not look it. Six feet and an inch; straight, ruddy-checked, broad-shouldered, well-rounded, but with his waist measure still under control; slightly gray at the temples, with clean-shaven face, laughing eyes, white teeth, and finely moulded nose, brow, and chin, he was everything his friends claimed—the perfect embodiment of all that was best in his class and station, and of all that his blood had bequeathed him.
And fine old fellows they were if we can believe the historians of the seventeenth century: “Wearing the falchion and the rapier, the cloth coat lined with plush and embroidered belt, the gold hat-band and the feathers, silk stockings and garters, besides signet rings and other jewels; wainscoting the walls of their principal rooms in black oak and loading their sideboards with a deal of rich and massive silver plate upon which was carved the arms of their ancestors;—drinking, too, strong punch and sack from 'silver sack-cups'—(sack being their favorite)—and feasting upon oysters and the most delicious of all the ducks of the world.”
And in none of their other distinguishing qualities was their descendant lacking. In the very lift of his head and brace of his shoulders; in the grace and ease with which he crossed the room, one could see at a glance something of the dash and often the repose of the cavalier from whom he had sprung. And the sympathy, kindness, and courtesy of the man that showed in every glance of his eye and every movement of his body—despite his occasional explosive temper—a sympathy that drifted in to an ungovernable impulse to divide everything he owned into two parts, and his own half into two once more if the other fellow needed it; a kindness that made every man his friend, and a courtesy which, even in a time when men lifted their hats to men, as well as to women, had gained for him, the town over, the soubriquet of “Gentleman George”; while to every young girl and youth under twenty he was just “dear Uncle George”—the one man in all Kennedy Square who held their secrets.
But to our breakfast once more. All four dogs were on their feet now, their tails wagging expectantly, their noses at each of his knees, where they were regaled at regular intervals with choice bits from his plate, the snapping of their solemn jaws expressing their thanks. A second scallop-shell was next lifted from the hearth with the tongs, and deposited sizzling hot on a plate beside the master, the aroma of the oysters filling the room. These having disappeared, as had the former one, together with the waffles and coffee, and the master's appetite being now on the wane, general conversation became possible.
“Did Mr. Rutter look ill, Todd?” he continued, picking up the thread of the talk where he had left it. “He wasn't very well when I left.”
“No, sah—neber see him look better. Been up a li'l' late I reckon—Marse Harry mos' gen'ally is a li'l' mite late, sah—” Todd chuckled. “But dat ain't nuthin' to dese gemmans. But he sho' do wanter see ye. Maybe he stayed all night at Mister Seymour's. If he did an' he yered de rumpus dese rapscallions kicked up—yes—dat's you I'm talkin' to”—and he looked toward the dogs—“he'll be roun' yere 'fo' ye gits fru yo' bre'kfus'. Dey do say as how Marse Harry's mighty sweet in dat quarter. Mister Langdon Willits's snoopin' roun' too, but Miss Kate ain't got no use fer him. He ain't quality dey say.”
His master let him run on; Aunt Jemima was Todd's only outlet during his master's absence, and as this was sometimes clogged by an uplifted broom, he made the best use he could of the opportunities when he and his master were alone. When “comp'ny” were present he was as close-mouthed as a clam and as noiseless as a crab.
“Who told you all this gossip, Todd?” exclaimed St. George with a smile, laying down his knife and fork.
“Ain't nary one tol' me—ain't no use bein' tol'. All ye got to do is to keep yo' eyes open. Be a weddin' dar 'fo' spring. Look out, sah—dat shell's still a-sizzlin'. Mo' coffee, sah? Wait till I gits some hot waffles—won't take a minute!” and he was out of the room and downstairs before his master could answer.
Hardly had he slammed the kitchen door behind him when the clatter and stamp of a horse's hoofs were heard Outside, followed by an impatient rat-a-tat-tat on the knocker.
The boy dropped his dishes: “Fo' Gawd, dat's Mister Harry!” he cried as he started on a run for the door. “Don't nobody bang de do' down like dat but him.”
A slender, thoroughly graceful young fellow of twenty-one or two, booted and spurred, his dark eyes flashing, his face tingling with the sting of the early morning air, dashed past the obsequious darky and burst into Temple's presence with the rush of a north-west breeze. He had ridden ten miles since he vaulted into the saddle, had never drawn rein uphill or down, and neither he nor the thoroughbred pawing the mud outside had turned a hair.
“Hello, Uncle George!” Temple, as has been said, was Uncle George to every girl and youth in Kennedy Square.
“Why, Harry!” He had sprung from his seat, napkin in hand and had him by both shoulders, looking into his eyes as if he wanted to hug him, and would the first thing he knew. “Where are you from—Moorlands? What a rollicking chap you are, and you look so well and handsome, you dog! And now tell me of your dear mother and your father. But first down with you—here—right opposite—always your place, my dear Harry. Todd, another shell of oysters and more waffles and coffee—everything, Todd, and blazing hot: two shells, Todd—the sight of you, Harry, makes me ravenous again, and I could have eaten my boots, when I got home an hour ago, I was so hungry. But the mare”—here he moved to the window—“is she all right? Spitfire, I suppose—you'd kill anything else, you rascal! But you haven't tied her!”
“No—never tie her—break her heart if I did. Todd, hang up this coat and hat in the hall before you go.”
“That's what you said of that horse you bought of Hampson—ran away, didn't he?” persisted his host, his eyes on the mare, which had now become quiet.
“Yes, and broke his leg. But Spitfire's all right—she'll stand. Where will I sit—here? And now what kind of a time did you have, and who were with you?”
“Clayton, Doctor Teackle, and the judge.”
“And how many ducks did you get?” and he dropped into his chair.
“Twenty-one,” answered St. George, dry-washing his white shapely hands, as he took his seat—a habit of his when greatly pleased.
“All canvas-backs?”
“No—five redheads and a mallard.”
“Where did you put up?” echoed Harry, loosening his riding-jacket to give his knife and fork freer play.
“I spent a week at Tom Coston's and a week at Craddock. Another lump of sugar, Todd.”
The boy laughed gently: “Lazy Tom's?”
“Lazy Tom's—and the best-hearted fellow in the world. They're going to make him a judge, they say and—”
“—What of—peach brandy? No cream in mine, Todd.”
“No—you scurrilous dog—of the Common Court,” retorted St. George, looking at him over the top of his cup. “Very good lawyer is Tom—got horse sense and can speak the truth—make a very good judge.”
Again Harry laughed—rather a forced laugh this time, as if he were trying to make himself agreeable but with so anxious a ring through it that Todd busied himself about the table before going below for fresh supplies, making excuse of collecting the used dishes. If there were to be any revelations concerning the situation at the Seymour house, he did not intend to miss any part of them.
“Better
