James Fenimore Cooper

The Water-Witch James Fenimore Cooper

The philosophy of Alderman Van Beverout was not easily disturbed. Still there was a play of thenether muscles of the face, which might be construed into self-complacency at his victory, while acertain contraction of those which controlled the expression of the forehead seemed to betray a fullconsciousness of the imminent risk he had run. The left hand was thrust into a pocket, where itdiligently fingered the provision of Spanish coin without which the merchant never left his abode;while the other struck the cane it held on the pavement, with the force of a resolute and decidedman. In this manner he proceeded in his walk, for several minutes longer, shortly quitting the lowerstreets, to enter one that ran along the ridge, which crowned the land, in that quarter of the island. Here he soon stopped before the door of a house which, in that provincial town, had altogether theair of a patrician dwelling. Two false gables, each of which was surmounted by an iron weathercock, intersected the roof ofthis building, and the high and narrow stoop was built of the red free-stone of the country. Thematerial of the edifice itself was, as usual, the small, hard brick of Holland, painted a delicate creamcolor. A single blow of the massive glittering knocker brought a servant to the door. The promptitudewith which this summons was answered showed that, notwithstanding the early hour, the Aldermanwas an expected guest. The countenance of him who acted as porter betrayed no surprise when hesaw the person who applied for admission, and every movement of the black denoted preparationand readiness for his reception. Declining his invitation to enter, however, the Alderman placed hisback against the iron railing of the stoop, and opened a discourse with the negro. The latter wasaged, with a head that was grizzled, a nose that was levelled nearly to the plane of his face, featuresthat were wrinkled and confused, and with a form which, though still solid, was bending with itsload of years."Brave cheer to thee, old Cupid!" commenced the burgher, in the hearty and cordial manner withwhich the masters of that period were wont to address their indulged slaves. "A clear conscience is agood night-cap, and you look bright as the morning sun! I hope my friend the young Patroon hasslept sound as yourself, and that he has shown his face already, to prove it."