Kennedy Square | Page 8

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 stop
this sort of thing right off. And so have these young roysterers you
associate with. It's getting worse every day. I don't wonder your dear
mother feels about it as she does. But she's always been that way, and
she's always been right about it, too, although I didn't use to think so."
This last came with a lowered voice and a deep, indrawn sigh, and for
the moment checked the flow of his wrath.
Harry hung his head still lower, but he did not attempt to defend
himself.
"Who else were making vulgarians of themselves at Mrs. Cheston's?"
St. George continued in a calmer tone, stretching his shapely legs until
the soles of his shoes touched the fender.

"Mark Gilbert, Tom Murdoch, Langdon Willits, and--"
"Willits, eh?--Well, I should expect it of Willits. He wasn't born a
gentleman--that is, his grandfather wasn't a gentleman--married his
overseer's daughter, if I remember right:--but you come of the best
blood in the State,--egad!--none better! You have something to
maintain--some standard to keep up. A Rutter should never be found
guilty of anything that would degrade his name. You seem to forget
that--you--damn me, Harry!--when I think of it all--and of Kate--my
sweet, lovely Kate,--and how you have made her suffer--for she loves
you--no question of that--I feel like wringing your neck! What the devil
do you mean, Sir?" He was up on his feet now, pacing the room, the
dogs following his every movement with their brown agate eyes, their
soft, silky ears straightening and falling.
So far the young fellow had not moved nor had he offered a word in
defence. He knew his Uncle George--better let him blow it all out, then
the two could come together. At last he said in a contrite tone--his
hands upraised:
"Don't scold me, Uncle George. I've scolded myself enough--just say
something to help me. I can't give Kate up--I'd sooner die. I've always
made a fool of myself--maybe I'll quit doing it after this. Tell me how I
can straighten this out. She won't see me--maybe her father won't. He
and my father--so Tom Warfield told me yesterday--had a talk at the
club. What they said I don't know, but Mr. Seymour was pretty
mad--that is, for him--so Tom thought from the way he spoke."
"And he ought to be