The Gray Dawn

S >> Stewart Edward White >> The Gray Dawn

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28

These three, after greeting their hostess gushingly, circulated compactly,
talking to each other in low voices. Nan knew they were watching her, and
that they had come for the sole purpose of getting first-hand details of
her fiasco for later recounting in drawing-rooms where, undoubtedly, even
now awaited eager auditors. She came to a decision. The matter could not be
worse. When, the three came to make their farewells, she detained them.

"No, I'm not going to let you go yet," she told them, perhaps a little
imperiously. "I haven't had half a visit with you. Wait until this rabble
clears out."

She hesitated a moment over Mrs. Sherwood, but finally let her go without
protest. When the last guest had departed she sank into a chair. As she was
already on the verge of hysterics, she easily kept up an air of gayety.

"Girls, what an awful party!" she cried. "I could tear my hair! It was a
perfect nightmare." Struggling to control her voice and keep back her
tears, she added abruptly: "Now tell me what it is all about."

Mrs. Morrell and Sally Warner were plainly uneasy and at a loss how to meet
this situation, but Mrs. Scattergood remained quite composed in her small,
compact way.

"What's what all about, Nan, dear?" asked Sally Warner in her most
vivacious manner. She keenly felt the dramatic situation and was already
visualizing herself in the role of raconteuse.

"You know perfectly well. Why this funeral? Where are they all? Why did
they stay away? I have a right to know."

"I'm sure there's nothing _I_ can think of!" replied Sally artificially.
"The idea!"

But Mrs. Scattergood, with all the relish of performing a noble and
disagreeable duty, broke in:

"You know, dear," she said in her didactic, slow voice, "as well as we do,
what the world is. Of course _we_ understand, but people will talk!"

"In heaven's name what are you driving at? What are they talking about?"
demanded Nan, as Mrs. Scattergood apparently came to a full stop.

A pause ensued while Sally and Mrs, Scattergood exchanged glances with Mrs.
Morrell.

"Well," at last said Sally, judicially, buttoning her glove, her head on
one side, "if I had a nice husband like yours, I wouldn't let him run
around getting himself disliked for nothing."

"You ought to use your influence with him before it is too late," added
Mrs. Morrell.

Nan looked helplessly from one to the other, too uncertain of her ground
now to risk another step,

"So that's it," she ventured at last. "Some one has been telling lies about
us!"

"Oh, dear no!" disclaimed Mrs. Scattergood, "It is only that your friends
cannot understand your taking sides against them. Naturally they feel hurt.
Forgive me, dear--you know I say it with all affection--but don't you think
it a mistake?"

Nan was thoroughly dazed and mystified, but afraid to press the matter
further. She had a suspicion Mrs. Morrell was again responsible for her
difficulties, but was too uncertain to urge them to stay for further
elucidation. They arose. These were the days of hoop skirts, and the set of
the outer skirt had to be carefully adjusted before going out. As they
posed in turn before the hall pier glass they chattered. "How lovely the
house looks." "You certainly have worked hard, and must be tired, poor
dear!" "Well, we'll see you to-morrow at Mrs. Terry's. You're _not asked_?
Surely there is some mistake! Well, those things always happen in a big
affair, don't they?" "See you soon." "Good-bye." "Good-bye."

Outside the house they paused at the head of the steps.

"Well, what do you think of that?" said Sally. "I really believe the poor
thing doesn't know, I believe I'll just drop in for a minute at Mrs.
Caldwell's. Sorry you're not going my way."

After a fashion Nan felt relieved by this interview, for she thought she
discerned only Mrs. Morrell's influence, and this, she knew, she could
easily overcome. While she waited for Keith's return from whatever
inaccessible fastnesses he always occupied during these big afternoon
receptions, she reviewed the situation, her indignation mounting.
Downstairs, Wing Sam and his temporary assistants were clearing things
away. Usually Nan superintended this, but to-day she did not care. When
Keith finally entered the room, she burst out on him with a rapid and angry
account of the whole situation as she saw it; but to her surprise he did
not rise to it. His weary, spiritless, uninterested: acceptance of it
astonished her to the last degree. To him her entanglement with the Cora
affair--for at once he saw the trend of it all--seemed the last straw. Not
even his own home was sacred. His spirit was so bruised and wearied that he
actually could not rise to an explanation. He seemed to realize an utter
hopelessness of making her see his point of view. This was not so strange
when it is considered that this point of view, however firmly settled, was
still a new and unexplained fact with himself. He contented himself with
saying: "The Morrells had nothing whatever to do with it." It was the only
thing that occurred to him as worth saying; but it was unfortunate, for it
left Nan's irritation without logical support. Naturally that irritation
was promptly transferred to him.

