CHAPTER III
THE greater part of the ensuing afternoon was spent by Dr. Dearing in his musty little office on the ground-floor of a building in the central square of the town which was devoted to lawyers' quarters, the rooms of the sheriff of the county, and the council-chamber where the mayor held his court. He received a few patients, made some examinations, wrote several prescriptions, and, considering that it was Sunday, he felt that he was fairly well occupied. His mind, however, was constantly on the topic of the morning and the disagreeable task confronting him. Finally he turned over the placard on the door till the word “out” was exposed to view, and went home to supper. Here, however, he met only General Sylvester, who, a dejected picture of offended loneliness, sat on the veranda, a dry cigar between his lips.
“Where is Madge?” Dearing asked, half standing, half sitting on the balustrade in front of the old gentleman, and assuming a casual tone which was far from natural.
“She hasn't been down at all to-day,” the General answered, pettishly. “I wouldn't send for her. She knew I wouldn't knuckle like that, but she knows I always expect to walk with her Sunday afternoons, and she stayed pouting in her room. She resents what has been said about that blackleg gambler, and wants to show it as plainly as possible, so there won't be any mistake between her view and mine. She knows I don't intend to leave any property to her if she keeps this up, but she doesn't care a rap. She's dead in love with the scamp, and, bad as he is, she glories in the opportunity to show her contempt for me and all that pertains to me. She can't toss me about like a ball, my boy! This thing has got to end right here and now, or I'll see my lawyer to-morrow and put something on paper that may never be wiped out while I am alive.”
“Well, give her till to-morrow, then,” Dearing said, with strange, suppressed calmness. “Her very sullenness now may be a sign that she is about to give him up. I've talked to her, and, while I am not certain what she'll do, I have an idea that she may respect your wishes and abide by your judgment.”
“I don't think so,” the old man said, with an anxious look into the face of his nephew; “that is, not so long as the rascal holds her to whatever understanding they may have between them. When I was a young man”—Sylvester clinched his fist and pounded his knee, as if to emphasize his words—“things like this did not hang fire. A man who could make no showing as to his being a proper suitor for a girl under age was given orders from her family to desist in his harmful attentions, and if he refused he was promptly dealt with—that's all: dealt with!”
“Nowadays it's different, Uncle Tom,” Dearing said, with the tone of an older man. “Shooting or threatening to shoot about a young woman is sure to cast a blight on her reputation, and there generally is some other method to—”
“You learned that up among those Yankees!” the General said, alluding to the period his nephew had spent in a New York medical college. “But I am miserable enough as it is without wanting you to stain your hands with blood and have us all brought into court to justify your course. He is a coward, I'm sure; no man has any pride or backbone who will cling on to a respectable family, under the pretext of being in love, when his own people have cut him off. His mother belonged to a good family, but he hasn't inherited any refinement of feeling from that side of the house.”