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| committer | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 04:46:54 -0700 |
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diff --git a/15498-h/15498-h.htm b/15498-h/15498-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..834997e --- /dev/null +++ b/15498-h/15498-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,24211 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> + <head> + <meta content="pg2html (binary v0.17)" name="linkgenerator" /> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=UTF-8" /> + <title> + Trumps, by Geo. Wm. Curtis + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .75em; margin-bottom: .75em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%; text-align: justify; font-size: 80%; font-style: italic;} + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + .xx-small {font-size: 60%;} + .x-small {font-size: 75%;} + .small {font-size: 85%;} + .large {font-size: 115%;} + .x-large {font-size: 130%;} + .indent5 { margin-left: 5%;} + .indent10 { margin-left: 10%;} + .indent15 { margin-left: 15%;} + .indent20 { margin-left: 20%;} + .indent25 { margin-left: 25%;} + .indent30 { margin-left: 30%;} + .indent35 { margin-left: 35%;} + .indent40 { margin-left: 40%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {position: absolute; right: 1%; font-size: 0.6em; + font-variant: normal; font-style: normal; + text-align: right; background-color: #FFFACD; + border: 1px solid; padding: 0.3em;text-indent: 0em;} + .side { float: left; font-size: 75%; width: 15%; padding-left: 0.8em; + border-left: dashed thin; text-align: left; + text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; + font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} + .head { float: left; font-size: 90%; width: 98%; padding-left: 0.8em; + border-left: dashed thin; text-align: center; + text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; + font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} + p.pfirst, p.noindent {text-indent: 0} + span.dropcap { float: left; margin: 0 0.1em 0 0; line-height: 0.8 } + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Trumps, by George William Curtis + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Trumps + + +Author: George William Curtis + +Release Date: March 29, 2005 [eBook #15498] +Last Updated: September 24, 2018 + + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TRUMPS*** + + +E-text prepared by Curtis Weyant, Mary Meehan, and the Project Gutenberg +Online Distributed Proofreading Team from page images generously made +available by the Making of America Collection of the University of +Michigan Library + +HTML file produced by David Widger + + +Note: Images of the original pages are available through the Making + of America Collection of the University of Michigan. See + http://www.hti.umich.edu/cgi/b/bib/bibperm?q1=abw7901 + + + + + + +</pre> + <div style="height: 8em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + TRUMPS + </h1> + <h3> + A Novel + </h3> + <h2> + By Geo. Wm. Curtis + </h2> + <h4> + Author of <i>Nile Notes of a Howadji</i>, <i>The Howadji in Syria</i>, <i>The + Potiphar Papers</i>, <i>Prue and I</i>, etc. + </h4> + <h3> + 1861 + </h3> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <p> + <b>CONTENTS</b> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I. — SCHOOL BEGINS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II. — HOPE WAYNE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III. — AVE MARIA! </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV. — NIGHT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V. — PEEWEE PREACHING. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI. — EXPERIMENTUM CRUCIS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII. — CASTLE DANGEROUS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII. — AFTER THE BATTLE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX. — NEWS FROM HOME. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X. — BEGINNING TO SKETCH. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI. — A VERDICT AND A SENTENCE. + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII. — HELP, HO! </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII. — SOCIETY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV. — A NEW YORK MERCHANT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER XV. — A SCHOOL-BOY NO LONGER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER XVI. — PHILOSOPHY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER XVII. — OF GIRLS AND FLOWERS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER XVIII. — OLD FRIENDS AND NEW. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER XIX. — DOG-DAYS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER XX. — AUNT MARTHA. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER XXI. — THE CAMPAIGN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER XXII. — THE FINE ARTS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER XXIII. — BONIFACE NEWT, SON, AND + CO., DRY GOODS ON COMMISSION. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0024"> CHAPTER XXIV. — “QUEEN AND HUNTRESS.” + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0025"> CHAPTER XXV. — A STATESMAN—AND + STATESWOMAN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0026"> CHAPTER XXVI. — THE PORTRAIT AND THE + MINIATURE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0027"> CHAPTER XXVII. — GABRIEL AT HOME. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0028"> CHAPTER XXVIII. — BORN TO BE A BACHELOR. + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0029"> CHAPTER XXIX. — MR. ABEL NEWT, GRAND + STREET. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0030"> CHAPTER XXX. — CHECK. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0031"> CHAPTER XXXI. — AT DELMONICO’S. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0032"> CHAPTER XXXII. — MRS. THEODORE KINGFISHER + AT HOME. <i>On dansera.</i> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0033"> CHAPTER XXXIII. — ANOTHER TURN IN THE + WALTZ. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0034"> CHAPTER XXXIV. — HEAVEN’S LAST BEST + GIFT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0035"> CHAPTER XXXV. — MOTHER-IN-LAW AND + DAUGHTER-IN-LAW. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0036"> CHAPTER XXXVI. — THE BACK WINDOW. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0037"> CHAPTER XXXVII. — ABEL NEWT, <i>vice</i> + SLIGO MOULTRIE REMOVED. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0038"> CHAPTER XXXVIII. — THE DAY AFTER THE + WEDDING. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0039"> CHAPTER XXXIX. — A FIELD-DAY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0040"> CHAPTER XL. — AT THE ROUND TABLE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0041"> CHAPTER XLI. — A LITTLE DINNER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0042"> CHAPTER XLII. — CLEARING AND CLOUDY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0043"> CHAPTER XLIII. — WALKING HOME. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0044"> CHAPTER XLIV. — CHURCH GOING. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0045"> CHAPTER XLV. — IN CHURCH. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0046"> CHAPTER XLVI. — IN ANOTHER CHURCH. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0047"> CHAPTER XLVII. — DEATH. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0048"> CHAPTER XLVIII. — THE HEIRESS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0049"> CHAPTER XLIX. — A SELECT PARTY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0050"> CHAPTER L. — WINE AND TRUTH. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0051"> CHAPTER LI. — A WARNING. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0052"> CHAPTER LII. — BREAKERS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0053"> CHAPTER LIII. — SLIGO MOULTRIE <i>vice</i> + ABEL NEWT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0054"> CHAPTER LIV. — CLOUDS AND DARKNESS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0055"> CHAPTER LV. — ARTHUR MERLIN’S GREAT + PICTURE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0056"> CHAPTER LVI. — REDIVIVUS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0057"> CHAPTER LVII. — DINING WITH LAWRENCE NEWT. + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0058"> CHAPTER LVIII. — THE HEALTH OF THE JUNIOR + PARTNER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0059"> CHAPTER LIX. — MRS. ALFRED DINKS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0060"> CHAPTER LX. — POLITICS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0061"> CHAPTER LXI. — GONE TO PROTEST. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0062"> CHAPTER LXII. — THE CRASH, UP TOWN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0063"> CHAPTER LXIII. — ENDYMION. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0064"> CHAPTER LXIV. — DIANA. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0065"> CHAPTER LXV. — THE WILL OF THE PEOPLE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0066"> CHAPTER LXVI. — MENTOR AND TELEMACHUS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0067"> CHAPTER LXVII. — WIRES. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0068"> CHAPTER LXVIII. — THE INDUSTRIOUS + APPRENTICE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0069"> CHAPTER LXIX. — IN AND OUT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0070"> CHAPTER LXX. — THE REPRESENTATIVE OF THE + PEOPLE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0071"> CHAPTER LXXI. — RICHES HAVE WINGS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0072"> CHAPTER LXXII. — GOOD-BY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0073"> CHAPTER LXXIII. — THE BELCH PLATFORM. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0074"> CHAPTER LXXIV. — MIDNIGHT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0075"> CHAPTER LXXV. — REMINISCENCE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0076"> CHAPTER LXXVI. — A SOCIAL GLASS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0077"> CHAPTER LXXVII. — FACE TO FACE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0078"> CHAPTER LXXVIII. — FINISHING PICTURES. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0079"> CHAPTER LXXIX. — THE LAST THROW. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0080"> CHAPTER LXXX. — CLOUDS BREAKING. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0081"> CHAPTER LXXXI. — MRS. ALFRED DINKS AT HOME. + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0082"> CHAPTER LXXXII. — THE LOST IS FOUND. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0083"> CHAPTER LXXXIII. — MRS. DELILAH JONES. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0084"> CHAPTER LXXXIV. — PROSPECTS OF HAPPINESS. + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0085"> CHAPTER LXXXV. — GETTING READY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0086"> CHAPTER LXXXVI. — IN THE CITY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0087"> CHAPTER LXXXVII. — A LONG JOURNEY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0088"> CHAPTER LXXXVIII. — WAITING. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0089"> CHAPTER LXXXIX. — DUST TO DUST. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0090"> CHAPTER XC. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I. — SCHOOL BEGINS. + </h2> + <p> + Forty years ago Mr. Savory Gray was a prosperous merchant. No gentleman on + ‘Change wore more spotless linen or blacker broadcloth. His ample + white cravat had an air of absolute wisdom and honesty. It was so very + white that his fellow-merchants could not avoid a vague impression that he + had taken the church on his way down town, and had so purified himself for + business. Indeed a white cravat is strongly to be recommended as a + corrective and sedative of the public mind. Its advantages have long been + familiar to the clergy; and even, in some desperate cases, politicians + have found a resort to it of signal benefit. There are instructive + instances, also, in banks and insurance offices of the comfort and value + of spotless linen. Combined with highly-polished shoes, it is of + inestimable mercantile advantage. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Gray prospered in business, and nobody was sorry. He enjoyed his + practical joke and his glass of Madeira, which had made at least three + voyages round the Cape. His temperament, like his person, was just + unctuous enough to enable him to slip comfortably through life. + </p> + <p> + Happily for his own comfort, he had but a speaking acquaintance with + politics. He was not a blue Federalist, and he never d’d the + Democrats. With unconscious skill he shot the angry rapids of discussion, + and swept, by a sure instinct, toward the quiet water on which he liked to + ride. In the counting-room or the meeting of directors, when his neighbors + waxed furious upon raking over some outrage of that old French infidel, + Tom Jefferson, as they called him, sending him and his gun-boats where no + man or boat wants to go, Mr. Gray rolled his neck in his white cravat, + crossed his legs, and shook his black-gaitered shoe, and beamed, and + smiled, and blew his nose, and hum’d, and ha’d, and said, + “Ah, yes!” “Ah, indeed?” “Quite so!” + and held his tongue. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Savory Gray minded his own business; but his business did not mind + him. There came a sudden crash—one of the commercial earthquakes + that shake fortunes to their foundations and scatter failure on every + side. One day he sat in his office consoling his friend Jowlson, who had + been ruined. Mr. Jowlson was terribly agitated—credit gone—fortune + wrecked—no prospects—“O wife and children!” he + cried, rocking to and fro as he sat. + </p> + <p> + “My dear Jowlson, you must not give way in this manner. You must + control your feelings. Have we not always been taught,” said Mr. + Gray, as a clerk brought in a letter, the seal of which the merchant broke + leisurely, and then skimmed the contents as he continued, “that + riches have wings and—my God!” he ejaculated, springing up, + “I am a ruined man!” + </p> + <p> + So he was. Every thing was gone. Those pretty riches that chirped and sang + to him as he fed them; they had all spread their bright plumage, like a + troop of singing birds—have we not always been taught that they + might, Mr. Jowlson?—and had flown away. + </p> + <p> + To undertake business anew was out of the question. His friends said, + “Poor Gray! what shall be done?” + </p> + <p> + The friendly merchants pondered and pondered. The worthy Jowlson, who had + meanwhile engaged as book-keeper upon a salary of seven hundred dollars a + year—one of the rare prizes—was busy enough for his friend, + consulting, wondering, planning. Mr. Gray could not preach, nor practice + medicine, nor surgery, nor law, because men must be instructed in those + professions; and people will not trust a suit of a thousand dollars, or a + sore throat, or a broken thumb, in the hands of a man who has not fitted + himself carefully for the responsibility. He could not make boots, nor + build houses, nor shoe horses, nor lay stone wall, nor bake bread, nor + bind books. Men must be educated to be shoemakers, carpenters, + blacksmiths, bakers, masons, or book-binders. What <i>could</i> be done? + Nobody suggested an insurance office, or an agency for diamond mines on + Newport beach; for, although it was the era of good feeling, those + ingenious infirmaries for commercial invalids were not yet invented. + </p> + <p> + “I have it!” cried Jowlson, one day, rushing in, out of + breath, among several gentlemen who were holding a council about their + friend Gray—that is, who had met in a bank parlor, and were talking + about his prospects—“I have it! and how dull we all are! What + shall he do? Why, keep a school, to be sure!—a school!—a + school! Take children, and be a parent to them!” + </p> + <p> + “How dull we all were!” cried the gentlemen in chorus. “A + school is the very thing! A school it shall be!” And a school it + was. + </p> + <p> + Upon the main street of the pleasant village of Delafield Savory Gray, + Esq., hired a large house, with an avenue of young lindens in front, a + garden on one side, and a spacious play-ground in the rear. The pretty + pond was not far away, with its sloping shores and neat villas, and a + distant spire upon the opposite bank—the whole like the vignette of + an English pastoral poem. Here the merchant turned from importing pongees + to inculcating principles. His old friends sent some of their children to + the new school, and persuaded their friends to send others. Some of his + former correspondents in other parts of the world, not entirely satisfied + with the Asian and East Indian systems of education, shipped their sons to + Mr. Gray. The good man was glad to see them. He was not very learned, and + therefore could not communicate knowledge. But he did his best, and tried + very hard to be respected. The boys did not learn any thing; but they had + plenty of good beef, and Mr. Gray played practical jokes upon them; and on + Sundays they all went to hear Dr. Peewee preach. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II. — HOPE WAYNE. + </h2> + <p> + When there was a report that Mr. Savory Gray was coming to Delafield to + establish a school for boys, Dr. Peewee, the minister of the village, + called to communicate the news to Mr. Christopher Burt, his oldest and + richest parishioner, at Pine wood, his country seat. When Mr. Burt heard + the news, he foresaw trouble without end; for his orphan grand-daughter, + Hope Wayne, who lived with him, was nearly eighteen years old; and it had + been his fixed resolution that she should be protected from the wicked + world of youth that is always going up and down in the earth seeking whom + it may marry. If incessant care, and invention, and management could + secure it, she should arrive safely where Grandpa Burt was determined she + should arrive ultimately, at the head of her husband’s dinner-table, + Mrs. Simcoe, ma’am. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Simcoe was Mr. Burt’s housekeeper. So far as any body could + say, Mrs. Burt died at a period of which the memory of man runneth not to + the contrary. There were traditions of other housekeepers. But since the + death of Hope’s mother Mrs. Simcoe was the only incumbent. She had + been Mrs. Wayne’s nurse in her last moments, and had rocked the + little Hope to sleep the night after her mother’s burial. She was + always tidy, erect, imperturbable. She pervaded the house; and her eye was + upon a table-cloth, a pane of glass, or a carpet, almost as soon as the + spot which arrested it. Housekeeper <i>nascitur non fit</i>. She was so + silent and shadowy that the whole house sympathized with her, until it + became extremely uncomfortable to the servants, who constantly went away; + and a story that the house was haunted became immensely popular and + credible the moment it was told. + </p> + <p> + There had been no visiting at Pinewood for a long time, because of the + want of a mistress and of the unsocial habits of Mr. Burt. But the + neighboring ladies were just beginning to call upon Miss Wayne. When she + returned the visits Mrs. Simcoe accompanied her in the carriage, and sat + there while Miss Wayne performed the parlor ceremony. Then they drove + home. Mr. Burt dined at two, and Miss Hope sat opposite her grandfather at + table; Hiram waited. Mrs. Simcoe dined alone in her room. + </p> + <p> + There, too, she sat alone in the long summer afternoons, when the work of + the house was over for the day. She held a book by the open window, or + gazed for a very long time out upon the landscape. There were pine-trees + near her window; but beyond she could see green meadows, and blue hills, + and a glittering river, and rounded reaches of woods. She watched the + clouds, or, at least, looked at the sky. She heard the birds in spring + days, and the dry hot locusts on sultry afternoons; and she looked with + the same unchanging eyes upon the opening buds and blooming flowers, as + upon the worms that swung themselves on filaments and ate the leaves and + ruined the trees, or the autumnal hectic which Death painted upon the + leaves that escaped the worms. + </p> + <p> + Sometimes on these still, warm afternoons her lips parted, as if she were + singing. But it was a very grave, quiet performance. There was none of the + gush and warmth of song, although the words she uttered were always those + of the hymns of Charles Wesley—those passionate, religious songs of + the New Jerusalem. For Mrs. Simcoe was a Methodist, and with Methodist + hymns she had sung Hope to sleep in the days when she was a baby; so that + the young woman often listened to the music in church with a heart full of + vague feelings, and dim, inexplicable memories, not knowing that she was + hearing, though with different words, the strains that her nurse had + whispered over her crib in the hymns of Wesley. + </p> + <p> + It is to be presumed that at some period Mrs. Simcoe, whom Mr. Burt always + addressed in the same manner as “Mrs. Simcoe, ma’am,” + had received a general system of instruction to the effect that “My + grand-daughter, Miss Wayne—Mrs. Simcoe, ma’am—will marry + a gentleman of wealth and position; and I expect her to be fitted to + preside over his household. Yes, Mrs. Simcoe, ma’am.” + </p> + <p> + What on earth is a girl sent into this world for but to make a proper + match, and not disgrace her husband—to keep his house, either + directly or by a deputy—to take care of his children, to see that + his slippers are warm and his Madeira cold, and his beef not burned to a + cinder, Mrs. Simcoe, ma’am? Christopher Burt believed that a man’s + wife was a more sacred piece of private property than his sheep-pasture, + and when he delivered the deed of any such property he meant that it + should be in perfect order. + </p> + <p> + “Hope may marry a foreign minister, Mrs. Simcoe, ma’am. Who + knows? She may marry a large merchant in town or a large planter at the + South, who will be obliged to entertain a great deal, and from all parts + of the world. I intend that she shall be fit for the situation, that she + shall preside at her husband’s table in a superior manner.” + </p> + <p> + So Hope, as a child, had played with little girls, who were invited to + Pinewood—select little girls, who came in the prettiest frocks and + behaved in the prettiest way, superintended by nurses and ladies’ + maids. They tended their dolls peaceably in the nursery; they played clean + little games upon the lawn. Not too noisy, Ellen! Mary, gently, gently, + dear! Julia, carefully! you are tumbling your frock. They were not + chattery French nurses who presided over these solemnities; they were + grave, housekeeping, Mrs. Simcoe-kind of people. Julia and Mary were + exhorted to behave themselves like little ladies, and the frolic ended by + their all taking books from the library shelves and sitting properly in a + large chair, or on the sofa, or even upon the piazza, if it had been + nicely dusted and inspected, until the setting sun sent them away with the + calmest kisses at parting. + </p> + <p> + As Hope grew older she had teachers at home—recluse old scholars, + decayed clergymen in shiny black coats, who taught her Latin, and looked + at her through round spectacles, and, as they looked, remembered that they + were once young. She had teachers of history, of grammar, of arithmetic—of + all English studies. Some of these Mentors were weak-eyed fathers of ten + children, who spoke so softly that their wives must have had loud voices. + Others were young college graduates, with low collars and long hair, who + read with Miss Wayne in English literature, while Mrs. Simcoe sat knitting + in the next chair. Then there had been the Italian music-masters, and the + French teachers, very devoted, never missing a lesson, but also never + missing Mrs. Simcoe, who presided over all instruction which was imparted + by any Mentor under sixty. + </p> + <p> + But when Hope grew older still and found Byron upon the shelves of the + Library, his romantic sadness responded to the vague longing of her heart. + Instinctively she avoided all that repels a woman in his verses, as she + would have avoided the unsound parts of a fruit. But the solitary, + secluded girl lived unconsciously and inevitably in a dream world, for she + had no knowledge of any other, nor contact with it. Proud and shy, her + heart was restless, her imagination morbid, and she believed in heroes. + </p> + <p> + When Dr. Peewee had told Mr. Burt all that he knew about the project of + the school, Mr. Burt rang the bell violently. + </p> + <p> + “Send Miss Hope to me.” + </p> + <p> + The servant disappeared, and in a few moments Hope Wayne entered the room. + To Dr. Peewee’s eyes she seemed wrapped only in a cloud of delicate + muslin, and the wind had evidently been playing with her golden hair, for + she had been lying upon the lawn reading Byron. + </p> + <p> + “Did you want me, grandfather?