He and Gilbert and the other seconds had, in order to maintain secrecy, been rounding up the few negroes who had seen the encounter, or who had been attracted to the spot by the firing.
“Harry had my full consent, Talbot—there was really nothing else to do. Only an ounce of cold lead will do in some cases, and this was one of them.” He was grave and deliberate in manner, but there was an infinite sadness in his voice.
“He did—did he?” retorted the colonel bitterly. “YOUR full consent! YOURS! and I in the next room!” Here he beckoned to one of the negroes who, with staring eyeballs, stood gazing from one to the other. “Come closer, Eph—not a whisper, remember, or I'll cut the hide off your back in strips. Tell the others what I say—if a word of this gets into the big house or around the cabins I'll know who to punish. Now two or three of you go into the greenhouse, pick up one of those wide planks, and lift this gentleman onto it so we can carry him. Take him into my office, doctor, and lay him on my lounge. He'd better die there than here. Come, Kate—do you go with me. Not a syllable of this, remember, Kate, to Mrs. Rutter, or anybody else. As for you, sir”—and he looked Harry squarely in the face—“you will hear from me later on.”
With the same calm determination, he entered the ballroom, walked to the group forming the reel, and, with a set smile on this face indicating how idle had been everybody's fears, said loud enough to be heard by every one about him:
“Only one of the men, my dear young people, who has been hurt in the too careless use of some firearms. As to dear Kate—she has been so upset—she happened unfortunately to see the affair from the window—that she has gone to her room and so you must excuse her for a little while. Now everybody keep on with the dance.”
With his wife he was even more at ease. “The same old root of all evil, my dear,” he said with a dry laugh—“too much peach brandy, and this time down the wrong throats—and so in their joy they must celebrate by firing off pistols and wasting my good ammunition,” an explanation which completely satisfied the dear lady—peach brandy being capable of producing any calamity, great or small.
But this would not do for Mrs. Cheston. She was a woman who could be trusted and who never, on any occasion, lost her nerve. He saw from the way she lifted her eyebrows in inquiry, instead of framing her question in words, that she fully realized the gravity of the situation. The colonel looked at her significantly, made excuse to step in front of her, his back to the room, and with his forefinger tapping his forehead, whispered:
“Willits.”
The old lady paled, but she did not change her expression.
“And Harry?” she murmured in return.
The colonel kept his eyes upon her, but he made no answer. A hard, cold look settled on his face—one she knew—one his negroes feared when he grew angry.
Again she repeated Harry's name, this time in alarm:
“Quick!—tell me—not killed?”
“No—I wish to God he were!”