Part 7 (2/2)
Vinie took the pitcher from beneath the white phlox. ”It's getting dark.
Tom, aren't we ever going to have that gate mended?--He's going away to Richmond in October.”
The successful candidate and Adam Gaudylock, followed by Joab on a great bay horse, crossed Moore's Creek, and took the Monticello road. A red light yet burned in the west, but the trees were dark along the way, and the hollows filled with shadow. The dew was falling, the evening dank and charged with perfume.
”I asked you to come with me,” said Rand, ”because I wanted to talk to some one out of the old life. Mocket's out of the old life too, he and Vinie. But--” he laughed. ”They're afraid of me. Vinie calls me 'thir.'”
”Well, I'm not afraid of you,” Adam said placidly. ”No one at home at Monticello?”
”No, but Burwell keeps a room in readiness. I am often there on errands for Mr. Jefferson. Well, how go matters west of the mountains?”
”Christmas I spent at Louisville,” answered Gaudylock, ”and then went down the river to New Orleans. The city's like a hive before swarming.
There are more boats at its wharves than buds on yonder Judas tree. And back from the river the cotton's blooming now.”
”Ah!” said Rand, ”I should like to see that land! When you have done a thing, Adam, a thing that you have striven with all your might to do, does it at once seem to you a small thing to have done? It does to me--tasteless, soulless, and poor, not worth a man's while. Where lies the land of satisfaction?”
”No,” answered Adam, ”I don't look at things that way. But then I'm not ambitious. Last year, in New Orleans, I watched a man gaming. He won a handful of French crowns. 'Ha!' says he, 'they glittered, but they do not glitter now! Again!'--and this time he won doubloons. 'We'll double these,' says he, and so they did, and he won. 'This is a small matter,'
he said. We'll play for double-eagles,' and so they did, and he won.
'Haven't you a tract of sugar-canes?' says he. 'Money's naugh. Let us play for land!' and he won the sugar-canes. 'That girl, that red-lipped Jeanne of thine, that black eye in the Street of Flowers--I'll play for her! Deal the cards!' But he never won the girl, and he lost the sugar-canes and the gold.”
”A man walks forward, or he walks backward. There's no standing still in this world or the next. Where were you after New Orleans, before you turned homeward?”
”At Mr. Blennerha.s.sett's island in the Ohio. And that's a pleasant place and a pleasant gentleman--”
”Listen!”
”Aye,” answered the other; ”I heard it some moments back. Some one is fiddling beyond that tulip tree.”
They were now ascending the mountain, moving between great trees, fanned by a cooler wind than had blown in the valley. The road turned, showing them a bit of roadside gra.s.s, a giant tulip tree, and a vision of a moon just rising in the east. Upon a log, beneath the tree, appeared the dim brocade and the curled wig of M. Achille Pincornet, resting in the twilight and solacing his soul with the air of ”Madelon Friquet.” Around him sparkled the fireflies, and above were the thousand gold cups of the tulip tree. His bow achieved a long tremolo; he lowered the violin from his chin, stood up, and greeted the travellers.
”That was a pretty air, Mr. Pincornet,” said Rand. ”Why are you on the Monticello road? Your next dancing cla.s.s is at Fontenoy.”
”And how did you know that, sir?” demanded the Frenchman in his high, thin voice. As he spoke, he restored his fiddle to its case with great care, then as carefully brushed all leaf and mould from his faded silken clothes.
”I know--I know,” replied Rand. He regarded the figure in dusty finery with a certain envy of any one who was going to Fontenoy, even as dancing master, even as a man no longer young. Mr. Pincornet looked, in the twilight, very pinched, very grey, very hungry. ”Come on with me to Monticello,” said the young man. ”Burwell will give us supper, and find us a couple of bottles to boot.”
”Sir,” answered the Frenchman stiffly, but with an inner vision of Monticello cheer, ”I would not vote for you--”
Rand laughed. ”I bear no malice, Mr. Pincornet. Opinion's but opinion.
I'll cut no traveller's throat because he likes another road than mine!
Come, come! Fish from the river, cakes and coffee, Mr. Pincornet--and afterwards wine on the terrace!”
The road climbed on. Between the stems of the tall trees, feathered with the green of mid-spring, the dogwood displayed its stars, and the fringe tree rose like a fountain. Everywhere was the sound of wind in the leaves. When the riders and the dancing master, who was afoot, reached the crest of the little mountain, shaven and planed by the hand of man into a fair plateau, the moon was s.h.i.+ning brightly. In the silver light, across the dim lawns, cla.s.sically simple, grave, and fair, rose the house that Jefferson had built. The gate clanged behind the party from Charlottesville, a dog barked, a light flared, voices of negroes were heard, and hurrying feet from the house quarter. Upon the lawn to the right and left of the mansion were two toy houses, tiny brick offices used by Jefferson for various matters. The door of one of these now opened, and Mr. Bacon, the overseer, hastening across the wet gra.s.s, greeted Rand and Gaudylock as they dismounted before the white portico.
”Evening, evening, Mr. Rand! I knew you'd be coming up, so I hurried on afore ye. Caesar and Joab, you take the horses round! Glad to see you, Adam; you too, Mr. Pincornet! Well, Mr. Rand, you spoiled the Egyptians this day! I never saw a finer election! Me and Mr. f.a.gg were talking of you. 'His father was a fighter before him,' says Mr. f.a.gg, says he, 'and he's a fighter, too, d.a.m.n him!' says he, 'and we'll send him higher yet.
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