CHAPTER XIX.
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.”