Garrison's Finish Part 14

"Come, haven't you ridden before, eh?" he asked good-humoredly. "It's no disgrace, boy. Is it hard-won science, as Crimmins says, or merely an unbelievable and curious freak of nature, eh?"

Garrison looked the major in the eye. His heart was pounding.

"If I've ever ridden a mount before--I've never known it," he said, with conviction and truth.

Crimmins shook his head in hopeless despair. The major was too enthusiastic to quibble over how the knowledge was gained. It was there in overflowing abundance. That was enough. Besides, his nephew's word was his bond. He would as soon think of doubting the Bible.

For the succeeding days Garrison and the major haunted the track. It was decided that the former should wear his uncle's colors in the Carter, and he threw himself into the training of Dixie with all his painstaking energy and knowledge.

He proved a valuable adjunct to Crimmins; rank was waived in the stables, and a sincere regard sprang up between master and man, based on the fundamental qualities of real manhood and a mutual pa.s.sion for horse-flesh. And if the acid little c.o.c.kney suspected that Garrison had ever carried a jockey's license or been track-bred, he respected the other's silence, and refrained from broaching the question again.

Meanwhile, to all appearances, things were running in the harmonious groove over at the Desha home. Since the night of Mr. Waterbury's arrival Sue had not mentioned the subject of the overdrawn balance, and the colonel had not. If the girl thought her father guilty of a slight breach of honor, no hint of it was conveyed either in speech or manner.

She was broad-minded--the breadth and depth of perfect health and a clean heart. If she set up a high standard for herself, it was not to measure others by. The judgment of man entered into no part of her character; least of all, the judgment of a parent.

As for the colonel, it was apparent that he was not on speaking terms with his conscience. It made itself apparent in countless foolish little ways; in countless little means of placating his daughter--a favorite book, a song, a new saddle. These votive offerings were tendered in subdued silence fitting to the occasion, but Sue always lauded them to the skies. Nor would she let him see that she understood the contrition working in him. To Colonel Desha she was no longer "my little girl," but "my daughter." Very often we only recognize another's right and might by being in the wrong and weak ourselves.

Every spare minute of his day--and he had many--the colonel spent in his stables superintending the training of The Rogue. He was infinitely worse than a mother with her first child. If the latter acts as if she invented maternity, one would have thought the colonel had fas.h.i.+oned the gelding as the horse of Troy was fas.h.i.+oned.

The Rogue's success meant everything to him--everything in the world.

He would be obliged to win. Colonel Desha was not one who believed in publis.h.i.+ng a daily "agony column." He could hold his troubles as he could his drink--like a gentleman. He had not intended that Sue should be party to them, but that night of the confession they had caught him unawares. And he played the host to Mr. Waterbury as only a Southern gentleman can.

That the turfman had motives other than mere friends.h.i.+p and regard when proffering his advice and financial a.s.sistance, the colonel never suspected. It was a further manifestation of his childish streak and his ignorance of his fellow man. His great fault was in estimating his neighbor by his own moral code. It had never occurred to him that Waterbury loved Sue, and that he had forced his a.s.sistance while helping to create the necessity for that a.s.sistance, merely as a means of lending some authority to his suit. But Waterbury possessed many likable qualities; he had stood friend to Colonel Desha, whatever his motives, and the latter honored him on his own valuation.

Fear never would have given the turfman the entree to the Desha home; only friends.h.i.+p. Down South hospitality is sacred. When one has succeeded in entering a household he is called kin. A mutual trust and bond of honor exist between host and guest. The mere formula; "So-and-So is my guest," is a clean bill of moral health. Therefore, in whatever light Sue may have regarded Mr. Waterbury, her treatment of him was uniformly courteous and kindly.

Necessarily they saw much of each other. The morning rides, formerly with Garrison, were now taken with Mr. Waterbury. This was owing partly to the former's close application to the track, partly to the courtesy due guest from hostess whose father is busily engaged, and in the main to a concrete determination on Sue's part. This intimacy with Sue Desha was destined to work a change in Waterbury.

He had come unworthy to the Desha home. He acknowledged that to himself.

Come with the purpose of compelling his suit, if necessary. His love had been the product of his animalistic nature. It was a purely sensual appeal. He had never known the true interpretation of love; never experienced the society of a womanly woman. But it is in every nature to respond to the highest touch; to the appeal of honor. When trust is reposed, fidelity answers. It did its best to answer in Waterbury's case. His better self was slowly awakening.

Those days were wonderful, new, happy days for Waterbury. He was received on the footing of guest, good comrade. He was fighting to cross the line, searching for the courage necessary--he who had watched without the flicker of an eyelash a fortune lost by an inch of horse-flesh. And if the girl knew, she gave no sign.

As for Garrison, despite his earnest attention to the track, those were unhappy days for him. He thought that he had voluntarily given up Sue's society; given it up for the sake of saving his skin; for the fear of meeting Waterbury. Time and time again he determined to face the turfman and learn the worst. Cowardice always stepped in. Presently Waterbury would leave for the North, and things then would be as they had been.

He hated himself for his cowardice; for his compromise with self-respect. It was not that he valued Sue's regard so lightly. Rather he feared to lose the little he had by daring all. He did not know that Sue had given him up. Did not know that she was hurt, mortally hurt; that her renunciation had not been necessary; that he had not given her the opportunity. He had stayed away, and she wondered. There could be but the one answer. He must hate this tie between them; this parent-fostered engagement. He was thinking of the girl he had left up North. Perhaps it was better for her, she argued, that she had determined upon renunciation.

