IN WHICH THE READER IS ALLOWED TO WORSHIP AT THE SHRINE
If this were a three-volumed novel, here would expand a wondrous chance
for a luxuriant, George Robbinsy description of that delightful rural
retreat, the villa of Thomas Tootler, Esq. But though we enjoy the
bliss and comfort of that worthy, we must leave his accessories to be
imagined from the man. Of course he had a house, not too large, not too
small for the pleasant actual trio of his family, and extensible to
include future possibilities. Of course grounds were worthy of house,
garden of grounds, fruits of garden.
The equine Cecilia walked slowly up the hill and lounged into the gate,
no longer caring to hasten her certainty of oaten banquet, or spoil her
appetite by trepidation. A fine-looking darkey stepped forward and took
her head, while the gentlemen descended.
“Fugitive slave,” whispered Mr. Tootler. “Jefferson Lee Compton
Davis--first families of Virginia on the father’s side and on the
maternal grandfather’s.”
Little Cecilia had scampered away at once, and now reappeared, bright
as a cherub in a sunbeam, leading her mother by the hand. At sight
of the stranger, this lady checked herself at the threshold. But she
had evidently, as Mr. Tootler said, heard already of Mr. Waddy, and
when her husband presented him by name, she stepped forward with a shy
tremble of diffident friendliness lovely to behold.
If Mr. Tootler had fittingly represented the masculine side of
friendship, Mrs. Tootler as sincerely acted the feminine part. It was
not merely the few cordial words, expressing her pleasure at meeting
her husband’s old friend, to whom he owed so much in so many ways, but
the frank grasp of the hand, the bright look of genuine welcome in the
clear brown eyes, the blush of warm interest, the winning smile as she
introduced the friend into a home, as he must henceforth feel it--all
this was more and more on the side of happiness. Mr. Waddy was again
conscious of that unaccustomed feeling overcoming him, like a summer
cloud full of summer’s joyful tears.
Mrs. Tootler left them to give orders about the fatted calf and icing
the champagne. Tommy conducted his friend to his room, and both, with
their coats off, were commencing their toilet, chatting through an
open door of communication, when there came a sudden alarm from little
Cecilia.
“Papa!” she cried, running up the stair, “come quick! Some men are
fighting Jefferson.”
The host and guest were down the stair and in the barnyard in an
instant. Four men were endeavouring to put the Fugitive Slave Bill in
operation. Jefferson believed in the Declaration of Independence, and
was making wondrous play for freedom, but four were too many for him.
They had him down and were producing handcuffs. Two of the men were in
the Virginia uniform of black dress-coat and shiny satin waistcoat. The
other two were Deputy Marshals Hookey and Tucker.
It was beautiful as forked lightning to see Mr. Tootler count himself
in and make free with the fight. He alighted like a bomb, unexpected,
on one Virginian who had his knee on the negro’s head. This man, for
reasons, appeared no more in the fray. Ira, of course, followed his
friend and occupied himself with raising bumps on the countenance of
Marshal Tucker. Jefferson Davis, once released, soon floored the second
Virginian.
“Cut, Jeff, and go to Sammy’s,” cried Tommy, amidst his attentions to
Hookey. “I’ll send your clothes in the morning,” and Jeff was off in an
instant.
The prey escaped, the two marshals preferred not to be bruised further
and called a truce. Virginian No. 2 was quite groggy and _hors de
combat_. Crackers, the dog, had pounced upon his fellow-huntsman as
he lay, and was smiling at him with very white teeth. At this moment,
with a neighbour flash, bang went the big thunder-gun and down came the
deluge. The two gentlemen took refuge within, leaving the vanquished to
scamper for their carriage with such speed as they were capable of. As
the heroes re-entered the house, they met Mrs. Tootler rushing forward
with a double-barrelled gun and silver fish-knife. The black cook, with
a distinct cuisiney odor of fatted calf, was in the van, armed with
a gridiron and pitcher of steaming water. This reserve was, however,
needless as the Prussians at Waterloo, and there was no pursuit.
“Well, Waddy,” said the host, “how are you? Knuckles lame?”
“No,” replied the guest, “my man was rather cushiony about the chops.
Neither of us was much hurt.”
“Capital little shindy!” said Tommy, glowing with satisfaction. “I
think I shall take a station of the Underground for the chances of such
an appetiser now and then. I haven’t felt such a meritorious hunger for
ages. Very likely we’ll be arrested in the morning.”
Battles in a worthy cause win favour with the fair. Mrs. Cecilia looked
a little anxiously for wounds, but there were none save what a stitch
might repair. She plucked a rose for each, as a palm of victory.
At dinner, after the asphodel cauliflower, the lotus celery, the
_pommes d’amour_ tomatoes, and the amaranthine flower-adorned fruits,
the friends talked over this mêlée, sipping meanwhile their nectar
coffee, and wielding the nephelegeret sceptre of tobacco. Mrs. Tootler
was not to be weeded out. They could not spare her presence, blithe and
débonnaire, nor in the discussion her unembarrassed womanly rectitude.
“You must be indignant, Tommy,” said Ira, “at the intrusion of those
kidnappers.”
“Unfortunately our moral sense on these subjects is too much degraded,”
answered Tommy. “I am angry, of course, but I do not think half enough
of the infernal shame to that poor darkey. He must go to Canada, just
as much an exile as any of the foreigners we make such disturbance
about.”
