As his position was different with his father in the "li'l' room" and with his mother in the stillness of her chamber--for often they talked there together until far into the night--so were his relations altered with his old friends and neighbors in the drawing-room. While the young men and girls filled the house as had always been their custom, the older men, as well, now paid their respects to Richard Horn's son.
"One of our own kind," Judge Bowman said to Richard. "Does you credit, Horn--a son to be proud of."
Even Amos Cobb came to look him over, a courtesy which pleased Richard who greatly admired the Vermonter, and who had not hesitated to express his good opinion of him on more than one occasion before his own and Cobb's friends.
"A man of force, gentlemen," Richard had said, of great kindness of heart and with a wide range of vision. One who has the clearest ideas of what makes for the good of his country; a man too, not ashamed of his opinions and with ample courage to defend them. He deserves our unqualified respect, not our criticism."
When Cobb heard of Richard's outspoken defence of him he at once called on the inventor at his workshop --a thing he had not done for mouths, and asked to see the motor, and that same night astonished the circles about the club tables, by remarking, in a tone of voice loud enough for everybody to hear: "We have all been wrong about Horn. He has got hold of something that will one day knock steam higher than Gilderoy's kite." A friendship was thus established between the two which had become closer every day--the friendship of a clearer understanding; one which was unbroken during the rest of their lives.
It was quite natural, therefore, that Amos Cobb should be among Oliver's earliest callers. He must have been pleased with his inspection, for he took occasion at the club to say to Colonel Clayton, in his quick, crisp way:
"Dropped in at Horn's last night. His boy's over from New York. Looks like a different man since he quit fooling round here a couple of years ago.
Clean cut a young fellow as I've seen for many a day.
Got a look out of his eyes like his mother's. Level-headed woman, his mother--no better anywhere. If all the young bloods South had Oliver Horn's ideas we might pull through this crisis."
To which my Lord Chesterfield of Kennedy Square merely replied only with a nod of the head and a drawing together of the eyebrows. He found it difficult to tolerate the Vermonter in these days with his continued tirades against "The epidemic of insanity sweeping over the South," as Cobb would invariably put it.
The scribe now reaches a night in Oliver's career fraught with such momentous consequences that he would be glad to leave its story untold:
An unforgettable night indeed, both for those who were assembled there, and for him who is the chronicler. He would fain lay down his pen to recall again the charm and the sweetness and the old-time flavor of that drawing-room: the soft lights of the candles; the perfume of the lilacs coming in through the half-open windows; the merry laugh of the joyous girl running through the Square to be ushered by Malachi a moment later into the presence of her hostess, there to make her courtesied obeisance before she joined a group of young people around one of the red damask-covered sofas.
And then Richard, dear Richard, with his white hair and his gracious speech, and Miss Clendenning with her manners of foreign courts, and the sweet-voiced hostess of the mansion moving about among her guests; her guests who were her neighbors and her friends; whose children were like her own, and whose joys and sorrows were hers--guests, neighbors, friends many of whom after this fatal night were to be as enemies never to assemble again with the old-time harmony and love.
Malachi had brewed the punch; the little squat glasses were set out beside the Canton china bowl, for it was the night of the weekly musical and an unusually brilliant company had assembled in honor of Oliver's arrival and of Richard's recovery.
The inventor was to play his own interpretations of Handel's Largo, a favorite selection of Ole Bull, and one which the inventor and the great virtuoso had played together some years before.
Miss Clendenning had taken her place at the piano, Nathan standing beside her to turn the leaves of the accompaniment.
Richard had picked up his violin, tucked it under his chin, poised the bow, and that peculiar hush which always precedes the sounding of the first notes on evenings of this kind had already fallen upon the room, when there came a loud rap at the front door that startled everyone and the next instant Colonel Clayton burst in, his cheeks flaming, his hat still on his head.
"Ten thousand Yankees will be here in the morning, Horn!" be gasped, out of breath with his run across the Square, holding one hand to his side as he spoke, and waving an open telegram in the other.
"Stop! This is no time for fiddling. They're not going round by water; they're coming here by train.
Read that," and he held out the bit of paper.
The Colonel's sudden entrance and the startling character of the news, had brought every man to his feet.
Richard laid down his violin, read the telegram quietly, and handed it back.
"Well, suppose they do come, Clayton?"
His voice was so sustained, and his manner so temperate, that a certain calming reassurance was felt.
"Suppose they DO come! They'll burn the town, I tell you," shouted the infuriated man, suddenly remembering his hat and handing it to Malachi. That's what they're coming for. We want no troops in our streets, and the Government ought to know it. It's an outrage to send armed men here at this time!"
"You're all wrong, Clayton," answered Richard, without raising his voice. "You have always been wrong about this matter. There are two sides to this question. Virginia troops occupied Harper's Ferry yesterday. If the authorities consider that more troops are needed to protect Washington, that's their affair, not yours nor mine."