"Then what, in heaven's name, is it?" she demanded. "My friends are all
treating me as if I had the smallpox."

"Cheerful lot of friends we've made in this town!" he said bitterly.

"What is the matter with them?" she persisted.

"The matter is they've taken me for a fool they could order around to suit
themselves. They found they couldn't. Now they're through with me, even Cal
Bennett," he added in a lower tone that revealed his hurt.

She paused, biting her underlip.

"Is the trouble anything to do with this Cora case?" she asked, suddenly
enlightened by some vague, stray recollection.

"Of course!" he replied crossly, exasperated at the nagging necessity of
arousing himself to explanations. "There's no use arguing about it. I'm
going to see it through in spite of that hound McDougall and his whole pack
of curs!"

"But why have you turned so against your friends?" she asked more gently,
struck by his careworn look as he sprawled in the easy chair under the
lamp. "I don't see! You'll get yourself disliked!"

She did not press the matter further for the moment, but three days later
she brought up the topic again. In the interim she had heard considerable
direct and indirect opinion. She selected after dinner as the most
propitious time for discussion. As a matter of fact, earlier in the day
would have been better, before Keith's soul had been rubbed raw by downtown
attrition.

"I don't believe you quite realize how strongly people feel about the Cora
case," she began. "Isn't it possible to drop it or compromise it or
something, Milton?"

In the reaction from argument and--coldness downtown he felt he could stand
no more of it at home.

"I wish you'd let that matter drop!" he said decidedly. "You couldn't
understand it."

She hesitated. A red spot appeared in either cheek.

"I must say I _don't_ understand!" she countered. "It is inconceivable to
me that a man like you should turn so easily against his class!"

"My class?" he echoed wearily.

"What do such creatures as Cora and Yankee Sullivan amount to?" she cried
hotly, "I suppose you'll say _they_ are in your class next! How you can
consider them of sufficient importance to go dead against your best friends
on their account!"

"It is because I am right and they are wrong."

She was a little carried beyond herself.

"Well, they all think the same way," she pointed out. "Aren't you a little
--a little--"

"Pig-headed," supplied Keith bitterly.

"--to put your opinion against theirs?" she finished.

Keith did not reply.

This was Nan's last attempt. She did not bring up the subject again. But
she withdrew proudly and completely from all participation in society. She
refused herself to callers. Once the situation was thoroughly defined, she
accepted it. If her husband decided to play the game in this way, she, too,
would follow, whether she approved or not. Nan was loyal and a
thoroughbred. And she was either too proud or too indifferent to fight it
out with the other women, in the rough and tumble of social ambition.

XLVI

In this voluntary seclusion Nan saw laterally only two persons. One of
these was Mrs. Sherwood. The ex-gambler's wife called frequently; and, for
some reason, Nan never refused to see her, although she did not make her
visitor particularly welcome. Often an almost overmastering impulse seized
her to open her soul to this charming, sympathetic, tactful woman, but
something always restrained her. Her heart was too sore. And since an
inhibited impulse usually expresses itself by contraries, her attitude was
of studied and aloof politeness. Mrs. Sherwood never seemed to notice this.
She sat in the high-ceilinged "parlour," with its strange fresco of painted
fish-nets, and chatted on in a cheerful monologue, detailing small gossipy
items of news. She always said goodbye cordially, and went out with a
wonderful assumption of ignorance that anything was wrong. Her visits did
Nan good, although never could the latter break through the ice wall of
reserve. Nan's conscience often hurt her that she could answer this genuine
friendship with so little cordiality. She wondered dully how Mrs. Sherwood
could bring herself to be so good to so cross-grained a creature as
herself. As a matter of fact, the women were marking time in their
relations--Mrs. Sherwood consciously, Nan unconsciously--until better days.

The other regular caller was Ben Sansome. His attitude was in some sense
detached. He was quietly, deeply sympathetic in his manner, never
obtrusive, never even hinting in words at his knowledge of the state of
affairs, but managing in some subtle manner to convey the impression that
he alone fully understood. Nan found that, without her realization, almost
in spite of herself, Sansome had managed to isolate her with himself on a
little island of mutual understanding, apart from all the rest of the
world.

