Kennedy Square | Page 9

common-sense. But what can you expect?--I was just like you at your age. Come, now, what shall we do first?"
The young fellow rose and a smile of intense relief crept over his face. He had had many such overhaulings from his uncle, and always with this ending. Whenever St. George let out one of those big, spontaneous, bubbling laughs straight from his heart, the trouble, no matter how serious, was over. What some men gained by anger and invective St. George gained by good humor, ranging from the faint smile of toleration to the roar of merriment. One reason why he had so few enemies--none, practically--was that he could invariably disarm an adversary with a laugh. It was a fine old blade that he wielded; only a few times in his life had he been called upon to use any other--when some under-dog was maltreated, or his own good name or that of a friend was traduced, or some wrong had to be righted--then his face would become as hot steel and there would belch out a flame of denunciation that would scorch and blind in its intensity. None of these fiercer moods did the boy know;--what he knew was his uncle's merry side--his sympathetic, loving side,--and so, following up his advantage, he strode across the room, settled down on the arm of his uncle's chair, and put his arm about his shoulders.
"Won't you go and see her, please?" he pleaded, patting his back, affectionately.
"What good will that do? Hand me a match, Harry."
"Everything--that's what I came for."
"Not with Kate! She isn't a child--she's a woman," he echoed back between the puffs, his indignation again on the rise. "And she is different from the girls about here," he added, tossing the burned match in the fire. "When she once makes up her mind it stays made up."
"Don't let her make it up! Go and see her and tell her how I love her and how miserable I am. Tell her I'll never break another promise to her as long as I live. Nobody ever holds out against you. Please, Uncle George! I'll never come to you for anything else in the world if you'll help me this time. And I won't drink another drop of anything you don't want me to drink--I don't care what father or anybody else says. Oh, you've GOT to go to her!--I can't stand it any longer! Every time I think of Kate hidden away over there where I can't get at her, it drives me wild. I wouldn't ask you to go if I could go myself and talk it out with her--but she won't let me near her--I've tried, and tried; and Ben says she isn't at home, and knows he lies when he says it! You will go, won't you?"
The smoke from his uncle's pipe was coming freer now--most of it escaping up the throat of the chimney with a gentle swoop.
"When do you want me to go?" He had already surrendered. When had he ever held out when a love affair was to be patched up?
"Now, right away."
"No,--I'll go to-night,--she will be at home then," he said at last, as if he had just made up his mind, the pipe having helped--"and do you come in about nine and--let me know when you are there, or--better still, wait in the hall until I come for you."
"But couldn't I steal in while you are talking?"
"No--you do just as I tell you. Not a sound out of you, remember, until I call you."
"But how am I to know? She might go out the other door and--"
"You'll know when I come for you."
"And you think it will be all right, don't you?" he pleaded. "You'll tell her what an awful time I've had, won't you, Uncle George?"
"Yes, every word of it."
"And that I haven't slept a wink since--"
"Yes--and that you are going to drown yourself and blow your head off and swallow poison. Now off with you and let me think how I am to begin straightening out this idiotic mess. Nine o'clock, remember, and in the hall until I come for you."
"Yes--nine o'clock! Oh!--you good Uncle George! I'll never forget you for it," and with a grasp of St. George's hand and another outpouring of gratitude, the young fellow swung wide the door, clattered down the steps, threw his leg over Spitfire, and dashed up the street.
CHAPTER II

If Kate's ancestors had wasted any part of their substance in too lavish a hospitality, after the manner of the spendthrift whose extravagances were recounted in the preceding chapter, there was nothing to indicate it in the home of their descendants. No loose shutters, crumbling chimneys, or blistered woodwork defaced the Seymour mansion:--the touch of the restorer was too apparent. No sooner did a shutter sag