15. CHAPTER XV.
RICHARD VISITS QUIET ARBOR.
Clover had been fairly beaten at the Anti-Slavery Meeting,
but he knew his antagonist was an honorable one; nay,
he thought that Richard, like one having got a large advantage,
might be disposed to make some deduction; and he
was sure he was rich enough in spoils to offer a handsome
present. “You can't refuse the favor of going with me to
Quiet Arbor.” Of course, Richard could not; it would give
him compunction to refuse Clover even a larger favor.
Quiet Arbor was in the basement of an extensive block
of buildings, lying on the margin of a small stream, called
the Pebbles, a tributary of the River. Red curtains shaded
the windows and the glass door, just to show to the world
how quiet it was; nothing glary; nothing dazzling, nothing
that should disturb the serenity of the passer-by, or seem
ostentatious to anybody.
And Clover and Richard entered it very quietly; and the
Friend of the People — the man of the timid eye and a
small hacking cough — was very quiet behind the bar;
very quiet in pouring out liquors, very quiet in stirring the
glasses. Only when a new customer called, or when Helskill
dropped the silver in his till, he vented this small, hacking
cough. There were men in the room who had drank,
and men who were going to drink; men in different stages
of drink, and men in all stages of drink; but they were
quiet; — perhaps because it was early in the evening, and
like other gatherings of the human species, they were
not yet waked up, — the fervor of the occasion was slow in
mounting. There were young men, and some gray-headed
men, and, as well as the dim light and clouds of tobacco-smoke
would allow him to ascertain, there were some whom
Richard knew. But Richard, participating in the spirit of
the place, was quiet also, and said nothing.
Helskill's whole soul seemed to start out from under his
heavy eyebrows, and to shrink into a most fearful glance at
Richard, and finally to be cracked off in a quick short cough,
as he saw him advance. But this was soon over, and the
people in the room, who had been aroused by that sudden
cough, relapsed into repose.
Clover led Richard through this room, towards another,
which he gave him to understand was the Grotto. When
Helskill saw Richard approaching that door, he hacked three
or four times in rapid succession, but Clover winked him
into silence. The apartment into which they now entered
was quite subterranean, and hence the pertinence of the
name. Ventilation must have been supported by mysteriously
arranged conduits, the course and outlets of which
were invisible. It was well lighted by a brace of solar
lamps suspended over two tables. At these tables sat men
playing cards. There were stakes of money, watches, and
jewelry. Decanters of high-colored beverage adorned the
retreat.
Capt. Creamer was there; he did not hack when he saw
Richard, — he put his hand to his eye, as if he would correct
his vision, — as if he was not right at first. But he was
right; it was Richard, his slip-tender. And how it pleased
the Captain to know who it was! Dropping his finger to
his lips, he kissed it to Richard; and jumping up, he seized
him both by the hand and the shoulder, and leading him
forward with a double gripe of honor, introduced him to
young Chassford, son of Dr. Chassford, and Glendar, nephew
of Mrs. Melbourne.
“Play?” said the Captain, snapping a card in a very confidential
sort of way. “I do not play,” replied Richard,
affecting a pun; “I take it more seriously.” The Captain,
pretending to understand him, laughed very hard, while
Richard quietly ensconced himself in a seat by the wall.
Tunny was there, and so was the Sailmaker; and these
were playing against each other, and so thoughtful of their
sport, they did not notice Richard.
Yes, Tunny was there, and he knew he was there; even
if Mrs. Tunny did n't know it, and Dr. Broadwell did n't
know it, he knew it, and felt it. He felt it in his forelock,
and was trying to hetchel it out with his fingers; he felt it
in his chair, that seemed to burn under him; and he felt it
in his conscience, where the facts in the case were at work
like a miserere mei with an hundred hands, wringing, grinding,
taughtening, till he seemed paler, and thinner, and
smaller than ever.
And the Sailmaker knew Tunny was there, and meant
he should be there, and would not have him elsewhere for
the world.
Richard saw another man there, whom he had also seen
about the Saw-mill, and who he knew had a young wife and
small children to support, and who, he was well assured,
had better be anywhere else. It was Cornelius Wheelan,
a River-man, who owned a flat-boat, and conveyed lumber
from the Mills to the ships that anchor in the Harbor.
“You were at Tunny's the other night,” said the Captain
to Richard. “A pleasant party; it takes some of our young
men from the country a good while to get the hay-seed out
of their hair; but no one would imagine, Edney, you had
ever seen a barn. Why did you not dance? Ah, you are
afraid of Dr. Broadwell, I see. I cannot blame you for
that. Yet, between you and me, I think the Doctor carries
matters a little too far. Our young men need recreation;
perhaps we are too fond of it. Chassford drags me into it.
But one has now and then a spare evening on hand, which
he must, so to say, bolt down, and get rid of. I never will
back out when a noble-hearted fellow wants company.
Cards are perhaps too fascinating for you. We've a new
kind, — the Merry Andrews, — most comical objects.”
Richard replied that they were all alike to him.
“I presume so,” rejoined the Captain, affectedly laughing;
“I presume so.”
In fact, Richard was not only ignorant of cards, but so
unconscious of the pleasure of gaming, that he quite abruptly
rose to leave the room. On his way out, he looked at
Tunny, and tapped him on the shoulder. O that he had
Klumpp's eye! — but he had n't. Yet he had an eye, that
operated on Tunny worse than his internal gripes; and as if
he was as thin as some of our newspapers, that look seemed
to annihilate what there was left of him. The Sailmaker
resented this interference, but Richard had no controversy
with the Sailmaker. Tunny revived sufficiently to whisper
in Richard's ear, “Don't tell Mrs. Tunny.” Richard passed
on to Cornelius Wheelan, and did not tap him, for he was a
stronger man, but thumped him on the back. Now, Cornelius
was partly in liquor, and did not take the sense of the
blow. He drew upon Richard; but Richard whispered
something in his ear, — something of his wife and children,
we guess, — and he was still. Interlocking with him, Richard
led him from the room. When he reached the other apartment,
he found the calmness somewhat broken; and the
Friend of the People, when he saw Richard, and knowing
how he loved quietness, and fearing that the pleasure of his
visit might be marred, said, “Let us be quiet, friends.”
These were the very words he said.
But Richard manifested no uneasiness; only, clinging to
Cornelius, and followed by Clover, he left the Arbor.
Clover followed him, we say, and asked him to go back.
He said there was a private entrance to the Grotto, and they
could reach it unobserved. But Richard went on, arm in
arm with Cornelius; and Clover himself returned.
Was Clover disappointed in Richard? Did he not understand
him? Did he suppose he would game, or that he was
game? If he did, he was very stupid.
Richard went with Cornelius to his own home. It was
now near midnight; but there sat his wife waiting for him —
there were his children in bed sleeping for him. Cornelius
fell at the feet of his wife; he rolled on the bed where the
children lay, stinging with remorse and shame, and overwhelmed
by a tumult of recollections.
