The Fortunes of Oliver Horn | Page 8

to his chair by the fire.
When Richard, his toilet completed, appeared at the top of the stairs,

Malachi would stand until his master had reached the bottom step,
wheel about, and, with head up, gravely and noiselessly precede him
into the drawing-room--the only time he ever dared to walk before
him--and with a wave of the hand and the air of a prince presenting one
of his palaces, would say--"Yo' char's all ready, Marse Richard; bright
fire burnin'." Adding, with a low, sweeping bow, now that the
ceremony was over-- "Hope yo're feelin' fine dis evenin', sah."
He had said it hundreds of times in the course of the year, but always
with a salutation that was a special tribute, and always with the same
low bow, as he gravely pulled out the chair, puffing up the back
cushion, his wrinkled hands resting on it until Richard had taken his
seat. Then, with equal gravity, he would hand his master the evening
paper and the big-bowed spectacles, and would stand gravely by until
Richard had dismissed him with a gentle "Thank you, Malachi; that
will do." And Malachi, with the serene, uplifted face as of one who had
served in a temple, would tiptoe out to his pantry.
It had gone on for years--this waiting for Richard at the foot of the
staircase. Malachi had never missed a night when his master was at
home. It was not his duty--not a part of the established regime of the
old house. No other family servant about Kennedy Square performed a
like service for master or mistress. It was not even a custom of the
times.
It was only one of "Malachi's ways," Richard would say, with a gentle
smile quivering about his lips.
"I do dat 'cause it's Marse Richard--dat's all," Malachi would answer,
drawing himself up with the dignity of a chamberlain serving a king,
when someone had the audacity to question him--a liberty he always
resented.
They had been boys together--these two. They had fished and hunted
and robbed birds' nests and gone swimming with each other. They had
fought for each other, and been whipped for each other many and many
a time in the old plantation-days. Night after night in the years that
followed they had sat by each other when one or the other was ill.

And now that each was an old man the mutual service was still
continued.
"How are you getting on now, Malachi--better? Ah, that's good--" and
the master's thin white hand would be laid on the black wrinkled head
with a soothing touch.
"Allus feels better, Marse Richard, when I kin git hold ob yo' han',
sah--" Malachi would answer.
Not his slave, remember. Not so many pounds of human flesh and bone
and brains condemned to his service for life; for Malachi was free to
come and go and had been so privileged since the day the old Horn
estate had been settled twenty years before, when Richard had given
him his freedom with the other slaves that fell to his lot; not that kind
of a servitor at all, but his comrade, his chum, his friend; the one man,
black as he was, in all the world who in laying down his life for him
would but have counted it as gain.
Just before tea Mrs. Horn, with a thin gossamer shawl about her
shoulders, would come down from her bedroom above and join her
husband. Then young Oliver himself would come bounding in, always
a little late, but always with his face aglow and always bubbling over
with laughter, until Malachi, now that the last member of the family
was at home, would throw open the mahogany doors, and high tea
would be served in the dining-room on the well- rubbed, unclothed
mahogany table, the plates, forks, and saucers under Malachi's
manipulations touching the polished wood as noiselessly as
soap-bubbles.
Tea served and over, Malachi would light the candies in the big,
cut-glass chandelier in the front parlor --the especial pride of the
hostess, it having hung in her father's house in Virginia.
After this he would retire once more to his pantry, this time to make
ready for some special function to follow; for every evening at the
Horn mansion had its separate festivity. On Mondays small
whist-tables that unfolded or let down or evolved from half-moons into

circles, their tops covered with green cloth, were pulled out or moved
around so as to form the centres of cosey groups. Some extra sticks of
hickory would be brought in and piled on the andirons, and the huge
library-table, always covered with the magazines of the day--Littell's,
Westminster, Blackwood's, and the Scientific Review, would be pushed
back against the wall to make room.
On Wednesdays there would be a dinner