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, my dear. Mr. Gray, a respectable person, is coming here to set + up a school. There will be a great many young men and boys. I shall never + ask them to the house. I hate boys. I expect you to hate them too.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—yes, my dear,” said Dr. Peewee; “hate the + boys? Yes; we must hate the boys.” + </p> + <p> + Hope Wayne looked at the two old gentlemen, and answered, + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think you need have warned me, grandfather; I’m + not so apt to fall in love with boys.” + </p> + <p> + “No, no, Hope; I know. Ever since you have lived with me—how + long is it, my dear, since your mother died?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know, grandfather; I never saw her,” replied + Hope, gravely. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes; well, ever since then you have been a good, quiet little + girl with grandpapa. Here, Cossy, come and give grandpa a kiss. And mind + the boys! No speaking, no looking—we are never to know them. You + understand? Now go, dear.” + </p> + <p> + As she closed the door, Dr. Peewee also rose to take leave. + </p> + <p> + “Doctor,” said Mr. Burt, as the other pushed back his chair, + “it is a very warm day. Let me advise you to guard against any + sudden debility or effect of the heat by a little cordial.” + </p> + <p> + As he spoke he led the way into the dining-room, and fumbled slowly over a + bunch of keys which he drew from his pocket. Finding the proper key, he + put it into the door of the side-board. “In this side-board, Dr. + Peewee, I keep a bottle of old Jamaica, which was sent me by a former + correspondent in the West Indies.” As Dr. Peewee had heard the same + remark at least fifty times before, the kindly glistening of his nose must + be attributed to some other cause than excitement at this intelligence. + </p> + <p> + “I like to preserve my friendly relations with my old commercial + friends,” continued Mr. Burt, speaking very pompously, and slowly + pouring from a half-empty decanter into a tumbler. “I rarely drink + any thing myself—” + </p> + <p> + “H’m, ha!” grunted the Doctor. + </p> + <p> + “—except a glass of port at dinner. Yet, not to be impolite, + Doctor, not to be impolite, I could not refuse to drink to your very good + health and safe return to the bosom of your family.” + </p> + <p> + And Mr. Burt drained the glass, quite unobservant of the fact that the + Rev. Dr. Peewee was standing beside him without glass or old Jamaica. In + truth Mr. Burt had previously been alarmed about the effect of the bottle + of port—which he metaphorically called a glass—that he had + drunk at dinner, and to guard against evil results he had already, that + very afternoon, as he was accustomed to say with an excellent humor, been + to the West Indies for his health. + </p> + <p> + “Bless my soul, Doctor, you haven’t filled your glass! Permit + me.” + </p> + <p> + And the old gentleman poured into the one glass and then into the other. + </p> + <p> + “And now, Sir,” he added, “now, Sir, let us drink to the + health of Mr. Gray, but not of the boys—ha! ha!” + </p> + <p> + “No, no, not of the boys? No, not of the boys. Thank you, Sir—thank + you. That is a pleasant liquor, Mr. Burt. H’m, ha! a very pleasant + liquor. Good-afternoon, Mr. Burt; a very good day, Sir. H’m, ha!” + </p> + <p> + As Hope left her grandfather, Mrs. Simcoe was sitting at her window, which + looked over the lawn in front of the house upon which Hope presently + appeared. It was already toward sunset, and the tender golden light + streamed upon the landscape like a visible benediction. A few rosy clouds + lay in long, tranquil lines across the west, and the great trees bathed in + the sweet air with conscious pleasure. + </p> + <p> + As Hope stood with folded hands looking toward the sunset, she began + unconsciously to repeat some of the lines that always lay in her mind like + invisible writing, waiting only for the warmth of a strong emotion to + bring them legibly out: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“Though the rock of my last hope is shivered, + And its fragments are sunk in the wave; +Though I feel that my soul is delivered + To pain, it shall not be its slave. +There is many a pang to pursue me; + They may crush, but they shall not contemn; +They may torture, but shall not subdue me; + ‘Tis of thee that I think, not of them.” + </pre> + <p> + At the same moment Mrs. Simcoe was closing her window high over Hope’s + head. Her face was turned toward the sunset with the usual calm impassive + look, and as she gazed at the darkening landscape she was singing, in her + murmuring way, + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“I rest upon thy word; + Thy promise is for me: +My succor and salvation, Lord, + Shall surely come from thee. +But let me still abide, + Nor from my hope remove, +Till thou my patient spirit guide + Into thy perfect love.” + </pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III. — AVE MARIA! + </h2> + <p> + Mr. Gray’s boys sat in several pews, which he could command with his + eye from his own seat in the broad aisle. Every Sunday morning at the + first stroke of the bell the boys began to stroll toward the church. But + after they were seated, and the congregation had assembled, and Dr. Peewee + had gone up into the pulpit, the wheels of a carriage were heard outside—steps + were let down—there was an opening of doors, a slight scuffing and + treading, and old Christopher Burt entered. His head was powdered, and he + wore a queue. His coat collar was slightly whitened with-powder, and he + carried a gold-headed cane. + </p> + <p> + The boys looked in admiration upon so much respectability, powder, age, + and gold cane united in one person. + </p> + <p> + But all the boys were in love with the golden-haired grand-daughter. They + went home to talk about her. They went to bed to dream of her. They read + Mary Lamb’s stories from Shakespeare, and Hope Wayne was Ophelia, + and Desdemona, and Imogen—above all others, she was Juliet. They + read the “Arabian Nights,” and she was all the Arabian + Princesses with unpronounceable names. They read Miss Edgeworth—“Helen,” + “Belinda.”—“Oh, thunder!” they cried, and + dropped the book to think of Hope. + </p> + <p> + Hope Wayne was not unconscious of the adoration she excited. If a swarm of + school-boys can not enter a country church without turning all their eyes + toward one pew, is it not possible that, when a girl comes in and seats + herself in that pew, the very focus of those burning glances, even Dr. + Peewee may not entirely distract her mind, however he may rivet her eyes? + As she takes her last glance at the Sunday toilet in her sunny + dressing-room at home, and half turns to be sure that the collar is + smooth, and that the golden curl nestles precisely as it should under the + moss rose-bud that blushes modestly by the side of a lovelier bloom—is + it not just supposable that she thinks, for a wayward instant, of other + eyes that will presently scan that figure and face, and feels, with a + half-flush, that they will not be shocked nor disappointed? + </p> + <p> + There was not a boy in Mr. Gray’s school who would have dared to + dream that Hope Wayne ever had such a thought. When she appeared behind + Grandfather Burt and the gold-headed cane she had no more antecedents in + their imaginations than a rose or a rainbow. They no more thought of + little human weaknesses and mundane influences in regard to her than they + thought of cold vapor when they looked at sunset clouds. + </p> + <p> + During the service Hope sat stately in the pew, with her eyes fixed upon + Dr. Peewee. She knew the boys were there. From time to time she observed + that new boys had arrived, and that older ones had left. But how she + discovered it, who could say? There was never one of Mr. Gray’s boys + who could honestly declare that he had seen Hope Wayne looking at either + of the pews in which they sat. Perhaps she did not hear what Dr. Peewee + said, although she looked at him so steadily. Perhaps her heart did not + look out of her eyes, but was busy with a hundred sweet fancies in which + some one of those fascinated boys had a larger share than he knew. + Perhaps, when she covered her eyes in an attitude of devotion, she did not + thereby exclude all thoughts of the outer and lower world. Perhaps the + Being for whose worship they were assembled was no more displeased with + the innocent reveries and fancies which floated through that young heart + than with the soft air and sweet song of birds that played through the + open windows of the church on some warm June Sunday morning. + </p> + <p> + But when the shrill-voiced leader of the choir sounded the key-note of the + hymn-tune through his nose, and the growling bass-viol joined in unison, + while the congregation rose, and Dr. Peewee surveyed his people to mark + who had staid away from service, then Hope Wayne looked at the choir as if + her whole soul were singing; and young Gabriel Bennet, younger than Hope, + had a choking feeling as he gazed at her—an involuntary sense of + unworthiness and shame before such purity and grace. He counted every line + of the hymn grudgingly, and loved the tunes that went back and repeated + and prolonged—the tunes endlessly <i>da capo</i>—and the hymns + that he heard as he looked at her he never forgot. + </p> + <p> + But there were other eyes than Gabriel Bennet’s that watched Hope + Wayne, and for many months had watched her—the flashing black eyes + of Abel Newt. Handsome, strong, graceful, he was one of the oldest boys, + and a leader at Mr. Gray’s school. Like every handsome, bold boy or + young man, for he was fully eighteen, and seemed much older, Abel Newt had + plenty of allies at school—they could hardly be called friends. + There was many a boy who thought with the one nicknamed Little Malacca, + although, more prudently than he, he might not say it: “Abe gives me + gingerbread; but I guess I don’t like him!” If a boy + interfered with Abe he was always punished. The laugh was turned on him; + there was ceaseless ridicule and taunting. Then if it grew insupportable, + and came to fighting, Abel Newt was strong in muscle and furious in wrath, + and the recusant was generally pommeled. + </p> + <p> + Reposing upon his easy, conscious superiority, Abel had long worshiped + Hope Wayne. They were nearly of the same age—she a few months the + younger. But as the regulations of the school confined every boy, without + especial permission of absence, to the school grounds, and as Abel had no + acquaintance with Mr. Burt and no excuse for calling, his worship had been + silent and distant. He was the more satisfied that it should be so, + because it had never occurred to him that any of the other boys could be a + serious rival for her regard. He was also obliged to be the more satisfied + with his silent devotion, because never, by a glance, did she betray any + consciousness of his particular observation, or afford him the least + opportunity for saying or doing any thing that would betray it. If he + hastened to the front door of the church he could only stand upon the + steps, and as she passed out she nodded to her few friends, and + immediately followed her grandfather into the carriage. + </p> + <p> + When Gabriel Bennet came to Mr. Gray’s, Abel did not like him. He + laughed at him. He made the other boys laugh at him whenever he could. He + bullied him in the play-ground. He proposed to introduce fagging at Mr. + Gray’s. He praised it as a splendid institution of the British + schools, simply because he wanted Gabriel as his fag. He wanted to fling + his boots at Gabriel’s head that he might black them. He wanted to + send him down stairs in his shirt on winter nights. He wanted to have + Gabriel get up in the cold mornings and bring him his breakfast in bed. He + wanted to chain Gabriel to the car of his triumphal progress through + school-life. He wanted to debase and degrade him altogether. + </p> + <p> + “What is it,” Abel exclaimed one day to the large boys + assembled in solemn conclave in the school-room, “that takes all the + boorishness and brutishness out of the English character? What is it that + prevents the Britishers from being servile and obsequious—traits, I + tell you, boys, unknown in England—but this splendid system of + fagging? Did you ever hear of an insolent Englishman, a despotic + Englishman, a surly Englishman, a selfish Englishman, an obstinate + Englishman, a domineering Englishman, a dogmatic Englishman? Never, boys, + never. These things are all taken out of them by fagging. It stands to + reason they should be. If I shy my boots at a fellow’s head, is he + likely to domineer? If I kick a small boy who contradicts me, is he likely + to be opinionated and dogmatic? If I eat up my fag’s plum-cake just + sent by his mamma, hot, as it were, from the maternal heart, and moist + with a mother’s tears, is that fag likely to be selfish? Not at all. + The boots, and the kicking, and the general walloping make him manly. It + teaches him to govern his temper and hold his tongue. I swear I should + like to have a fag!” perorated Abel, meaning that he should like to + be the holy office, and to have Gabriel Bennet immediately delivered up to + him for discipline. + </p> + <p> + Once Gabriel overheard this kind of conversation in the play-ground, as + Abel Newt and some of the other boys were resting after a game at ball. + There were no personal allusions in what Abel had said, but Gabriel took + him up a little curtly: + </p> + <p> + “Pooh! Abel, how would you like to have Gyles Blanding shy his boots + at your head?” + </p> + <p> + Abel looked at him a moment, sarcastically. Then he replied: + </p> + <p> + “My young friend, I should like to see him try it. But fagging + concerns small boys, not large ones.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes!” retorted Gabriel, his eyes flashing, as he kept tossing + the ball nervously, and catching it; “yes, that’s the meanness + of it: the little boy can’t help himself.” + </p> + <p> + “By golly, I’d kick!” put in Little Malacca. + </p> + <p> + “Then you’d be licked till you dropped, my small Sir,” + said Abel, sneeringly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Abel,” replied Gabriel, “but it’s a mean + thing for an American boy to want fagging.” + </p> + <p> + “Not at all,” he answered; “there are some young + American gentlemen I know who would be greatly benefited by being well + fagged; yes, made to lie down in the dirt and lick a little of it, and + fetch and carry. And to be kicked out of bed every morning and into bed + every night would be the very best thing that could happen to ‘em. + By George, I should like to have the kicking and licking begin now!” + </p> + <p> + Gabriel had the same dislike of Abel which the latter felt for him, but + they had never had any open quarrel. Even thus far in the present + conversation there had been nothing personal said. It was only a warm + general discussion. Gabriel merely asked, when the other stopped, + </p> + <p> + “What good does the fagging do the fellow that flings the boots and + bullies the little one?” + </p> + <p> + “Good?” answered Abel—“what good does it do? Why, + he has been through it all himself, and he’s just paying it off.” + </p> + <p> + Abel smiled grimly as he looked round upon the boys, who did not seem at + all enthusiastic for his suggestion. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said he, “I’m afraid I shall have to + postpone my millennium of fagging. But I don’t know what else will + make men of you. And mark you, my merry men, there’s more than one + kind of fagging;” and he looked in a droll way—a droll way + that was not in the least funny, but made the boys all wonder what Abel + Newt was up to now. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV. — NIGHT. + </h2> + <p> + It was already dusk, but the summer evening is the best time for play. The + sport in the play-ground at Mr. Gray’s was at its height, and the + hot, eager, panting boys were shouting and scampering in every direction, + when a man ran in from the road and cried out, breathless, + </p> + <p> + “Where’s Mr. Gray?” + </p> + <p> + “In his study,” answered twenty voices at once. The man darted + toward the house and went in; the next moment he reappeared with Mr. Gray, + both of them running. + </p> + <p> + “Get out the boat!” cried Mr. Gray, “and call the big + boys. There’s a man drowning in the pond!” + </p> + <p> + The game was over at once, and each young heart thrilled with vague + horror. Abel Newt, Muddock, Blanding, Tom Gait, Jim Greenidge, and the + rest of the older boys, came rushing out of the school-room, and ran + toward the barn, in which the boat was kept upon a truck. In a moment the + door was open, the truck run out, and all the boys took hold of the rope. + Mr. Gray and the stranger led the way. The throng swept out of the gate, + and as they hastened silently along, the axles of the truck kindled with + the friction and began to smoke. + </p> + <p> + “Carefully! steadily!” cried the boys all together. + </p> + <p> + They slackened speed a little, but, happily, the pond was but a short + distance from the school. It was a circular sheet of water, perhaps a mile + in width. + </p> + <p> + “Boys, he is nearly on the other side,” said Mr. Gray, as the + crowd reached the shore. + </p> + <p> + In an instant the boat was afloat. Mr. Gray, the stranger, and the six + stoutest boys in the school, stepped into it. The boys lifted their oars. + “Let fall! give way!” cried Mr. Gray, and the boat moved off, + glimmering away into the darkness. + </p> + <p> + The younger boys remained hushed and awe-stricken upon the shore. The + stars were just coming out, the wind had fallen, and the smooth, black + pond lay silent at their feet. They could see the vague, dark outline of + the opposite shore, but none of the pretty villas that stood in graceful + groves upon the banks—none of the little lawns that sloped, with a + feeling of human sympathy, to the water. The treachery of that glassy + surface was all they thought of. They shuddered to remember that they had + so often bathed in the pond, and recoiled as if they had been friends of a + murderer. None of them spoke. They clustered closely together, listening + intently. Nothing was audible but the hum of the evening insects and the + regular muffled beat of the oars over the water. The boys strained their + ears and held their breath as the sound suddenly stopped. But they + listened in vain. The lazy tree-toads sang, the monotonous hum of the + night went on. + </p> + <p> + Gabriel Bennet held the hand of Little Malacca—a dark-eyed boy, who + was supposed in the school to have had no father or mother, and who had + instinctively attached himself to Gabriel from the moment they met. + </p> + <p> + “Isn’t it dreadful?” whispered the latter. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Gabriel, “it’s dreadful to be young + when a man’s drowning, for you can’t do any thing. Hist!” + </p> + <p> + There was not a movement, as they heard a dull, distant sound. + </p> + <p> + “I guess that’s Jim Greenidge,” whispered Little + Malacca, under his breath; “he’s the best diver.” + </p> + <p> + Nobody answered. The slow minutes passed. Some of the boys peered timidly + into the dark, and clung closer to their neighbors. + </p> + <p> + “There they come!” said Gabriel suddenly, in a low voice, and + in a few moments the beat of the oars was heard again. Still nobody spoke. + Most of the boys were afraid that when the boat appeared they should see a + dead body, and they dreaded it. Some felt homesick, and began to cry. The + throb of oars came nearer and nearer. The boat glimmered out of the + darkness, and almost at the same moment slid up the shore. The solemn + undertone in which the rowers spoke told all. Death was in the boat. + </p> + <p> + Gabriel Bennet could see the rowers step quickly out, and with great care + run the boat upon the truck. He said, “Come, boys!” and they + all moved together and grasped the rope. + </p> + <p> + “Forward!” said Mr. Gray. + </p> + <p> + Something lay across the seats covered with a large cloak. The boys did + not look behind, but they all knew what they were dragging. The homely + funeral-car rolled slowly along under the stars. The crickets chirped; the + multitudinous voice of the summer night murmured on every side, mingling + with the hollow rumble of the truck. In a few moments the procession + turned into the grounds, and the boat was drawn to the platform. + </p> + <p> + “The little boys may go,” said Mr. Gray. + </p> + <p> + They dropped the rope and turned away. They did not even try to see what + was done with the body; but when Blanding came out of the house afterward, + they asked him who found the drowned man. + </p> + <p> + “Jim Greenidge,” said he. “He stripped as soon as we + were well out on the pond, and asked the stranger gentleman to show him + about where his friend sank. The moment the place was pointed out he dove. + The first time he found nothing. The second time he touched him”—the + boys shuddered—“and he actually brought him up to the surface. + But he was quite dead. Then we took him into the boat and covered him + over. That’s all.” + </p> + <p> + There were no more games, there was no other talk, that evening. When the + boys were going to bed, Gabriel asked Little Malacca in which room Jim + Greenidge slept. + </p> + <p> + “He sleeps in Number Seven. Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! I only wanted to know.” + </p> + <p> + Gabriel Bennet could not sleep. His mind was too busy with the events of + the day. All night long he could think of nothing but the strong figure of + Jim Greenidge erect in the summer night, then plunging silently into the + black water. When it was fairly light he hurried on his clothes, and + passing quietly along the hall, knocked at the door of Number Seven. + </p> + <p> + “Who’s there?” cried a voice within. + </p> + <p> + “It’s only me.” + </p> + <p> + “Who’s me?” + </p> + <p> + “Gabriel Bennet.” + </p> + <p> + “Come in, then.” + </p> + <p> + It was Abel Newt who spoke; and as Gabriel stepped in, Newt asked, + abruptly, + </p> + <p> + “What do you want?” + </p> + <p> + “I want to speak to Jim Greenidge.