CHAPTER XXII
RODNEY MERRIAM EXPLAINS
Captain Frank Pollock was, as many people had said at different times and in divers places, a little fellow; but there was a good deal of decision in his make-up. He walked to Rodney Merriam’s house the next afternoon with an exaggeration of his usual alert dignity.
The Japanese boy said that Mr. Merriam was at home, and he took Pollock’s card and asked him to have a seat in the library. Pollock stood, however, in the middle of the room, with a general effect of parade rest, holding his hat and stick.
It is usually possible to tell, when you have rung a door-bell, just what happens after you have been announced. Some one looks at your card and smiles or frowns, or possibly mutters surprise, agreeable or otherwise. In the case of a woman, there must be an interval of self-inspection in the mirror,—an adjustment of ribbons, a stroke or two with comb and brush. In the case of a man, he may, if the demand upon him warrant it, smooth his hair, adjust his tie, and put aside his slippers and dressing-gown. And these things, if you are waiting below, you dramatize for yourself, just as though you had followed your card to its destination.
Rodney Merriam was lying on a wide couch in his upstairs sitting-room when Pollock’s card was brought to him. He held before him the London Times, a journal which he read through conscientiously every day; but he was not particularly interested in the Eastern question just now. He was brooding over Zelda’s affairs, which did not please him at all; and the prospect of making the rounds of eastern summer resorts with Mrs. Forrest did not cheer him by anticipation. When the boy appeared at the door, Merriam said, without looking up:
“If it’s Mr. Leighton, I’ll see him here.”
“No, sir; it’s another gentleman,” said the boy, producing Pollock’s card.
Merriam raised his head and read the card; he then took his pipe out of his mouth and sat up.
“Put out my coat and shoes, and tell the gentleman I’ll be down in a moment.”
When the boy had gone he went to a bronze jar that stood on the mantel and knocked his ashes into it. He put on a pair of low shoes and a blue serge sack-coat, and before he left the room he stood on the threshold a moment, thinking deeply.
“I’ll be damned,” he muttered, in the agreeable tone in which he always swore to himself; and then he went down stairs.
“Good afternoon, Captain Pollock,” he said courteously, taking a step toward his caller, but Pollock stood perfectly rigid and did not move.
“Please be seated, Captain. I am quite at your service.”
Merriam stood by his desk, his hand resting upon it.
“Mr. Merriam,” began Pollock, “I was introduced to you by a gentleman in your own club several months ago.”
“I have met you a number of times since,—I needn’t specify. Within a week you have refused to speak to me at the club; and yesterday, at Mr. Dameron’s house, you acted toward me in an extraordinary way, to say the least.”
Merriam nodded affirmatively.
“As I am likely to meet you, here and there, at the club, perhaps at houses of your friends, I have taken the liberty of asking you what I have done to offend you. I resent being cut before my friends by a man whom they have a right to assume I know.”
“I fear that you exaggerate, Captain Pollock. I doubt whether cutting a man’s acquaintance can be construed as an insult.”
“That is a matter of opinion, sir. I choose to take it that you have deliberately snubbed me, and, among other people, before your nieces, Miss Dameron and Miss Merriam, only yesterday afternoon. If I am not fit to enjoy your acquaintance, I am not a fit person for them to know. I have come, sir, to ask an explanation of your singular conduct. I am not in the habit of being treated in this fashion by a man of any age.”
His effort to be respectful in his anger showed a quality of character that touched the old man, who looked at the erect, uncompromising figure with liking in spite of himself.
“I am not in the habit of giving reasons for things I do, Captain Pollock, and it would pain me very much to be obliged to explain why I may have seemed to treat you with discourtesy. I beg of you to dismiss the matter as one of the aberrations, let us say, of old age. I am considerably your senior. My liking you or not liking you is not an important matter,—unless, well, it is conceivable that some situation might arise in which it might become important.”
