"Don't know whar he is now, boss," the negro said, dryly. "I haint seed 'im since dis mawnin', when he got out o' bed an' had me shave 'im up an' bresh his clothes. I tell you, Ma.r.s.e Sively, dat man's doin'

powerful funny. He's certainly gone wrong somehow."

"Why, what do you mean?" the bachelor asked, in alarm. "He looked all right when he got here."

"Huh, I don't know what ails 'im, suh," the negro grunted, "but I kin see he's actin' curious. Dat fust mawnin' when I went in his room to clean up an' make de baid I come in easy like to keep fum wakin' 'im, but, bless you, he was already up, standin' at de window lookin' out in de street an' actually groanin' to hisse'f like some'n' was wrong wid his insides. I axed 'im what was de matter, an' if he wants me to telephone fer de doctor, but he lit in to cussin' me at sech a rate dat I seed it wasn't any ailment o' de flesh, anyway. He ordered me to go to de cafe fer his breakfast, an' I fetched 'im what he always did fancy-fried chicken, eggs on toast, an' coffee wid whipped cream-but, bless you, he let 'em get stone cold on de table, an' wouldn't touch a thing but what was in yo' decanter."

"You don't tell me," Sively said, anxiously. "What has he been doing of evenings? Did he go to the Kimball House dance? I had Colville send him tickets. The Williamsons asked him to their card-party, too. Did he go?"

"Not a step," Pomp replied. "He had me lay out his claw-hammer coat an'

get it pressed at de tailor-shop dat fust night, and stirred around considerable, wid several drinks in 'im. He even had me clean his patent-leather pumps and ordered a cab fum de stable. Said he wasn't goin' to ride in one o' dem rickety street hacks wid numbers on 'em an'

disgrace you. But, suh, de cab come an' I had everything out clean on de baid even to a fresh tube-rose for his b.u.t.ton-hole. He sat around smokin' and runnin' fer de decanter ever' now and den, but wouldn't take off a rag of his old clothes, an' kept walkin' de flo', fust to de winder an' den back to de lounge, whar he'd throw hisse'f down at full length an' roll an' toss like he had de cramps. I went to 'im, I did, at ten o'clock, an' told 'im he was gwine to miss de grand promenade an'

let all de rest of 'em fill up de ladies' cards, but he stared at me, suh, like he didn't know what I was talkin' about, an' den he come to his senses, an' told me he wasn't goin' to no dance. He went to de window an' ordered de cab off. De next mawnin' he had all his nice dress-suit stuffed in a wad in his valise. It was a sight, I'm here to tell you, an' he was settin' on de baid smoking. He said he'd had enough o' dis town, an' believed he'd take de train home; but he didn't, suh.

De next night I was sho' oneasy, an' I watched 'im de best I could widout makin' 'im mad. He et a bite o' de supper I fetched 'im, and den, atter dark, he started out on foot. I followed 'im, kase I 'lowed you'd want me to ef you was here."

"Yes, of course," Sively said; "and where did he go?"

"Nowhar, suh-dat is, he didn't stop a single place. He just walked and walked everywhar and anywhar. It didn't make no odds to him, jest so he was movin' his laigs. He must 'a' covered five good miles in de most zigzag travellin' you ever seed-went clean to de gate o' de Exposition grounds, an' den back, an' plumb round de Capitol and out Washington Street, wid me on his scent like a blood-hound after a runaway n.i.g.g.e.r; but dar wasn't much danger o' me bein' seen, fer he didn't look round.

Well, he finally turned an' come home an' tumbled in baid about two in de mawnin'. Yesterday de Williamson ladies an' deir maw driv' up to de do' an' axed about 'im. Dey said he was down on de list fer dinner at dey house, an', as he didn't come or send no word, dey 'lowed he was laid up sick. De lawd knows, I didn't know what to tell 'em. I've got myse'f in trouble befo' now lyin' fer white men widout knowin' what I was lyin' about, an' I let dat chance slide, an' told 'em I didn't know a blessed thing about it. Dey driv' off in a big huff; all three dey backs was as straight as a ironin'-board."

"Have you any idea where he is now?" Sively inquired, anxiously.

"I think he's over at de club, suh. De waiters in de cafe told me dat he makes a habit o' loungin' round de back smokin'-room by hisse'f."

"Drinking?"

"No, suh-dat is, not any mo'n he kin tote. He walks straight enough, it jest seems like it's some'n' wrong in his mind, Ma.r.s.e Sively," and Pomp touched his black brow significantly.

"Well," Sively said, after a moment's reflection, "order the horses and trap. If I can find him I'll take him out to the Driving Club. I'm glad I got back. I'll take him in hand. Between me and you, Pomp, I think he's had bad news from his father. I'm afraid my uncle has really laid down the law to him, cut off his spending-money, or something of the kind."

x.x.x

In the darkest corner of the quietest room in the club, Sively found his cousin gloomily smoking a cigar, a bottle of brandy on a table near him, and a copy of Luke King's paper on the floor at his feet. As he looked up his eyes had a shifting glare in them, and there was an air of utter dejection on him, though, on recognizing his cousin, he made a valiant effort to appear at ease.

"Oh, you are back, are you?" he said, awkwardly, flicking the ashes of his cigar over a tray.

"Yes, just in, old boy, and I've got my horses out for a spin to the Driving Club. Come along. The whole town is out on wheels; the afternoon is perfect. The idea of your sitting cooped up here, in smoke thick enough to cut with an axe, when you ought to be filling your lungs with ozone and enjoying life!"

