Garrison's Finish Part 12

Waterbury, is returning with the colonel. He will be his guest for a week or so."

"Oh," said Garrison slowly. "And who is this Garrison riding for now?"

"I don't know. I haven't followed him. It seems as if I heard there was some disagreement or other between him and Mr. Waterbury; over that Carter Handicap, I think. By the way, if you take an interest in horses, and Crimmins tells me you have an eye for cla.s.s, you rascal, come out to the track with me to-morrow. I've got a filly which I think will give the colonel's Rogue a hard drive. You know, if the colonel enters for the next Carter, I intend to contest it with him--and win." He chuckled.

"Then you don't know anything about this Garrison?" persisted Garrison slowly.

"Nothing more than I've said. He was a first-cla.s.s boy in his time. A boy I'd like to have seen astride of Dixie. Such stars come up quickly and disappear as suddenly. The life's against them, unless they possess a hard head. But Mr. Waterbury, when he arrives, can, I dare say, give you all the information you wish. By the way," he added, a twinkle in his eye, "what do you think of the colonel's other thoroughbred? I mean Miss Desha?"

Garrison felt the hot blood mounting to his face. "I--I--that is, I--I like her. Very much indeed." He laughed awkwardly, his eyes on the parquet floor.

"I knew you would, boy. There's good blood in that girl--the best in the States. Perhaps a little odd, eh? But, remember, straight speech means a straight mind. You see, the families have always been all in all to each other; the colonel is a school-chum of mine--we're never out of school in this world--and my wife was a nursery-chum of Sue's mother--she was killed on the hunting-field ten years ago. Your aunt and I have always regarded the girl as our own. G.o.d somehow neglected to give us a chick--probably we would have neglected Him for it. We love children. So we've cottoned all the more to Sue."

"I understand that Sue and I are intended for each other," observed Garrison, a half-cynical smile at his lips.

"G.o.d bless my soul! How did you guess?"

"Why, she said so."

Major Calvert chuckled. "G.o.d bless my soul again! That's Sue all over.

She'd ask the devil himself for a gla.s.s of water if she was in the hot place, and insist upon having ice in it. 'Pon my soul she would. And what does she think of you? Likes you, eh?"

"No, she doesn't," replied Garrison quietly.

"Tell you as much, eh?"

"Yes."

Again Major Calvert chuckled. "Well, she told me different. Oh, yes, she did, you rascal. And I know Sue better than you do. Family wishes wouldn't weigh with her a particle if she didn't like the man. No, they wouldn't. She isn't the kind to give her hand where her heart isn't. She likes you. It remains with you to make her love you."

"And that's impossible," added Garrison grimly to himself. "If she only knew! Love? Lord!"

"Wait a minute," said the major, as Garrison prepared to leave. "Here's a letter that came for you to-day. It got mixed up in my mail by accident." He opened the desk-drawer and handed a square envelope to Garrison, who took it mechanically. "No doubt you've a good many friends up North," added the major kindly. "Have 'em down here for as long as they can stay. Calvert House is open night and day. I do not want you to think that because you are here you have to give up old friends. I'm generous enough to share you with them, but--no elopements, mind."

"I think it's merely a business letter," replied Garrison indifferently, hiding his burning curiosity. He did not know who his correspondent could possibly be. Something impelled him to wait until he was alone in his room before opening it. It was from the eminent lawyer, Theobald D.

Snark.

"BELOVED IMPOSTOR: '_Ars longa, vita brevis_,' as the philosopher has truly said, which in the English signifies that I cannot afford to wait for the demise of the reverend and guileless major before I garner the second fruits of my intelligence. Ten thousand is a mere pittance in New York--one's appet.i.te develops with cultivation, and mine has been starved for years--and I find I require an income. Fifty a week or thereabouts will come in handy for the present. I know you have access to the major's pocketbook, it being situated on the same side as his heart, and I will expect a draft by following mail. He will be glad to indulge the sporting blood of youth. If I cannot share the bed of roses, I can at least fatten on the smell. I would have to be compelled to tell the major what a rank fraud and unsurpa.s.sed liar his supposed nephew is. So good a liar that he even imposed upon me. Of course I thought you were the real nephew, and it horrifies me to know that you are a fraud.

But, remember, silence is golden. If you feel any inclination of getting fussy, remember that I am a lawyer, and that I can prove I took your claim in good faith. Also, the Southerners are notoriously hot-tempered, deplorably addicted to firearms, and I don't think you would look a pretty sight if you happened to get shot full of b.u.t.tonholes."

The letter was unsigned, typewritten, and on plain paper. But Garrison knew whom it was from. It was the eminent lawyer's way not to place damaging evidence in the hands of a prospective enemy.

"This means blackmail," commented Garrison, carefully replacing the letter in its envelope. "And it serves me right. I wonder do I look silly. I must; for people take me for a fool."

CHAPTER VIII.

THE COLONEL'S CONFESSION.

Garrison did not sleep that night. His position was clearly credited and debited in the ledger of life. He saw it; saw that the balance was against him. He must go--but he could not, would not. He decided to take the cowardly, half-way measure. He had not the courage for renunciation.