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, there he is,” replied Newt, pointing to another bed. + “Jim! Jim!” + </p> + <p> + Greenidge roused himself. + </p> + <p> + “What’s the matter?” said his cheery voice, as he rose + upon his elbow and looked at Gabriel with his kind eyes. “Come here, + Gabriel. What is it?” + </p> + <p> + Gabriel hesitated, for Abel Newt was looking sharply at him. But in a + moment he went to Greenidge’s bedside, and said, shyly, in a low + voice, + </p> + <p> + “Shall I black your boots for you?” + </p> + <p> + “Black my boots! Why, Gabriel, what on earth do you mean? No, of + course you shall not.” + </p> + <p> + And the strong youth looked pleasantly on the boy who stood by his + bedside, and then put out his hand to him. + </p> + <p> + “Can’t I brush your clothes then, or do any thing for you?” + persisted Gabriel, softly. + </p> + <p> + “Certainly not. Why do you want to?” replied Greenidge. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! I only thought it would be pleasant if I could do something—that’s + all,” said Gabriel, as he moved slowly away. “I’m sorry + to have waked you.” + </p> + <p> + He closed the door gently as he went out. Jim Greenidge lay for some time + resting upon his elbow, wondering why a boy who had scarcely ever spoken a + word to him before should suddenly want to be his servant. He could make + nothing of it, and, tired with the excitement of the previous evening, he + lay down again for a morning nap. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V. — PEEWEE PREACHING. + </h2> + <p> + Upon the following Sunday the Rev. Amos Peewee, D.D., made a suitable + improvement of the melancholy event of the week. He enlarged upon the + uncertainty of life. He said that in the midst of life we are in death. He + said that we are shadows and pursue shades. He added that we are here + to-day and gone to-morrow. + </p> + <p> + During the long prayer before the sermon a violent thunder-gust swept from + the west and dashed against the old wooden church. As the Doctor poured + forth his petitions he made the most extraordinary movements with his + right hand. He waved it up and down rapidly. He opened his eyes for an + instant as if to find somebody. He seemed to be closing imaginary windows—and + so he was. It leaked out the next day at Mr. Gray’s that Dr. Peewee + was telegraphing the sexton at random—for he did not know where to + look for him—to close the windows. Nobody better understood the + danger of draughts from windows, during thunder-storms, than the Doctor; + nobody knew better than he that the lightning-rod upon the spire was no + protection at all, but that the iron staples with which it was clamped to + the building would serve, in case of a bolt’s striking the church, + to drive its whole force into the building. As a loud crash burst over the + village in the midst of his sermon, and showed how frightfully near the + storm was, his voice broke into a shrill quaver, as he faltered out, + “Yes, my brethren, let us be calm under all circumstances, and Death + will have no terrors.” + </p> + <p> + The Rev. Amos Peewee had been settled in the village of Delafield since a + long period before the Revolution, according to the boys. But the parish + register carried the date only to the beginning of this century. He wore a + silken gown in summer, and a woolen gown in winter, and black worsted + gloves, always with the middle finger of the right-hand glove slit, that + he might more conveniently turn the leaves of the Bible, and the + hymn-book, and his own sermons. + </p> + <p> + The pews of the old meeting-house were high, and many of them square. The + heads of the people of consideration in the congregation were mostly bald, + as beseems respectable age, and as the smooth, shiny line of pates + appeared above the wooden line of the pews they somehow sympathetically + blended into one gleaming surface of worn wood and skull, until it seemed + as if the Doctor’s theological battles were all fought upon the + heads of his people. + </p> + <p> + But the Doctor was by no means altogether polemical. After defeating and + utterly confounding the fathers who fired their last shot a thousand years + ago, and who had not a word to say against his remaining master of the + field, he was wont to unbend his mind and recreate his fancy by practical + discourses. His sermons upon lying were celebrated all through the + village. He gave the insidious vice no quarter. He charged upon it from + all sides at once. Lying couldn’t stand for a moment. White lies, + black lies, blue lies, and green lies, lies of ceremony, of charity, and + of good intention disappeared before the lightning of his wrath. They are + all children of the Devil, with different complexions, said Dr. Peewee. + </p> + <p> + But if lying be a vice, surely, said he, discretion is a virtue. “My + dear Mr. Gray,” said Dr. Peewee to that gentleman when he was about + establishing his school in the village, and was consulting with the Doctor + about bringing his boys to church—“my dear Mr. Gray,” + said the Doctor, putting down his cigar and stirring his toddy (he was of + an earlier day), “above all things a clergyman should be discreet. + In fact, Christianity is discretion. A man must preach at sins, not + sinners. Where would society be if the sins of individuals were to be + rudely assaulted?—one more lump, if you please. A man’s sins + are like his corns. Neither the shoe nor the sermon must fit too snugly. I + am a clergyman, but I hope I am also a man of common sense—a + practical man, Mr. Gray. The general moral law and the means of grace, + those are the proper themes of the preacher. And the pastor ought to + understand the individual characters and pursuits of his parishioners, + that he may avoid all personality in applying the truth.” + </p> + <p> + “Clearly,” said Mr. Gray. + </p> + <p> + “For instance,” reasoned the Doctor, as he slowly stirred his + toddy, and gesticulated with one skinny forefinger, occasionally sipping + as he went on, “if I have a deacon in my church who is a notorious + miser, is it not plain that, if I preach a strong sermon upon + covetousness, every body in the church will think of my deacon—will, + in fact, apply the sermon to him? The deacon, of course, will be the first + to do it. And then, why, good gracious! he might even take his hat and + cane and stalk heavily down the broad aisle, under my very nose, before my + very eyes, and slam the church door after him in my very face! Here at + once is difficulty in the church; hard feeling; perhaps even swearing. Am + I, as a Christian clergyman, to give occasion to uncharitable emotions, + even to actual profanity? Is not a Christian congregation, was not every + early Christian community, a society of brothers? Of course they were; of + course we must be. Little children, love one another. Let us dwell + together, my brethren, in amity,” said the Doctor, putting down his + glass, and forgetting that he was in Mr. Gray’s study; “and + please give me your ears while I show you this morning the enormity of + burning widows upon the funeral pyres of their husbands.” + </p> + <p> + This was the Peewee Christianity; and after such a sermon the deacon has + been known to say to his wife—thin she was in the face, which had a + settled shade, like the sober twilight of valleys from which the sun has + long been gone, though it has not yet set— + </p> + <p> + “What shocking people the Hindoos are! They actually burn widows! My + dear, how grateful we ought to be that we live in a Christian country + where wives are not burned!—Abraham! if you put another stick of + wood into that stove I’ll skin you alive, Sir. Go to bed this + instant, you wicked boy!—It must be bad enough to be a widow, my + dear, let alone the burning. Shall we have evening prayers, Mrs. Deacon?” + </p> + <p> + In the evening of the day on which the Doctor improved the drowning, and + exhorted his hearers to be brave, Mr. Gray asked Gabriel Bennet, “Where + was the text?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know, Sir,” replied Gabriel. As he spoke there + was the sound of warm discussion on the other side of the dining-room, in + which the boys sat during the evening. + </p> + <p> + “What is it, Gyles?” asked Mr. Gray. + </p> + <p> + “Why, Sir,” replied he, “it’s nothing. We were + talking about a ribbon, Sir.” + </p> + <p> + “What ribbon?” + </p> + <p> + “A ribbon we saw at church, Sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, whose was it?” asked Mr. Gray. + </p> + <p> + “I believe it was Miss Hope Wayne’s.” + </p> + <p> + “You believe, Gyles? Why don’t you speak out?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, Sir, the fact is that Abel Newt says she had a purple ribbon + on her bonnet—” + </p> + <p> + “She hadn’t,” said Gabriel, breaking in, impetuously. + “She had a beautiful blue ribbon, and lilies of the valley inside, + and a white lace vail, and—” + </p> + <p> + Gabriel stopped and turned very red, for he caught Abel Newt’s eyes + fixed sharply upon him. + </p> + <p> + “Oh ho! the text was there, was it?” asked Mr. Gray, smiling. + </p> + <p> + But Abel Newt only said, quietly: + </p> + <p> + “Oh well! I guess it <i>was</i> a blue ribbon after all.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI. — EXPERIMENTUM CRUCIS. + </h2> + <p> + “The truth is, Gyles;” said Abel to Blanding, his chum, + “Gabriel Bennet’s mother ought to come and take him home for + the summer to play with the other calves in the country. People shouldn’t + leave their spoons about.” + </p> + <p> + The two boys went in to tea. + </p> + <p> + In the evening, as the pupils were sitting in the dining-room, as usual, + some chatting, some reading, others quite ready to go to bed, + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Gray,” said Abel to Uncle Savory, who was sitting talking + with Mrs. Gray, whose hands, which were never idle, were now busily + knitting. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Abel.” + </p> + <p> + “Suppose we have some game.” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly. Boys, what shall we do? Let us see. There’s the + Grand Mufti, and the Elements, and My ship’s come loaded with—and—well, + what shall it be?” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Gray, it’s a good while since we’ve tried all + calling out together. We haven’t done it since Gabriel Bennet came.” + </p> + <p> + “No, we haven’t,” answered Mr. Gray, as his small eyes + twinkled at the prospect of a little fun; “no, we haven’t. + Now, boys, of course a good many of you have played the game before. But + you, new boys, attend! the thing is this. When I say three—<i>one, + two, three</i>!—every body is to shout out the name of his + sweet-heart. The fun is that nobody hears any thing, because every body + bawls so loud. You see?” asked he, apparently feeling for his + handkerchief. “Gabriel, before we begin, just run into the study and + get my handkerchief.” + </p> + <p> + Gabriel, full of expectation of the fun, ran out of the room. The moment + he closed the door Mr. Gray lifted his finger and said, + </p> + <p> + “Now, boys! every body remain perfectly quiet when I say three.” + </p> + <p> + It was needless to explain why, for every body saw the intended joke, and + Gabriel returned instantly from the study saying that the handkerchief was + not there. + </p> + <p> + “No matter,” said Mr. Gray. “Are you all ready, boys. + Now, then—<i>one, two, three</i>!” + </p> + <p> + As the word left Mr. Gray’s lips, Gabriel, candid, full of spirit, + jumped up from his seat with the energy of his effort, and shouted out at + the top of his voice, + </p> + <p> + “Hope Wayne!” + </p> + <p> + —It was cruel. That name alone broke the silence, ringing out in + enthusiastic music. + </p> + <p> + Gabriel’s face instantly changed. Still standing erect and dismayed, + he looked rapidly around the room from boy to boy, and at Mr. Gray. There + was just a moment of utter silence, and then a loud peal of laughter. + </p> + <p> + Gabriel’s color came and went. His heart winced, but not his eye. + Young hearts are tender, and a joke like this cuts deeply. But just as he + was about to yield, and drop the tell-tale tear of a sensitive, mortified + boy, he caught the eye of Abel Newt. It was calmly studying him as a Roman + surgeon may have watched the gladiator in the arena, while his life-blood + ebbed away. Gabriel remembered Abel’s words in the play-ground—“There’s + more than one kind of fagging.” + </p> + <p> + When the laugh was over, Gabriel’s had been loudest of all. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII. — CASTLE DANGEROUS. + </h2> + <p> + The next day when school was dismissed, Abel asked leave to stroll out of + bounds. He pushed along the road, whistling cheerily, whipping the + road-side grass and weeds with his little ratan, and all the while + approaching the foot of the hill up which the road wound through the + estate of Pinewood. As he turned up the hill he walked more slowly, and + presently stopped and leaned upon a pair of bars which guarded the + entrance of one of Mr. Burt’s pastures. He gazed for some time down + into the rich green field that sloped away from the road toward a little + bowery stream, but still whistled, as if he were looking into his mind + rather than at the landscape. + </p> + <p> + After leaning and musing and vaguely whistling, he turned up the hill + again and continued his walk. + </p> + <p> + At length he reached the entrance of Pinewood—a high iron gate, + between huge stone posts, on the tops of which were urns overflowing with + vines, that hung down and partly tapestried the columns. Immediately upon + entering the grounds the carriage avenue wound away from the gate, so that + the passer-by could see nothing as he looked through but the hedge which + skirted and concealed the lawn. The fence upon the road was a high, solid + stone wall, along whose top clustered a dense shrubbery, so that, although + the land rose from the road toward the house, the lawn was entirely + sequestered; and you might sit upon it and enjoy the pleasant rural + prospect of fields, woods, and hills, without being seen from the road. + The house itself was a stately, formal mansion. Its light color contrasted + well with the lofty pine-trees around it. But they, in turn, invested it + with an air of secrecy and gloom, unrelieved by flowers or blossoming + shrubs, of which there were no traces near the house, although in the rear + there was a garden so formally regular that it looked like a penitentiary + for flowers. + </p> + <p> + These were the pine-trees that Hope Wayne had heard sing all her life—but + sing like the ocean, not like birds or human voices. In the black autumn + midnights they struggled with the north winds that smote them fiercely and + filled the night with uproar, while the child cowering in her bed thought + of wrecks on pitiless shores—of drowning mothers and hapless + children. Through the summer nights they sighed. But it was not a lullaby—it + was not a serenade. It was the croning of a Norland enchantress, and young + Hope sat at her open window, looking out into the moonlight, and + listening. + </p> + <p> + Abel Newt opened the gate and passed in. He walked along the avenue, from + which the lawn was still hidden by the skirting hedge, went up the steps, + and rang the bell. + </p> + <p> + “Is Mr. Burt at home?” he asked, quietly. + </p> + <p> + “This way, Sir,” said the nimble Hiram, going before, but half + turning and studying the visitor as he spoke, and quite unable to + comprehend him at a glance. “I will speak to him.” + </p> + <p> + Abel Newt was shown into a large drawing-room. The furniture was draped + for the season in cool-colored chintz. There was a straw matting upon the + floor. The chandeliers and candelabras were covered with muslin, and heavy + muslin curtains hung over the windows. The tables and chairs were of a + clumsy old-fashioned pattern, with feet in the form of claws clasping + balls, and a generally stiff, stately, and uncomfortable air. The + fire-place was covered by a heavy painted fire-board. The polished brass + andirons, which seemed to feel the whole weight of responsibility in + supporting the family dignity, stood across the hearth, belligerently + bright, and there were sprays of asparagus in a china vase in front of + them. A few pictures hung upon the wall—family portraits, Abel + thought; at least old Christopher was there, painted at the age of ten, + standing, in very clean attire, holding a book in one hand and a hoop in + the other. The picture was amusing, and looked to Abel symbolical, + representing the model boy, equally devoted to study and play. That + singular sneering smile flitted over his face as he muttered, “The + Reverend Gabriel Bennet!” + </p> + <p> + There were a few books upon the centre-table, carefully placed and + balanced as if they had been porcelain ornaments. The bindings and the + edges of the leaves had a fresh, unworn look. The outer window-blinds were + closed, and the whole room had a chilly formality and dimness which was + not hospitable nor by any means inspiring. + </p> + <p> + Abel seated himself in an easy-chair, and was still smiling at the + portrait of Master Christopher Burt at the age of ten, when that + gentleman, at the age of seventy-three, was heard in the hall. Hiram had + left the door open, so that Abel had full notice of his approach, and rose + just before the old gentleman entered, and stood with his cap in his hand + and his head slightly bent. + </p> + <p> + Old Burt came into the room, and said, a little fiercely, as he saw the + visitor, + </p> + <p> + “Well, Sir!” + </p> + <p> + Abel bowed. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Sir!” he repeated, more blandly, apparently mollified + by something in the appearance of the youth. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Burt,” said Abel, “I am sure you will excuse me + when you understand the object of my call; although I am fully aware of + the liberty I am taking in intruding upon your valuable time and the many + important cares which must occupy the attention of a gentleman so + universally known, honored, and loved in the community as you are, Sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you come here to compliment me, Sir?” asked Mr. Burt. + “You’ve got some kind of subscription paper, I suppose.” + The old gentleman began to warm up as he thought of it. “But I can’t + give any thing. I never do—I never will. It’s an infernal + swindle. Some deuced Missionary Society, or Tract Society, or Bible + Society, some damnable doing-good society, that bleeds the entire + community, has sent you up here, Sir, to suck money out of me with your + smooth face. They’re always at it. They’re always sending + boys, and ministers in the milk, by Jove! and women that talk in a way to + turn the milk sour in the cellar, Sir, and who have already turned + themselves sour in the face, Sir, and whom a man can’t turn out of + doors, Sir, to swindle money out of innocent people! I tell you, young + man, ‘twon’t work! I’ll, be whipped if I give you a + solitary red cent!” And Christopher Burt, in a fine wrath, seated + himself by the table, and wiped his forehead. + </p> + <p> + Abel stood patiently and meekly under this gust of fury, and when it was + ended, and Mr. Burt was a little composed, he began quietly, as if the + indignation were the most natural thing in the world: + </p> + <p> + “No, Sir; it is not a subscription paper—” + </p> + <p> + “Not a subscription paper!” interrupted the old gentleman, + lifting his head and staring at him. “Why, what the deuce is it, + then?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, Sir, as I was just saying,” calmly returned Abel, + “it is a personal matter altogether.” + </p> + <p> + “Eh! eh! what?” cried Mr. Burt, on the edge of another + paroxysm, “what the deuce does that mean? Who are you. Sir?” + </p> + <p> + “I am one of Mr. Gray’s boys, Sir,” replied Abel. + </p> + <p> + “What! what!” thundered Grandpa Burt, springing up suddenly, + his mind opening upon a fresh scent. “One of Mr. Gray’s boys? + How dare you, Sir, come into my house? Who sent you here, Sir? What right + have you to intrude into this place, Sir? Hiram! Hiram!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Sir,” answered the man, as he came across the hall. + </p> + <p> + “Show this young man out.” + </p> + <p> + “He may have some message, Sir,” said Hiram, who had heard the + preceding conversation. + </p> + <p> + “Have you got any message?” asked Mr. Burt. + </p> + <p> + “No, Sir; but I—” + </p> + <p> + “Then why, in Heaven’s name, don’t you go?” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Burt,” said Abel, with placid persistence, “being + one of Mr. Gray’s boys, I go of course to Dr. Peewee’s Church, + and there I have so often seen—” + </p> + <p> + “Come, come, Sir, this is a little too much. Hiram, put this boy + out,” said the old gentleman, quite beside himself as he thought of + his grand-daughter. “Seen, indeed! What business have you to see, + Sir?” + </p> + <p> + “So often seen your venerable figure,” resumed Abel in the + same tone as before, while Mr. Burt turned suddenly and looked at him + closely, “that I naturally asked who you were. I was told, Sir; and + hearing of your wealth and old family, and so on, Sir, I was interested—it + was only natural, Sir—in all that belongs to you.” + </p> + <p> + “Eh! eh! what?” said Mr. Burt, quickly. + </p> + <p> + “Particularly, Mr. Burt, in your—” + </p> + <p> + “By Jove! young man, you’d better go if you don’t want + to have your head broken. D’ye come here to beard me in my own + house? By George! your impudence stupefies me, Sir. I tell you go this + minute!” + </p> + <p> + But Abel continued: + </p> + <p> + “In your beautiful—” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t dare to say it, Sir!” cried the old man, shaking + his finger. + </p> + <p> + “Place,” said Abel, quietly. + </p> + <p> + The old gentleman glared at him with a look of mixed surprise and + suspicion. But the boy wore the same look of candor. He held his cap in + his hand. His black hair fell around his handsome face. He was entirely + calm, and behaved in the most respectful manner. + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean, Sir?” said Christopher Burt, in great + perplexity, as he seated himself again, and drew a long breath. + </p> + <p> + “Simply, Sir, that I am very fond of sketching. My teacher says I + draw very well, and I have had a great desire to draw your place, but I + did not dare to ask permission. It is said in school, Sir, that you don’t + like Mr. Gray’s boys, and I knew nobody who could introduce me. But + to-day, as I came by, every thing looked so beautifully, and I was so sure + that I could make a pretty picture if I could only get leave to come + inside the grounds, that almost unconsciously I found myself coming up the + avenue and ringing the bell. That’s all, Sir; and I’m sure I + beg your pardon for troubling you so much.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Burt listened to this speech with a pacified air. He was perhaps a + little ashamed of his furious onslaughts and interruptions, and therefore + the more graciously inclined toward the request of the young man. + </p> + <p> + So the old man said, with tolerable grace, + </p> + <p> + “Well, Sir, I am willing you should draw my house. Will you do it + this afternoon?” + </p> + <p> + “Really, Sir,” replied Abel, “I had no intention of + asking you to-day; and as I strolled out merely for a walk, I did not + bring my drawing materials with me. But if you would allow me to come at + any time, Sir, I should be very deeply obliged. I am devoted to my art, + Sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! you mean to be an artist?” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps, Sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Phit! phit! Don’t do any such silly thing, Sir. An artist! + Why how much does an artist make in a year?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, Sir, the money I don’t know about, but the fame!