Her life was now becoming circumscribed. Household, books, some small
individual charities, and long afternoon walks filled her days. At first
Sansome had accompanied her on these tramps, but the unfailing, almost
uncanny insight of the man told him that at such times her spirit really
craved solitude, so he soon tactfully ceased all attempts to join her. Her
usual walk was over the cliffs toward the bay, where, from some of the
elevations near Russian Hill, she could look out to the Golden Gate, or
across to Tamalpais or the Contra Costa shores. The crawl of the distant
blue water, the flash of wing or sail, the taste of salt rime, the canon
shadows of the hills, the flying murk, or the last majestic and magnificent
blotting out of the world as the legions of sea fog overtoiled it, all
answered or soothed moods in her spirit. Sometimes she forgot herself and
overstayed the daylight. At such times she scuttled home half fearfully for
the great city, like a jungle beast, was most dangerous at night.

One evening, returning thus in haste, she was lured aside by the clang of
bells and the glare of a fire. No child ever resisted that combination, and
Nan was still a good deal of a child. Almost before she knew, it she was
wedged fast in a crowd. The pressure was suffocating; and, to her alarm,
she found herself surrounded by a rough-looking set of men. They were
probably harmless workingmen, but Nan did not know that. She became
frightened, and tried to escape, but her strength was not equal to it.
Near the verge of panic, she was fairly on the point of struggling, when
she felt an arm thrown around her shoulder. She looked up with a cry, to
meet Ben Sansome's brown eyes.

"Don't be afraid; I'm here," he said soothingly.

In the revulsion Nan fairly thrilled under the touch of his manly,
protection. This impulse was followed instantly, by an instinct of
withdrawal from the embrace about her shoulder, which was in turn succeeded
by a fierce scorn of being prudish in such circumstances. Sansome
masterfully worked her out through the press. At the last tactful moment he
withdrew his arm. She thanked him, still a little frightened.

"It was certainly lucky you happened to be here!" she ended.

"Lucky!" he laughed briefly. "I knew that sooner or later you'd need me."

He stopped at that, but allowed her questions to elicit the fact that every
afternoon he had followed her at a discreet distance, scrupulously
respecting her privacy, but ready for the need that sooner or later must
surely arrive. Nan was touched.

"You have no right to endanger yourself this way!" he cried, as though
carried away. "It is not just to those who care for you!" and by the tone
of his voice, the look of his eye, the slight emphasizing pressure of his
hand he managed to convey to her, but in a manner to which she could not
possibly object, his belief that his last phrase referred more to himself
than to any one else in the world.

It was about this period that John Sherwood, dressing for dinner, remarked
to his wife:

"Patsy, the more I see of you the more I admire you. Do you remember that
Firemen's Ball when you started in to break up that Keith-Morrell affair?
He dropped her so far that I haven't heard her _plunk_ yet! I don't know
what made me think of it--it was a long time ago."

"Yes, that was all right," she replied thoughtfully, "but I'm not as
pleased as I might be with the Keith situation."

Sherwood stopped tying his cravat and turned to face her.

"He's perfectly straight, I assure you," he said earnestly. "I don't
believe he knows that any other woman but his wife exists. I _know_ that.
But I wish he'd go a little easier with the men."

"Oh, I wasn't thinking of him. She's the culprit now."

"What!" cried Sherwood, astonished, "that little innocent baby!"

"That 'little innocent baby' is seeing altogether too much of Ben Sansome."

Sherwood uttered a snort of masculine scorn.

"Ho! Ben Sansome?"

"Yes, Ben Sansome."

"Why, he's a notorious butterfly."

"Well, it looks now as though he intended to alight."

"Seriously?"

She nodded. Sherwood slowly went on with his dressing.

"I like that little creature," he said at last. "She's the sort that
strikes me as born to be treated well and to be happy. Some people are that
way, you know; just as others are born painters or plumbers." She nodded in
appreciation. "And if you give the word, Patsy, I'll go around and have a
word with Keith--or spoil Sansome--whichever you say----"

She laughed.

"You're a dear, Jack, but if you love me, keep your hands off here."

"Are you bossing this job?" he asked gravely.

"I'm bossing this job," she repeated, with equal gravity.

He said nothing more for a time, but his eyes twinkled.

XLVII

Keith's investigations proceeded until at last he felt justified in
preferring before the Bar Association charges of irregular practice against
James Ware, Bernard Black, and--to his great regret--Calhoun Bennett. He
conceived he had enough evidence to convict these men legally, but he as
yet shrank from asking for an indictment against them, preferring at first
to try for their discipline before their fellow lawyers. If the Bar
Association failed, however, he had every intention of pressing the matter
in the courts.

