Thy friends are exultations, agonies,
And love, and Man’s unconquerable mind.”—Wordsworth.
Kenrick found Onslow seated at one of the tables of the large dining-hall and expecting his coming. The chair on his right was tipped over on its fore legs against the table as a signal that the seat was engaged. On Onslow’s left sat the scoffer, Robson.
As Kenrick advanced, Onslow rose, took him by the hand, and placed him in the reserved seat. Robson bowed, and filled three glasses with claret.
“But how grave and pale you look, Charles!” said Onslow. “What the deuce is the matter? Come on! Absit atra cura! Begone, dull care! Toss off that glass of claret, or Robson will scorn you as a skulker.”
“The wine is not bad,” said Robson, “but there should have been ice in the cooler. May the universal Yankee nation be eternally and immitigably consigned to perdition for depriving us of our ice. Every time I am thirsty,—and that is fifty times a day,—my temper is tried, and I wish I had a plenipotentiary power of cursing. With the thermometer at ninety, ’t is a lie to say Cotton is king. Ice is king. The glory of our juleps has departed. For my own part, I would grovel at old Abe’s feet if he would give us ice.”
Kenrick could not force a smile. He touched his lips with the claret.
“You will take soup?” inquired Onslow. “It is tomato, and very good.”
“What you please, I’m not hungry.”
Onslow ordered the servant to bring a plate of soup. Kenrick stirred it a moment, tasted, then pushed it from him. Its color reminded him of the precious blood, dear to his friend, which had been so ruthlessly shed.