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! the fame! The fiddle, Sir! You are capable of better things.” + </p> + <p> + “For instance, Mr. Burt—” + </p> + <p> + “Trade, Sir, trade—trade. That is the way to fortune in this + country. Enterprise, activity, shrewdness, industry, that’s what a + young man wants. Get rid of your fol-de-rol notions about art. Benjamin + West was a great man, Sir; but he was an exception, and besides he lived + in England. I respect Benjamin West, Sir, of course. We all do. He made a + good thing of it. Take the word of an old man who has seen life and knows + the world, and remember that, with all your fine fiddling, it is money + makes the mare go. Old men like me don’t mince matters, Sir. It’s + money—money!” + </p> + <p> + Abel thought old men sometimes minced grammar a little, but he did not say + so. He only looked respectful, and said, “Yes, Sir.” + </p> + <p> + “About drawing the house, come when you choose,” said Mr. + Burt, rising. + </p> + <p> + “It may take more than one, or even three or four afternoons, Sir, + to do it properly.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, well. If I’m not at home ask for Mrs. Simcoe, d’ye + hear? Mrs. Simcoe. She will attend to you.” + </p> + <p> + Abel bowed very respectfully and as if he were controlling a strong desire + to kneel and kiss the foot of his Holiness, Christopher Burt; but he + mastered himself, and Hiram opened the front door. + </p> + <p> + “Good-by, Hiram,” said. Abel, putting a piece of money into + his hand. + </p> + <p> + “Oh no, Sir,” said Hiram, pocketing the coin. + </p> + <p> + Abel walked sedately down the steps, and looked carefully around him. He + scanned the windows; he glanced under the trees; but he saw nothing. He + did every thing, in fact, but study the house which he had been asking + permission to draw. He looked as if for something or somebody who did not + appear. But as Hiram still stood watching him, he moved away. + </p> + <p> + He walked faster as he approached the gate. He opened it; flung it to + behind him, broke into a little trot, and almost tumbled over Gabriel + Bennet and Little Malacca as he did so. + </p> + <p> + The collision was rude, and the three boys stopped. + </p> + <p> + “You’d better look where you’re going,” said + Gabriel, sharply, his cheeks reddening and swelling. + </p> + <p> + Abel’s first impulse was to strike; but he restrained himself, and + in the most contemptuous way said merely, + </p> + <p> + “Ah, the Reverend Gabriel Bennet!” + </p> + <p> + He had scarcely spoken when Gabriel fell upon him like a young lion. So + sudden and impetuous was his attack that for a moment Abel was confounded. + He gave way a little, and was well battered almost before he could strike + in return. Then his strong arms began to tell. He was confident of + victory, and calmer than his antagonist; but it was like fighting a flame, + so fierce and rapid were Gabriel’s strokes. + </p> + <p> + Little Malacca looked on in amazement and terror. “Don’t! don’t!” + cried he, as he saw the faces of the fighters. “Oh, don’t! + Abel, you’ll kill him!” For Abel was now fully aroused. He was + seriously hurt by Gabriel’s blows. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t! there’s somebody coming!” cried Little + Malacca, with the tears in his eyes, as the sound of a carriage was heard + driving down the hill. + </p> + <p> + The combatants said nothing. The faces of both of them were bruised, and + the blood was flowing. Gabriel was clearly flagging; and Abel’s face + was furious as he struck his heavy blows, under which the smaller boy + staggered, but did not yet succumb. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, please! please!” cried Little Malacca, imploringly, the + tears streaming down his face. + </p> + <p> + At that moment Abel Newt drew back, aimed a tremendous blow at Gabriel, + and delivered it with fearful force upon his head. The smaller boy + staggered, reeled, threw up his arms, and fell heavily forward into the + road, senseless. + </p> + <p> + “You’ve killed him! You’ve killed him!” sobbed + Little Malacca, piteously, kneeling down and bending over Gabriel. + </p> + <p> + Abel Newt stood bareheaded, frowning under his heavy hair, his hands + clenched, his face bruised and bleeding, his mouth sternly set as he + looked down upon his opponent. Suddenly he heard a sound close by him—a + half-smothered cry. He looked up. It was the Burt carriage, and Hope Wayne + was gazing in terror from the window. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII. — AFTER THE BATTLE. + </h2> + <p> + Hiram was summoned to the door by a violent ringing of the bell. Visions + of apoplexy—of—in fact, of any thing that might befall a testy + gentleman of seventy-three, inclined to make incessant trips to the West + Indies—rushed to his mind as he rushed to the door. He opened it in + hot haste. + </p> + <p> + There stood Hope Wayne, pale, her eyes flashing, her hand ungloved. At the + foot of the steps was the carriage, and in the carriage sat Mrs. Simcoe, + with a bleeding boy’s head resting upon her shoulder. The coachman + stood at the carriage door. + </p> + <p> + “Here, Hiram, help James to bring in this poor boy.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, miss,” replied the man, as he ran down the steps. + </p> + <p> + The door was opened, and the coachman and Hiram lifted out Gabriel. + </p> + <p> + They carried him, still unconscious, up stairs and laid him on a couch. + Old Burt could not refuse an act of mere humanity, but he said in a loud + voice, + </p> + <p> + “It’s all a conspiracy to get into the house, Mrs. Simcoe, ma’am. + I’ll have bull-dogs—I’ll have blunderbusses and + spring-guns, Mrs. Simcoe, ma’am! And what do you mean by fighting at + my gate, Sir?” he said, turning upon Little Malacca, who quivered + under his wrath. “What are you doing at my gate? Can’t Mr. + Gray keep his boys at home? Hope, go up stairs!” said the old + gentleman, as he reached the foot of the staircase. + </p> + <p> + But Hope Wayne and Mrs. Simcoe remained with the patient. Hope rubbed the + boy’s hands, and put her own hand upon his forehead from time to + time, until he sighed heavily and opened his eyes. But before he could + recognize her she went out to send Hiram to him, while Mrs. Simcoe sat + quietly by him. + </p> + <p> + “We must put you to bed,” she said, gently, “and + to-morrow you may go. But why do you fight?” + </p> + <p> + Gabriel turned toward her with a piteous look. + </p> + <p> + “No matter,” replied Mrs. Simcoe. “Don’t talk. You + shall tell all about it some other time. Come in, Hiram,” she added, + as she heard a knock. + </p> + <p> + The man entered, and Mrs. Simcoe left the room after having told him to + undress the boy carefully and bathe his face and hands. Gabriel was + perfectly passive, Hiram was silent, quick, and careful, and in a few + moments he closed the door softly behind him, and left Gabriel alone. + </p> + <p> + He was now entirely conscious, but very weak. His face was turned toward + the window, which was open, and he watched the pine-trees that rustled + gently in the afternoon breeze. It was profoundly still out of doors and + in the house; and as he lay exhausted, the events of the last few days and + months swam through his mind in misty confusion. Half-dozing, + half-sleeping, every thing glimmered before him, and the still hours stole + by. + </p> + <p> + When he opened his eyes again it was twilight, and he was lying on his + back looking up at the heavy tester of the great bedstead from which hung + the curtains, so that he had only glimpses into the chamber. It was large + and lofty, and the paper on the wall told the story of Telemachus. His + eyes wandered over it dreamily. + </p> + <p> + He could dimly see the beautiful Calypso—the sage Mentor—the + eager pupil—pallid phantoms floating around him. He seemed to hear + the beating of the sea upon the shore. The tears came to his eyes. The + ghostly Calypso put aside the curtain of the bed. Gabriel stretched out + his hands. + </p> + <p> + “I must go,” he murmured, as if he too were a phantom. + </p> + <p> + The lips of Calypso moved. + </p> + <p> + “Are you better?” + </p> + <p> + Gabriel was awake in a moment. It was Hope Wayne who spoke to him. + </p> + <p> + About ten o’clock in the evening she knocked again gently at Gabriel’s + door. There was no reply. She opened the door softly and went in. A + night-lamp was burning, and threw a pleasant light through the room. The + windows were open, and the night-air sighed among the pine-trees near + them. + </p> + <p> + Gabriel’s face was turned toward the door, so that Hope saw it as + she entered. He was sleeping peacefully. At that very moment he was + dreaming of her. In dreams Hope Wayne was walking with him by the sea, her + hand in his: her heart his own. + </p> + <p> + She stood motionless lest she might wake him. He did not stir, and she + heard his low, regular breathing, and knew that all was well. Then she + turned as noiselessly as she had entered, and went out, leaving him to + peaceful sleep—to dreams—to the sighing of the pines. + </p> + <p> + Hope Wayne went quietly to her room, which was next to the one in which + Gabriel lay. Her kind heart had sent her to see that he wanted nothing. + She thought of him only as a boy who had had the worst of a quarrel, and + she pitied him. Was it then, indeed, only pity for the victim that knocked + gently at his door? Was she really thinking of the conqueror when she went + to comfort the conquered? Was she not trying somehow to help Abel by doing + all she could to alleviate the harm he had done? + </p> + <p> + Hope Wayne asked herself no questions. She was conscious of a curious + excitement, and the sighing of the pines lulled her to sleep. But all + night long she dreamed of Abel Newt, with bare head and clustering black + hair, gracefully bowing, and murmuring excuses; and oh! so manly, oh! so + heroic he looked as he carefully helped to lay Gabriel in the carriage. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IX. — NEWS FROM HOME. + </h2> + <p> + Abel found a letter waiting for him when he returned to the school. He + tore it open and read it: + </p> + <p> + “MY DEAR ABEL,—You have now nearly reached the age at which, + by your grandfather’s direction, you were to leave school and enter + upon active life. Your grandfather, who had known and respected Mr. Gray + in former years, left you, as you know, a sum sufficient for your + education, upon condition of your being placed at Mr. Gray’s until + your nineteenth birthday. That time is approaching. Upon your nineteenth + birthday you will leave school. Mr. Gray gives me the best accounts of + you. My plans for you are not quite settled. What are your own wishes? It + is late for you to think of college; and as you will undoubtedly be a + business man, I see no need of your learning Greek or writing Latin + poetry. At your age I was earning my own living. Your mother and the + family are well. Your affectionate father, + </p> + <h3> + “BONIFACE NEWT. + </h3> + <p> + “P.S.—Your mother wishes to add a line.” + </p> + <p> + “DEAR ABEL,—I am very glad to hear from Mr. Gray of your fine + progress in study, and your general good character and deportment. I trust + you give some of your leisure to solid reading. It is very necessary to + improve the mind. I hope you attend to religion. It will help you if you + keep a record of Dr. Peewee’s texts, and write abstracts of his + sermons. Grammar, too, and general manners. I hear that you are very + self-possessed, which is really good news. My friend Mrs. Beacon was here + last week, and she says you <i>bow beautifully</i>! That is a great deal + for her to admit, for her son Bowdoin is one of the most elegant and + presentable young men I have ever seen. He is very gentlemanly indeed. He + and Alfred Dinks have been here for some time. My dear son, could you not + learn to waltz before you come home? It is considered very bad by some + people, because you have to put your arm round the lady’s waist. But + I think it is very foolish for any body to set themselves up against the + customs of society. I think if it is permitted in Paris and London, we + needn’t be so very particular about it in New York. Mr. Dinks and + Mr. Beacon both waltz, and I assure you it is very <i>distingué</i> + indeed. But be careful in learning. Your sister Fanny says the Boston + young men stick out their elbows dreadfully when they waltz, and look like + owls spinning on invisible teetotums. She declares, too, that all the + Boston girls are dowdy. But she is obliged to confess that Mr. Beacon and + Mr. Dinks are as well dressed and gentlemanly and dance as well as our + young men here. And as for the Boston ladies, Mr. Dinks tells Fanny that + he has a cousin, a Miss Wayne, who lives in Delafield, who might alter her + opinion of the dowdiness of Boston girls. It seems she is a great heiress, + and very beautiful; and it is said here (but you know how idle such gossip + is) that she is going to marry her cousin, Alfred Dinks. He does not deny + it. He merely laughs and shakes his head—the truth is, he hasn’t + much to say for himself. Bless me! I’ve got to take another sheet. + </p> + <p> + “Now, Abel, my dear, do you know Miss Wayne? I have never heard you + speak of her, and yet, if she lives in Delafield, you must know something + about her. Your father is working hard at his business, but it is shocking + how much money we have to spend to keep up our place in society properly. + I know that he spends all his income every year; and if any thing should + happen—I cry my eyes out to think of it. Miss Wayne, I hear, is very + beautiful, and about your age. Is it true about her being an heiress? + </p> + <p> + “What is the news—let me see. Oh! your cousin, Laura Magot, is + engaged, and she has made a capital match. She will be eighteen on her + next birthday; and the happy man is Mellish Whitloe. It is the fine old + Knickerbocker family. Fanny says she knows all about them—that she + has the Whitloes all at her fingers’ ends. You see she is as bright + as ever. It is a capital match. Mr. Whitloe has at least five thousand + dollars a year from his business now; and his aunt, Patience Doolittle, + widow of the old merchant, who has no children, is understood to prefer + him to all her relations. Laura will have a little something; so there + could be nothing better. We are naturally delighted. But what a pity Laura + is not a little taller—about Fanny’s height; and as I was + looking at Fanny the other day, I thought how sorry I was for Mr. Whitloe + that Laura was not just a little prettier. She has <i>such</i> a nose; and + then her complexion! However, my dear Abel of course cares nothing about + such things, and, I have no doubt, is wickedly laughing at his mamma at + this very moment for scribbling him such a long, rambling letter. What is + Miss Wayne’s first name? Is she fair or brunette? Don’t forget + to write me all you know. I am going to Saratoga in a few days—I + think Fanny ought to drink the waters. I told Dr. Lush I was perfectly + sure of it; so he told your father, and he has consented. + </p> + <p> + “Do you remember Mrs. Plumer, the large, handsome woman from New + Orleans, whom you saw when we dined at your Uncle Magot’s last + summer? She has come on, and will be at the Spring this year. I am told + Mr. Plumer is a very large planter—the largest, some people say, in + the country. Their oldest daughter, Grace is as school in town. She is + only fourteen, I believe. What an heiress she will be! The Moultries, from + South Carolina, will be there too, I suppose. By-the-by, now old is Sligo + Moultrie? Then there are some of those rich Havana people coming. What + diamonds they wear! It will be very pleasant at the Springs; and I hope + the little visit will do Fanny good. Dr. Maundy is giving us a series of + sermons upon the different kinds of wood used in building Solomon’s + Temple. They are very interesting; and he has such a flow of beautiful + words and such wavy gestures, and he looks so gentlemanly in the pulpit, + that I have no doubt he does a great deal of good. The church is always + full. Your Uncle Lawrence has been to hear a preacher from Boston, by the + name of Channing, and is very much pleased. Have you ever heard him? It + seems he is very famous in his own sect, who are infidels, or deists, or + pollywogs, or atheists—I don’t know which it is. I believe + they preach mere morality, and read essays instead of sermons. I hope you + go regularly to church; and from what I have heard of Dr. Peewee, I + respect him very highly. Perhaps you had better make abstracts of his + sermons, and I can look over them some time when you come home. + </p> + <p> + “Speaking of religion, I must tell you a little story which Fanny + told me the other day. She was coming home from church with Mr. Dinks, and + he said to her, ‘Miss Newt, what do you do when you go into church + and put your head down?’ Fanny did not understand him, and asked him + what he meant. ‘Why,’ said he, ‘when we go into church, + you know, we all put our heads down in front of the pew, or in our hands, + for a little while, and Dr. Maundy spreads his handkerchief on the desk + and puts his face into it for quite a long time. What do <i>you</i> do?’ + he asked, in a really perplexed way, Fanny says. ‘Why,’ said + she, gravely, ‘Mr. Dinks, it is to say a short prayer.’ + ‘Bless my soul!’ said he; ‘I never thought of that.’ + 'Why, what do you do, then?’ asked Fanny, curiously. ‘Well,’ + answered Dinks, ‘you know I think it’s a capital thing to do; + it’s proper, and so forth; but I never knew what people were really + at when they did it; so I always put my head into my hat and count ten. I + find it comes to about the same thing—I get through at the same time + with other people.’ He isn’t very bright, but he is a + good-hearted fellow, and very gentlemanly, and I am told he is very rich. + Fanny laughs at him; but I think she likes him very well. I wish you would + find out whether Miss Wayne really is engaged to him. Here I am at the + very end of my paper. Take care of yourself, my dear Abel, and remember + the religion and the solid reading. + </p> + <p> + “Your affectionate mother, + </p> + <h3> + “NANCY NEWT.” + </h3> + <p> + Abel read the letters, and stood looking at the floor, musingly. His + school days, then, were numbered; the stage was to be deepened and widened—the + scenery and the figures so wonderfully changed! He was to step in a moment + from school into the world. He was to lie down one night a boy, and wake + up a man the next morning. + </p> + <p> + The cloud of thoughts and fancies that filled his mind all drifted toward + one point—all floated below a summit upon which stood the only thing + he could discern clearly, and that was the figure of Hope Wayne. Just as + he thought he could reach her, was he to be torn away? + </p> + <p> + And who was Mr. Alfred Dinks? + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER X. — BEGINNING TO SKETCH. + </h2> + <p> + The next morning when Gabriel declared that he was perfectly well and had + better return, nobody opposed his departure. Hope Wayne, indeed, ordered + the carriage so readily that the poor boy’s heart sank. Yet Hope + pitied Gabriel sincerely. She wished he had not been injured, because then + there would have been nobody guilty of injuring him; and she was quite + willing he should go, because his presence reminded her too forcibly of + what she wanted to forget. + </p> + <p> + The poor boy drove dismally away, thinking what a dreadful thing it is to + be young. + </p> + <p> + After he had gone Hope Wayne sat upon the lawn reading. Suddenly a shadow + fell across the page, and looking up she saw Abel Newt standing beside + her. He had his cap in one hand and a port-folio in the other. The blood + rushed from Hope’s cheek to her heart; then rushed back again. Abel + saw it. + </p> + <p> + Rising from the lawn and bowing gravely, she turned toward the house. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Wayne,” said Abel, in a voice which was very musical and + very low—she stopped—“I hope you have not already + convicted and sentenced me.” + </p> + <p> + He smiled a little as he spoke, not familiarly, not presumptuously, but + with an air which indicated his entire ability to justify himself. Hope + said: + </p> + <p> + “I have no wish to be unjust.” + </p> + <p> + “May I then plead my own cause?” + </p> + <p> + “I must go into the house—I will call my grandfather, whom I + suppose you wish to see.” + </p> + <p> + “I am here by his permission, and I hope you will not regard me as + an intruder.” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly not, if he knows you are here;” and Hope lingered + to hear if he had any thing more to say. + </p> + <p> + “It was a very sudden affair. We were both hot and angry; but he is + smaller than I, and I should have done nothing had he not struck me, and + fallen upon me so that I was obliged to defend myself.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—to be sure—in that case,” said Hope, still + lingering, and remarking the music of his voice. Abel continued—while + the girl’s eyes saw how well he looked upon that lawn—the + clustering black hair—the rich eyes—the dark complexion—the + light of intelligence playing upon his face—his dress careful but + graceful—and the port-folio which showed this interview to be no + design or expectation, but a mere chance— + </p> + <p> + “I am very sorry you should have had the pain of seeing such a + spectacle, and I am ashamed my first introduction to you should have been + at such a time.” + </p> + <p> + Hope Wayne lingered, looking on the ground. + </p> + <p> + “I think, indeed,” continued Abel, “that you owe me an + opportunity of making a better impression.” + </p> + <p> + “Hope! Hope!” came floating the sound of a distant voice + calling in the garden. + </p> + <p> + Hope Wayne turned her head toward the voice, but her eyes looked upon the + ground, and her feet still lingered. + </p> + <p> + “I have known you so long, and yet have never spoken to you,” + said the musical voice at her side; “I have seen you so constantly + in church, and I have even tried sometimes—I confess it—to + catch a glance from you as you came out. But I am not sorry, for now—” + </p> + <p> + “Hope! Hope!” called the voice from the garden. + </p> + <p> + Hope looked dreamily in that direction, not as if she heard it, but as if + she were listening to something in her mind. + </p> + <p> + “Now I meet you here on this lovely lawn in your own beautiful home. + Do you know that your grandfather permits me to sketch the place?” + </p> + <p> + “Do you draw, Mr. Newt?” asked Hope Wayne, in a tone which + seemed to Abel to trickle along his nerves, so exquisite and prolonged was + the pleasure it gave him to hear her call him by name. How did she know + it? thought he. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I draw, and am very fond of it,” he answered, as he + untied his port-folio. “I do not dare to say that I am proud of my + drawing—and yet you may perhaps recognize this, if you will look a + moment.” + </p> + <p> + “Hope! Hope!” came the voice again from the garden. Abel heard + it—perhaps Hope did not. He was busily opening his port-folio and + turning over the drawings, and stepped closer to her, as he said: + </p> + <p> + “There! now, what is that?” and he handed her a sketch. + </p> + <p> + Hope looked at it and smiled. + </p> + <p> + “That is the farther shore of the pond with the spire; how very + pretty it is!” + </p> + <p> + “And this?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! that is the old church, and there is Mr. Gray’s face at + the window. How good they are! You draw very well, Mr. Newt.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you draw, Miss Wayne?” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve had plenty of lessons,” replied Hope, smiling; + “but I can’t draw from nature very well.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you sketch, then?