“As a mysterious character in this community you may act as you please with your townspeople; but you can’t do it with me! I’m not a child, and I don’t propose to be treated like a baby. I want to know what I have done to offend you.”
Pollock jerked out his words fiercely and glared at Merriam, who regarded him with grave patience.
“You will pardon me if I sit down, Captain Pollock,”—and Merriam dragged a chair forward and sank into it, while Pollock remained standing and glaring at him. “Nothing can be gained from me by bluster. You are in my house, by your own invitation!”
“Quite so! There was no other way of seeing you. I did not care to stop you in the street, and you have already made it impossible for me to speak to you in your club. I hope this explanation is satisfactory.”
“Entirely. Pray have a seat, to oblige me.”
Pollock sat down reluctantly. The house was very quiet; it was a hot day and the air in the room was tense.
“Captain,” said the old gentleman, quietly, with his black eyes resting kindly on the visitor, “I regret very much that you have come to me with this question—”
“I’ve no doubt you do, sir,—” began Pollock, hotly.
“—because,” Merriam continued, paying no heed to the interruption, “you have never in the world done anything to offend me,—not in the slightest. As far as I know, you are a gentleman beyond any question, and worthy of the highest consideration in all places.”
“Please wait! I regret very much that I should have been led by a feeling, which I should prefer not to explain, into treating you discourteously. A man of my age should have better control of himself,—better manners, if you will.”
He raised his right hand and stared at the palm quite unconsciously. It was a habit of his when thoughtful.
Pollock felt his anger cooling under the old gentleman’s composure. There was something fine in it, that impressed him in spite of himself. Moreover, his curiosity was piqued. He had expected to call, demand an explanation and retire, after giving the old gentleman in Seminary Square a piece of his mind. He had not the slightest idea that Rodney Merriam had any particular reason for slighting him; though it had occurred to him that as a self-appointed guardian of Zelda Dameron, Merriam might have seen in him a possible suitor and sought to eliminate him from the possibilities by treating him contemptuously.
Merriam had finished inspecting his hand and he dropped it upon his knee and met Pollock’s eyes again.
“I should very much prefer to dismiss this matter. As I have said, I have no grievance against you personally. I am perfectly willing to apologize and to meet you in a friendly spirit. To repeat, I have let an old prejudice get the better of my good sense. I trust this will be satisfactory.”
“Not a bit of it, sir,” snapped Pollock, with fresh asperity. “If you haven’t anything against me personally, I should like to know what you are hinting about so darkly. Your air is insufferable! We may as well go to the bottom of this now and here. I’m not a child, as I have said before!”
Merriam smiled in a perplexed sort of way. He had spoken the truth. He was heartily sorry for what he had done. Pollock’s presence in town had annoyed him greatly; and the young man’s friendly relations with Zelda had really angered and distressed him. But here sat Pollock before him, in his own house, demanding an explanation to which he was entitled by all the rules that govern social intercourse. Merriam was uncomfortable, and he disliked being made uncomfortable. He had not often been cornered; and Pollock’s demand threw him back again into the past in which he had of late been living all too much.
“If I should refuse to talk to you—”
“You shan’t do anything of the kind! Your evasion and mysterious hints are all of a piece with your whole attitude toward me, and I am not going to stand it!”
Merriam bowed his head and was thoughtful for a moment. Then he raised his eyes again. Pollock had risen and taken a quick turn across the floor; but he sat down again, when he saw that Merriam was about to speak.
“My dear sir, I trust that it will be quite enough to say that your name is one that is associated with an unpleasant incident in my life. It doesn’t concern you at all. It was a matter between your father and myself.”
Pollock was on his feet again with a leap.
“You are mad or a fool! What in the devil are you driving at? I don’t suppose you ever saw my father in your life. He’s been dead fifteen years!”
