Kennedy Square Part 35

St. George laughed gayly in return, his palms flattened against each other and held out in supplication; but he made no defence. He was studying the couple, his mind on the bearing and manner of the young man toward the woman he was pursuing so relentlessly. He saw that he had completely regained his health, his clear eyes and ruddy skin and the spring with which he moved denoting a man in perfect physical condition.

He discovered, too, that he was extremely well dressed and his costume all that it should be--especially the plum-colored coat, which fitted his shoulders to perfection; his linen of the whitest and finest, each ruffle in flutes; the waist-coat embroidered in silk; the pumps of the proper shape and the stockings all that could be desired--except perhaps--and a grim smile crossed his face--that the silk scarf was a shade out of key with the prevailing color of his make-up, particularly his hair; but, then, that was to be expected of a man who had a slight flaw in his ancestry. He wondered if she had noticed it and studied her face for an answer. No! She had not noticed it. In fact there were very many things she was overlooking in these last days of his wooing, he thought to himself.

Suddenly he became occupied with Kate's beauty. He thought he had never seen her so bewitching or in such good spirits. From his six feet and an inch of vantage his eyes followed her sloping shoulders and tapering arms and rested on her laughing, happy face--rose-colored in the soft light of the candles--a film of lace looped at her elbows, her wonderful hair caught in a coil at the back: not the prevailing fas.h.i.+on but one most becoming to her. What had not this admixture of Scotch and Virginia blood--this intermingling of robust independence with the gentle, yielding feminine qualities of the Southern-born woman--done for this girl?

Richard clapped his hands to attract attention, and advancing a step in front of the big easy-chair which Malachi had just pulled out for him, raised his fingers to command silence.

All eyes were instantly turned his way. Alert and magnetic, dignified and charming, he stood in the full glow of the overhead chandelier, its light falling upon his snuff-brown coat with its bra.s.s b.u.t.tons, pale-yellow waistcoat, and the fluff of white silk about his throat--his grave, thoughtful face turned toward Kate as his nearest guest, his glance sweeping the crowded room as if to be sure that everybody was at ease; Malachi close behind awaiting his master's orders to further adjust the chair and reading-lamp.

In the interim of the hush Kate had settled herself at Richard's feet on the low stool that Willits had brought, the young man standing behind her, the two making a picture that attracted general attention; some wondering at her choice, while others were outspoken in their admiration of the pair who seemed so wonderfully suited to each other.

"I have a rare story," Richard began "to read to you to-night, my good friends, one you will never forget; one, indeed, which I am sure the world at large will never forget. I shall read it as best I can, begging your indulgence especially in rendering the dialect parts, which, if badly done, often mar both the pathos and humor of the text." Here he settled himself in his chair and picked up the small volume, Malachi, now that his service was over, tiptoeing out to his place in the hall so as to be ready for belated arrivals.

The room grew silent. Even Mrs. Cheston, who rarely ceased talking when she had anything to say--and she generally did have something to say--folded her hands in her lap and settled herself in her arm-chair, her whole attention fastened on the reader. St. George, who had been talking to her, moved up a chair so he could watch Kate's face the better.

Again Richard raised his voice:

"The time is of the present, and the scene is laid in one of those small towns outside London. I shall read the whole story, omitting no word of the text, for only then will you fully grasp the beauty of the author's style."

He began in low, clear tones reciting the contest between the hum of the kettle and the chirp of the cricket; the music of his voice lending added charm to the dual song. Then there followed in constantly increasing intensity the happy home life of bewitching Dot Perrybingle and her matter-of-fact husband, John the Carrier, with sleepy Tilly s...o...b..y and the Baby to fill out the picture; the gradual unfolding of the events that led up to the cruel marriage about to take place between old Tackleton, the mean toy merchant, and sweet May Fielding, in love with the sailor boy, Edward, lost at sea; the finding of the mysterious deaf old man by John the Carrier, and the bringing him home in his cart to Dot, who kept him all night because his friends had not called for him; the rapid growth of a love affair between Dot and this old man, who turned out to be a handsome young fellow; the heart-rending discovery by John, through the spying of Tackleton, that Dot was untrue to him, she meeting the man clandestinely and adjusting the disguise for him, laughing all the while at the ruse she was helping him to play; the grief of John when he realized the truth, he sitting all night alone by the fire trying to make up his mind whether he would creep upstairs and murder the villain who had stolen the heart of his little Dot, or forgive her because he was so much older than she and it was, therefore, natural for her to love a younger man; and finally the preparations at the church, where Tackleton was to wed the beautiful May Fielding, who, broken-hearted over the death of her sailor boy, had at last succ.u.mbed to her mother's wishes and consented to join Tackleton at the altar.