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, scenes and figures out of books.” + </p> + <p> + “How very pleasant that must be! That’s a better style than + mine.” + </p> + <p> + “Why so?” + </p> + <p> + “Because we can never draw any thing as handsome as it seems to us. + You can go and see the pond with your own eyes, and then no picture will + seem worth having.” He paused. “There is another reason, too, + I suppose.” + </p> + <p> + “What is that?” asked Hope, looking at her companion. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” he answered, smiling, “because life in books is + always so much better than real life!” + </p> + <p> + “Is it so?” said Hope, musingly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, certainly. People are always brave, and beautiful, and good, + in books. An author may make them do and say just what he and all the + world want them to, and it all seems right. And then they do such + splendidly impossible things!” + </p> + <p> + “How do they?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, now, if you and I were in a book at this moment, instead of + standing on this lawn, I might be a knight slaying a great dragon that was + just coming to destroy you, and you—” + </p> + <p> + “Hope, Hope!” rang the voice from the garden, nearer and more + imperiously. + </p> + <p> + “And I—might be saved by another knight dashing in upon you, + like that voice upon your sentence,” said Hope, smiling. + </p> + <p> + “No, no,” answered Abel, laughing, “that shouldn’t + be in the book. I should slay the great dragon who would desolate all + Delafield with the swishing of his scaly tail; then you would place a + wreath upon my head, and all the people would come out and salute me for + saving the Princess whom they loved, and I”—said Abel, after a + momentary pause, a shade more gravely, and in a tone a little lower—“and + I, as I rode away, should not wonder that they loved her.” + </p> + <p> + He looked across the lawn under the pine-trees as if he were thinking of + some story that he had been actually reading. Hope smiled no longer, but + said, quietly, + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Newt, I am wanted. I must go in. Good-morning!” And she + moved away. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps your cousin Alfred Dinks has arrived,” said Abel, + carelessly, as he closed his port-folio. + </p> + <p> + Hope Wayne stopped, and, standing very erect, turned and looked at him. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know my cousin, Mr. Dinks?” + </p> + <p> + “Not at all.” + </p> + <p> + “How did you know that I had such a cousin?” + </p> + <p> + “I heard it somewhere,” answered Abel, gently and + respectfully, but looking at Hope with a curious glance which seemed to + her to penetrate every pore in her body. That glance said as plainly as + words could have said, “And I heard you were engaged to him.” + </p> + <p> + Hope Wayne looked serious for a moment; then she said, with a half smile, + </p> + <p> + “I suppose it is no secret that Alfred Dinks is my cousin;” + and, bowing to Abel, she went swiftly over the lawn toward the house. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XI. — A VERDICT AND A SENTENCE. + </h2> + <p> + Hope Wayne did not agree with Abel Newt that life was so much better in + books. There was nothing better in any book she had ever read than the + little conversation with the handsome youth which she had had that morning + upon the lawn. When she went into the house she found no one until she + knocked at Mrs. Simcoe’s door. + </p> + <p> + “Aunty, did you call me?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Hope.” + </p> + <p> + “I was on the lawn, Aunty.” + </p> + <p> + “I know it, Hope.” + </p> + <p> + The young lady did not ask her why she had not sought her there, but she + asked, “What do you want, Aunty?” + </p> + <p> + The older woman looked quietly out of the window. Neither spoke for a long + time. + </p> + <p> + “I saw you talking with Abel Newt on the lawn. Why did he strike + that boy?” asked Mrs. Simcoe at length, still gazing at the distant + hills. + </p> + <p> + “He had to defend himself,” said Hope, rapidly. + </p> + <p> + “Couldn’t a young man protect himself against a boy without + stunning him? He might easily have killed him,” said Mrs. Simcoe, in + the same dry tone. + </p> + <p> + “It was very unfortunate, and Mr. Newt says so; but I don’t + think he is to bear every thing.” + </p> + <p> + “What did the other do?” + </p> + <p> + “He insulted him.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed!” + </p> + <p> + The tone in which the elderly woman spoke was trying. Hope was flushed, + and warm, and disconcerted. There was so much skepticism and contempt in + the single word “indeed!” as Mrs. Simcoe pronounced it, that + Hope was really angry with her. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t see why you should treat Mr. Newt in that manner,” + said she, haughtily. + </p> + <p> + “In what manner, Hope?” asked the other, calmly, fixing her + eyes upon her companion. + </p> + <p> + “In that sneering, contemptuous manner,” replied Hope, + loftily. “Here is a young man who falls into an unfortunate quarrel, + in which he happens to get the better of his opponent, who chances to be + younger. He helps him carefully into the carriage. He explains upon the + spot as well as he can, and to-day he comes to explain further; and you + will not believe him; you misunderstand and misrepresent him. It is + unkind, Aunty—unkind.” + </p> + <p> + Hope was almost sobbing. + </p> + <p> + “Has he once said he was sorry?” asked Mrs. Simcoe. “Has + he told you so this morning?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course he is sorry, Aunty. How could he help it? Do you suppose + he is a brute? Do you suppose he hasn’t ordinary human feeling? Why + do you treat him so?” + </p> + <p> + Hope asked the question almost fiercely. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Simcoe sat profoundly still, and said nothing. Her face seemed to + grow even more rigid as she sat. But suddenly turning to the proud young + girl who stood at her side, her bosom heaving with passion, she drew her + toward her by both hands, pulled her face down close to hers, and kissed + her. + </p> + <p> + Hope sank on her knees by the side of Mrs. Simcoe’s chair. All the + pride in her heart was melted, and poured out of her eyes. She buried her + face upon Mrs. Simcoe’s shoulder, and her passion wept and sobbed + itself away. She did not understand what it was, nor why. A little while + before, upon the lawn, she had been so happy. Now it seemed as if her + heart were breaking. When she grew calmer, Mrs. Simcoe, holding the fair + face between her hands, and tenderly kissing it once more, said, slowly, + </p> + <p> + “Hope, my child, we must all walk the path alone. But you, too, will + learn that our human affections are but tents of a night.” + </p> + <p> + “Aunty, Aunty, what do you mean?” asked Hope, who had risen as + the other was speaking, and now stood beside her, pale and proud. + </p> + <p> + “I mean, Hope, that you are in love with Abel Newt.” + </p> + <p> + Hope’s hands dropped by her side. She stepped back a little. A + feeling of inexpressible solitude fell upon her—of alienation from + her grandfather, and of an inexplicable separation from her old nurse—a + feeling as if she suddenly stood alone in the world—as if she had + ceased to be a girl. + </p> + <p> + “Aunty, is it wrong to love him?” + </p> + <p> + Before Mrs. Simcoe could answer there was a knock at the door. It was + Hiram, who announced the victim of yesterday’s battle, waiting in + the parlor to say a word to Miss Wayne. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Hiram.” He bowed and withdrew. Hope Wayne stood at the + window silent for a little while, then, with the calm, lofty air—calmer + and loftier than ever—she went down and found Gabriel Bennet. He had + come to thank her—to say how much better he was—how sorry that + he should have been so disgraced as to have been fighting almost before + her very eyes. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose I was very foolish and furious,” said he. “Abel + ran against me, and I got very angry and struck him. It was wrong; I know + it was, and I am very sorry. But, ma’am, I hope you won’t—ch—ch—I + mean, won’t—” + </p> + <p> + That unlucky “ma’am” had choked all his other words. + Hope was so lofty and splendid in his eyes as she stood before him that he + was impressed with a kind of awe. But the moment he had spoken to her as + if he were only a little boy and she a woman, he was utterly confused. He + staggered and stumbled in his sentence until Hope graciously said, + </p> + <p> + “I blame nobody.” + </p> + <p> + But poor Gabriel’s speech was gone. His mouth was parched and his + mind dry. He could not think of a word to say; and, twisting and fumbling + his cap, did not know how to go. + </p> + <p> + “There, Miss Wayne!” suddenly said a voice at the door. + </p> + <p> + Hope and Gabriel turned at the same moment, and beheld Abel Newt entering + the room gayly, with a sketch in his hand. He nodded to Gabriel without + speaking, but went directly to Hope and showed her the drawing. + </p> + <p> + “There, that will do for a beginning, will it not?” + </p> + <p> + It was a bold, dashing sketch. The pine-trees, the windows, the piazzas—yes, + she saw them all. They had a new charm in her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “That tree comes a little nearer that window,” said she. + </p> + <p> + “How do you know it does?” he replied. “You, who only + draw from books?” + </p> + <p> + “I think I ought to know the tree that I see every day at my own + window!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! that is your window!” + </p> + <p> + Gabriel was confounded at this sudden incursion and apparent resumption of + a previous conversation. As he ran up the avenue he had not remarked Abel + sketching on the lawn. But Abel, sketching on the lawn, had observed + Gabriel running up the avenue, and therefore happened in to ask Miss Wayne’s + opinion of his drawing. He chatted merrily on: + </p> + <p> + “Why, there’s your grandpapa when he was a little grand-baby + and had an old grandpapa in his turn,” said he, pointing at the + portrait he had remarked upon his previous visit in that parlor. “What + a funny little old fellow! Let me see. Gracious! ‘twas before the + Revolution. Ah! now, if he could only speak and tell us just what he saw + in the room where they were painting him—what he had for breakfast, + for instance—what those dear little ridiculous waistcoats, with all + their flowery embroidery, cost a yard, say—yes, yes, and what book + that is—and who gave him the hoop—” + </p> + <p> + He rattled on. Never in Hope’s lifetime had such sounds of gay + speech been heard in that well-arranged and well-behaved parlor. They + seemed to light it up. The rapid talk bubbled like music. + </p> + <p> + “Hoop and book—book and hoop! Oh yes. Good boy, very good boy,” + said Abel, laughing. “I should think it was a portrait of the young + Dr. Peewee—the wee Peewee, Miss Hope,” said the audacious + youth, sliding, as it were, unconsciously and naturally into greater + familiarity. “Ah! I know you know all his sermons by heart, for you + never look away from him. What on earth are they all about?” + </p> + <p> + What a contrast to Gabriel’s awkward silence of the moment before! + Such a handsome face! such a musical voice! + </p> + <p> + In the midst of it all Hiram was heard remonstrating outside: + </p> + <p> + “Don’t, Sir, don’t! You’ll—you’ll—something + will happen, Sir.” + </p> + <p> + There was a moment’s scuffling and trampling, and Christopher Burt, + restrained by Hiram, burst into the room. The old man was white with + wrath. He had his cane in one hand, and Hiram held the other hand and arm. + </p> + <p> + He had come in from the garden, and as he stopped in the dining-room to + take a little trip to the West Indies, he had heard voices in the + drawing-room. Summoning Hiram to know if they were visitors, he had + learned the awful truth which apprised him that his Hesperidian wall was + down, and that the robbers at that very moment might be shaking his + precious fruit from the boughs. To be sure he had himself left the gate + open. Do you think, then, it helps a man’s temper to be as furious + with himself as with other people? He burst into the room. + </p> + <p> + There stood Hope: Abel at her side, in the merry midst of his talk, with + his sketch in his hand, his port-folio under his arm, and his finger + pointed toward the portrait; Gabriel, at a little distance, confounded and + abashed by an acquaintance between Hope and Abel of which he had no + previous suspicion. The poor boy! forgotten by Hope, and purposely + trampled down by the eager talk of Abel. + </p> + <p> + “Hope, go up stairs!” shouted the old gentleman. “And + what are you doing in my house, you scamps?” + </p> + <p> + He lifted his cane as he came toward them. “I knew all this fighting + business yesterday was a conspiracy—a swindling cheat to get into + this house! I’ve a mind to break your impudent bones!” + </p> + <p> + “Why, Sir,” said Abel, “you gave me leave to come here + and sketch.” + </p> + <p> + “Did I give you leave to come into my parlor and bring boys with + you, Sir, and take up the time of my grand-daughter? Hope, I say, go up + stairs!” + </p> + <p> + “I only thought, Sir—” began Abel. + </p> + <p> + “Now, in Heaven’s name, don’t make me angry, Sir!” + burst in the old gentleman, almost foaming at the mouth. “Why should + you think, Sir? What business have you to think, Sir? You’re a boy, + Sir—a school-boy, Sir! Are you going to dispute with me in my own + house? I take back my permission. Go, both of you! and never let me see + your faces again!” + </p> + <p> + The old man stood pointing with his cane toward the door. + </p> + <p> + “Go, both of you!” repeated he, fiercely. It was impossible to + resist; and Abel and Gabriel moved slowly toward the door. The former was + furious at finding himself doomed in company with Gabriel. But he betrayed + nothing. He was preternaturally calm. Hope, dismayed and pale, stood + looking on, but saying nothing. Gabriel went quietly out of the room. Abel + turned to the door, and bowed gravely to Hope. + </p> + <p> + “Remember, Sir,” cried the old man, “I take back my + permission!” + </p> + <p> + “I understand, Sir,” replied Abel, bowing to him also. + </p> + <p> + He closed the door; and as he did so it seemed to Hope Wayne as if the + sunshine were extinguished. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XII. — HELP, HO! + </h2> + <p> + Abel Newt was fully aware that his time was short. His father’s + letter had apprised him of his presently leaving school. To leave school—was + it not to quit Delafield? Might it not be to lose Hope Wayne? He was + banished from Pinewood. There were flaming swords of suspicion waving over + that flowery gate. The days were passing. The summer is ending, thought + he, and I am by no means saved. + </p> + <p> + Neither he nor Gabriel had mentioned their last visit to Pinewood and its + catastrophe. It was a secret better buried in their own bosoms. Abel’s + dislike of the other was deepened and imbittered by the ignominy of the + expulsion by Mr. Burt, of which Gabriel had been not only a companion but + a witness. It was an indignity that made Abel tingle whenever he thought + of it. He fancied Gabriel thinking of it too, and laughing at him in his + sleeve, and he longed to thrash him. But Gabriel had much better business. + He was thinking only of Hope Wayne, and laughing at himself for thinking + of her. + </p> + <p> + The boys were strolling in different parts of the village. Abel, into + whose mind had stolen that thought of the possible laughter in Gabriel’s + sleeve, pulled out his handkerchief suddenly, and waved it with an + indignant movement in the air. At the same moment a carriage had overtaken + him and was passing. The horses, startled by the shock of the waving + handkerchief, shied and broke into a run. The coachman tried in vain to + control them. They sprang forward and had their heads in a moment. + </p> + <p> + Abel looked up, and saw that it was the Burt carriage dashing down the + road. He flew after, and every boy followed. The horses, maddened by the + cries of the coachman and passers-by, by the rattling of the carriage, and + their own excitement and speed, plunged on with fearful swiftness. As the + carriage flew by, two faces were seen at the window—both calm, but + one terrified. They were those of Hope and Mrs. Simcoe. + </p> + <p> + “Stop ‘em! stop ‘em!” rang the cry along the + village street; and the idling villagers looked from the windows or came + to the doors—the women exclaiming and holding up their hands, the + men leaving whatever they were doing and joining the chase. + </p> + <p> + The whole village was in motion. Every body knew Hope Wayne—every + body loved her. + </p> + <p> + Both she and Mrs. Simcoe sat quietly in the carriage. They knew it was + madness to leap—that their only chance lay in remaining perfectly + quiet. They both knew the danger—they knew that every instant they + were hovering on the edge of death or accident. How strange to Hope’s + eyes, in those swift moments, looked the familiar houses—the trees—the + signs—the fences—as they swept by! How peaceful and secure + they were! How far away they seemed! She read the names distinctly. She + thought of little incidents connected with all the places. Her mind, and + memory, and perception were perfectly clear; but her hands were clenched, + and her cheek cold and pale with vague terror. Mrs. Simcoe sat beside her, + calmly holding one of Hope’s hands, but neither of them spoke. + </p> + <p> + The carriage struck a stone, and the crowd shuddered as they saw it rock + and swing in its furious course. The mad horses but flew more wildly. Mrs. + Simcoe pressed Hope’s hand, and murmured, almost inaudibly, + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“‘Christ shall bless thy going out, + Shall bless thy coming in; +Kindly compass thee about, + Till thou art saved from sin.’” + </pre> + <p> + “That corner! that corner!” shouted the throng, as the horses + neared a sudden turn into a side-road, toward which they seemed to be + making, frightened by the persons who came running toward them on the main + street. Among these was Gabriel, who, hearing the confused murmur that + rang down the road, turned and recognized the carriage that was whirled + along at the mercy of wild horses. He seemed to his companions to fly as + he went—to himself he seemed to be standing still. + </p> + <p> + “Carefully, carefully!” cried the others, as they saw his + impetuosity. “Don’t be trampled!” + </p> + <p> + Gabriel did not hear. He only saw the fatal corner. He only knew that Hope + Wayne was in danger—that the carriage, already swaying, would be + overturned—might be dashed in pieces, and Hope— + </p> + <p> + He came near as the horses were about turning. The street toward which + they were heading was narrow, and on the other corner from him there was a + wall. They were running toward Gabriel down the main road; but just as he + came up with them he flung himself with all his might toward the animals’ + heads. The startled horses half-recoiled, turned sharply and suddenly—dashed + themselves against the wall—and the carriage stood still. In a + moment a dozen men had secured them, and the danger was past. + </p> + <p> + The door was opened, and the ladies stepped out. Mrs. Simcoe was pale, but + her heart had not quailed. The faith that sustains a woman’s heart + in life does not fail when death brushes her with his finger-tips. + </p> + <p> + “Dear child!” she said to Hope, when they both knew that the + crisis was over, and her lips moved in silent prayer and thanksgiving. + </p> + <p> + Hope herself was trembling and silent. In her inmost heart she hoped it + was Abel Newt who had saved them. But in all the throng she did not see + his face. She felt a secret disappointment. + </p> + <p> + “Here is your preserver, ma’am,” said one of the + villagers, pushing Gabriel forward. Mrs. Simcoe actually smiled. She put + out her hand to him kindly; and Hope, with grave Sweetness, told him how + great was their obligation. The boy bowed and looked at her earnestly. + </p> + <p> + “Are you hurt?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! no, not at all,” replied Hope, smiling, and not without + some effort, because she fancied that Gabriel looked at her as if she + showed some sign of pain—or disappointment—or what? + </p> + <p> + “We are perfectly well, thanks to you.” + </p> + <p> + “What started the horses?” asked Gabriel. + </p> + <p> + “I’m sure I don’t know,” replied Hope. + </p> + <p> + “Abel Newt started them,” said Mrs. Simcoe. + </p> + <p> + Hope reddened and looked at her companion. “What do you mean, Aunty?” + asked she, haughtily. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Simcoe was explaining, when Abel came up out of breath and alarmed. + In a moment he saw that there had been no injury. Hope’s eyes met + his, and the color slowly died away from her cheeks. He eagerly asked how + it happened, and was confounded by hearing that he was the cause. + </p> + <p> + “How strange it is,” said he, in a low voice, to Hope, as the + people busied themselves in looking after the horses and carriage, and + Gabriel talked to Mrs. Simcoe, with whom he found conversation so much + easier than with Hope—“how strange it is that just as I was + wondering when and where and how I should see you again, I should meet you + in this way, Miss Wayne!” + </p> + <p> + Pleased, still weak and trembling, pale and flushed by turns, Hope + listened to him. + </p> + <p> + “Where <i>can</i> I see you?” he continued; “certainly + your grandfather was unkind—” + </p> + <p> + Hope shook her head slowly. Abel watched every movement—every look—every + fluctuating change of manner and color, as if he knew its most hidden + meaning. + </p> + <p> + “I can see you nowhere but at home,” she answered. + </p> + <p> + He did not reply. She stood silent. She wished he would speak. The silence + was dreadful. She could not bear it. + </p> + <p> + “I am very sorry,” said she, in a whisper, her eyes fastened + upon the ground, her hands playing with her handkerchief. + </p> + <p> + “I hope you are,” he said, quietly, with a tone of sadness, + not of reproach. There was another painful pause. + </p> + <p> + “I hope so, because I am going away,” said Abel. + </p> + <p> + “Where are you going?” + </p> + <p> + “Home.” + </p> + <p> + “When?” + </p> + <p> + “In a few weeks.” + </p> + <p> + “Where is your home?” + </p> + <p> + “In New York.” + </p> + <p> + It was very much to the point. Yet both of them wanted to say so much + more; and neither of them dared! + </p> + <p> + “Miss Hope!” whispered Abel. + </p> + <p> + Hope heard the musical whisper. She perceived the audacity of the + familiarity, but she did not wish it were otherwise. She bent her head a + little lower, as if listening more intently. + </p> + <p> + “May I see you before I go?” + </p> + <p> + Hope was silent. Dr. Livingstone relates that when the lion had struck him + with his paw, upon a certain occasion, he lay in a kind of paralysis, of + which he would have been cured in a moment more by being devoured. + </p> + <p> + “Hope,” said Mrs. Simcoe, “the horses will be brought + up. We had better walk home. Here, my dear!” + </p> + <p> + “I can only see you at home,” Hope said, in a low voice, as + she rose. + </p> + <p> + “Then we part here forever,” he replied. “I am sorry.” + </p> + <p> + Still there was no reproach; it was only a deep sadness which softened + that musical voice. + </p> + <p> + “Forever!” he repeated slowly, with low, remorseless music. + </p> + <p> + Hope Wayne trembled, but he did not see it. + </p> + <p> + “I am sorry, too,” she said, in a hurried whisper, as she + moved slowly toward Mrs. Simcoe. Abel Newt was disappointed. + </p> + <p> + “Good-by forever, Miss Wayne!” he said. He could not see Hope’s + paler face as she heard the more formal address, and knew by it that he + was offended. + </p> + <p> + “Good-by!” was all he caught as Hope Wayne took Mrs. Simcoe’s + arm and walked away. