“All right, Pawson, I'll go. Let Talbot Rutter have the rest—he's welcome to it. Now for my cloak, Todd—so—and my neckerchief and cane. Thank you very much, Pawson. You have been very kind about it all, and I know quite well what it has cost you to tell me this. You can't help—neither can I—neither, for that matter, can Gorsuch—nor is it his fault. It is Rutter's, and he will one day get his reckoning. Good-night—don't sit up too late. I am going to Mr. Horn's to spend the evening. Walk along with me through the Park, Todd, so I can talk to you. And, Todd,” he continued when they had entered the path and were bending their steps to the Horn house, “I want you to gather together to-morrow what are left of my clothes and pack them in one of those hair trunks upstairs—and your own things in another. Never mind about waiting for the wash. I'm going down to Aunt Jemima's myself in the morning and will fix it so she can send the rest to me later on. I owe her a small balance and must see her once more before I leave. Now go home and get to bed; you have been losing too much sleep of late.”
And yet he was not cast down, nor did his courage fail him. Long before the darky's obedient figure had disappeared his natural buoyancy had again asserted itself—or perhaps the philosophy which always sustains a true gentleman in his hour of need had come to his assistance. He fully realized what this last cowardly blow meant. One after another his several belongings had vanished: his priceless family heirlooms; his dogs; and now the home of his ancestors. He was even denied further shelter within its walls. But there were no regrets; his conscience still sustained him; he would live it all over again. In his determination to keep to his standards he had tried to stop a freshet with a shovelful of clay; that was all. It was a foolhardy attempt, no doubt, but he would have been heartily ashamed of himself if he had not made the effort. Wesley, of course, was not a very exciting place in which to spend the winter, but it was better than being under obligations to Talbot Rutter; and then he could doubtless earn enough at the law to pay his board—at least he would try.
He had reached the end of the walk and had already caught the glow of the overhead lantern in the hall of the Horn mansion lighting up the varied costumes of the guests as Malachi swung back the front door, revealing the girls in their pink and white nubias, the gallants in long cloaks with scarlet linings, the older men in mufflers, and the mothers and grandmothers in silk hoods. There was no question of Richard's popularity.
“Clar to goodness, Marse George, you is a sight for sore eyes,” cried Malachi, unhooking the clasp of the velvet collar and helping him off with his cloak. “I ain't never seen ye looking spryer! Yes, sah, Marse Richard's inside and he'll be mighty glad ye come. Yes—jedge—jes's soon as I—Dat's it, mistis—I'll take dat shawl—No, sah, Marse Richard ain't begun yit. Dis way, ladies,” and so it had gone on since the opening rat-a-tat-tat on the old brass knocker had announced the arrival of the first guest.
Nor was there any question that everybody who could by any possibility have availed themselves of Richard's invitation had put in an appearance. Most of the men from the club known to these pages were present, together with their wives and children—those who were old enough to sit up late; and Nathan Gill, without his flute this time, but with ears wide open—he was beginning to get gray, was Nathan, although he wouldn't admit it; and Miss Virginia Clendenning in high waist and voluminous skirts, fluffy side curls, and a new gold chain for her eyeglasses—gold rims, too, of course—not to mention the Murdochs, Stirlings, Gatchells, Captain Warfield and his daughter, Bowdoin, and Purviance. They were all there; everybody, in fact, who could squeeze inside the drawing-room; while those who couldn't filled the hall and even the stairs—wherever Richard's voice could be heard.
St. George edged into the packed room, swept his glance over the throng, and made his way through the laughing groups, greeting every one right and left, old and young, as he moved—a kiss here on the upturned cheek of some pretty girl whom he had carried in his arms when a baby; a caressing pat of approbation on some young gallant's shoulder; a bend of the head in respectful homage to those he knew but slightly—the Baroness de Trobiand, Mrs. Cheston's friend, being one of them; a hearty hand held out to the men who had been away for the summer—interrupted now and then by some such sally from a young bride as—“Oh, you mean Uncle George! No—I'm not going to love you any more! You promised you would come to my party and you didn't, and my cotillon was all spoiled!” or a—“Why, Temple, you dear man!-I'm so glad to see you! Don't forget my dinner on Thursday. The Secretary is coming and I want you to sit between him and Lord Atherton”—a sort of triumphal procession, really—until he reached the end of the room and stood at Kate's side.
“Well, sweetheart!” he cried gayly, caressing her soft hand before his fingers closed over it. Then his face hardened. “Ah, Mr. Willits! So you, too, must come under the spell of Mr. Horn's voice,” and without waiting for a reply continued as if nothing had interrupted the joy of his greeting. “You should sit down somewhere, my dear Kate—get as near to Richard as you can, so you can watch his face—that's the best part of it. And I should advise you, too, Mr. Willits, to miss none of his words—it will be something you will remember all your life.”
Kate looked up in his face with a satisfied smile. She was more than glad that her Uncle George was so gracious to her escort, especially to-night when he was to meet a good many people for the first time.
“I'll take the stool, then, dear Uncle George,” she answered with a merry laugh. “Go get it, please, Mr. Willits—the one under the sofa.” Then, with a toss of her head and a coquettish smile at St. George: “What a gadabout you are; do you know I've been three times to see you, and not a soul in your house and the front door wide open, and everything done up in curl papers as if you were going to move away for good and all and never coming back? And do you know that you haven't been near me for a whole week? What do you mean by breaking my heart? Thank you, Mr. Willits; put the stool right here, so I can look up into Mr. Horn's eyes as Uncle George wants me to. I've known the time, sir”—and she arched her brows at St. George—“when you would be delighted to have me look my prettiest at you, but now before I am halfway across the park you slip out of the basement door to avoid me and—No!—no—no apologies—you are just tired of me!”
St. George laughed gayly in return, his palms flattened against each other and held out in supplication; but he made no defence. He was studying the couple, his mind on the bearing and manner of the young man toward the woman he was pursuing so relentlessly. He saw that he had completely regained his health, his clear eyes and ruddy skin and the spring with which he moved denoting a man in perfect physical condition. He discovered, too, that he was extremely well dressed and his costume all that it should be—especially the plum-colored coat, which fitted his shoulders to perfection; his linen of the whitest and finest, each ruffle in flutes; the waist-coat embroidered in silk; the pumps of the proper shape and the stockings all that could be desired—except perhaps—and a grim smile crossed his face—that the silk scarf was a shade out of key with the prevailing color of his make-up, particularly his hair; but, then, that was to be expected of a man who had a slight flaw in his ancestry. He wondered if she had noticed it and studied her face for an answer. No! She had not noticed it. In fact there were very many things she was overlooking in these last days of his wooing, he thought to himself.