For an hour Richard's well-modulated, full-toned voice rolled on, the circle drawing closer and closer with their ears and hearts, as the characters, one after another, became real and alive under the reader's magical rendering. Dot Perrybingle's cheery, laughing accents; Tackleton's sharp, rasping tones; John the Carrier's simple, straightforward utterances and the soft, timid cadence of old Caleb, the toy maker--(drowned Edward's father)--and his blind daughter Bertha were recognized as soon as the reader voiced their speech. So thrilling was the story of their several joys and sorrows that Kate, unconscious of her surroundings, had slipped from her low stool, and with the weight of her body resting on her knees, sat searching Richard's face, the better to catch every word that fell from his lips.

To heighten the effect of what was the most dramatic part of the story--the return of the wedding party to the Carrier's house, where Dot, Caleb, and his blind daughter awaited them--Richard paused for a moment as if to rest his voice--the room the while deathly still, the loosening of a pent-up breath now and then showing how tense was the emotion. Then he went on:

"Are those wheels upon the road, Bertha?", cried Dot. "You've a quick ear, Bertha--And now you hear them stopping at the garden gate! And now you hear a step outside the door--the same step, Bertha, is it not--And now--"

Dot uttered a wild cry of uncontrollable delight, and running up to Caleb put her hand upon his eyes, as a young man rushed into the room, and, flinging away his hat into the air, came sweeping down upon them.

"Is it over?" cried Dot.

"Yes!"

"Happily over?"

"Yes!"

"Do you recollect the voice, dear Caleb? Did you ever hear the like of it before?" cried Dot.

"If my boy Edward in the Golden South Americas was alive--" cried Caleb, trembling.

"He is alive!" shrieked Dot, removing her hands from his eyes and clapping them in ecstasy; "look at him! See where he stands before you, healthy and strong! Your own dear son! Your own dear, living, loving brother, Bertha!"

All honor to the little creature for her transports! All honor to her tears and laughter, when the three were locked in one another's arms! All honor to the heartiness with which she met the sunburnt, sailor-fellow, with his dark, streaming hair, halfway, and never turned her rosy little mouth aside, but suffered him to kiss it freely, and to press her to his bounding heart!

"Now tell him (John) all, Edward," sobbed Dot, "and don't spare me, for nothing shall make me spare myself in his eyes ever again."

"I was the man," said Edward.

"And you could steal disguised into the home of your old friend,"

rejoined the carrier...

"But I had a pa.s.sion for her."

"You!"

"I had," rejoined the other, "and she returned it--I heard twenty miles away that she was false to me--I had no mind to reproach her but to see for myself."

Once more Richard's voice faltered, and again it rang clear, this time in Dot's tones:

"But when she knew that Edward was alive, John, and had come back--and when she--that's me, John--told him all--and how his sweetheart had believed him to be dead, and how she had been over-persuaded by her mother into a marriage--and when she--that's me again, John--told him they were not married, though close upon it--and when he went nearly mad for joy to hear it--then she--that's me again--said she would go and sound his sweetheart--and she did--and they were married an hour ago!--John, an hour ago! And here's the bride! And Gruff and Tackleton may die a bachelor! And I'm a happy little woman, May, G.o.d bless you!"

Little woman, how she sobbed! John Perrybingle would have caught her in his arms. But no; she wouldn't let him.

"Don't love me yet, please, John! Not for a long time yet! No--keep there, please, John! When I laugh at you, as I sometimes do, John, and call you clumsy, and a dear old goose, and names of that sort, it's because I love you, John, so well. And when I speak of people being middle-aged and steady, John, and pretend that we are a humdrum couple, going on in a jog-trot sort of way, it's only because I'm such a silly little thing, John, that I like, sometimes, to act a kind of play with Baby, and all that, and make believe."

