breakfast, with cecilia to preside, was bright as summer sunrise. little cecilia had her bouquet of dewy roses for father and friend. the whiff of coffee perfume was like a gale of araby the blest. just as the meal was ended, a servant announced that mr. bishop was outside with a horse. they sallied forth to inspect it.

mr. bishop was a flashy man, not quite jockey, not quite farmer, rather of the squireen type. he had associated enough with gentlemen to know how they permit themselves to slang and swear. he was, however, better than a gentleman jockey, who, like a gentleman stool-pigeon, is doubly dangerous. but no jockey could say more for the black horse than was evident in every bend of his body, in every tense muscle and chord of the delicate limbs.

“he is high-couraged, sir,” said bishop, “and has played the devil with some folks. you seem to know how to handle a horse.”

waddy ran his hand over the legs, as free from knots as a malacca joint; then standing at his head,[98] he let the colt nibble at a bit of moist biscuit and took the opportunity quietly to look at his mouth.

“he seems all right,” he said, at last. “move him a little, if you please.”

bishop started him off. the stride and spring were smooth as a raw oyster; both told of speed and power.

“there’s no mistake about him,” said bishop, bringing him back. “i meant to have kept him to ride myself, but times is gittin’ hard [i. e., brandy has gone up]. besides, my daughter, sally, is gittin’ sicker an’ i’ll have to go south with her next winter and shan’t need no horse, an’ ’ll want the rocks. mr. tootler knows the horse an’ kin tell you what he did when we tried him on the course. if you buy him an’ ’ll keep dark, you’ll be mighty apt to take ’em down that tries to run with you.”

“i’ll take him,” said ira, without more parley. “tootler, will you give mr. bishop your check?”

while tootler was drawing the check, cecilia came out with a small basket. she offered it to bishop.

“i’ve been putting up some jelly for miss sally,” she said. “it may tempt her. how is she to-day?”

“the best to be said,” replied bishop, “is she ain’t gittin’ no wus. the doctor says she ain’t so much sick as down in the mouth. she’s off her feed an’ seems to have got suthin’ on her mind. p’r’aps[99] it’s religion. she wants me to stop swearin’; but i’ll be durned if i kin. i wish you’d come over an’ see her ag’in, ma’am. you’re the only one as does her any good.”

he spoke with evident feeling and sincerity, and mrs. tootler promised to go.

a moment later, mr. tootler emerged from the house and handed bishop the check. the black was transferred to mr. waddy.

“i’m sorry to part with him,” said bishop, real regret in his voice; “but you look like you’d treat him well, sir. he ain’t used to the whip. he’s never been struck but once, when that damn belden talked of buyin’ him. belden handled him kind er careless an’ then give him a crack. i guess he got dropped easy—the fool! he’s had a spite agin the horse ever since, an’ i’m kind er glad to git him out o’ the way of any mean trick. belden’s a kind o’ feller not to fergit it when any critter’s been too much fer him—horse or man or woman, either.”

he looked at the horse for a moment, and then walked away, turning to look back once or twice regretfully, but consoling himself by the expensive check, subscribed by a man well known in state street.

“don’t you remember sally bishop?” asked tootler of his friend. “a very handsome girl she was—poor thing!—dying now. seems to me you used to go with belden to see her.”

[100]“i knew her slightly,” replied waddy, in a tone the reverse of encouraging. “it’s a bad thing to have intimacies with second-rate women. if you have a saddle,” he continued, “that will fit my horse, i’ll ride him in to town now. by the way, what shall i name him? he’s as black as death—‘mors, pallida mors’—that’s it—pallid! i’ll call him by rule of contraries. pal, for short; we shall be pals, eh, old boy?” and he caressed the horse, who responded in kind, instinctively knowing a friend.

pallid was larger than cecilia, but her saddle was well enough for the short ride. tootler was obliged to be in the wool again early. jefferson davis not being present to preside over the cavalry, the gardener laid down the shovel and the hoe and took up the curry-comb. pallid was, of course, resplendent for the sale, as a bride is when her bargain is ratified.

waddy was proud of his acquisition. every fine fellow has something of the caballero in his nature. my friend, misogynist, says a horse is the most beautiful animal.

“woman! glorious woman!” i suggest enthusiastically.

“good to look at,” m. admits, “but bad to go. be kind to the horse, and he is grateful and will not try to harm you. but woman—the more you let her have her head, the more she will try to throw you. bah! my kingdom for a horse; he shall be king; no[101] bedizened woman sovereign for me! look at his smooth, brilliant coat—no pomade there! see that easy motion; incedat rex. think of his simple toilet! two blankets, thick and thin. yes, noble comrade! i will be no carpet knight, nor dwindle away with ridiculous sighs before shrines of plastic dough images, or of models of brassiness, but with thee will i away over boundlessness. plains vast as the sea await our gallop. charge!”

so far misogynist—i will add that of the two classes of animals, horses are cheaper to keep, and when you have them, are yours, and not the property of the first admirer.

the gardener brought cecilia to the door, shining from her morning toilet. lady cecilia, with the lesser lady, came to bid the guest adieu. lady and child bore flowers of midsummer to be rus in urbe for the gentlemen. cecilia was charming in her morning dress. as she said good-bye, the sparkle of her brown eyes was brighter, the blush warmer, the voice more musical, the shy tremor of friendliness more graceful. “happy tootler!” thought waddy; “one of the rare few who are appointed to be illustrations to others of happiness.”