Almost immediately after the filing of the complaint he was waited on in
his office by a man only slightly known to him, Major Marmaduke Miles. The
major's occupation in life was obscure. He was a red-faced, tightly
buttoned, full-jowled, choleric Southerner of the ultra-punctilious brand,
always well dressed in quaint and rather old-fashioned garments, with
charming manners, and the reminiscence of good looks lost in a florid and
apoplectic habit. This person entered Keith's office, greeted him formally,
declined a chair. Standing very erect before Keith's desk, his beaver hat
poised on his left forearm, he said:

"I am requested, suh, to enquiah of yo' the name of a friend with whom I
can confer."

"If that means a challenge, Major, I must first ask the name of your
principal," returned Keith.

"I am actin' fo' Mr. Calhoun Bennett, suh," stated the major.

"Tell Cal Bennett I will not fight him," said Keith quietly.

The major was plainly flabbergasted, and for a moment puffed his red cheeks
in and out rapidly.

"You mean to tell me, suh, that yo' refuse the satisfaction due a gentleman
after affrontin' him?"

"I won't fight Cal Bennett," repeated Keith patiently.

The major turned even redder, and swelled so visibly that Keith, in spite
of his sad realization of the gravity of the affair, caught himself
guiltily in a boyish anticipation that some of the major's strained buttons
would pop.

"I shall so repo't to my principal, suh. But I may add, suh, that in my
opinion, suh, yo' are conductin' yo'self in a manner unbecomin' to a
gentleman; and othuh gentlemen will say so, suh! They may go even farthah
and stigmatize yo' conduct as cowardly, suh! And it might even be that I,
suh, would agree with that expression, suh!"

The major glowered. Keith smiled wearily. It did not to him at the moment
that this would be so great a calamity.

"I am sorry to have forfeited your good opinion, Major," he contented
himself with saying.

The major marched straight back to the Monumental, where Bennett and a
number of friends were awaiting the result of his mission. The major's
angry passions had been rising, every foot of the way.

"He won't fight, suh!" he bellowed, slamming his cane across the table. "He
won't fight! And I stigmatized him to his face as a white-livered hound!"

Calhoun Bennett sank back pale, and speechless. His companions deluged him
with advice.

"Horsewhip the craven publicly." "Warn him to go heeled, and then force the
issue!" "Shoot him down like the dog he is!"

But the major's mighty bellow dominated everything.

"I claim the privilege!" he roared. "Egad, I _demand_ the privilege! It is
my right! I am insulted by such a rebuff! Now that I have acquitted myself
of Cal's errand, I will call him out myself. Ain't that right, Cal? I'll
make the hound fight!"

The old major looked redder and fiercer than ever. There could be no doubt
that he would make any one fight, once he started out to do so, and that he
would carry the matter through. He was brave enough.

But little Jimmy Ware, who had been doing some thinking, here spoke up. It
seemed to him a good chance to get a reputation without any risk. Since
James King of William had uncompromisingly refused to fight duels, his
example had been followed. A strong party of those having conscientious
scruples against the practice had come into being. Keith's refusal to fight
Bennett, to Ware's mind, indicated that he belonged to this class. It
looked safe.

"Pardon me, Major," he broke in suavely; "but each in turn. I claim the
right. Cal had first chance because he had personally warned the man of the
consequences. But I am equally accused. You must admit my prior claim."

The major came off the boil. Puffing his red cheeks in and out he
considered.

"Yo're right, suh," he conceded reluctantly.

After considerable persuasion, and some flattery as to his familiarity with
the niceties of the Code, the major consented to bear Jimmy's defiance. He
entered Keith's office again, stiffer than a ramrod. Keith smiled at him.

"There's no use, Major, I won't fight Cal Bennett," he greeted his visitor.

"I am the bearer of a challenge from Mistah James Ware," he announced.

"What!" yelled Keith, so suddenly and violently that Major Miles recoiled a
step.

"From Mistah James Ware," he repeated.

Keith laughed savagely.

"Oh, I'll fight him," he growled; "gladly; any time he wants it."

The major's face lit up.

"If you'll name yo' friend, suh," he suggested.

"Friend? Friend? What for? I'm capable of arranging this. I haven't time to
hunt up a friend."

"It's customary," objected the major.

"Look here," Keith swept on, "I'm the challenged party and I have the say-
so, haven't I?"

"Yo' can name the weapons," conceded Major Marmaduke Miles.

"All right, we'll call this revolvers, navy revolvers--biggest there are,
whatever that is. And close up. None of your half-mile shooting."

