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Page 1
He sat in a room marked, like himself, with a kind of serious
elegance--one of those apartments which seem to fit the person like a
more perfect dress. All around the walls ran dwarf book-cases of carved
oak, filled with volumes bound in every soft shade of brown and tawny
leather, with only enough of red and green to save the shelves from
monotony. Above these the wall space was covered with Cordovan leather,
stamped with gold _fleurs-de-lis_ to within a yard of the top, where a
frieze of palm-leaves led up to a ceiling of blue and brown and gold.
The whole expression of the room was of warmth and good manners. The
furniture was of oak and stamped leather. The low book-cases were
covered with bronzes, casts, and figurines, of a quality so uniformly
good that none seemed to feel the temptation either to snub or to
cringe to its neighbor. The Owari pots felt no false shame beside the
royal Satsuma; and Barbedienne's bronzes, the vases of Limoges and
Lambeth and bowls from Nankin and Corea dwelt together in the harmony
of a varied perfection.
It was an octagon room, with windows on each side of the fire-place, in
which a fire of Ohio coal was leaping and crackling with a cheerful and
unctuous noisiness. Out of one window yon could see a pretty garden of
five or six acres behind the house, and out of the other a carefully
kept lawn, extending some hundred yards from the front door to the
gates of hammered iron which opened upon a wide-paved avenue. This
street was the glory of Buff-land, a young and thriving city on Lake
Erie, which already counted a population of over two hundred thousand
souls. The people of Clairfield, a rival town, denied that there was
anything like so many inhabitants, and added that "the less we say
about 'souls' the better." But this was pure malice; Buffland was a big
city. Its air was filled with the smoke and odors of vast and
successful trade, and its sky was reddened by night with the glare of
its furnaces, rising like the hot breath of some prostrate Titan,
conquered and bowed down by the pitiless cunning of men. Its people
were, as a rule, rich and honest, especially in this avenue of which I
have spoken. If you have ever met a Bufflander, you have heard of
Algonquin Avenue. He will stand in the Champs Elysees, when all the
vice and fashion of Europe are pouring down from the Place of the Star
in the refluent tide that flows from Boulogne Wood to Paris, and calmly
tell you that "Algonquin Avenue in the sleighing season can discount
this out of sight." Something is to be pardoned to the spirit of
liberty; and the avenue is certainly a fine one. It is three miles long
and has hardly a shabby house in it, while for a mile or two the houses
upon one side, locally called "the Ridge," are unusually line, large,
and costly. They are all surrounded with well-kept gardens and
separated from the street by velvet lawns which need scarcely fear
comparison with the emerald wonders which centuries of care have
wrought from the turf of England. The house of which we have seen one
room was one of the best upon this green and park-like thoroughfare.
The gentleman who was sitting by the fire was Mr. Arthur Farnham. He
was the owner and sole occupant of the large stone house--a widower of
some years' standing, although he was yet young. His parents had died
in his childhood. He had been an officer in the army, had served
several years upon the frontier, had suffered great privations, had
married a wife much older than himself, had seen her die on the Plains
from sheer want, though he had more money than he could get
transportation for; and finally, on the death of his grandfather he had
resigned, with reluctance, a commission which had brought him nothing
but suffering and toil, and had returned to Buffland, where he was
born, to take charge of the great estate of which he was the only heir.
And even yet, in the midst of a luxury and a comfort which anticipated
every want and gratified every taste, he often looked longingly back
upon the life he had left, until his nose inhaled again the scent of
the sage-brush and his eyes smarted with alkali dust. He regretted the
desolate prairies, the wide reaches of barrenness accursed of the
Creator, the wild chaos of the mountain canons, the horror of the Bad
Lands, the tingling cold of winter in the Black Hills. But the Republic
holds so high the privilege of serving her that, for the officer who
once resigns--with a good character--there is no return forever, though
he seek it with half the lobby at his heels. So Captain Farnham sat,
this fine May morning, reading a newspaper which gave the stations of
his friends in the "Tenth" with something of the feeling which assails
the exile when he cons the court journal where his name shall appear no
more.
But while he is looking at the clock a servant enters.
"That same young person is here again."
"What young person?"
There was a slight flavor of reproach in the tone of the grave
Englishman as he answered:
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