From the white quarter he procured a facile lad who could read and write,
and who, through too much quickness of wit, had failed to prosper in
England. Him he installed as secretary, and forthwith began a
correspondence with friends in England, as well as a long poem which was
to serve the double purpose of giving Mr. Pope a rival and of occupying
the mind of Mr. Marmaduke Haward. The letters were witty and graceful, the
poem was the same; but on the third day the secretary, pausing for the
next word that should fall from his master's lips, waited so long that he
dropped asleep. When he awoke, Mr. Haward was slowly tearing into bits the
work that had been done on the poem. "It will have to wait upon my mood,"
he said. "Seal up the letter to Lord Hervey, boy, and then begone to the
fields. If I want you again, I will send for you."
The next day he proposed to himself to ride to Williamsburgh and see his
acquaintances there. But even as he crossed the room to strike the bell
for Juba a distaste for the town and its people came upon him. It occurred
to him that instead he might take the barge and be rowed up the river to
the Jaquelins' or to Green Spring; but in a moment this plan also became
repugnant. Finally he went out upon the terrace, and sat there the morning
through, staring at the river. That afternoon he sent a negro to the
store with a message for the storekeeper.
The Highlander, obeying the demand for his company,--the third or fourth
since his day at Williamsburgh,--came shortly before twilight to the great
house, and found the master thereof still upon the terrace, sitting
beneath an oak, with a small table and a bottle of wine beside him.
"Ha, Mr. MacLean!" he cried, as the other approached. "Some days have
passed since last we laid the ghosts! I had meant to sooner improve our
acquaintance. But my house has been in disorder, and I myself,"--he passed
his hand across his face as if to wipe away the expression into which it
had been set,--"I myself have been poor company. There is a witchery in
the air of this place. I am become but a dreamer of dreams."
As he spoke he motioned his guest to an empty chair, and began to pour
wine for them both. His hand was not quite steady, and there was about him
a restlessness of aspect most unnatural to the man. The storekeeper
thought him looking worn, and as though he had passed sleepless nights.