THE NABOB RE-ENTERS CIVILISATION
It was a lovely afternoon, two days after the events narrated in the
last chapter, when a shabby stranger might have been seen slowly pacing
the pavement that leads from one of those gates where a stream of
ardent pilgrims disembogues into the purlieus of the Athens of America;
pacing with reverent sloth up toward the Acropolis where, like fanes of
gods still alive and kicking, tower the Boston State House, the Boston
Anthenæum, and nobler than all, behind granite propylæa, the Boston
Tremont House.
I said a shabby stranger might have been seen; he might, had anyone
looked. But no one looks at shabby strangers, a fact for which this one
was deeply grateful, for his name was Ira Waddy, and he was encased
in a suit of Dan’l’s clothes. He was still gloomy after his wreck,
indisposed for the hospitalities of his commercial correspondents, not
unwilling to visit his old haunts, himself unknown.
His first point was of course Dullish Court, his childhood’s home; but
it had changed beyond his recognition. Here, in place of the little
shop, were the great Waddy Buildings, erected by his order and already
trebled in value. The income of this unmortgaged property was of itself
town house, country house, horses, dinners, balls, fashion and respect,
the kingdoms of this world and another. Dullish Court had enlarged its
borders for better perspective of these stupendous granite structures.
Boston thought them more important than Mont Blanc, the Temple of
Solomon, Karnac, or the Coliseum, and ciceroned the unsuspecting
stranger thither.
“There, sir; what do you think of that, sir? We are plain, sir; but
we are solid, sir--solid, sir, as the godlike Daniel said of us. All
belong to one man. Boston boy, sir--went away with nothing; now worth
millions!” and the liquid l’s of that luxurious word dwelt upon the
cicerone’s tongue most Spanishly.
Mr. Waddy looked at his buildings with satisfaction. They were worth
looking at. In them, everything that may be hoisted was hoisted;
whatever may be stored was stored. Any man, from any continent or any
island, would find there his country’s products.
In front of the buildings were still to be seen sights familiar to Mr.
Waddy’s childhood, in other parts of the city. Here were girls pulling
furtive pillage from the cotton bale; others making free with samples
of everything from leaky boxes; others sounding molasses barrels with
a pine taster and fattening on the contents. Mr. Waddy remembered his
own childish days when a dripping molasses barrel was to him riches
beyond the dreams of avarice; his days of growth, when as clerk, he
became himself a Cerberus of barrels; his days of higher dignity when,
Ira still, he, from his tall stool, was short with suppliants; and one
more period of promotion when the inner counting-house acknowledged
his services essential, and when Horace Belden, the ornamental junior
partner, became his constant companion and most intimate friend,
trusted with unnumbered confidences by the true and trustful Waddy.
After that, came India and exile.
The shabby stranger moved on at last, rather content with his granite
block, but regretting the old shop of his humbler days. The city was
wholly changed. He recognised no building anywhere, but a vista of
green trees appearing up a narrow street, he made for this. He came
out upon the Common, and a very pretty place he found it, warm with
rich shadows and all beflowered with gay little children. Fifteen
years before, Mr. Waddy had sometimes done what may still, perhaps,
be done by Boston swains and maids. He remembered circuits of the
Common, transits of the Common, lingerings in the Common, by bright
sunsets of summer, in electric evenings of frosty winters, when Boston
eyes grow to keener sparkles, and Boston cheeks gain ruddy bloom;
walks twilighted, moonlighted, starlighted--lighted beautifully with
all-beaming lights of nature and youth and hope.
As Mr. Waddy, forgetting dinner, was gazing charmedly across the
green slopes of this rus-in-urbal scene, remembering--pleasantly,
doubtless, though his face did not look pleasant--his youthful strolls
there-along, he saw sitting near one of the gates a miserable crouching
figure, almost rolled into a ball. By its side was a box of withered
cigars, and a placard, “Please buy something of this Chinaman.” As Mr.
Waddy looked abstractedly at him, quite certain not to buy, he saw
a man of dark complexion approach the cringing figure, stare at him
for a moment, jerk him violently by the tail, and then, with howls of
joy chiming in melodiously with the other’s howls of anguish, fall to
embracing him ecstatically.
Mr. Waddy was much amused to recognise his servant Chin Chin in the
embracer.
“What the devil are you doing with that chap?” he demanded, walking up
and employing the toe of one of Dan’l’s boots gently to interfere with
this affecting scene.
“Hi yah! All same! Boston fashion!” shouted the delighted Chin Chin,
recognising his master in spite of his disguise. “S’pose ’em drown.