She saw that he was coming, and stopped him again. But she was very nearly too late.

"No, don't love me for another minute or two, if you please, John! When I first came home here I was half afraid I mighn't learn to love you every bit as well as I hoped and prayed I might--being so very young, John. But, dear John, every day and hour I love you more and more. And if I could have loved you better than I do, the n.o.ble words I heard you say this morning would have made me. But I can't. All the affection that I had (it was a great deal, John) I gave you, as you well deserve, long, long ago, and I have no more left to give. Now, my dear husband, take me to your heart again! That's my home, John; and never, never think of sending me to any other."

Richard Stopped and picking up a gla.s.s from the table moistened his lips. The silence continued. Down more than one face the tears were trickling, as they have trickled down millions of faces since. Kate had crept imperceptibly nearer until her hands could have touched Richard's knees. When Willits bent over her with a whispered comment a slight s.h.i.+ver ran through her, but she neither answered nor turned her head. It was only when Richard's voice finally ceased with the loud chirp of the cricket at the close of the beloved story, and St. George had helped her to her feet, that she seemed to awake to a sense of where she was. Even then she looked about her in a dazed way, as if she feared some one had been probing her heart--hanging back till the others had showered their congratulations on the reader. Then leaning forward she placed her hands in Richard's as if to steady herself, and with a sigh that seemed to come from the depths of her nature bent her head and kissed him softly on the cheek.

When the eggnog was being served and the guests were broken up into knots and groups, all discussing the beauty of the reading, she suddenly left Willits, who had followed her every move as if he had a prior right to her person, and going up to St. George, led him out of the room to one of the sofas in Richard's study, her lips quivering, the undried tears still trembling on her eyelids. She did not release his hand as they took their seats. Her fingers closed only the tighter, as if she feared he would slip from her grasp.

"It was all so beautiful and so terrible, Uncle George," she moaned at last--"and all so true. Such awful mistakes are made and then it is too late. And n.o.body understands--n.o.body--n.o.body!" She paused, as if the mere utterance pained her, and then to St. George's amazement asked abruptly "Is there nothing yet from Harry?"

St. George looked at her keenly, wondering whether he had caught the words aright. It had been months since Harry's name had crossed her lips.

"No, nothing," he answered simply, trying to fathom her purpose and completely at sea as to her real motive--"not for some months. Not since he left the s.h.i.+p."

"And do you think he is in any danger?" She had released his hand, and with her fingers resting on the sleeve of his coat sat looking into his eyes as if to read their meaning.

"I don't know," he replied in a non-committal tone, still trying to understand her purpose. "He meant then to go to the mountains, so he wrote his mother. This may account for our not hearing. Why do you ask?

Have you had any news of him yourself?" he added, studying her face for some solution of her strange att.i.tude.

She sank back on the cus.h.i.+ons. "No, he never writes to me." Then, as if some new train of thought had forced its way into her mind, she exclaimed suddenly: "What mountains?"

"Some range back of Rio, if I remember rightly. He said he--"

"Rio! But there is yellow fever at Rio!" she cried, with a start as she sat erect in her seat, the pupils of her eyes grown to twice their size.

"Father lost half of one of his crews at Rio. He heard so to-day. It would be dreadful for--for--his mother--if anything should happen to him."

Again St. George scrutinized her face, trying to probe deep down in her heart. Had she, after all, some affection left for this boy lover--and her future husband within hearing distance! No! This was not his Kate--he understood it all now. It was the spell of the story that still held her. Richard's voice had upset her, as it had done half the room.

"Yes, it is dreadful for everybody," he added. And then, in a perfunctory manner, as being perhaps the best way to lead the conversation into other channels, added: "And the suspense will be worse now--for me at any rate--for I, too, am going away where letters reach me but seldom."

Her hand closed convulsively over his.

"You going away! YOU!" she cried in a half-frightened tone. "Oh, please don't, Uncle George! Oh!--I don't want you away from me! Why must you go? Oh, no! Not now--not now!"