“Flos equitum!—flower of chevaliers! Be sure to come this evening. A matter of the greatest importance, so do not fail. This is a vermilion edict. Hear and obey!
Muriel.”
“Good!” said she, laughing softly, as she folded the note. “A piebald epistle truly. But, like Mercutio’s wound, it is enough. And now for some dinner, for no beautifulest poet, as Carlyle says, but must dine, and lovers are subject to the same condition. Indeed, I think love gives one an appetite, for I am quite famished.”
Gaily talking to herself in this way, she went down-stairs, dispatched Patrick with the note, and sat down to her solitary dinner, which she had ordered to be served at this hour.
It was well that she had written to Harrington, for the young scholar, his mysterious trepidation increasing as the hour drew near when he was to convey Antony to Temple street, had decided, when the note reached him, to send Captain Fisher with the fugitive instead. Of course he revoked his decision, when he read the missive, and quaking at heart, and wondering what the “matter of the greatest importance” could be, he set out about half-past eight o’clock, with Antony.
He had previously told the poor man that he knew his brother, and was going to take him to him that evening, and Antony was lost between utter astonishment and delighted expectation. To his simple mind, this strong, beautiful, friendly, masterful Harrington, who lived in a house full of books, who treated him as he had never dreamed even of being treated by a white man, and who completed his wonderful benefactions by taking him to see his brother, was little less than a god. Regarding him with actually servile reverence, Antony thought he knew everything and could do anything, and that he was the greatest man in the world.
Arrived at the house, they were let in by Patrick, who, though he had been forewarned of the arrival of another colored man that evening, looked a little frightened as he caught a glimpse under the hall-light of the black cheek-bones and ghastly, hollow eyes of the fugitive. Nothing more could be seen of his face, for Harrington had taken the precaution to muffle it almost to the eyes, and the black felt hat which the fugitive wore, he had bade him keep on till he saw his brother. Assisting his charge, who was still weak, up into the library, Harrington left him sitting there in the dark room, lighted only by the moon, and went up-stairs to announce his arrival to Roux. Returning in a few minutes, he conducted the trembling fugitive up to the door of the room where Roux was, which was ajar, and bidding him push it open, and enter, he retreated.
On the stairs he heard, with a thrill, the rush, the cry, of that meeting, followed by the shrill laughter and hilarious breakdown of Tugmutton. He did not pause, but ran lightly down into the library, and flinging himself into a corner of a cushioned couch, he covered his burning eyes with his hand, and sat still, his heart swelling with compassionate emotion. Harrington had none of those imperfect sympathies of which Charles Lamb speaks with such gentle humor; and the meeting, after so many years of separation, of those two poor black, uncomely brothers of a despised race, touched his heart as much as if they had been the most beautiful and elegant people in the world.
Recovering in a few moments, he looked up, and the former feeling of mingled anxiety and trepidation flowed back upon his heart. Patrick had said Miss Eastman wished him ushered into the library, but had he not mistaken his instructions?—for the library was unlighted. Still there was light enough for conversation, for the curtains were withdrawn, and the pale moonlight streamed into the apartment. He watched it for a few minutes wanly glimmering on the glass cases, filled with books, which lined the chamber; on the dim busts of bronze which stood above them; the pictures on the walls; the statuettes of metal and marble on brackets and pedestals; the various ornaments here and there; the dark shapes of the rich furniture, all softly salient in the dim light and vague shadows of the perfumed air. Gradually his mind lost its interest in the phantasmal effects before him, and feeling weary and sad at heart, he leaned his elbow on the arm of the couch, and covering his closed eyes with his hand, sat without moving for a long time.
How still the room was! Dropping his hand from his eyes, as a ghostly sense of its intense stillness crossed his mind, he saw, with a sudden thrill of surprise, the figure of Muriel in the moonlight before him. She stood serene and motionless, with a certain grave majesty of mien which awed him—her beautiful bare arms lightly laid one upon another, and her white robe falling softly around the perfect outlines of her tall and stately form. The moonlight rested on the shadowy amber of her hair, and on her face, grave and sweet, from which her dimly shining eyes looked calmly upon him. A little surprised at the suddenness of her appearance, as by her mystic beauty he sat for a moment gazing at her.