“Quite that,” said the colonel. “I could, from my papers here, give you the exact date if it were important. Your father and I were somewhat acquainted,—during the Civil War,—and the recollection is unpleasant. I beg you to drop the matter. I am an old man—”
“You are mad, you are perfectly mad!” declared Pollock, his voice ringing out in the room. “You not only insult me, but you drag my dead father into this romance. If you didn’t like my seeing your nieces, why in the devil didn’t you say so in a straight manly way and not invent a lot of fanciful tales to back you up? It’s wholly possible that you knew my father. He was a man of honor! His name is a good one in his own state. I am proud of it. And it ought to count something for me that I am an officer in the army that he fought against. I would warn you, sir, that my father’s name is a sacred thing to me!”
“I’m sure that is so, Captain Pollock. And that’s why I beg of you to accept an apology and let me alone.”
The old man spoke very earnestly, and with an undoubted sincerity; but Pollock blazed at him furiously:
“Unless you want to be branded as a liar, you will tell me what this is before I leave the house. There’s a place where a man’s age ceases to be his protection.”
Then Rodney Merriam’s manner changed.
“Please be seated, and don’t, I beg of you, alarm the servants. I’m going to tell you what this trouble is, and before I begin I want to apologize for doing so. And when I finish,—it will take but a moment,—I’m going to apologize to you again. I am sixty years old, Captain Pollock, and I don’t remember that I ever apologized to any one before. The most comfortable thing a man can have is a bad memory. My trouble is that I never forget anything. It was after we had captured Donelson. I had been sent back here to Mariona, my home, on an errand to the governor, who was having a devil of a time of it, fighting Copperheads and getting troops into the field. The old railway station down here was a horrible sight the night the Donelson prisoners were brought in. Many of them were sick and they were taken from the cars and laid out on the floor until they could be carried to Camp Burnside, which had been turned into a rebel prison.
“I was down looking over the prisoners when I struck a little chap who was badly used up. He said his name was Hamilton. He was a Confederate private, but evidently a man of education and breeding. He was on fire with fever, and the whole situation at the station was so forbidding that I got permission to take him to my father’s house. That’s where Mr. Dameron lives now. The officer in charge of the prisoners was a friend of mine; and when he let me take Hamilton away, as a favor, I gave my personal pledge that he should be delivered at the prison whenever they wanted him.
“At home we took a fancy to Hamilton. He was up and about the house in a couple of weeks. I gave him some of my civilian clothes so that he could go down into town. There seemed to be nothing unusual about him. He was a forlorn young fellow,—a prisoner, far from home, and my father and the rest of them at the house liked him. We used to call him our little rebel.
“Then one day there was the devil to pay. My friend, the commandant at the prison, sent a guard to the house to arrest Hamilton, but he had disappeared. We learned then that he was all kinds of a bad lot,—a dangerous spy who had been captured at Donelson purely by accident, but he had turned his capture and illness to good advantage. Mariona was the headquarters of a daring band of southern sympathizers, and Hamilton had established lines of communication with the leaders. There was a scheme afoot to assassinate the governor, and he was to have done the act. His line of retreat to the Ohio had been carefully arranged.
“Hamilton had warning of the discovery of the plot,—there was a Copperhead behind every loyal man here in those days—and got away safely. But you can see that, having vouched for him and harbored him, I was put in a nice position with the authorities. I offered to submit to arrest, but they wouldn’t have it. The governor sent for me and after giving me a good drubbing—he had known me all my life and rubbed it in hard—he told me to go and find Hamilton.
“I was captain of artillery and my chances of advancement were good; but I resigned my commission and spent a year looking for him. He became notorious as a spy, who slipped in and out of our lines with astounding daring. He found out that I was after him, and we used to exchange compliments at long range. As I think of it now I got a good deal of fun out of the chase, and”—the old man smiled—“I fancy the other fellow did, too.
“The story is long and it wouldn’t interest you. I never caught him. I went once into a circle of men in the Galt House at Louisville where he sat. I thought I had him sure, but he jumped up and bolted, I following. We had a mad run for it there in the street, but he got away. He gave me this”—and Merriam threw up his hands. The sleeve and cuff slipped back from his right arm, showing an old bullet scar on the wrist; and the old gentleman eyed the spot for a moment reflectively.