“you will come again soon,” said cecilia. “a room in our house has become yours. you must inhabit it to keep ghosts from colonising. you too, perhaps, are in some danger of companionship of glooms, which are certainly as bad as ghosts. come[102] here always and we will sing them away. i have a dozen plans for you already for summer and winter—and then i intend you for a husband for little cissy here. what do you think of it, cissy?”

“i hardly know, mamma,” said cissy seriously. “i should wish to ask papa.”

“quite precociously right, my dear,” commended mr. waddy; “a lesson to your imprudent mother.”

“not imprudent, cissy,” corrected tootler. “you are wise to get the first refusal of our nabob. there will be hordes of matrons after him, like wolves after a buffalo, and they’ll run him down unless he accepts his fate and consents to be shot beforehand. but come, ira, i must voyage boston-ward for the golden fleece.”

“i go to new york this evening for a few days on business,” added waddy. “good-bye, till i return. a kiss, little cissy!”

tommy said good-bye to his wife, and her bright smile went with him, as ever, and her glad voice sang about him in every silent moment of his busy day.

mr. waddy rode slowly along, trying pallid through his paces. the beautiful head, unchecked by any martingale, shook and tossed in the freedom of a masculine coquetry. to control him was like managing the moods of a wild woman—charming distraction. ira did not wish to trot him,—he was not to be a roadster,—but he gave cecilia a little[103] brush on a level. she was somewhere after the race, but it was lengths in the rear.

at the tremont, chin chin was in waiting. the friends parted, and mr. waddy turned his face new yorkward, in kindlier mood than he had known for many years.

that town, however, was not calculated to encourage moods of cheerfulness. he had seen others larger, several cleaner, many handsomer. it was hot, and mosquitoes were about.

mr. waddy’s arrival was announced in the papers among “distinguished strangers.” old de flournoy budlong saw the name and called upon its owner in the evening. about matters personal to himself, mr. waddy talked little. he had not mentioned even to tootler the incident of his wreck. but mr. budlong was too much occupied with his private affairs to question the mode of mr. waddy’s arrival. the red silk pocket handkerchief of other days abode with him still, in flaunting defiance of the modern elegance of his family. in his talk, he used it freely on a forehead whose heated, anxious colouring might pale the cochineal of its polisher. he had much to say.

“where are the ladies?” was naturally mr. waddy’s first question.

“they are at newport, sir,” answered bud, with a queer mixture of pride and apprehension. “they’re at the millard house. de flournoy, jr.,[104] is with them. it’s very expensive, sir. why, it’s remarkable how that boy has to subscribe—five hundred dollars the first week! subscriptions he says to the club and balls and picnics—i should judge he is very popular.”

“no doubt,” commented ira.

“that frenchman is with them, too,” continued bud. “what do you think of him?”

“damned low beggar!” said ira tersely.

bud visibly brightened and polished himself in vigorous approval.

“quite right,” he agreed; “i respect your judgment, sir. i want mrs. b. to drop his acquaintance; but she says he belongs to the hot nubbless, whatever that is. why, sir, that frenchman haunts me like a flea. everything i eat tastes of frogs! and then tim’s subscriptions—five hundred dollars in one week! why, sir, that would make him a life member and director of the bible society and the tract society and the foreign missions!” and the poor man fell to polishing himself again with his piratical handkerchief.

“i can’t go to look after them before next week,” he continued, “if then. you see, i’ve got a little operation in flour. it’ll pay subscriptions, get him on the corn exchange, and budlong is himself again. but it’s dull music staying in town. i’m at the astor. everybody’s away and there’s no peaches,” and old bud, who had been working hard[105] all his days, and now was more than willing to lead a life of jolly quiet, went off excessively disquieted.

“it’s the old story,” thought ira, as he closed the door behind his friend. “i’m sorry for him. this is a case to put in the scale against tootler. but it demands a whole cityful of budlongs to over-balance one righteous man like tommy and his family. mrs. tootler almost revives my faith in women, and i had thought that gone forever after that experience which nearly made my life a ruin.

“rather a well-built ruin, though,” he thought, glancing at the mirror, “and especially sound in the treasure-vaults. i would not quarrel with my experience for making me the man i have become, were it not that my isolation of bitter distrust in the one i most trusted has secluded me from all the chances of common happiness. and yet there are others sharing the same exile, bearing a heavier burden, who present a brave face to the world, even a cheerful one—for instance, granby—married in a freak of boyish generosity to a vulgar, drunken termagant! suppose i had fallen into the same mistake? suppose i had married sally bishop; is it likely that i should have learnt to control the old ira of my nature?

“all my voyage from europe homeward, there was droning in my ears the monotonous refrain of a sad spanish song, ‘se acabò para mi l’esperanza.’ i heard it in the gale, the moment our schooner[106] struck, and i thought ‘now the old earthly hopes are dead with my death, and new hopes of other lives shall be.’ as i lay in my trance, all the old bitterness passed away, and the old hopes grew fresh and confident again as in happy days before disappointment; and then the presence that was the joy of those days came near, and i seemed to have attained to dearest death and to a moment of heaven that should interpret all the cruel mysteries of existence. and i seemed to hear again the voice that flowed so deliciously through my youth and made my heart first know what heart-beats mean. but it was not death i had attained, only a vision, such as my waking life could never have, and when i really woke again in dempster’s house, it was to the melancholy of the same refrain, ‘se acabò para mi l’esperanza.’”

for a moment more he sat and stared down into the street with heavy eyes that saw not—what was it brought before him the face of sally bishop and beside it another face, her face——

he shook himself impatiently and cast his dark thoughts from him.