Ten days or so have passed.
“Well, Dick,” said Mr. Whacker, “I suppose we have seen our breakfast?”
Dick gave his company-bow, glancing, as the gentlemen rose from the
table, with the imposing look of a generalissimo, at a half-grown boy
who acted as his aide-de-camp whenever there was even one guest at
Elmington. It was only, in fact, when our small family was alone that
this worthy served as what would be called, in the language of our day,
a “practical” waiter (there existing, it would seem, at the period of
this writing, to judge from the frequency of that adjective upon
sign-boards, hordes of theoretical blacksmiths, cobblers, and barbers,
against whom the public are thus tacitly warned). For, whenever we had
company, Dick would perform the duties rather of a commander than of a
private,—_magis imperatoris quam militis_,—summoning to his assistance
one or more lads who were too young for steady farm work,—or were so
considered, at least, during those times of slavery. Zip,—for under
this name went, in defiance of all the philology and all the Grimm’s
Laws in the world, the boy in question,—(he had been christened
Moses,)—Zip sprang nimbly forward under that austere glance of
authority and began to clear the table,—half trembling under the severe
eye of a chief for whom there was one way of gathering up knives, one
method of piling plate upon plate, one of removing napkins,—one and
only one.
“Dick,” said my grandfather, as soon as pipes were lit, “there is a fire
in the library?”
“Yes, sir; I made one de fust thing dis morning.”
“Ah, well, Charley, suppose you take Mr. Smith over then; you will be
more comfortable there than here. I shall follow you in half an hour or
so.”
“This way,” said Charley. And the two young men, passing through the
house and descending a few steps, found themselves upon a pavement of
powdered shells, which led to a frame building, painted white, and one
story in height, which stood about fifty yards westward of the mansion.
This they entered by the left door of two that opened upon the yard, and
found themselves in my grandfather’s library and sitting-room. It was
fitted up with shelves, built into the walls, upon which was to be found
a miscellaneous library of about two thousand volumes; the furniture
consisting of a very wide and solid square table, a couple of lounges,
and a number of very comfortable chairs of various patterns. Charley
took up his position with his back to the fire, while the Don sauntered
round the room, running his eye along the shelves, and occasionally
taking down and examining a volume, and the two chatted quietly for some
time.
“The old gentleman is coming over. I hear his step. He has something to
show you.”
“Ah?” said the Don, looking around the room.
“It is not in this room; it is in the next,—or, rather, it is that room
itself,” added Charley, pointing to a door. “That room is the apple of
his eye. I always reserve for him the pleasure of exhibiting it to his
friends.”
“Looking over our books?” interrupted my grandfather, entering the room
briskly, with a ruddy winter glow upon his fine face.
“Yes; and I observe that you have a large and capital selection of
French classics.”
“Yes; I picked them up when I was abroad as a young man. You read
French? Ah! Then this will be the place for you on rainy days when you
cannot hunt. Charley, have you shown Mr. Smith the Hall?”
“Not yet.”
“No?” ejaculated my grandfather, with a surprise that was surprising,
seeing that Charley had given him that identical answer on a hundred
similar occasions previously. “Mr. Smith,” said he, walking toward the
inner door, “we have a room here that we think rather unique in its
way.” And he placed his hand upon the knob. “We call it ‘The Hall.’ Walk
in!” And he opened wide the door, stepping back with the air of an
artist withdrawing a curtain from a new production of his pencil.
The Don advanced to the threshold of the room, and giving one glance
within, turned to his host with a look of mingled admiration and
surprise. The old gentleman, who was as transparent as glass, fairly
beamed with gratification at observing the pleased astonishment of his
guest. “Walk in, walk in,” said he, wreathed in smiles. “Be careful,”
added he, laying hold of the Don’s arm, as the latter’s feet seemed
disposed to fly from under him,—“the floor is as smooth as glass.”
“So I perceive. Why, what on earth can you do with such a room in the
country?” And the Don lifted his eyes to the very lofty ceiling.
“That’s the question!” observed Mr. Whacker, giving Charley a knowing
look.
“One would say it was a ball-room,” said the Don, looking down upon the
perfectly polished floor, in which their figures stood reflected as in a
mirror.
“It would do very well for that,” said the old gentleman. “I think it
would puzzle you to find the joints in that floor,” he added, stooping
down and running his thumb nail across a number of the very narrow
planks. “You observe, the room is ceiled throughout with heart-pine,—no
plastering anywhere. I used, as you see, the darker wood for the floor,
and selected the lightest-colored planks for the ceiling; while I made
the two shades alternate on the walls. You think so? Well, I think it
ought to be, for I was several years collecting and selecting the lumber
for this room,—not a plank that I did not inspect carefully. And so you
think it would make a good ball-room? So it would, in fact. Thirty feet
by twenty would give room for a goodly number of twinkling feet.”
“I see a piano at the other end of the room.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Whacker, leaning forward, his fingers interlaced behind
his back, and his smiling eyes fixed upon the floor. He was giving the
Don time,—he had not seen everything in the room.
“What!” exclaimed the latter, suddenly, as his eyes chanced to stray
into a corner of the room, which was rather dark with its closed blinds.
“Is not that a violin-case standing in the corner?”
“Yes, that’s a violin case,” rejoined Mr. Whacker, softly, while his
eyes made an involuntary movement in the direction of the neighboring
corner.
“And another!” exclaimed the Don, “and still another! and, upon my word,
there is a violoncello in the fourth corner!”
My grandfather threw his head back as though he would gaze upon the
ceiling, but closed his eyes; and rocking gently back and forth, and
softly flapping upon the floor with both feet, was silent for a while.
He was content. The surprise of the stranger had been
complete—dramatically complete,—his wondering admiration obvious and
sincere.
Charley watched his friend quietly, with a tender humor in his eyes. He
had witnessed a number of similar scenes in this room, but this had been
the most entirely successful of them all.
“The third box,” resumed my grandfather, softly, with his eyes still
closed, and still rocking from heel to toe, “contains a viola.”
“A viola! Then you have a complete set of quartet instruments!” And he
turned, looking from case to case, as if to make sure that he saw
aright. “What a droll, divorced air they have in this great room, each
solitary in his own corner! Surely you can never—”
“Never use them?” And my grandfather paused with a smile on his face. “I
find this room rather cold. Let us adjourn to the Library and I will
tell you how we manage.”