""Who did you say you were, suh?"
""The United States census-taker."
""Ah, a message from the enemy. Take a seat on the gra.s.s."
""It"s only a matter of form," said the man.
""So I presume, and very bad form, suh," looking at the hat still on the man"s head. "But go on."
""Well, what"s yo" business?" asked the agent, taking out his book and pencil.
""My business, suh?" said the colonel, risin" from his chair, mad clear through,--"I"ve no business, suh. I am a prisoner of war waitin" to be exchanged!" and he stomped into the house."
Here the major burst into a laugh, straightened himself up to his full height, squeezed the keys back into his pocket, and said he must take a look into the state-rooms on the deck to see if they were all ready for his friends for the night.
When I turned in for the night, he was on deck again, still talking, his hearty laugh ringing out every few moments. Only the white-whiskered man was left. The other camp-stools were empty.
II
At early dawn the steamboat slowed down, and a scow, manned by two bare-footed negroes with sweep oars, rounded to. In a few moments the major, two guns, two valises, Jack, and I were safely landed on its wet bottom, the major"s bag with its precious contents stowed between his knees.
To the left, a mile or more away, lay Crab Island, the landed estate of our host,--a delicate, green thread on the horizon line, broken by two knots, one evidently a large house with chimneys, and the other a clump of trees. The larger knot proved to be the manor house that sheltered the belongings of the major, with the wine-cellars of marvelous vintage, the table that groaned, the folding mahogany doors that swung back for bevies of beauties, and perhaps, for all I knew, the gray-haired, ebony butler in the green coat. The smaller knot, Jack said, screened from public view the little club-house belonging to his friends and himself.
As the sun rose and we neared the sh.o.r.e, there came into view on the near end of the island the rickety outline of a palsied old dock, clutching with one arm a group of piles anch.o.r.ed in the marsh gra.s.s, and extending the other as if in welcome to the slow-moving scow. We accepted the invitation, threw a line over a thumb of a pile, and in five minutes were seated in a country stage. Ten more, and we backed up to an old-fas.h.i.+oned colonial porch, with sloping roof and dormer windows supported by high white columns. Leaning over the broken railing of the porch was a half-grown negro boy, hatless and bare-footed; inside the door, looking furtively out, half concealing her face with her ap.r.o.n, stood an old negro woman, her head bound with a bandana kerchief, while peeping from behind an outbuilding was a group of children in sun-bonnets and straw hats,--"the farmer"s boys and girls," the major said, waving his hand, as we drove up, his eyes brightening. Then there was the usual collection of farm-yard fowl, beside two great hounds, who visited each one of us in turn, their noses rubbing our knees.
If the major, now that he was on his native heath, realized in his own mind any difference between the Eldorado which his eloquence had conjured up in my own mind, the morning before in Jack"s room, and the hard, cold facts before us, he gave no outward sign. To all appearances, judging from his perfect ease and good temper, the paint-scaled pillars were the finest of Carrara marble, the bare floors were carpeted with the softest fabrics of Turkish looms, and the big, spa.r.s.ely furnished rooms were so many salons, where princes trod in pride, and fair ladies stepped a measure.
The only remark he made was in answer to a look of surprise on my face when I peered curiously into the bare hall and made a cursory mental inventory of its contents.
"Yes, colonel; you will find, I regret to say, some slight changes since the old days. Then, too, my home is in slight confusion owin" to the spring cleanin", and a good many things have been put away."
I looked to Jack for explanation, but if that thoroughbred knew where the major had permanently put the last batch of his furniture, he, too, gave no outward sign.
As for the servants, were there not old Rachel and Sam, chef and valet?
What more could one want? The major"s voice, too, had lost none of its persuasive powers.
"Here, Sam, you black imp, carry yo" Marster Jack"s gun and things to my room, and, Rachel, take the colonel"s bag to the sea-room, next to the dinin"-hall. Breakfast in an hour, gentlemen, as Mrs. Slocomb used to say."
