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.