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIII. — SOCIETY. + </h2> + <p> + Tradition declares that the family of Newt has been uniformly respectable + but honest—so respectable, indeed, that Mr. Boniface Newt, the + father of Abel, a celebrated New York merchant and a Tammany Sachem, had a + crest. He had even buttons for his coachman’s coat with a stag’s + head engraved upon them. The same device was upon his sealring. It + appeared upon his carriage door. It figured on the edges of his + dinner-service. It was worked into the ground glass of the door that led + from his dining-room to the back stairs. He had his paper stamped with it; + and a great many of his neighbors, thinking it a neat and becoming + ornament, imitated him in its generous use. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Newt’s family had a crest also. She was a Magot—another + of the fine old families which came to this country at the earliest + possible period. The Magots, however, had no buttons upon their coachman’s + coat; one reason of which omission was, perhaps, that they had no + coachman. But when the ladies of the Magot family went visiting or + shopping they hired a carriage, and insisted that the driver should brush + his hat and black his boots; so that it was not every body who knew that + it was a livery equipage. + </p> + <p> + Their friends did, of course; but there were a great many people from the + country who gazed at it, in passing, with the same emotion with which they + would have contemplated a private carriage; which was highly gratifying to + the feelings of the Magots. + </p> + <p> + Their friends knew it, but friends never remark upon such things. There + was old Mrs. Beriah Dagon—dowager Mrs. Dagon, she was called—aunt + of Mr. Newt, who never said, “I see the Magots have hired a + hackney-coach from Jobbers to make calls in. They quarreled with Gudging + over his last bill. Medora Magot has turned her last year’s silk, + which is a little stained and worn; but then it does just as well.” + </p> + <p> + By-and-by her nephew Boniface married Medora’s sister, Nancy. + </p> + <p> + It was Mrs. Dagon who sat with Mrs. Newt in her parlor, and said to her, + </p> + <p> + “So your son Abel is coming home. I’m glad to hear it. I hope + he knows how to waltz, and isn’t awkward. There are some very good + matches to be made; and I like to have a young man settle early. It’s + better for his morals. Men are bad people, my dear. I think Maria + Chubleigh would do very well for Abel. She had a foolish affair with that + Colonel Orson, but it’s all over. Why on earth do girls fall in love + with officers? They never have any pay worth speaking of, and a girl must + tramp all over the land, and live I don’t know how. Pshaw! it’s + a wretched business. How’s Mr. Dinks? I saw him and Fanny waltzing + last month at the Shrimps’. Who are the Shrimps? Somebody says + something about the immense fortune Mr. Shrimp has made in the oil trade. + You should have seen Mrs. Winslow Orry peering about at the Shrimps. I + really believe she counted the spoons. What an eye that woman has, and + what a tongue! Are you really going to Saratoga? Will Boniface let you? He + is the kindest man! He is so generous that I sometimes fear somebody’ll + be taking advantage of him. Gracious me! how hot it is!” + </p> + <p> + It was warm, and Mrs. Dagon fanned herself. When she and Mrs. Newt met + there was a tremendous struggle to get the first innings of the + conversation, and neither surrendered the ground until fairly forced off + by breathlessness and exhaustion. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, we shall go to Saratoga,” began Mrs. Newt; “and I + want Abel to come, so as to take him. There’ll be a very pleasant + season. What a pity you can’t go! However, people must regard their + time of life, and take care of their health. There’s old Mrs. + Octoyne says she shall never give up. She hopes to bring out her + great-grand-daughter next winter, and says she has no life but in society. + I suppose you know Herbert Octoyne is engaged to one of the Shrimps. They + keep their carriage, and the girls dress very prettily. Herbert tells the + young men that the Shrimps are a fine old family, which has been long out + of society, having no daughters to marry; so they have not been obliged to + appear. But I don’t know about visiting them. However, I suppose we + shall. Herbert Octoyne will give ‘em family, if they really haven’t + it; and the Octoynes won’t be sorry for her money. What a pretty + shawl! Did you hear that Mellish Whitloe has given Laura a diamond pin + which cost five hundred dollars? Extravagant fellow! Yet I like to have + young men do these things handsomely. I do think it’s such a pity + about Laura’s nose—” + </p> + <p> + “She can smell with it, I suppose, mother; and what else do you want + of a nose?” + </p> + <p> + It was Miss Fanny Newt who spoke, and who had entered the room during the + conversation. She was a tall young woman of about twenty, with firm, dark + eyes, and abundant dark hair, and that kind of composure of manner which + is called repose in drawing-rooms and boldness in bar-rooms. + </p> + <p> + “Gracious, Fanny, how you do disturb one! I didn’t know you + were there. Don’t be ridiculous. Of course she can smell with it. + But that isn’t all you want of a nose.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose you want it to turn up at some people,” replied + Miss Fanny, smoothing her dress, and looking in the glass. “Well, + Aunt Dagon, who’ve you been lunching on?” + </p> + <p> + Aunt Dagon looked a little appalled. + </p> + <p> + “My dear, what do you mean?” she said, fanning herself + violently. “I hope I never say any thing that isn’t true about + people. I’m sure I should be very sorry to hurt any body’s + feelings. There’s Mrs. Kite—you know, Joseph Kite’s + wife, the man they said really did cheat his creditors, only none of + ‘em would swear to it; well, Kitty Kite, my dear, does do and say + the most abominable things about people. At the Shrimps’ ball, when + you were waltzing with Mr. Dinks, I heard her say to Mrs. Orry, ‘Do + look at Fanny Newt hug that man!’ It was dreadful to hear her say + such things, my dear; and then to see the whole room stare at you! It was + cruel—it was really unfeeling.” + </p> + <p> + Fanny did not wince. She merely said, + </p> + <p> + “How old is Mrs. Kite, Aunt Dagon?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, let me see; she’s about my age, I suppose.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! well, Aunt, people at her time of life can’t see or hear + much, you know. They ought to be in their beds with hot bottles at their + feet, and not obtrude themselves among people who are young enough to + enjoy life with all their senses,” replied Miss Fanny, carelessly + arranging a stray lock of hair. + </p> + <p> + “Indeed, Miss, you would like to shove all the married people into + the wall, or into their graves,” retorted Mrs. Dagon, warmly. + </p> + <p> + “Oh no, dear Aunt, only into their beds—and that not until + they are superannuated, which, you know, old people never find out for + themselves,” answered Fanny, smiling sweetly and calmly upon Mrs. + Dagon. + </p> + <p> + “What a country it is, Aunt!” said Mrs. Newt, looking at Fanny + with a kind of admiration. “How the young people take every thing + into their own hands! Dear me! dear me! how they do rule us!” + </p> + <p> + Miss Newt made no observation, but took up a gayly-bound book from the + table and looked carelessly into it. Mrs. Dagon rose to go. She had + somewhat recovered her composure. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t think I believed it, dear,” said she to Fanny, in + whom, perhaps, she recognized some of the family character. “No, no—not + at all! I said to every body in the room that I didn’t believe what + Mrs. Kite said, that you were hugging Mr. Dinks in the waltz. I believe I + spoke to every body I knew, and they all said they didn’t believe it + either.” + </p> + <p> + “How kind it was of you, dear Aunt Dagon!” said Fanny, as she + rose to salute her departing relative, “and how generous people were + not to believe it! But I couldn’t persuade them that that beautiful + lace-edging on your dress was real Mechlin, although I tried very hard. + They said it was natural in me to insist upon it, because I was your + grand-niece; and it was no matter at all, because old ladies could do just + as they pleased; but for all that it was not Mechlin. I must have told as + many as thirty people that they were wrong. But people’s eyes are so + sharp—it’s really dreadful. Good-morning, darling Aunt Dagon!” + </p> + <p> + “Fanny dear,” said her mother, as the door closed upon Mrs. + Dagon, who departed speechless and in what may be called a simmering state + of mind, “Abel will be here in a day or two. I really hope to hear + something about this Miss Wayne. Do you suppose Alfred Dinks is actually + engaged to her?” + </p> + <p> + “How should I know, mother?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, my dear, you have been so intimate with him.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear mother, how <i>can</i> any body be intimate with Alfred + Dinks? You might as well talk of breathing in a vacuum.” + </p> + <p> + “But, Fanny, he is a very good sort of young man—so + respectable, and with such good manners, and he has a very pretty fortune—” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Newt was interrupted by the servant, who announced Mr. Wetherley. + </p> + <p> + Poor Mr. Zephyr Wetherley! He was one of the rank and file of society—one + of the privates, so to speak, who are mentioned in a mass after a ball, as + common soldiers are mentioned after a battle. He entered the room and + bowed. Mrs. Newt seeing that it was one of her daughter’s visitors, + left the room. Miss Fanny sat looking at the young man with her black eyes + so calmly that she seemed to him to be sitting a great way off in a cool + darkness. Miss Fanny was not fond of Mr. Wetherley, although she had seen + plainly enough the indications of his feeling for her. This morning he was + well gloved and booted. His costume was unexceptionable. Society of that + day boasted few better-dressed men than Zephyr Wetherley. His judgment in + a case of cravat was unerring. He had been in Europe, and was quoted when + waistcoats were in debate. He had been very attentive to Mr. Alfred Dinks + and Mr. Bowdoin Beacon, the two Boston youths who had been charming + society during the season that was now over. He was even a little jealous + of Mr. Dinks. + </p> + <p> + After Mrs. Newt had left the room Mr. Wetherley fell into confusion. He + immediately embarked, of course, upon the weather; while Fanny, taking up + a book, looked casually into it with a slight air of <i>ennui</i>. + </p> + <p> + “Have you read this?” said she to Mr. Wetherley. + </p> + <p> + “No, I suppose not; eh! what is it?” replied Zephyr, who was + not a reading man. + </p> + <p> + “It is John Meal’s ‘Rachel Dyer.’” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, indeed! No, indeed. I have not read it!” + </p> + <p> + “What have you read, Mr. Wetherley?” inquired Fanny, glancing + through the book which she held in her hand. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, indeed!—” he began. Then he seemed to undergo some + internal spasm. He dropped his hat, slid his chair to the side of Fanny’s, + and said, “Ah, Miss Newt, how can you ask me at such a moment?” + </p> + <p> + Miss Fanny looked at him with a perfectly unruffled face. + </p> + <p> + “Why not at this moment, Mr. Wetherley?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, Miss Newt, how can you when you know my feelings? Did you not + carry my bouquet at the theatre last evening? Have you not long authorized + me by your treatment to declare—” + </p> + <p> + “Stop, Mr. Wetherley,” said Fanny, calmly. “The day is + warm—let us be cool. Don’t say any thing which you will regret + to remember. Don’t mistake any thing that I have done as an + indication of—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Miss Newt,” interrupted Zephyr, “how can you say + such things? Hear me but one word. I assure you that I most deeply, + tenderly, truly—” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Wetherley,” said Fanny, putting down the book and + speaking very firmly, “I really can not sit still and hear you + proceed. You are laboring under a great misapprehension. You must be aware + that I have never in the slightest way given you occasion to believe that + I—” + </p> + <p> + “I must speak!” burst in the impetuous Zephyr. “My + feelings forbid silence! Great Heavens! Miss Newt, you really have no idea—I + am sure you have no idea—you can not have any idea of the ardor with + which for a long, long time I have—” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Wetherley,” said Fanny Newt, darker and cooler than ever, + “it is useless to prolong this conversation. I can not consent to + hear you declare that—” + </p> + <p> + “But you haven’t heard me declare it,” replied Zephyr, + vehemently. “It’s the very thing I am trying to do, and you + won’t let me. You keep cutting me off just as I am saying how I—” + </p> + <p> + “You need go no further, Sir,” said Miss Newt, coldly, rising + and standing by the table; while Zephyr Wetherley, red and hot and + confused, crushed his handkerchief into a ball, and swept his hand through + his hair, wagging his foot, and rubbing his fingers together. “I + understand, Sir, what you wish to say, and I desire to tell you only—” + </p> + <p> + “Just what I don’t want to hear! Oh dear me! Please, please, + Miss Newt!” entreated Zephyr Wetherley. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Wetherley,” interrupted the other, imperiously, “you + wish to ask me to marry you. I desire to spare you the pain of my answer + to that question by preventing your asking it.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Wetherley was confounded. He wrinkled his brows doubtfully a moment—he + stared at the floor and at Miss Newt—he looked foolish and + mortified. “But—but—but—” stammered he. + “Well—but—why—but—haven’t you somehow + answered the question?” inquired he, with gleams of doubtful + intelligence shooting across his face. + </p> + <p> + Fanny Newt smiled icily. + </p> + <p> + “As you please,” said she. + </p> + <p> + Poor Zephyr was bewildered. + </p> + <p> + “It is very confusing, somehow, Miss Newt, isn’t it?” + said he, wiping his face. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Mr. Wetherley; one should always look before he leaps.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes; oh, indeed, yes. A man had better look out, or—” + </p> + <p> + “Or he’ll catch a Tartar!” said a clear, strange voice. + </p> + <p> + Fanny Newt and Wetherley turned simultaneously toward the speaker. It was + a young man, with clustering black hair and sparkling eyes, in a traveling + dress. He stood in the back room, which he had entered through the + conservatory. + </p> + <p> + “Abel!” said his sister, running toward him, and pulling him + forward. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Wetherley, this is my brother, Mr. Abel Newt.” + </p> + <p> + The young men bowed. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, indeed!” said Zephyr. “How’d he come here + listening?” + </p> + <p> + “Chance, chance, Mr. Wetherley. I have just returned from school. + Pretty tough old school-boy, hey? Well, it’s all the grandpa’s + doing. Grandpas are extraordinary beings, Mr. Wetherley. Now there was—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, indeed! Really, I must go. Good-morning, Miss Newt. + Good-morning, Sir.” And Mr. Zephyr Wetherley departed. + </p> + <p> + The brother and sister laughed. + </p> + <p> + “Sensible fellow,” said Abel; “he flies the grandpas.” + </p> + <p> + “How did you come here, you wretch!” asked Fanny, “listening + to my secrets?” + </p> + <p> + “My dear, I arrived this morning, only half an hour ago. I let + myself in by my pass-key, and, hearing voices in the parlor, I went round + by the conservatory to spy out the land. Then and there I beheld this + spectacle. Fanny, you’re wonderful.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Newt made a demure courtesy. + </p> + <p> + “So you’ve really come home for good? Well, Abel, I’m + glad. Now you’re here I shall have a man of my own to attend me next + winter. And there’s to be the handsome Boston bride here, you know, + next season.” + </p> + <p> + “Who is she?” said Abel, laughing, sinking into a chair. + “Mother wrote me you said that all Boston girls are dowdy. Who is + the dowdy of next winter?” + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Alfred Dinks,” replied Fanny, carelessly, but looking + with her keenest glance at Abel. + </p> + <p> + He, sprang up and began to say something; but his sister’s eye + arrested him. + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes,” said he, hurriedly—“Dinks, I’ve + heard about Alfred Dinks. What a devil of a name!” + </p> + <p> + “Come, dear, you’d better go up stairs and see mamma,” + said Fanny; “and I’m so sorry you missed Aunt Dagon. She was + here this morning, lovely as ever. But I think the velvet is wearing off + her claws.” + </p> + <p> + Fanny Newt laughed a cold little laugh. Abel went out of the room. + </p> + <p> + “Master Abel, then, does know Miss Hope Wayne,” said she to + herself. “He more than knows her—he loves her—or thinks + he does. Wouldn’t he have known if she had been engaged to her + cousin?” + </p> + <p> + She pondered a little while. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t believe,” thought Miss Fanny, “that she + is engaged to him.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Fanny was pleased with that thought, because she meant to be engaged + to him herself, if it proved to be true, as every body declared, that he + had ten or fifteen thousand a year. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIV. — A NEW YORK MERCHANT. + </h2> + <p> + Mr. Lawrence Newt, the brother of Boniface, sat in his office. It was upon + South Street, and the windows looked out upon the shipping in the East + River—upon the ferry-boats incessantly crossing—upon the lofty + city of Brooklyn opposite, with its spires. He heard the sailors sing—the + oaths of the stevedores—the bustle of the carts, and the hum and + scuffle of the passers-by. As he sat at his table he saw the ships haul + into the stream—the little steamers that puffed alongside bringing + the passengers; then, if the wind were not fair, pulling and shoving the + huge hulks into a space large enough for them to manage themselves in. + </p> + <p> + Sometimes he watched the parting of passengers at the wharf when the wind + was fair, and the ship could sail from her berth. The vast sails were + slowly unfurled, were shaken out, hung for a few moments, then shook + lazily, then filled round and full with the gentle, steady wind. Mr. + Lawrence Newt laughed as he watched, for he thought of fine ladies taking + their hair out of curl-papers, and patting and smoothing and rolling it + upon little sticks and over little fingers until the curls stood round and + full, and ready for action. + </p> + <p> + Then the ship moved slowly, almost imperceptibly, from the wharf—so + slowly, so imperceptibly, that the people on board thought the city was + sliding away from them. The merchant saw the solid, trim, beautiful vessel + turn her bow southward and outward, and glide gently down the river. Her + hull was soon lost to his eyes, but he could see the streamer fluttering + at the mast-head over the masts of the other vessels. While he looked it + vanished—the ship was gone. + </p> + <p> + Often enough Mr. Lawrence Newt stood leaning his head against the + window-frame of his office after the ship had disappeared, and seemed to + be looking at the ferry-boats or at the lofty city of Brooklyn. But he saw + neither. Faster than ship ever sailed, or wind blew, or light flashed, the + thought of Lawrence Newt darted, and the merchant, seemingly leaning + against his office-window in South Street, was really sitting under + palm-trees, or dandling in a palanquin, or chatting in a strange tongue, + or gazing in awe upon snowier summits than the villagers of Chamouni have + ever seen. + </p> + <p> + And what was that dark little hand he seemed to himself to press?—and + what were those eyes, soft depths of exquisite darkness, into which + through his own eyes his soul seemed to be sinking? + </p> + <p> + There were clerks busily writing in the outer office. It was dark in that + office when Mr. Newt first occupied the rooms, and Thomas Tray, the + book-keeper, who had the lightest place, said that the eyes of Venables, + the youngest clerk, were giving out. Young Venables, a lad of sixteen, + supported a mother and sister and infirm father upon his five hundred + dollars a year. + </p> + <p> + “Eyes giving out in my service, Thomas Tray! I am ashamed of myself.” + </p> + <p> + And Lawrence Newt hired the adjoining office, knocked down all the walls, + and introduced so much daylight that it shone not only into the eyes of + young Venables, but into those of his mother and sister and infirm father. + </p> + <p> + It was scratch, scratch, scratch, all day long in the clerks’ + office. Messengers were coming and going. Samples were brought in. Draymen + came for orders. Apple-women and pie-men dropped in about noon, and there + were plenty of cheap apples and cheap jokes when the peddlers were young + and pretty. Customers came and brother merchants, who went into Mr. + Lawrence Newt’s room. They talked China news, and South American + news, and Mediterranean news. Their conversation was full of the names of + places of which poems and histories have been written. The merchants joked + complacent jokes. They gossiped a little when business had been discussed. + So young Whitloe was really to marry Magot’s daughter, and the + Doolittle money would go to the Magots after all! And old Jacob Van + Boozenberg had actually left off knee-breeches and white cravats, and none + of his directors knew him when he came into the Bank in modern costume. + And there was no doubt that Mrs. Dagon wore cotton lace at the Orrys’, + for Winslow’s wife said she saw it with her own eyes. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Lawrence Newt’s talk ceased with that about business. When the + scandal set in, his mind seemed to set out. He stirred the fire if it were + winter. He stepped into the outer office. He had a word for Venables. Had + Miss Venables seen the new novel by Mr. Bulwer? It is called “Pelham,” + and will be amusing to read aloud in the family. Will Mr. Venables call at + Carville’s on his way up, have the book charged to Mr. Lawrence + Newt, and present it, with Mr. Newt’s compliments, to his sister? If + it were summer he opened the window, when it happened to be closed, and + stood by it, or drew his chair to it and looked at the ships and the + streets, and listened to the sailors swearing when he might have heard + merchants, worth two or three hundred thousand dollars apiece, talking + about Mrs. Dagon’s cotton lace. + </p> + <p> + One day he sat at his table writing letters. He was alone in the inner + room; but the sun that morning did not see a row of pleasanter faces than + were bending over large books in odoriferous red Russia binding, and + little books in leather covers, and invoices and sheets of letter paper, + in the outer office of Lawrence Newt. + </p> + <p> + A lad entered the office and stood at the door, impressed by the silent + activity he beheld. He did not speak; the younger clerks looked up a + moment, then went on with their work. It was clearly packet-day. + </p> + <p> + The lad remained silent for so long a time, as if his profound respect for + the industry he saw before him would not allow him to speak, that Thomas + Tray looked up at last, and said, + </p> + <p> + “Well, Sir?” + </p> + <p> + “May I see Mr. Newt, Sir?” + </p> + <p> + “In the other room,” said Mr. Tray, with his goose-quill in + his mouth, nodding his head toward the inner office, and turning over with + both hands a solid mass of leaves in his great, odoriferous red Russia + book, and letting them gently down—proud of being the author of that + clearly-written, massive work, containing an accurate biography of + Lawrence Newt’s business. + </p> + <p> + The youth tapped at the glass door. Mr. Newt said, “Come in,” + and, when the door opened, looked up, and still holding his pen with the + ink in it poised above the paper, he said, kindly, “Well, Sir? Be + short. It’s packet-day.” + </p> + <p> + “I want a place, Sir.” + </p> + <p> + “What kind of a place?” + </p> + <p> + “In a store, Sir.