The Fortunes of Oliver Horn | Page 4

flowers; of rude stone benches, sagging arbors smothered in vines, and
cool dirt-paths bordered by sweet-smelling box. Giant magnolias filled
the air with their fragrance, and climbing roses played hide and seek
among the railings of the rotting fence. Along the shaded walks
laughing boys and girls romped all day, with hoop and ball, attended by
old black mammies in white aprons and gayly colored bandannas;
while in the more secluded corners, sheltered by protecting shrubs,
happy lovers sat and talked, tired wayfarers rested with hats off, and
staid old gentlemen read by the hour, their noses in their books.
Outside of all this color, perfume, and old-time charm, outside the

grass-line and the rickety wooden fence that framed them in, ran an
uneven pavement splashed with cool shadows and stained with green
mould. Here, in summer, the watermelon-man stopped his cart; and
here, in winter, upon its broken bricks, old Moses unhooked his bucket
of oysters and ceased for a moment his droning call.
On the shady side of the square, and half-hidden in ivy, was a Noah's
Ark church, topped by a quaint belfry holding a bell that had not rung
for years, and faced by a clock-dial all weather-stains and cracks,
around which travelled a single rusty hand. In its shadow to the right
lay the home of the Archdeacon, a stately mansion with Corinthian
columns reaching to the roof and surrounded by a spacious garden
filled with damask roses and bushes of sweet syringa. To the left
crouched a row of dingy houses built of brick, their iron balconies hung
in flowering vines, the windows glistening with panes of wavy glass
purpled by age.
On the sunny side of the square, opposite the church, were more houses,
high and low; one all garden, filled with broken-nosed statues hiding
behind still more magnolias, and another all veranda and honeysuckle,
big rocking-chairs and swinging hammocks; and still others with
porticos curtained by white jasmine or Virginia creeper.
Half-way down this stretch of sunshine--and what a lovely stretch it
was--there had stood for years a venerable mansion with high chimneys,
sloping roof, and quaint dormer-windows, shaded by a tall sycamore
that spread its branches far across the street. Two white marble steps
guarded by old-fashioned iron railings led up to the front door, which
bore on its face a silver-plated knocker, inscribed in letters of black
with the name Of its owner--"Richard Horn." All three, the door, the
white marble steps, and the silver-plated knocker--not to forget the
round silver knobs ornamenting the newel posts of the railings-- were
kept as bright as the rest of the family plate by that most loyal of
servants, old Malachi, who daily soused the steps with soap and water,
and then brought to a phenomenal polish the knocker, bell-pull, and
knobs by means of fuller's-earth, turpentine, hard breathing, and the
vigorous use of a buckskin rag.

If this weazened-faced, bald-headed old darky, resplendent in white
shirt-sleeves, green baize apron, and never-ceasing smile of welcome,
happened to be engaged in this cleansing and polishing process--and it
occurred every morning--and saw any friend of his master approaching,
he would begin removing his pail and brushes and throwing wide the
white door before the visitor reached the house, would there await his
coming, bent double in profound salutation. Indeed, whenever Malachi
had charge of the front steps he seldom stood upright, so constantly
was he occupied-- by reason of his master's large acquaintance--in
either crooking his back in the beginning of a bow, or straightening it
up in the ending of one.
To one and all inquiries for Mr. Horn his answer during the morning
hours was invariably the same:
"Yes, sah, Marse Richard's in his li'l room wrastlin' wid his machine, I
reckon. He's in dar now, sah--" this with another low bow, and then
slowly recovering his perpendicular with eyes fixed on the retreating
figure, so as to be sure there was no further need of his services, he
would resume his work, drenching the steps again with soap-suds or
rubbing away on the door-plate or door-pull, stopping every other
moment to blow his breath on the polished surface.
When, however, someone asked for young Oliver, the inventor's only
son, the reply was by no means so definite, although the smile was a
trifle broader and the bow, if anything, a little more profound.
"Marse Oliver, did you say, sah? Dat's a difficult question, sah. Fo'
Gawd I ain't seen him since breakfas'. You might look into Jedge
Ellicott's office if you is gwine downtown, whar dey do say he's
studyin' law, an' if he ain't dar--an' I reckon he ain't--den you might
drap in on Mister Crocker, whar Marse Oliver's paintin' dem pictures;
an' if he ain't dar, den fo-sho he's wid some o'