Langdon hesitated, but it was evident that he could formulate no reasonable excuse for declining the invitation, and so he reluctantly gave in. "Let me get my hat," he said, and together they strolled down the wide entrance-hall to the hat-rack.

"I felt rather uneasy when I missed you at my rooms," Sively remarked, as they were approaching the trap at the door. "Pomp could give no account of you, and I didn't know but what you'd skipped out for home.

Have a good time while I was away?"

"Oh yes, yes," Chester answered, as he got into the vehicle and began to adjust the lap-robes about him. "I got along all right. You see, old man, I'm sort of getting on the social retired-list. Living in the country, where we have few formalities, has turned me somewhat against your teas, dinners, and dances. I never go without feeling out of it somehow. You Atlanta men seem to know how to combine business and society pretty well; but, having no business when I'm here, I get sick of doing the other thing exclusively."

"Oh, I see," said Sively, who was too deeply versed in human nature to be misled.

As they sped along the smooth asphalt pavement of Peachtree Street, dodging trolley-cars and pa.s.sing or meeting open vehicles filled with pleasure-seekers, Sively's hat and arm were in continual motion bowing to friends and acquaintances. The conversation languished. Sively found it very difficult to keep it going as he noted the deep lines of care which marked his cousin's face. He was quite sure something of a very serious nature had happened to Langdon, and his sympathies were deeply stirred.

After twenty minutes' brisk driving, they reached the club-house and entered the throng of fashionably dressed men and women distributed about at the numerous refreshment-tables under the trees. The club was on a slight elevation, and below them stretched the beautiful greensward of the extensive Exposition grounds. Several of the liveried servants, recognizing Sively, approached and offered chairs at their respective tables, but, sensing his cousin's desire not to be thrown with others, he led the way through the laughing and chattering a.s.semblage to a quiet table in a little smoking-room quite in the rear of the building.

"There," he smiled, "this will suit you better, I know."

"Yes, I think it will, if it's all the same to you," Chester admitted, with a breath of relief. "The Lord only knows what I'd talk about out there in that chattering gang."

Sively ordered cigars, and, when the waiter had gone for them, he said, lightly: "No more liquor for you to-day, my boy. You hold your own all right, but you are too nervous to take any more."

"Nervous? Do you think so? Do I look it?" Chester asked.

"Oh yes, a little," said Sively. He was taking a bunch of cigars from the waiter, and, when he had signed his name to the accompanying slip of paper, he said, "Harry, pull the door to after you, and see that we are not disturbed."

"Certainly, sir."

Langdon, with widening eyes, watched the negro as he went out and closed the door, then he glanced at his cousin inquiringly.

"I want to be alone with you, my boy," Sively said, with ill-a.s.sumed ease. "You can trust me, you know, and-well, the truth is, my boy, I want to know what you are in trouble about."

"Me? Good gracious!"

"Oh, don't begin that!" Sively said, firmly, as he struck a match and held it to the end of his cigar. "I won't stand it. You can't keep your feelings from me. At first, when Pomp told me about your not going out to those affairs when I was away, I thought your father had thrown you over for good and all, but it isn't that. My uncle couldn't do it, anyway. You are in trouble, my boy; what is it?"

Langdon flushed and stared defiantly across the table into the fixed eyes of his cousin for a moment, and then he looked down.

"No, my father is all right," he said. "He's found out about the horse, but he didn't take it so very hard. In fact, he went to Darley and bought him back for only a slight advance on what I sold him for. He is worried about me, and writes for me to come on home."

"Then, as I supposed, it is _not_ your father," said Sively.

There was a pause. Langdon, with bloodless fingers, nervously broke his cigar half in two. He took another and listlessly struck a match, only to let its flame expire without using it.

"What's the trouble, my boy?" pursued Sively. "I want to befriend you if I can. I'm older than you."

"Well, I _am_ in trouble," Langdon said, simply. Then, in a low tone, and with frequent pauses, he told all about his acquaintance with Virginia. Once started, he left out no detail, extending his confidence till it had included a humble confession even of his humiliation by Ann Boyd and the girl's bitter words of contempt a few days later. "Then I had to come away," Langdon finished, with a sigh that was a whispered groan. "I couldn't stand it. I thought the change, the life and excitement down here, would make me forget, but it's worse than ever.

I'm in h.e.l.l, old man-a regular h.e.l.l."

Sively leaned back in his chair. There was an expression of supreme disgust about his sensitive nose and mouth, and his eyes burned with indignant, spirit-fed fires.

"Great G.o.d!" he exclaimed; "and it was _that_ girl-that particular one-Jane Hemingway's daughter!"

"You've seen her, then?" Langdon said, in awakening surprise.

"Seen her? Great Heavens, of course, I've seen her, and, now that I know all this, her sweet, young face will never go out of my mind-never as long as life is in me."

"I don't exactly see-I don't understand-" Langdon began, but his cousin interrupted him.

"I had a talk with her one day," he said, feelingly. "I had been hunting with your gun and dogs, and stopped at her mother's house to get a drink of water. Virginia was the only one at home, and she brought it to me in the little porch. I've met thousands of women, Langdon, but her beauty, grace, intelligence, and dazzling purity affected me as I never was before. I am old enough to be her father, but do you know what I thought as I sat there and talked to her? I thought that I'd give every dollar I had for the love and faith of such a girl-to leave this rotten existence here and settle down there in the mountains to earn my living by the sweat of my brow. It was almost the only silly dream I ever had, but it was soon over. A thousand times since that day, in the midst of all this false show and glitter, my mind has gone back to that wonderful girl.