No! All same. Dis my cussem--murder’s brudder’s sum. Hi yah!” and he
gave the cigar merchant another tug of the cue, another embrace, and a
quantity of guttural gibberish. After this spasm of kinsmanly regard,
he explained to Mr. Waddy that Dunstan had taken care of his effects
and deposited them with a letter at the Tremont House, intrusting also
him, Chin Chin, to the landlord’s care.
Chin Chin, dressed in his neat uniform--Mr. Waddy would not call it a
livery--seemed a Nepaulese ambassador, some Bung Jackadawr, on a visit
of state, and Mr. Waddy his rough interpreter on savage shores. Some
drygoods buyers at the Tremont House door were disposed to grin as the
apparent Down East Yankee came up the steps, and to hee-haw when the
landlord, recognising Chin Chin and the signature, asked the signer if
he would like a private parlour. They grinned and hee-hawed no more
when they caught sight of that name of power.
Meantime, Ira had been provided with his apartment. Chin Chin had
arrayed him in a summer costume, easy and elegant, and he was dining
vigorously, rejoiced to have someone near him again on whom his
impatient oaths in Loo Choo and kindred dialects were not thrown away.
Of a large number of letters, he first opened Dunstan’s. It was brief,
merely informing him what had been done with the luggage. Mr. Waddy
paused, however, over the closing sentences:
“I have a short hiatus in my life before the political campaign
fairly commences, and shall yawn through it at Newport with Paulding.
Why won’t you drop in and see something of our world after your long
absence? You will be amused and perhaps instructed in the new social
discoveries. Your relatives, the Waddies, have a house there, a capital
lounging place, and are expected back from Europe soon to occupy it.
“We made little Budlong rather unhappy for leaving you. Chin Chin shut
off his cheroots. Miss Arabella wouldn’t forgive him for abandoning
‘that charming Mr. Waddy.’ However, she consoled herself with
Miromenil, that sprig of the _haute noblesse_. You will find them all
at Newport.”
“Fine lad, Dunstan,” said Waddy, “but somewhat melancholy--probably
spent too much money in Europe. Perhaps he’s lost his heart to Miss
Waddie; but he didn’t talk like a disappointed lover; only sad, not
bitter. Well, when I’ve finished my business here and Granby comes, I
may as well begin my home experience with Newport--as well there as
anywhere.”
When the cobbler, being shaken, responded with only a death-rattle of
dry ice, Mr. Waddy lighted his cheroot and strolled into the Common.
It was loveliest moonlight. He sat on a bench reclined against an elm.
The policeman coming by, stopped, willing to chat of crime. It was too
pure a night for any thought save reveries of pensive peace; so Waddy
gagged him with a cigar. An hour afterward, at midnight, the same,
re-passing, found the smoker still posted on his bench.
So for hours of that delicious night of summer he sat beneath the
flickering elm shadows. Sweet breezes from overland, where roses were,
came and played among the branches. There was no sorrow nor sighing in
the voices of this summer wind--only love, love! Did Mr. Waddy hear
them? Had some hopeful Cupid peered into his face, he would have fled
affrighted at its stern misery.
Across the ripples and beyond the silver islands of the bay, at
Nahant, where one of the first hops of the season was now careering,
the Wilkes party were spending a day or two. They were all hopping
merrily to-night, Gyas the brave and the brave Cloanthus alternating
with Miss Julia. Miss Milly Center had also been brought down to
join the Wilkeses, by her Boston friends; and Mr. Billy Dulger, moth
to her flame, had followed, disregarding the claims of his papa’s
counting-house in New York. They all danced and flirted and were well
pleased, though not very susceptible truly to the exalting influences
of the moonlit sea.
Miss Sullivan’s dancing days were over, except when she was kind enough
to practice with a débutante, or teach some awkward youth the graces in
a turn or two. The music, however, was fine, and the girls, at first,
fresh and not all crumpled. So she, too, was pleased with the pretty
sight. But it grew no prettier, and presently she walked away from the
hotel out upon the rocks. The music mingled softly with the plashing
sea. The fall of waves was like the trembling of many leaves; each dot
of water on the dark rocks was a diamond, filled with a diminished
moon. Here, too, was the breeze that told of love; the lulling beat of
waves said softly love, and the great, dreamy, mysterious sea, over
all its brilliant and shimmering calm, seemed permeated by an infinite
spirit of eternal love. Looking out upon it, Miss Sullivan’s face
softened and saddened, and her eyes filled again with tears.
About this time, Mr. Waddy, on his bench in Boston Common, feeling
that the end of his third cheroot was about to frizzle the tips of his
moustache, was taking a last, long puff, when a mosquito, suddenly
sailing in, nipped his nose. The sufferer immediately discovered
that his life was a burden. He threw away his stump with great
violence, walked back to his hotel, and laid down his burden under a
mosquito-bar.