The Attic Guest: A Novel

by Robert E. Knowles

Then suddenly his hand fell to his side; he seemed to shake himself free from his passion, as a man wakens himself from sleep; the mighty struggle showed in the quivering voice.

"I could kill you," he said with fearful quietness; "I could kill you now—go," as he released his antagonist, already purple.

Holding his hand to his throat, the hot blood cooled by now, Mr. Giddens staggered over towards my uncle. "Mr. Lundy," he began thickly, "we expect you to deal with this cur—as you said you would. He's brought disgrace on you—and he's insulted every lady in the South by what he did to-night—and we look to you to treat him as he deserves."

There was a queer smile about my uncle's mouth. For nearly a minute he did not speak, did not even look towards the man who had addressed him. Then he turned slowly round.

"Mr. Giddens," he began, in a voice that sounded strange from him, "I'll deal with him. Yes, sir, I reckon I'll deal with him."

"I knew you would, Mr. Lundy," the other returned eagerly; "I knew no Southern gentleman——"

"But I'll deal with you first, sir," my uncle interrupted stormily; "you knew—you knew, did you? Perhaps you didn't know that no gentleman allows another man to insult his guest. And that's what you've done, sir—that's what you've done—you struck a visitor in my house, struck him in the face, sir. There's the door, sir—the street's the place for you,—go," his voice rolling like thunder now.

Mr. Giddens ventured an amiable smile, stepping a little nearer to my uncle. I think he partly held out his hand. "Mr. Lundy," he began in a conciliatory tone, "I meant no disrespect to you. This really isn't necessary, Mr. Lundy. You and I were friends before we knew this—this Scotchman—was on the earth. And it seems a pity——"

"Go," thundered my uncle, pointing to the door. Then suddenly his voice grew white with ungovernable wrath, and he whipped a shining pistol from his pocket. "Go, by heavens," he cried huskily; "I had this ready for the nigger—but you'll get it if you speak another word. Go out that door—or you'll be carried out, by God," as he advanced nearer to the already retreating man.

When we were alone and all was still again, uncle silently motioned me to follow him. Gordon had already departed in silence to his room. Uncle took me into his own apartment and shut the door behind him.