“He gave me that,” he said, and smiled. “Hamilton’s real name was Pollock—your father;”—and Merriam bent his keen gaze on the young man before him. “I think I may be pardoned for not caring greatly for the family. That business ruined my career in the army. There are a great many things that might have been different, if I hadn’t seriously compromised myself in that matter. The contemptible thing was the abuse of hospitality and confidence. I probably saved the man’s life; and he betrayed us all in the most infamous fashion possible.”
Pollock rose abruptly. He had listened with a puzzled look on his face to Rodney Merriam’s recital. He laughed now, the nervous laugh of relief.
“This man was a spy, sent out by the Confederate War Department on special errands for the Confederate president. Is that right?” he asked.
“That is correct. He became one of the best known spies in the South. I have no objection to him on that account. But he served me a scurvy trick,—I ought to forget it, I suppose, but, as I tell you, I’m an old man, and I look backward a good deal. Your father served me a nasty trick and your presence here has reminded me of it very disagreeably.”
“That man, Mr. Merriam, was no more my father than you are.”
“I can hardly be mistaken. Your father was a Confederate officer,—he was a Tennessee man—”
“He was all that, sir. He was an engineer on duty at Richmond throughout the war and was never a scout or spy in his life. If you had been as careful as you pretend to be in looking up his record you would have found that out.”
“But the name? It is your name.”
The old man was greatly annoyed and perplexed, and he rose now slowly and stood facing the young officer.
“Frank Pollock, the spy, was a remote cousin of my father’s. I don’t believe father ever had any acquaintance with him. I was named for another connection of the family, who wasn’t a Pollock at all. Your man Pollock got into a lot of scrapes after the war. I’ll even grant you that he wasn’t quite reputable. If you wish to verify what I say I’ll refer you to a hundred men in Knoxville,—Richmond,—Memphis,—Atlanta, who knew my father and who knew of this other man, too. Do you want my references?”
He was a little fellow and he was angry; but he was a gentleman, too, and, seeing that Rodney Merriam was really surprised, he relented toward the old soldier, who had thrust his hands into the side pockets of his coat, looking as foolish as it is possible for a fine old gentleman to look.
“Captain Pollock,” he blurted out suddenly, “I haven’t a doubt that you are telling the truth. I don’t care whose son you are, I like you anyhow!” And then snatching his hands from his pockets he held them out to Pollock, demanding with a gruff kindness, “Will you shake hands with me?”
A few hours later the usual crowd lounged in the smoking-room of the Tippecanoe Club. Pollock had just finished telling a story when Rodney Merriam appeared in the doorway. The old gentleman advanced upon the little group, returning their greetings and thanking them all for the proffer of their seats.
“Gentlemen,” he said, standing by his chair, “I wish to make you an explanation. Owing to an unfortunate misunderstanding, due wholly to my own stupidity, I recently showed Captain Pollock a slight in this club. I wish to make the amplest possible expiation,—”
“This is wholly unnecessary,” exclaimed Pollock, rising. “This is wholly uncalled for, Mr. Merriam.”
“I wish to say before all of you,” Merriam continued, “that I was wholly in the wrong, and that Captain Pollock is a gentleman, who is an honor to his friends and to his profession.”
He put out his hand and Pollock grasped it.
“Leighton,” said Merriam, “you are nearest the bell. Give it a punch, won’t you?”
And be it said for the Tippecanoe Club, that no one of the ten men present ever spoke of this incident outside its doors. It was no one’s affair what happened between Rodney Merriam and the army officer; it sufficed that an old man had made the amende honorable in a way that impressed ten young men deeply.
And the next day, in the same spirit of scrupulous honor, Rodney Merriam sought his nieces at The Beeches and made his peace with them.