She took the offered arm, and they swept out together, the brave and the fair. Bouquet de Caroline streamed in their wake, as Miss Atkins, leaning on the arm of her highly respectable papa, wafted on after them. Millefleurs and pomatum lent their sweetness to the desert air of the drawing-room, as the gallant Horatio escorted out the lovely Julia. Following up the rear, in martial state, and redolent of musk and marrowfat, came haughty Thomas, caressing the whiskerage of Lord Charles Chawles, and sniffing the rich odor of the dinner from afar.
Meanwhile, low Antony, brother of Roux, bought chattel of Lafitte, foodless, filthy, helpless, friendless, despised and accursed, lay bound in the dark and noisome hold of a Boston vessel—a negro with no rights that a white man is bound to respect—with no rights that a Boston merchant might not, and would not, take away, all for the good of party and of trade—a good which, as every thoughtful patriot and Christian will allow, is the chief good of existence.
CHAPTER XII.
STARTLING DEVELOPMENTS.
Harrington lifted his calm eyebrows with some wonder at the furious entrance of his friend, and sat regarding him with a firm mouth and steadfast eyes. Wentworth, out of breath with the speed of his course, and the tumult of his emotions, had flung his hat across the room, and himself upon the sofa, and sat panting, with his handsome face flushed, and his bright auburn curls damp with perspiration.
“Well, Richard, what’s the matter?” said Harrington, calmly. “Has the sky fallen?”
“Harrington, see here,” panted Wentworth, “Johnny’s just been up to the studio.”
“Johnny? Who’s Johnny?” interrupted Harrington.
“Oh, pshaw! Bagasse’s boy, you know. John Todd,” fumed Wentworth, stopping to wipe his brow with a white handkerchief.
“Well. Is that any reason for your running yourself into a pleurisy?” bantered Harrington.