blood. But go on—tell me about the birds. Are they flying high?—and the duck blinds; have they fixed them up? They were all going to pot when I was there last.”
“Birds out of range, most of them—hard work getting what I did. As to the blinds, they are still half full of water—got soaking wet trying to use one. I shot most of mine from the boat just as the day broke,” and then followed a full account of what the party had bagged, with details of every day's adventures. This done, St. George pushed back his chair and faced the young man.
“And now you take the witness-stand, sir—look me in the eyes, put your hand on your fob-pocket and tell me the truth. Todd says you have been here every day for a week looking as if you had lost your last fip-penny-bit and wild to see me. What has happened?”
“Todd has a vivid imagination.” He turned in his seat, stretched out his hand, and catching one of the dogs by the nose rubbed his head vigorously.
“Go on—all of it—no dodging the king's counsellor. What's the matter?”
The young man glanced furtively at Todd, grabbed another dog, rubbed their two ears together in play, and in a lowered voice, through which a tinge of sadness was only too apparent, murmured:
“Miss Kate—we've had a falling out.”
St. George lowered his head suddenly and gave a low whistle:—“Falling out?—what about?”
Again young Rutter glanced at Todd, whose back was turned, but whose ears were stretched to splitting point. His host nodded understandingly.
“There, Todd—that will do; now go down and get your breakfast. No more waffles, tell Aunt Jemima. Bring the pipes over here and throw on another log … that's right.” A great sputtering of sparks followed—a spider-legged, mahogany table was wheeled into place, and the dejected darky left the room for the regions below.
“So you two have had a quarrel! Oh, Harry!—when will you learn to think twice before you speak? Whose fault was it?” sighed St. George, filling the bowl of his pipe with his slender fingers, slowly tucking in each shred and grain.
“Mine.”
“What did you say?” (Puff-puff.)
“Nothing—I couldn't. She came in and saw it all.” The boy had his elbows on the table now, his cheeks sunk in his hands.
St. George looked up: “Drunk, were you?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“At Mrs. Cheston's ball last week.”
“Have you seen her since?”
“No—she won't let me come near her. Mr. Seymour passed me yesterday and hardly spoke to me.”
St. George canted his chair and zigzagged it toward the blazing hearth; then he said thoughtfully, without looking at the young man:
“Well, this is a pretty kettle of fish! Have you told your father?”
“No—he wouldn't understand.”
“And I know you didn't tell your mother.” This came with the tone of positive conviction.
“No—and don't you. Mother is daft on the subject. If she had her way, father would never put a drop of wine on the table. She says it is ruining the county—but that's mother's way.”
St. George stooped over, fondled one of the dogs for a moment—two had followed Todd out of the room—settled back in his chair again, and still looking into the fire, said slowly:
“Bad business—bad business, Harry! Kate is as proud as Lucifer and dislikes nothing on earth so much as being made conspicuous. Tell me exactly what happened.”
“Well, there isn't anything to tell,” replied the young fellow, raising his head and leaning back in his chair, his face the picture of despair. “We were all in the library and the place was boiling-hot, and they had two big bowls, one full of eggnog and the other full of apple-toddy: and the next thing I knew I was out in the hall and met Kate on the stairs. She gave a little smothered scream, and moaned—'Oh, Harry!—and you promised me!'—and then she put her hands to her face, as if to shut me out of her sight. That sobered me somewhat, and after I got out on the porch into the night air and had pulled myself together, I tried to find her and apologize, but she had gone home, although the ball wasn't half over.
“Then this was not the first time?” He was still at the hot coals, both hands outfanned, to screen his face from the blaze.
“No—I'm sorry to say it wasn't. I told her I would never fail her again, and she forgave me, but I don't know what she'll do now. She never forgives anybody who breaks his word—she's very queer about it. That's what I came to see you about. I haven't slept much nights, thinking it over, and so I had the mare saddled, as soon as it got light, hoping you would be home. Todd thought you might be—he saw Dr. Teackle's Joe, who said you were all coming to-day.”
Again there was a long pause, during which Temple continued to study the coals through his open fingers, the young man sitting hunched up in his chair, his handsome head dropped between his shoulders, his glossy chestnut hair, a-frouze with his morning ride, fringing his collar behind.
“Harry,” said St. George, knocking the ashes slowly from his pipe on the edge of the fender, and turning his face for the first time toward him—“didn't I hear something before I went away about a ball at your father's—or a dance—or something, when your engagement was to be announced?”
The boy nodded.
“And was it not to be something out of the ordinary?” he continued, looking at the boy from under his eyelids—“Teackle certainly told me so—said that your mother had already begun to get the house in order—”
Again Harry nodded—as if he had been listening to an indictment, every word of which he knew was true.
St. George roused himself and faced his guest: “And yet you took this time, Harry, to—”
The boy threw up both hands in protest:
“Don't!—DON'T! Uncle George! It's the ball that makes it all the worse. That's why I've got no time to lose; that's why I've haunted this place waiting for you to get back. Mother will be heart-broken if she finds out and I don't know what father would do.”
St. George laid his empty pipe on the table and straightened his body in the chair until his broad shoulders filled the back. Then his brow darkened; his indignation was getting the better of him.
“I don't know what has come over you young fellows, Harry!” he at last broke out, his eyes searching the boy's. “You don't seem to know how to live. You've got to pull a shoat out of a trough to keep it from overeating itself, but you shouldn't be obliged to pull a gentleman away from his glass. Good wine is good food and should be treated as such. My cellar is stocked with old Madeira—some port—some fine sherries—so is your father's. Have you ever seen him abuse them?—have you ever seen Mr. Horn or Mr. Kennedy, or any of our gentlemen around here, abuse them? It's scandalous, Harry! damnable! I love you, my son—love you in a way you know nothing of, but you've got to