I found only a bed covered with a quilt, an old table with small drawers, a wash-stand, two chairs, and a desk on three legs. The walls were bare except for a fly-stained map yellow with age. As I pa.s.sed through the sitting-room, Rachel preceding me with my traps, I caught a glimpse of traces of better times. There was a plain wooden mantelpiece, a wide fireplace with big bra.s.s andirons, a sideboard with and without bra.s.s handles and a limited number of claw feet,--which if brought under the spell of the sc.r.a.per and varnish-pot might once more regain its lost estate,--a corner-cupboard built into the wall, half full of fragments of old china, and, to do justice to the major"s former statement, there was also a pair of dull old mahogany doors with gla.s.s k.n.o.bs separating the room from some undiscovered unknown territory of bareness and emptiness beyond. These, no doubt, were the doors Anthony threw open for the bevies of beauties so picturesquely described by the major, but where were the Chippendale furniture, the George III. silver, the Italian marble mantels with carved lions" heads, the marquetry floors and cabinets?
I determined to end my mental suspense. I would ask Rachel and get at the facts. The old woman was opening the windows, letting in the fresh breath of a honeysuckle, and framing a view of the sea beyond.
"How long have you lived here, aunty?"
""Most fo"ty years, sah. Long "fo" Ma.s.sa John Talbot died."
"Where"s old Anthony?" I said.
"What Anthony? De fust major"s body-servant?"
"Yes."
"Go "long, honey. He"s daid dese twenty years. Daid two years "fo" Ma.s.sa Slocomb married Mis" Talbot."
"And Anthony never waited at all on Major Slocomb?"
"How could he wait on him, honey, when he daid "fo" he see him?"
I pondered for a moment over the picturesque quality of the major"s mendacity.
Was it, then, only another of the major"s tributes to his wife,--this whole story of Anthony and the madeira of "39? How he must have loved this dear relict of his military predecessor!
An hour later the major strolled into the sitting-room, his arm through Jack"s.
"Grand old place, is it not?" he said, turning to me. "Full of historic interest. Of co"se the d.a.m.nable oligarchy has stripped us, but"--
Here Aunt Rachel flopped in--her slippers, I mean; the sound was distinctly audible.
"Bre"kfus", major."
"All right, Rachel. Come, gentlemen!"
When we were all seated, the major leaned back in his chair, toyed with his knife a moment, and said with an air of great deliberation:--
"Gentlemen, when I was in New York I discovered that the fas.h.i.+onable dish of the day was a po"ter-house steak. So when I knew you were coming, I wired my agent in Baltimo" to go to Lexington market and to send me down on ice the best steak he could buy fo" money. It is now befo" you.
"Jack, shall I cut you a piece of the tenderloin?"
A KNIGHT OF THE LEGION OF HONOR
It was in the smoking-room of a Cunarder two days out. The evening had been spent in telling stories, the fresh-air pa.s.sengers crowding the doorways to listen, the habitual loungers and card-players abandoning their books and games.
When my turn came,--mine was a story of Venice, a story of the old palace of the Barbarozzi,--I noticed in one corner of the room a man seated alone wrapped in a light shawl, who had listened intently as he smoked, but who took no part in the general talk. He attracted my attention from his likeness to my friend Vereschagin the painter; his broad, white forehead, finely wrought features, clear, honest, penetrating eye, flowing mustache and beard streaked with gray,--all strongly suggestive of that distinguished Russian. I love Vereschagin, and so, unconsciously, and by mental a.s.sociation, perhaps, I was drawn to this stranger. Seeing my eye fixed constantly upon him, he threw off his shawl, and crossed the room.
"Pardon me, but your story about the Barbarozzi brought to my mind so many delightful recollections that I cannot help thanking you. I know that old palace,--knew it thirty years ago,--and I know that cortile, and although I have not had the good fortune to run across either your gondolier, Espero, or his sweetheart, Mariana, I have known a dozen others as romantic and delightful. The air is stifling here. Shall we have our coffee outside on the deck?"
When we were seated, he continued, "And so you are going to Venice to paint?"
"Yes; and you?"
"Me? Oh, to the Engadine to rest. American life is so exhausting that I must have these three months of quiet to make the other nine possible."
The talk drifted into the many curious adventures befalling a man in his journeyings up and down the world, most of them suggested by the queer stories of the night. When coffee had been served, he lighted another cigar, held the match until it burned itself out,--the yellow flame lighting up his handsome face,--looked out over the broad expanse of tranquil sea, with its great highway of silver leading up to the full moon dominating the night, and said as if in deep thought:--