Obviously Major Calvert and his wife noticed the breach in the Garrison-Desha entente cordiale. They credited it to some childish quarrel. They were wise in their generation. Old heads only muddle young hearts. To confer the dignity of age upon the differences of youth but serves to turn a mole-hill into a mountain.

But one memorable evening, when the boyish and enthusiastic major and Garrison returned from an all-day session at the track, they found Mrs.

Calvert in a very quiet and serious mood, which all the major's cajolery could not penetrate. And after dinner she and the major had a peace conference in the library, at the termination of which the doughty major's feathers were considerably agitated.

Mrs. Calvert's good nature was not the good nature of the faint-hearted or weak-kneed. She was never at loss for words, nor the spirit to back them when she considered conditions demanded them. Subsequently, when his wife retired, the major, very red in the face, called Garrison into the room.

"Eh, demmit, boy," he began, fussing up and down, "I've noticed, of course, that you and Sue don't pull in the same boat. Now, I thought it was due to a little tiff, as soon straightened as tangled, when pride once stopped goading you on. But your aunt, boy, has other ideas on the subject which she had been kindly imparting to me. And it seems that I'm entirely to blame. She says that I've caused you to neglect Sue for Dixie. Eh, boy, is that so?" He paused, eyeing Garrison in distress.

"No, it is not," said Garrison heavily. "It is entirely my fault."

The major heartily sighed his relief.

"Eh, demmit, I said as much to your aunt, but she knows I'm an old sinner, and she has her doubts. I told her if you could neglect Sue for Dixie your love wasn't worth a rap. I knew there was something back of it. Well, you must go over to-night and straighten it out. These little tiffs have to be killed early--like spring chickens. Sue has her dander up, I tell you. She met your aunt to-day. Said flatly that she had broken the engagement; that it was final--"

"Oh, she did?" was all Garrison could find to interrupt with.

"Eh, demmit; pride, boy, pride," said the major confidently. "Now, run along over and apologize; scratch humble gravel--clear down to China, if necessary. And mind you do it right proper. Some people apologize by saying: 'If I've said anything I'm sorry for, I'm glad of it.' Eh, demmit, remember never to compete for the right with a woman. Women are always right. Man shouldn't be his own press-agent. It's woman's position--and delight. She values man on her own valuation--not his.

Women are illogical--that's why they marry us."

The major concluded his advice by giving Garrison a hearty thump on the back. Then he prepared to charge his wife's boudoir; to resume the peace conference with right on his side for the nonce.

Garrison slowly made his way down-stairs. His face was set. He knew his love for Sue was hopeless; an absurdity, a crime. But why had she broken the engagement? Had Waterbury said anything? He would go over and face Waterbury; face him and be done with it. He was reckless, desperate.

As he descended the wide veranda steps a man stepped from behind a magnolia-tree shadowing the broad walk. A clear three-quarter moon was riding in the heavens, and it picked out Garrison's thin set face.

The man swung up, and tapped him on the shoulder. "h.e.l.lo, Bud!"

It was Dan Crimmins.

CHAPTER X.

"THEN I WAS NOT HONEST."

Garrison eyed him coldly, and was about to pa.s.s when Crimmins barred his way.

"I suppose when you gets up in the world, it ain't your way to know folks you knew before, is it?" he asked gently. "But Dan Crimmins has a heart, an' it ain't his way to shake friends, even if they has money. It ain't Crimmins' way."

"Take your hand off my shoulder," said Garrison steadily.

The other's black brows met, but he smiled genially.

"It don't go, Bud. No, no." He shook his head. "Try that on those who don't know you. I know you. You're Billy Garrison; I'm Dan Crimmins.

Now, if you want me to blow in an' tell the major who you are, just say so. I'm obligin'. It's Crimmins' way. But if you want to help an old friend who's down an' out, just say so. I'm waitin'."

Garrison eyed him. Crimmins? Crimmins? The name was part of his dream.

What had he been to this man? What did this man know?

"Take a walk down the pike," suggested the other easily. "It ain't often you have the pleasure of seein' an old friend, an' the excitement is a little too much for you. I know how it is," he added sympathetically. He was closely watching Garrison's face.

Garrison mechanically agreed, wondering.

"It's this way," began Crimmins, once the shelter of the pike was gained. "I'm Billy Crimmins' brother--the chap who trains for Major Calvert. Now, I was down an' out--I guess you know why--an' so I wrote him askin' for a little help. An' he wouldn't give it. He's what you might call a lovin', confidin', tender young brother. But he mentioned in his letter that Bob Waterbury was here, and he asked why I had left his service. Some things don't get into the papers down here, an' it's just as well. You know why I left Waterbury. Waterbury----!"

Here Crimmins carefully selected a variety of adjectives with which to decorate the turfman. He also spoke freely about the other's ancestors, and concluded with voicing certain dark convictions regarding Mr.

Waterbury's future.

Garrison listened blankly. "What's all this to me?" he asked sharply. "I don't know you nor Mr. Waterbury."

"h.e.l.l you don't!" rapped out Crimmins. "Quit that game. I may have done things against you, but I've paid for them. You can't touch me on that count, but I can touch you, for I know you ain't the major's nephew--no more than the Sheik of Umpooba. I'm ashamed of you. Tryin' on a game like that with your old trainer, who knows you--"