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m sorry I’m all full. But sit down while I finish + these letters; then we’ll talk about it.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XV. — A SCHOOL-BOY NO LONGER. + </h2> + <p> + The lad seated himself by the window. Scratch—scratch—scratch. + The sun sparkled in the river. The sails, after yesterday’s rain, + were loosened to dry, and were white as if it had rained milk upon them + instead of water. Every thing looked cheerful and bright from Lawrence + Newt’s window. The lad saw with delight how much sunshine there was + in the office. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t believe it would hurt my health to work here,” + thought he. Mr. Lawrence Newt rang a little bell. Venables entered + quietly. + </p> + <p> + “Most ready out there?” asked Mr. Newt. + </p> + <p> + “Most ready, Sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Brisk’s the word this morning, you know. Please to copy these + letters.” + </p> + <p> + Venables said nothing, took the letters, and went out. + </p> + <p> + “Now, young man,” said the merchant, “tell me what you + want.” + </p> + <p> + The lad’s heart turned toward him like a fallow-field to the May + sun. + </p> + <p> + “My father’s been unfortunate, Sir, and I want to do something + for myself. He advised me to come to you.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Because he said you would give me good advice if you couldn’t + give me employment.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, Sir, you seem a strong, likely lad. Have you ever been in a + store?” + </p> + <p> + “No, Sir. I left school last week.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Newt looked out of the window. + </p> + <p> + “Your father’s been unfortunate?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Sir.” + </p> + <p> + “How’s that? Has he told a lie, or lost his eyes, or his + health, or has his daughter married a drunkard?” asked Mr. Lawrence + Newt, looking at the lad with a kindly humor in his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Oh no, Sir,” replied the boy, surprised. “He’s + lost his money.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh ho! his money! And it is the loss of money which you call + 'unfortunate.’ Now, my boy, think a moment. Is there any thing + belonging to your father which he could so well spare? Has he any + superfluous boy or girl? any useless arm or leg? any unnecessary good + temper or honesty? any taste for books, or pictures, or the country, that + he would part with? Is there any thing which he owns that it would not be + a greater misfortune to him to lose than his money? Honor bright, my boy. + If you think there is, say so!” + </p> + <p> + The youth smiled. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Sir, I suppose worse things could happen to us than poverty,” + said he. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Lawrence Newt interrupted him by remarks which were belied by his + beaming face. + </p> + <p> + “Worse things than poverty! Why, my boy, what are you thinking of? + Do you not know that it is written in the largest efforts upon the hearts + of all Americans, ‘Resist poverty, and it will flee from you?’ + If you do not begin by considering poverty the root of all evil, where on + earth do you expect to end? Cease to be poor, learn to be rich. I’m + afraid you don’t read the good book. So your father has health”—the + boy nodded—“and a whole body, a good temper, an affectionate + family, generous and refined tastes, pleasant relations with others, a + warm heart, a clear conscience”—the boy nodded with an + increasing enthusiasm of assent—“and yet you call him + unfortunate—ruined! Why, look here, my son; there’s an old + apple-woman at the corner of Burling Slip, where I stop every day and buy + apples; she’s sixty years old, and through thick and thin, under a + dripping wreck of an umbrella when it rains, under the sky when it shines—warming + herself by a foot-stove in winter, by the sun in summer—there the + old creature sits. She has an old, sick, querulous husband at home, who + tries to beat her. Her daughters are all out at service—let us hope, + in kind families—her sons are dull, ignorant men; her home is + solitary and forlorn; she can not read much, nor does she want to; she is + coughing her life away, and succeeds in selling apples enough to pay her + rent and buy food for her old man and herself. She told me yesterday that + she was a most fortunate woman. What does the word mean? I give it up.” + </p> + <p> + The lad looked around the spacious office, on every table and desk and + chair of which was written Prosperity as plainly as the name of Lawrence + Newt upon the little tin sign by the door. Except for the singular + magnetism of the merchant’s presence, which dissipated such a + suggestion as rapidly as it rose, the youth would have said aloud what was + in his heart. + </p> + <p> + “How easy ‘tis for a rich man to smile at poverty!” + </p> + <p> + The man watched the boy, and knew exactly what he was thinking. As the + eyes of the younger involuntarily glanced about the office and presently + returned to the merchant, they found the merchant’s gazing so keenly + that they seemed to be mere windows through which his soul was looking. + But the keen earnestness melted imperceptibly into the usual sweetness as + Lawrence Newt said, + </p> + <p> + “You think I can talk prettily about misfortune because I know + nothing about it. You make a great mistake. No man, even in jest, can talk + well of what he doesn’t understand. So don’t misunderstand me. + I am rich, but I am not fortunate.” + </p> + <p> + He said it in the same tone as before. + </p> + <p> + “If you wanted a rose and got only a butter-cup, should you think + yourself fortunate?” asked Mr. Newt. + </p> + <p> + “Why, yes, Sir. A man can’t expect to have every thing + precisely as he wants it,” replied the boy. + </p> + <p> + “My young friend, you are of opinion that a half loaf is better than + no bread. True—so am I. But never make the mistake of supposing a + half to be the whole. Content is a good thing. When the man sent for cake, + and said, ‘John, if you can’t get cake, get smelts,’ he + did wisely. But smelts are not cake for all that. What’s your name?” + asked Mr. Newt, abruptly. + </p> + <p> + “Gabriel Bennet,” replied the boy. + </p> + <p> + “Bennet—Bennet—what Bennet?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know, Sir.” + </p> + <p> + Lawrence Newt was apparently satisfied with this answer. He only said: + </p> + <p> + “Well, my son, you do wisely to say at once you don’t know, + instead of going back to somebody a few centuries ago, of whose father you + have to make the same answer. The Newts, however, you must be aware, are a + very old family.” The merchant smiled. “They came into England + with the Normans; but who they came into Normandy with I don’t know. + Do you?” + </p> + <p> + Gabriel laughed, with a pleasant feeling of confidence in his companion. + </p> + <p> + “Have you been at school in the city?” asked the merchant. + </p> + <p> + Gabriel told him that he had been at Mr. Gray’s. + </p> + <p> + “Oh ho! then you know my nephew Abel?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Sir,” replied Gabriel, coloring. + </p> + <p> + “Abel is a smart boy,” said Mr. Newt. + </p> + <p> + Gabriel made no reply. + </p> + <p> + “Do you like Abel?” + </p> + <p> + Gabriel paused a moment; then said, + </p> + <p> + “No, Sir.” + </p> + <p> + The merchant looked at the boy for a few moments. + </p> + <p> + “Who did you like at school?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I liked Jim Greenidge and Little Malacca best,”, replied + Gabriel, as if the whole world must be familiar with those names. + </p> + <p> + At the mention of the latter Lawrence Newt looked interested, and, after + talking a little more, said, + </p> + <p> + “Gabriel, I take you into my office.” + </p> + <p> + He called Mr. Tray. + </p> + <p> + “Thomas Tray, this is the youngest clerk, Gabriel Bennet. Gabriel, + this is the head of the outer office, Mr. Thomas Tray. Thomas, ask + Venables to step this way.” + </p> + <p> + That young man appeared immediately. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Venables, you are promoted. You have seven hundred dollars a + year, and are no longer youngest clerk. Gabriel Bennet, this is Frank + Venables. Be friends. Now go to work.” + </p> + <p> + There was a general bowing, and Thomas Tray and the two young men retired. + </p> + <p> + As they went out Mr. Newt opened a letter which had been brought in from + the Post during the interview. + </p> + <p> + “DEAR SIR,—I trust you will pardon this intrusion. It is a + long time since I have had the honor of writing to you; but I thought you + would wish to know that Miss Wayne will be in New York, for the first + time, within a day or two after you receive this letter. She is with her + aunt, Mrs. Dinks, who will stay at Bunker’s. + </p> + <p> + “Respectfully yours, + </p> + <h3> + “JANE SIMCOE.” + </h3> + <p> + Lawrence Newt’s head drooped as he sat. Presently he arose and + walked up and down the office. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile Gabriel was installed. That ceremony consisted of offering him a + high stool with a leathern seat. Mr. Tray remarked that he should have a + drawer in the high desk, on both sides of which the clerks were seated. + The installation was completed by Mr. Tray’s formally introducing + the new-comer to the older clerks. + </p> + <p> + The scratching began again. Gabriel looked curiously upon the work in + which he was now to share. The young men had no words for him. Mr. Newt + was engaged within. The boy had a vague feeling that he must shift for + himself—that every body was busy—that play in this life had + ended and work begun. The thought tasted to him much more like smelts than + cake. And while he was wisely left by Thomas Tray to familiarize himself + with the entire novelty of the situation his mind flashed back to + Delafield with an aching longing, and the boy would willingly have put his + face in his hands and wept. But he sat quietly looking at his companions—until + Mr. Tray said, + </p> + <p> + “Gabriel, I want you to copy this invoice.” + </p> + <p> + And Gabriel was a school-boy no longer. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVI. — PHILOSOPHY. + </h2> + <p> + Abel Newt believed in his lucky star. He had managed Uncle Savory—couldn’t + he manage the world? + </p> + <p> + “My son,” said Mr. Boniface Newt, “you are now about to + begin the world.” (Begin? thought Abel.) “You are now coming + into my house as a merchant. In this world we must do the best we can. It + is a great pity that men are not considerate, and all that. But they are + not. They are selfish. You must take them as you find them. <i>You</i>, my + son, think they are all honest and good.”—Do I? quoth son, in + his soul.—“It is the bitter task of experience to undeceive + youth from its romantic dreams. As a rule, Abel, men are rascals; that is + to say, they pursue their own interests. How sad! True; how sad! Where was + I? Oh! men are scamps—with some exceptions; but you must go by the + rule. Life is a scrub-race—melancholy, Abel, but true. I talk + plainly to you, but I do it for your good. If we were all angels, things + would be different. If this were the Millennium, every thing would + doubtless be agreeable to every body. But it is not—how very sad! + True, how very sad! Where was I? Oh! it’s all devil take the + hindmost. And because your neighbors are dishonest, why should you starve? + You see, Abel?” + </p> + <p> + It was in Mr. Boniface Newt’s counting-room that he preached this + gospel. A boy entered and announced that Mr. Hadley was outside looking at + some cases of dry goods. + </p> + <p> + “Now, Abel,” said his father, “I’ll return in a + moment.” + </p> + <p> + He stepped out, smiling and rubbing his hands. Mr. Hadley was stooping + over a case of calicoes; Blackstone, Hadley, & Merrimack—no + safer purchasers in the world. The countenance of Boniface Newt beamed + upon the customer as if he saw good notes at six months exuding from every + part of his person. + </p> + <p> + “Good-morning, Mr. Hadley. Charming morning, Sir—beautiful + day, Sir. What’s the word this morning, Sir?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing, nothing,” returned the customer. “Pretty print + that. Just what I’ve been looking for” (renewed rubbing of + hands on the part of Mr. Newt)—“very pretty. If it’s the + right width, it’s just the thing. Let me see—that’s + about seven-eighths.” He shook his head negatively. “No, not + wide enough. If that print were a yard wide, I should take all you have.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, that’s a yard,” replied Mr. Newt; “certainly + a full yard.” He looked around inquiringly, as if for a yard-stick. + </p> + <p> + “Where is the yard-stick?” asked Mr. Hadley. + </p> + <p> + “Timothy!” said Mr. Newt to the boy, with a peculiar look. + </p> + <p> + The boy disappeared and reappeared with a yard-stick, while Mr. Newt’s + face underwent a series of expressions of subdued anger and disgust. + </p> + <p> + “Now, then,” said Mr. Hadley, laying the yard-stick upon the + calicoes; “yes, as I thought, seven-eighths; too narrow—sorry.” + </p> + <p> + There were thirty cases of those goods in the loft. Boniface Newt groaned + in soul. The unconscious small boy, who had not understood the peculiar + look, and had brought the yard-stick, stood by. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Newt,” said Hadley, stopping at another case, “that + is very handsome.” + </p> + <p> + “Very, very; and that is the last case.” + </p> + <p> + “You have no other cases?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! well, send it round at once; for I am sure—” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Newt,” said the unconscious boy, smiling with the + satisfaction of one who is able to correct an error, “you are + mistaken, Sir. There are a dozen more cases just like that up stairs.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! then I don’t care about it,” said Mr. Hadley, + passing on. The head of the large commission-house of Boniface Newt & + Co. looked upon the point of apoplexy. + </p> + <p> + “Good-morning, Mr. Newt; sorry that I see nothing farther,” + said Mr. Hadley, and he went out. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Newt turned fiercely to the unconscious boy. + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean, Sir, by saying and doing such things?” + asked he, sharply. + </p> + <p> + “What things, Sir?” demanded the appalled boy. + </p> + <p> + “Why, getting the yard-stick when I winked to you not to find it, + and telling of other cases when I said that one was the last.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, Sir, because it wasn’t the last,” said the boy. + </p> + <p> + “For business purposes it <i>was</i> the last, Sir,” replied + Mr. Newt. “You don’t know the first principles of business. + The tongue is always the mischief-maker. Hold your tongue, Sir, hold your + tongue, or you’ll lose your place, Sir.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Boniface Newt, ruffled and red, went into his office, where he found + Abel reading the newspaper and smoking a cigar. The clerks outside were + pale at the audacity, of Newt, Jun. The young man was dressed extremely + well. He had improved the few weeks of his residence in the city by visits + to Frost the tailor, in Maiden Lane; and had sent his measure to Forr, the + bootmaker in Paris, artists who turned out the prettiest figures that + decorated the Broadway of those days. Mr. Abel Newt, to his father’s + eyes, had the air of a man of superb leisure; and as he sat reading the + paper, with one leg thrown over the arm of the office-chair, and the smoke + languidly curling from his lips, Mr. Boniface Newt felt profoundly, but + vaguely, uncomfortable, as if he had some slight prescience of a future of + indolence for the hope of the house of Newt. + </p> + <p> + As his father entered, Mr. Abel dropped by his side the hand still holding + the newspaper, and, without removing the cigar, said, through the cloud of + smoke he blew, + </p> + <p> + “Father, you were imparting your philosophy of life.” + </p> + <p> + The older gentleman, somewhat discomposed, answered, + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I was saying what a pity it is that men are such d——d + rascals, because they force every body else to be so too. But what can you + do? It’s all very fine to talk, but we’ve got to live. I sha’n’t + be such an ass as to run into the street and say, ‘I gave ten cents + a yard for those goods, but you must pay me twenty.’ Not at all. It’s + other men’s business to find that out if they can. It’s a + great game, business is, and the smartest chap wins. Every body knows we + are going to get the largest price we can. People are gouging, and + shinning, and sucking all round. It’s give and take. I am not here + to look out for other men, I’m here to take care of myself—for + nobody else will. It’s very sad, I know; it’s very sad, + indeed. It’s absolutely melancholy. Ah, yes! where was I? Oh! I was + saying that a lie well stuck to is better than the truth wavering. It’s + perfectly dreadful, my son, from some points of view—Christianity, + for instance. But what on earth are you going to do? The only happy people + are the rich people, for they don’t have this eternal bother how to + make money. Don’t misunderstand me, my son; I do not say that you + must always tell stories. Heaven forbid! But a man is not bound always to + tell the whole truth. The very law itself says that no man need give + evidence against himself. Besides, business is no worse than every other + calling. Do you suppose a lawyer never defends a man whom he knows to be + guilty? He says he does it to give the culprit a fair trial. + Fiddle-de-dee! He strains every nerve to get the man off. A lawyer is + hired to take the side of a company or a corporation in every quarrel. He’s + paid by the year or by the case. He probably stops to consider whether his + company is right, doesn’t he? he works for justice, not for victory? + Oh, yes! stuff! He works for fees. What’s the meaning of a retainer? + That if, upon examination, the lawyer finds the retaining party to be in + the right, he will undertake the case? Fiddle! no! but that he will + undertake the case any how and fight it through. So ‘tis all round. + I wish I was rich, and I’d be out of it.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Boniface Newt discoursed warmly; Mr. Abel Newt listened with extreme + coolness. He whiffed his cigar, and leaned his head on one side as he + hearkened to the wisdom of experience; observing that his father put his + practice into words and called it philosophy. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVII. — OF GIRLS AND FLOWERS. + </h2> + <p> + Mr. Abel Newt was not a philosopher; he was a man of action. + </p> + <p> + He told his mother that he could not accompany her to the Springs, because + he must prepare himself to enter the counting-room of his father. But the + evening before she left, Mrs. Newt gave a little party for Mrs. Plumer, of + New Orleans. So Miss Grace, of whom his mother had written Abel, and who + was just about leaving school, left school and entered society, + simultaneously, by taking leave of Madame de Feuille and making her + courtesy at Mrs. Boniface Newt’s. + </p> + <p> + Madame de Feuille’s was a “finishing” school. An extreme + polish was given to young ladies by Madame de Feuille. By her generous + system they were fitted to be wives of men of even the largest fortune. + There was not one of her pupils who would not have been equal to the + addresses of a millionaire. It is the profound conviction of all who were + familiar with that seminary that the pupils would not have shrunk from + marrying a crown-prince, or any king in any country who confined himself + to Christian wedlock with one wife, or even the son of an English duke—so + perfect was the polish, so liberal the education. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Newt’s party was select. Mrs. Plumer, Miss Grace Plumer and the + Magots, with Mellish Whitloe, of course; and Mrs. Osborne Moultrie, a + lovely woman from Georgia, and her son Sligo, a slim, graceful gentleman, + with fair hair and eyes; Dr. and Mrs. Lush, Rev. Dr. and Mrs. Maundy, who + came only upon the express understanding that there was to be no dancing, + and a few other agreeable people. It was a Summer party, Abel said—mere + low-necked muslin, strawberries and ice-cream. + </p> + <p> + The eyes of the strangers of the gentler sex soon discovered the dark, + rich face of Abel, who moved among the groups with the grace and ease of + an accomplished man of society, smiling brightly upon his friends, bowing + gravely to those of his mother’s guests whom he did not personally + know. + </p> + <p> + “Who is that?” asked Mrs. Whetwood Tully, who had recently + returned with her daughter, one of Madame de Feuille’s finest + successes, from a foreign tour. + </p> + <p> + “That is my brother Abel,” replied Miss Fanny. + </p> + <p> + “Your brother Abel? how charming! How very like he is to Viscount + Tattersalls. You’ve not been in England, I believe, Miss Newt?” + </p> + <p> + Fanny bowed negatively. + </p> + <p> + “Ah! then you have never seen Lord Tattersalls. He is a very + superior young man. We were very intimate with him indeed. Dolly, dear!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, ma.” + </p> + <p> + “You remember our particular friend Lord Viscount Tattersalls?” + </p> + <p> + “Was he a bishop?” asked Miss Fanny Newt. + </p> + <p> + “Law! no, my dear. He was a—he was a—why, he was a + Viscount, you know—a Viscount.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! a Viscount?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, a Viscount.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! a Viscount.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, Dolly dear, do you see how much Mr. Abel Newt resembles Lord + Tattersalls?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, ma.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s very striking, isn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, ma.” + </p> + <p> + “Or now I look, I think he is even more like the Marquis of + Crockford. Don’t you think so?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, ma?” + </p> + <p> + “Very like indeed.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, ma.” + </p> + <p> + “Dolly, dear, don’t you think his nose is like the Duke of + Wellington’s? You remember the Wellington nose, my child?