“I may seem rather ignorant,” said Waddy, “after my long absence, but
tell me, do men with the social position of gentlemen here accept
office from a government that is willing to make and execute such laws
as this Fugitive Slave Bill?”
“Why not? Mere social position does not make men gentlemen. They call
themselves conservatives.”
“It seems to me,” said Ira, “that in the present condition of things,
a conservative must be either an ignoramus, a coward, or a knave. But,
madam,” he added, turning to Mrs. Tootler, “we are boring you with
politics. _Parlons chiffons._”
“_Chiffons!_” cried Cecilia. “I am really indignant, Mr. Waddy. I do
not believe that the gentleman so quietly smoking by your side would
ever have been really roused if I were not always buzzing in his ears.”
“She is right,” admitted Mr. Tootler, sipping the last drops of his
now cold coffee. “Women are vigorous antidotes to moral or mental
sleepiness. But, Waddy, our little adventure is bringing the present
too near us; to-night must be devoted to recalling our dear old
days together. To-morrow we’ll talk politics and be sad for the
uncertainties of our cause--‘ma quest oggi n’ é dato goder,’” he sang.
“‘Non contiamo l’ incerto domani,’” responded Cecilia, with spirit,
from the same air, “which I freely translate that we do not count the
future of our cause uncertain at all, either to-morrow or after.”
It is a fascinating thing to see a lovely woman in wrath, and probably
Mr. Waddy thought for the moment more of how startlingly bright were
the eyes of the lady, and how quick her heart’s blood leaped to her
vivid cheek, than of the cause that made the eyes electric and the
cheek burning.
“My wife knows all the old songs, Ira,” said Tommy, also gazing
admiringly, but deeming it discreet to change the subject, “and I’ve
not forgotten my stock. We’ll have the old first, as old wine should
come, and then, if satiety does not interfere, you shall have new
music till you cry _basta_.”
“Yes,” agreed Cecilia, the little storm over in an instant, “I’ve
learnt all your old favourites, Mr. Waddy. We have always expected you
and determined to make you forget your sad absence,” and then, as if
she had been too frank and had betrayed some confidence of husband and
wife, she shrank a little and folded into herself like a mimosa leaf.
“Thank you,” said Mr. Waddy simply.
So they had music. Mrs. Tootler’s voice was a pearly soprano of more
marked tenderness and sentiment than you would have expected from her
blithesomeness of manner. Tommy’s was a barytone, strong and rich;
it rolled out of the happy little man in a careless way, perpetually
making musical ten-strikes. Mr. Waddy sometimes contributed a bass
note, deep as an oubliette.
But it was his part to assist passively rather than actively at
the concert. He would have listened quite forever, but at last the
husband detected huskiness and said punch. Thereupon he brewed a
browst--tumblers for the men, a wineglass for the lady. They partook by
the rising moonlight.
“What are your plans?” asked Tommy. “You will stay with us a week, or a
month, or five years?”
“I have no plans except to buy the black colt to-morrow. I expect
pretty soon an English friend, and have promised to look up the lions
with him. Apropos, perhaps you can put him in the way of seeing your
Boston dons. He is an accomplished fellow, naturalist, man of science,
charming companion, and brave soldier.”
“He will find the Boston dons rather slow,” said Tommy; “there is
nothing soldierly about them. A respectably studious and rather
dyspeptic set. Quite conventional and conscious of European influence.
But here’s to the midnight moon!” he added, as that gibbous deity cleft
the clouds and seemed sailing upward through their stationary masses.
“One can see almost heaven and the angels!”
“But why do you look up yonder for them?” queried Waddy, when the toast
was drunk. “Your life seems to me a revelation of earthly heaven, with
one abiding angelic presence. You think my rhapsodies mere Oriental
absurdities, perhaps, Mrs. Cecilia--but it seems to me that my friend,
with you, has attained to happiness. You were always a hopeful man,
Tommy; now you seem by hopes achieved to have learnt what they call
Faith. Well, you deserve it. For me, whatever I have deserved, there
is only a poor refuge of such careless stoicism as I affect,” and he
uttered in some strange tongue an expression savage and stern as the
growl of a lion.
“No!” said he again, after a silence, during which his friends had
been, perhaps, seeking vainly for the right word; “my dear Mrs.
Cecilia, my first evening at your lovely house shall not end sulkily
on my part. Tommy, unsheathe your jocund flute and draw thenceforth
soul-animating strains.”
Tommy was not one of those non-performing humbugs, noticed by Socrates
as existing in his time, who are uniformly out of practice or have
left their notes at home, so he got out his flute immediately, and
accompanied Cecilia in a delicious echo song, the silver sounds
threading themselves among the fine moonbeams that floated through the
network of vines over the piazza where they sat. With the last fading
echo, drifted away every thought of bitterness, and the calm midnight
silence fell around them peacefully. So they separated.
Mr. Waddy stood at the window of his bedroom, looking out upon the
night. Was it to the spirit of the night that he stretched forth his
arms and murmured words of yearning tenderness? His hand was feeling,
as if unconsciously, in his bosom. He missed something.
“My Testament!” he exclaimed. “Ah, now I remember--the wreck.”
He lighted a cigar, but after a puff or two, threw it away and turned
in. His health was excellent, despite the memories which troubled him
from time to time, and after the long day diversified with incidents of
collision and shindy, he slept solidly, not far from the scenes of old
happiness, lost long ago.