"I see it--I see it," answered David slowly, "and all of that glad heart
was bred in Andy, Major, and it's there under his sadness. Heavens,
haven't I seen it in the hunting field as he landed over six stiff bars
on a fast horse? It's in some of his writing and sometimes it flashes in
his eyes when he is excited. I've seen it there lately more often than
ever before. God, Major, last night his eyes fairly danced when I plagued
Caroline into asking him to whom he wrote that serenade which I have set
to music and sing for her so often. It hurts me all over--it makes
me weak--"
"It's hunger, David, lunch is almost ready," said Phoebe who had come
into the room in time to catch his last words. "Why, where is Andrew?
Wouldn't he come?"
"No," answered Kildare quickly, covering his emotion with a laugh as he
refused to meet Caroline Darrah's eyes which wistfully asked the same
question that Phoebe had voiced, "he is writing a poem--about---about,"
his eyes roamed the room wildly for he had got into it, and his stock of
original poem-subjects was very short. Finally his music lore yielded
a point, "It's about a girl drinking--only with her eyes you
understand--and--"
"He could save himself that trouble," laughed Phoebe, "for somebody has
already written that; did it some time ago. Run stop him, David."
"No," answered David with recovered spirit, "I'd flag a train for you,
Phoebe, but I don't intend to side-track a poem for anybody. Besides, I'm
hungry and I see Jeff with a tray. Mrs. Matilda, please put Caroline
Darrah by me. She's attentive and Phoebe just diets--me."
And while they laughed and chatted and feasted the hour away, across the
street Andrew sat with his eyes looking over on to the major's red roof
which was shrouded in a mist of yesterdays through which he was watching
a slender boy toil his way. When he was eight he had carried a long route
of the daily paper and he could feel now the chill dark air out into
which he had slipped as his mother stood at the door and watched him down
the street with sad and hungry eyes, the gaunt mother who had never
smiled. He had fought and punched and scuffled in the dawn for his bundle
of papers; and he had fought and scuffled for all he had got of life for
many years. But a result had come--and it was rich. How he had managed an
education he could hardly see himself; only the major had helped. Not
much, but just enough to make it possible. And David had always stood by.
Kildare's fortune had come from some almost forgotten lumber lands that
his father had failed to heave into the Confederate maelstrom. Perhaps it
had come a little soon for the very best upbuilding of the character of
David Kildare, but he had stood shoulder to shoulder with them all in the
fight for the establishment of the new order of things and his generosity
with himself and his wealth had been superb. The delight with which he
made a gift of himself to any cause whatsoever, rather tended to blight
the prospects of what might have been a brilliant career at law. With his
backing Hobson Capers had opened the cotton mills on a margin of no
capital and much grit. Then Tom Cantrell had begun stock manipulations
on a few blocks of gas and water, which his mother and Andrew had put up
the money to buy--and nerve.