He would stay until this pot of contumacious fact came to the boil, overflowed, and scalded him out.

He was not afraid of the eminent Mr. Snark. Possession is in reality ten-tenths of the law. The lawyer had cleverly proven his--Garrison's--claim. He would be still more clever if he could disprove it. A lie can never be branded truth by a liar. How could he disprove it? How could his shoddy word weigh against Garrison's, fas.h.i.+oned from the whole cloth and with loyalty, love on Garrison's side?

No, the letter was only a bluff. Snark would not run the risk of publicly smirching himself--for who would believe his protestations of innocency?--losing his license at the bar together with the certainty of a small fortune, for the sake of over-working a tool that might snap in his hand or cut both ways. So Garrison decided to disregard the letter.

But with Waterbury it was a different proposition. Garrison was unaware what his own relations had been with his former owner, but even if they had been the most cordial, which from Major Calvert's accounts they had not been, that fact would not prevent Waterbury divulging the rank fraud Garrison was perpetrating.

The race-track annual had said Billy Garrison had followed the ponies since boyhood. Waterbury would know his ancestry, if any one would.

It was only a matter of time until exposure came, but still Garrison determined to procrastinate as long as possible. He clung fiercely, with the fierce tenacity of despair, to his present life. He could not renounce it all--not yet.

Two hopes, secreted in his inner consciousness, supported indecision.

One: Perhaps Waterbury might not recognize him, or perhaps he could safely keep out of his way. The second: Perhaps he himself was not Billy Garrison at all; for coincidence only said that he was, and a very small modic.u.m of coincidence at that. This fact, if true, would cry his present panic groundless.

On the head of conscience, Garrison did not touch. He smothered it. All that he forced himself to sense was that he was "living like a white man for once"; loving as he never thought he could love.

The reverse, unsightly side of the picture he would not so much as glance at. Time enough when he was again flung out on that merciless, unrecognizing world he had come to loathe; loathe and dread. When that time came it would taste exceeding bitter in his mouth. All the more reason, then, to let the present furnish sweet food for retrospect; food that would offset the aloes of retribution. Thus Garrison philosophized.

And, though but vaguely aware of the fact, this philosophy of procrastination (but another form of selfishness) was the sp.a.w.n of a supposition; the supposition that his love for Sue Desha was not returned; that it was hopeless, absurd. He was not injuring her. He was the moth, she the flame. He did not realize that the moth can extinguish the candle.

He had learned some of life's lessons, though the most difficult had been forgotten, but he had yet to understand the mighty force of love; that it contains no stagnant quality. Love, reciprocal love, uplifts.

But there must be that reciprocal condition to cling to. For love is not selfishness on a grand scale, but a glorified pride. And the fine differentiation between these two words is the line separating the love that fouls from the love that cleanses.

And even as Garrison was fighting out the night with his sleepless thoughts, Sue Desha was in the same restless condition. Mr. Waterbury had arrived. His generous snores could be heard stalking down the corridor from the guest-chamber. He was of the abdominal variety of the animal species, eating and sleeping his way through life, oblivious of all obstacles.

Waterbury's ancestry was open to doubt. It was very vague; as vague as his features. It could not be said that he was brought up by his hair because he hadn't any to speak of. But the golden flood of money he commanded could not wash out certain gutter marks in his speech, person, and manner. That such an inmate should eat above the salt in Colonel Desha's home was a painful acknowledgment of the weight of necessity.

What the necessity was, Sue sensed but vaguely. It was there, nevertheless, almost amounting to an obsession. For when the Desha and Waterbury type commingle there is but the one interpretation. Need of money or clemency in the one case; need of social introduction or elevation through kins.h.i.+p in the other.

The latter was Waterbury's case. But he also loved Sue--in his own way.

He had met her first at the Carter Handicap, and, as he confided to himself: "She was a spanking filly, of good stock, and with good straight legs."

His sincere desire to "b.u.t.t into the Desha family" he kept for the moment to himself. But as a preliminary maneuver he had intimated that a visit to the Desha home would not come in amiss. And the old colonel, for reasons he knew and Waterbury knew, thought it would be wisest to accede.

Perhaps now the colonel was considering those reasons. His room was next that of his daughter, and in her listening wakefulness she had heard him turn restlessly in bed. Insomnia loves company as does misery. Presently the colonel arose, and the strong smell of Virginia tobacco and the monotonous pad, pad of list slippers made themselves apparent.

Sue threw on a dressing-gown and entered her father's room. He was in a light green bathrobe, his white hair tousled like sea-foam as he pa.s.sed and repa.s.sed his gaunt fingers through it.

"I can't sleep," said the girl simply. She cuddled in a big armchair, her feet tucked under her.

He put a hand on her shoulder. "I can't, either," he said, and laughed a little, as if incapable of understanding the reason. "I think late eating doesn't agree with me. It must have been the deviled crab."

"Mr. Waterbury?" suggested Sue.

"Eh?" Then Colonel Desha frowned, coughed, and finally laughed. "Still a child, I see," he added, with a deprecating shake of the head. "Will you ever grow up?"

"Yes--when you recognize that I have." She pressed her cheek against the hand on her shoulder.