"Ten yards," suggested Major Miles with unholy joy.

"And right away--this afternoon," went on Keith. "If that little runt wants
trouble, egad he's going to have all his little skin will hold."

But the major would not have this. It was not done. He waived conducting
his negotiations through a second, but that was as far as his conventional
soul would go. He held out for three o'clock the following afternoon.

"And I wish to apologize, Mistah Keith," he said, on parting, "fo' my ill-
considered words of a short time ago. I misunderstood yo' reasons fo'
refusin' to fight Mistah Bennett."

He bowed his rotund, tightly buttoned little figure and departed, to strike
Jimmy Ware with complete consternation.

Duels in the fifties were almost an acknowledged public institution.
Although technically illegal, no one was ever convicted of any of the
consequences of such encounters. They were conducted quite openly. Indeed,
some of the more famous were actively advertised by steamboat men, who
carried excursions to the field. Keith's acceptance of Ware's challenge
aroused the keenest interest. Outside the prominence of the men involved, a
vague feeling was current that in their persons were symbolized opposing
forces in the city's growth. As yet these forces had not segregated to that
point where champions were demanded, or indeed would be recognized as such,
but vague feelings of antagonism, of alignments, were abroad. Those who
later would constitute the Law and Order class generally sympathized with
Ware; those whom history was to know as the Vigilantes felt stirrings of
partisanship for Keith. Therefore, the following afternoon a small flotilla
set sail for the Contra Costa shore, and a crowd of several hundred
spectators disembarked at the chosen duelling ground.

Nan knew nothing of all this. Keith was now in such depths of low spirits
that his wearied soul did not much care what became of him. He put his
affairs in shape, shrugged his shoulders, and went to the encounter with
absolute indifference.

The preliminaries were soon over. Keith found himself facing Jimmy Ware at
the distance he had himself chosen. A double line of spectators stood at a
respectful space on either side. Major Miles and an acquaintance of Keith's
who had volunteered to act for him were posted nearer at hand. Keith had
listened attentively to the instructions. The word was to be given--_one,
two, three. Fire!_ Between the first and last words the duellists were to
discharge the first shot from their weapons. After that they were to fire
at will. One shot would have sufficed Jimmy Ware; but Keith, without
emotion, filed with a dead indifference to any possible danger and a savage
contempt for the whole proceedings, had insisted on the full measure. He
was totally unaccustomed to weapons. At the word of command he raised the
revolver and fired, carelessly but coolly, and without result. One after
the other he discharged the six chambers of his weapon, aiming as well as
he knew how. It did not occur to him that Ware was firing at him. After the
sixth miss he threw the revolver away in cold disgust.

"This is a farce," said he, "and I'm not going to be fool enough to take
part in it any longer."

Jimmy Ware, delighted at finding himself unharmed, and confident now that
bluff would go, started to say something lofty and disdainful. Keith
whirled back on him.

"If you want 'satisfaction,' as you call it, you'll get it, and you'll get
it plenty! I'm sick of being made a fool of. Just open your ugly head to me
again, and I'll knock it off your shoulders!" His eye smouldered
dangerously, and Jimmy Ware, very uncertain in his mind, took refuge in a
haughty look. Keith glared at him moment, then turned to the crowd: "I'll
give all of you fair warning," said he. "I'm going to do my legal duty in
all things; and I'm not going to fight duels. Anybody who interferes with
me is going to get into trouble!"

An uproar ensued. All this was most irregular, unprecedented, a disgrace to
a gentlemen's meeting. The major roared like a bull. If a man would not
fight, would not defend his actions, how could a gentleman get at him
except by street brawling or assassination, and both of these were
repugnant to finer feelings. A dozen fire-eaters felt themselves personally
insulted. The crowd surrounded Keith, shouting at him, jostling him,
threatening. A cool, somewhat amused voice broke in.

"Gentlemen," said Talbot Ward, in so decided a tone that they turned to
hear. "I am a neutral non-partisan in this little war, I am for neither
party, for neither opinion, in the matter. I, like Mr, Keith, never fight
duels. But may I suggest--merely in the interest of fair play--that for the
moment you are forgetting yourselves? My opinion coincides with Mr. Keith's
that duelling is a foolish sort of game, but it is a game, and recognized;
and if you are going to play it, why not stick to its rules? Mr. Keith, and
Mr. Ware have exchanged shots. Mr. Ware has therefore had 'satisfaction.'
Now Mr. Keith and I going to walk--quietly--to the boat. We do not expect
to be molested."

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28