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, ma.” + </p> + <p> + “Or is it Lord Brougham’s that I mean?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, ma.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, dear.” + </p> + <p> + “May I present my brother Abel, Miss Tally?” asked Fanny Newt. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I’m sure,” said Miss Tully. + </p> + <p> + Fanny Newt turned just as a song began in the other room, out of which + opened the conservatory. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“Last May a braw wooer cam down the lang glen, + And sair wi’ his love he did deave me: +I said there was naething I hated like men— + The deuce gae wi’m to believe’me, believe me, + The deuce gae wi’m to believe me.” + </pre> + <p> + The rooms were hushed as the merry song rang out. The voice of the singer + was arch, and her eye flashed slyly on Abel Newt as she finished, and a + murmur of pleasure rose around her. + </p> + <p> + Abel leaned upon the piano, with his eyes fixed upon the singer. He was + fully conscious of the surprise he had betrayed to sister Fanny when she + spoke suddenly of Mrs. Alfred Dinks. It was necessary to remove any + suspicion that she might entertain in consequence. If Mr. Abel Newt had + intentions in which Miss Hope Wayne was interested, was there any reason + why Miss Fanny Newt should mingle in the matter? + </p> + <p> + As Miss Plumer finished the song Abel saw his sister coming toward him + through the little crowd, although his eyes seemed to be constantly fixed + upon the singer. + </p> + <p> + “How beautiful!” said he, ardently, in a low voice, looking + Grace Plumer directly in the eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it is a pretty song.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! you mean the song?” said Abel. + </p> + <p> + The singer blushed, and took up a bunch of roses that she had laid upon + the piano and began to play with them. + </p> + <p> + “How very warm it is!” said she. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Abel. “Let us take a turn in the + conservatory—it is both darker and cooler; and I think your eyes + will give light and warmth enough to our conversation.” + </p> + <p> + “Dear me! if you depend upon me it will be the Arctic zone in the + conservatory,” said Miss Grace Plumer, as she rose from the piano. + (Mrs. Newt had written Abel she was fourteen! She was seventeen in May.) + </p> + <p> + “No, no,” said Abel, “we shall find the tropics in that + conservatory.” + </p> + <p> + “Then look out for storms!” replied Miss Plumer, laughing. + </p> + <p> + Abel offered his arm, and the young couple moved through the humming room. + The arch eyes were cast down. The voice of the youth was very low. + </p> + <p> + He felt a touch, and turned. He knew very well who it was. It was his + sister. + </p> + <p> + “Abel, I want to present you to Miss Whetwood Tully.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear Fanny, I can not turn from roses to violets. Miss Tully, I + am sure, is charming. I would go with you with all my heart if I could,” + said he, smiling and looking at Miss Plumer; “but, you see, all my + heart is going here.” + </p> + <p> + Grace Plumer blushed again. He was certainly a charming young man. + </p> + <p> + Fanny Newt, with lips parted, looked at him a moment and shook her head + gently. Abel was sure she would happen to find herself in the conservatory + presently, whither he and his companion slowly passed. It was prettily + illuminated with a few candles, but was left purposely dim. + </p> + <p> + “How lovely it is here! Oh! how fond I am of flowers!” said + Miss Plumer, with the prettiest little rapture, and such a little spring + that Abel was obliged to hold her arm more closely. + </p> + <p> + “Are you fond of flowers, Mr. Newt?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; but I prefer them living.” + </p> + <p> + “Living flowers—what a poetic idea! But what do you mean?” + asked Grace Plumer, hanging her head. + </p> + <p> + Abel saw somebody on the cane sofa under the great orange-tree, almost + hidden in the shade. Dear Fanny! thought he. + </p> + <p> + “My dear Grace,” began Abel, in his lowest, sweetest voice; + but the conservatory was so still that the words could have been easily + heard by any one sitting upon the sofa. + </p> + <p> + Some one was sitting there—some one did hear. Abel smiled in his + heart, and bent more closely to his companion. His manner was full of + tender devotion. He and Grace came nearer. Some one not only heard, but + started. Abel raised his eyes smilingly to meet Fanny’s. Somebody + else started then; for under the great orange-tree, on the cane sofa, sat + Lawrence Newt and Hope Wayne. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVIII. — OLD FRIENDS AND NEW. + </h2> + <p> + Lawrence Newt had called at Bunker’s, and found Mrs. Dinks and Miss + Hope Wayne. They were sitting at the window upon Broadway watching the + promenaders along that famous thoroughfare; for thirty years ago the + fashionable walk was between the Park and the Battery, and Bunker’s + was close to Morris Street, a little above the Bowling Green. + </p> + <p> + When Mr. Newt was announced Hope Wayne felt as if she were suffocating. + She knew but one person of that name. Her aunt supposed it to be the + husband of her friend, Mrs. Nancy Newt, whom she had seen upon a previous + visit to New York this same summer. They both looked up and saw a + gentleman they had never seen before. He bowed pleasantly, and said, + </p> + <p> + “Ladies, my name is Lawrence Newt.” + </p> + <p> + There was a touch of quaintness in his manner, as in his dress. + </p> + <p> + “You will find the city quite deserted,” said he. “But I + have called with an invitation from my sister, Mrs. Boniface Newt, for + this evening to a small party. She incloses her card, and begs you to + waive the formality of a call.” + </p> + <p> + That was the way that Lawrence Newt and Hope Wayne came to be sitting on + the cane sofa under the great orange-tree in Boniface Newt’s + conservatory. + </p> + <p> + They had entered the room and made their bows to Mrs. Nancy; and Mr. + Lawrence, wishing to talk to Miss Hope, had led her by another way to the + conservatory, and so Mr. Abel had failed to see them. + </p> + <p> + As they sat under the tree Lawrence Newt conversed with Hope in a tone of + earnest and respectful tenderness that touched her heart. She could not + understand the winning kindliness of his manner, nor could she resist it. + He spoke of her home with an accuracy of detail that surprised her. + </p> + <p> + “It was not the same house in my day, and you, perhaps, hardly + remember much of the old one. The house is changed, but nothing else; no, + nothing else,” he added, musingly, and with the same dreamy + expression in his eyes that was in them when he leaned against his office + window and watched the ships—while his mind sailed swifter and + farther than they. + </p> + <p> + “They can not touch the waving outline of the hills that you see + from the lawn, nor the pine-trees that shade the windows. Does the little + brook still flow in the meadow below? And do you understand the + pine-trees? Do they tell any tales?” + </p> + <p> + He asked it with a half-mournful gayety. He asked as if he both longed and + feared that she should say, “Yes, they have told me: I know all.” + </p> + <p> + The murmurs of the singing came floating out to them as they sat. Hope was + happy and trustful. She was in the house of Abel—she should see him—she + should hear him! And this dear gentleman—not exactly like a father + nor an uncle—well, yes, perhaps a young uncle—he is brother of + Abel’s mother, and he mysteriously knows so much about Pinewood, and + his smiling voice has a tear in it as he speaks of old days. I love him + already—I trust him entirely—I have found a friend. + </p> + <p> + “Shall we go in again?” said Lawrence Newt. But they saw some + one approaching, and before they arose, while they were still silent, and + Hope’s heart was like the dawning summer heaven, she suddenly heard + Abel Newt’s words, and watched him, speechlessly, as he and his + companion glided by her into the darkness. It was the vision of a moment; + but in the attitude, the tone, the whole impression, Hope Wayne + instinctively felt treachery. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, let us go in!” she said to Lawrence Newt, as she rose + calmly. + </p> + <p> + Abel had passed. He could no more have stopped and shaken hands with Hope + Wayne than he could have sung like a nightingale. He could not even raise + his head erect as he went by—something very stern and very strong + seemed to hold it down. + </p> + <p> + Miss Plumer’s head was also bent; she was waiting to hear the end of + that sentence. She thought society opened beautifully. Such a handsome + fellow in such a romantic spot, beginning his compliments in such a low, + rich voice, with his hair almost brushing hers. But he did not finish. + Abel Newt was perfectly silent. He glided away with Grace Plumer into + grateful gloom, and her ears, exquisitely apprehensive, caught from his + lips not a word further. + </p> + <p> + Lawrence Newt rose as Hope requested, and they moved away. She found her + aunt, and stood by her side. The young men were brought up and presented, + and submitted their observations upon the weather, asked her how she liked + New York—were delighted to hear that she would pass the next winter + in the city—would show her then that New York had some claim to + attention even from a Bostonian—were charmed, really, with Mr. + Bowdoin Beacon and—and—Mr. Alfred Dinks; at mention of which + name they looked in her face in the most gentlemanly manner to see the red + result, as if the remark had been a blister, but they saw only an + unconscious abstraction in her own thoughts, mingled with an air of + attention to what they were saying. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Hope,” said Lawrence Newt, who approached her with a + young woman by his side, “I want you to know my friend Amy Waring.” + </p> + <p> + The two girls looked at each other and bowed. Then they shook hands with a + curious cordiality. + </p> + <p> + Amy Waring had dark eyes—not round and hard and black—not + ebony eyes, but soft, sympathetic eyes, in which you expect to see images + as lovely as the Eastern traveler sees when he remembers home and looks in + the drop held in the palm of the hand of the magician’s boy. They + had the fresh, unworn, moist light of flowers early in June mornings, when + they are full of sun and dew. And there was the same transparent, rich, + pure darkness in her complexion. It was not swarthy, nor black, nor + gloomy. It did not look half Indian, nor even olive. It was an illuminated + shadow. + </p> + <p> + The two girls—they were women, rather—went together to a sofa + and sat down. Hope Wayne’s impulse was to lay her head upon her new + friend’s shoulder and cry; for Hope was prostrated by the unexpected + vision of Abel, as a strong man is unnerved by sudden physical pain. She + felt the overwhelming grief of a child, and longed to give way to it + utterly. + </p> + <p> + “I am glad to know you, Miss Wayne!” said Amy Waring, in a + cordial, cheerful voice, with a pleasant smile. + </p> + <p> + Hope bowed, and thanked her. + </p> + <p> + “I find that Mr. Newt’s friends always prove to be mine,” + continued Amy. + </p> + <p> + “I am glad of it; but I don’t know why I am his friend,” + said Hope. “I never saw him until to-day. He must have lived in + Delafield. Do you know how that is?” + </p> + <p> + She found conversation a great relief, and longed to give way to a kind of + proud, indignant volubility. + </p> + <p> + “No; but he seems to have lived every where, to have seen every + thing, and to have known every body. A very useful acquaintance, I assure + you!” said Amy, smiling. + </p> + <p> + “Is he married?” asked Hope. + </p> + <p> + There was the least little blush upon Amy’s cheek as she heard this + question; but so slight, that if any body had thought he observed it, he + would have looked again and said, “No, I was mistaken,” + Perhaps, too, there was the least little fluttering of a heart otherwise + unconscious. But words are like breezes that blow hither and thither, and + the leaves upon the most secluded trees in the very inmost covert of the + wood may sometimes feel a breath, and stir with responsive music before + they are aware. + </p> + <p> + Amy Waring replied, pleasantly, that he was not married. Hope Wayne said, + “What a pity!” Amy smiled, and asked, + </p> + <p> + “Why a pity?” + </p> + <p> + “Because such a man would be so happy if he were married, and would + make others so happy! He has been in love, you may be sure.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” replied Amy; “I have no doubt of that. We don’t + see men of forty, or so, who have not been touched—” + </p> + <p> + “By what?” asked Lawrence Newt, who had come up silently, and + now stood beside her. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, by what?” interposed Miss Fanny, who had been very busy + during the whole evening, trying to get into her hands the threads of the + various interests that she saw flying and streaming all around her. She + had seen Mr. Alfred Dinks devoted to Miss Wayne, and was therefore + confirmed in her belief that they were engaged. She had seen Abel flirting + with Grace, and was therefore satisfied that he cared nothing about her. + She had done the best she could with Alfred Dinks, but was extremely + dissatisfied with her best; and, seeing Hope and Amy together, she had + been hovering about them for a long time, anxious to overhear or to join + in. + </p> + <p> + “Really,” said Amy, looking up with a smile, “I was + making a very innocent remark.” + </p> + <p> + “Perfectly innocent, I’m sure!” replied Fanny, in her + sweetest manner. It was such a different sweetness from Amy Waring’s, + that Hope turned and looked very curiously at Miss Fanny. + </p> + <p> + “There are few men of forty who have not been in love,” said + Amy, calmly. “That is what I was saying.” + </p> + <p> + As there was only one man of forty, or near that age, in the little group, + the appeal was evidently to him. Lawrence Newt looked at the three girls, + with the swimming light in his eyes, half crushing them and smiling, so + that every one of them felt, each in her own way, that they were as + completely blinded by that smile as by a glare of sunlight—which + also, like that smile, is warm, and not treacherous. + </p> + <p> + They could not see beyond the words, nor hope to. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Amy is right, as usual,” said he. + </p> + <p> + “Why, Uncle Lawrence, tell us all about it!” said Fanny, with + a hard, black smile in her eyes. + </p> + <p> + Uncle Lawrence was not in the slightest degree abashed. + </p> + <p> + “Fanny,” said he, “I will speak to you in a parable. + Remember, to <i>you</i>. There was a farmer whose neighbor built a curious + tower upon his land. It was upon a hill, in a grove. The structure rose + slowly, but public curiosity rose with fearful rapidity. The gossips + gossiped about it in the public houses. Rumors of it stole up to the city, + and down came reporters and special correspondents to describe it with an + unctuous eloquence and picturesque splendor of style known only to them. + The builder held his tongue, dear Fanny. The workmen speculated upon the + subject, but their speculations were no more valuable than those of other + people. They received private bribes to tell; and all the great newspapers + announced that, at an enormous expense, they had secured the exclusive + intelligence, and the exclusive intelligence was always wrong. The country + was in commotion, dear Fanny, about a simple tower that a man was building + upon his land. But the wonder of wonders, and the exasperation of + exasperations, was, that the farmer whose estate adjoined never so much as + spoke of the tower—was never known to have asked about it—and, + indeed, it was not clear that he knew of the building of any tower within + a hundred miles of him. Of course, my dearest Fanny, a self-respecting + Public Sentiment could not stand that. It was insulting to the public, + which manifested so profound an interest in the tower, that the immediate + neighbor should preserve so strict a silence, and such a perfectly + tranquil mind. There are but two theories possible in regard to that man, + said the self-respecting Public Sentiment: he is either a fool or a knave—probably + a little of each. In any case he must be dealt with. So Public Sentiment + accosted the farmer, and asked him if he were not aware that a mysterious + tower was going up close to him, and that the public curiosity was sadly + exercised about it? He replied that he was blessed with tolerable + eyesight, and had seen the tower from the very first stone upward. Tell + us, then, all about it! shrieked Public Sentiment. Ask the builder, if you + want to know, said the farmer. But he won’t tell us, and we want you + to tell us, because we know that you must have asked him. Now what, in the + name of pity!—what is that tower for? I have never asked, replies + the farmer. Never asked? shrieked Public Sentiment. Never, retorted + Rusticus. And why, in the name of Heaven, have you never asked? cried the + crowd. Because, said the farmer—” + </p> + <p> + Lawrence Newt looked at his auditors. “Are you listening, dear + Fanny?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Uncle Lawrence.” + </p> + <p> + “—because it’s none of my business.” + </p> + <p> + Lawrence Newt smiled; so did all the rest, including Fanny, who remarked + that he might have told her in fewer words that she was impertinent. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Fanny; but sometimes words help us to remember things. It is a + great point gained when we have learned to hoe the potatoes in our own + fields, and not vex our souls about our neighbor’s towers.” + </p> + <p> + Hope Wayne was not in the least abstracted. She was nervously alive to + every thing that was said and done; and listened with a smile to Lawrence + Newt’s parable, liking him more and more. + </p> + <p> + The general restless distraction that precedes the breaking up of a party + had now set in. People were moving, and rustling, and breaking off the + ends of conversation. They began to go. A few said good-evening, and had + had such a charming time! The rest gradually followed, until there was a + universal departure. Grace Plumer was leaning upon Sligo Moultrie’s + arm. But where was Abel? + </p> + <p> + Hope Wayne’s eyes looked every where. But her only glimpse of him + during the evening had been that glimmering, dreadful moment in the + conservatory. There he had remained ever since. There he still stood + gazing through the door into the drawing-room, seeing but not seen—his + mind a wild whirl of thoughts. + </p> + <p> + “What a fool I am!” thought Abel, bitterly. He was steadily + asking himself, “Have—I—lost—Hope Wayne—before—I—had—won—her?” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIX. — DOG-DAYS. + </h2> + <p> + The great city roared, and steamed, and smoked. Along the hot, glaring + streets by the river a few panting people hurried, clinging to the house + wall for a thin strip of shade, too narrow even to cover their feet. All + the windows of the stores were open, and within the offices, with a little + thinking, a little turn of the pen, and a little tracing in ink, men were + magically warding off impending disaster, or adding thousands to the + thousands accumulated already—men, too, were writing without + thinking, mechanically copying or posting, scribbling letters of form, + with heads clear or heads aching, with hearts burning or cold; full of + ambition and hope, or vaguely remembering country hill-sides and summer + rambles—a day’s fishing—a night’s frolic—Sunday-school—singing-school, + and the girl with the chip hat garlanded with sweet-brier; hearts longing + and loving, regretting, hoping, and remembering, and all the while the + faces above them calm and smooth, and the hands below them busily doing + their part of the great work of the world. + </p> + <p> + In Wall Street there was restless running about. Men in white clothes and + straw-hats darted in at doors, darted out of doors—carrying little + books, and boxes, and bundles in their hands, nodding to each other as + they passed, but all infected with the same fever; with brows + half-wrinkled or tied up in hopeless seams of perplexity; with muttering + pale lips, or lips round and red, and clearly the lips of clerks who had + no great stakes at issue—a general rushing and hurrying as if every + body were haunted by the fear of arriving too late every where, and losing + all possible chances in every direction. + </p> + <p> + Within doors there were cool bank parlors and insurance offices, with long + rows of comely clerks writing in those Russia red books which Thomas Tray + loved—or wetting their fingers on little sponges in little glass + dishes and counting whole fortunes in bank-notes—or perched high on + office-stools eating apples—while Presidents and Directors, with + shiny bald pates and bewigged heads, some heroically with permanent + spectacles and others coyly and weakly with eye-glasses held in the hand, + sat perusing the papers, telling the news, and gossiping about + engagements, and marriages, and family rumors, and secrets with the air of + practical men of the world, with no nonsense, no fanaticism, no fol-de-rol + of any kind about them, but who profoundly believed the Burt theory that + wives and daughters were a more sacred kind of property than sheep + pastures, or even than the most satisfactory bond and mortgage. + </p> + <p> + They talked politics, these banking and insurance gentlemen, with vigor + and warmth. “What on earth does, this General Jackson mean, Sir? Is + he going to lay the axe at the very roots of our national prosperity? What + the deuce does a frontier soldier know about banking?” + </p> + <p> + They talked about Morgan who had been found in Lake Ontario; and the + younger clerks took their turn at it, and furiously denied among + themselves that Washington was a Mason. The younger clerks held every + Mason responsible for the reported murder. Then they turned pale lest + their neighbors were Masons, and might cause them to be found drowned off + the Battery. The older men shook their heads. + </p> + <p> + Murders—did you speak of murders, Mr. Van Boozenberg? Why, this is a + dreadful business in Salem! Old Mr. White murdered in his bed! The most + awful thing on record. Terrible stories are told, Sir, about respectable + people! It’s getting to be dangerous to be rich. What are we coming + to? What can you expect, Sir, with Fanny Wright disseminating her infidel + sentiments, and the work-people buying <i>The Friend of Equal Human Rights</i>? + Equal human fiddle-sticks, Mr. Van Boozenberg! + </p> + <p> + To which remarks from the mouths of many Directors that eminent officer + nodded his head, and looked so wise that it was very remarkable so many + foolish transactions took place under his administration. + </p> + <p> + And in all the streets of the great city, in all the lofty workshops and + yards and factories, huge hammers smote and clashed, and men, naked to the + waist, reeking in dingy interiors, bent like gnomes at their tasks, while + saws creaked, wheels turned, planes and mallets, and chisels shoved and + cut and struck; and down in damp cellars sallow ghastly men and women wove + rag-carpets, and twisted baskets in the midst of litters of puny, pale + children, with bleared eyes, and sore heads, and dirty faces, tumbling, + playing, shouting, whimpering—scampering after the pigs that came + rooting and nosing in the liquid filth that simmered and stank to heaven + in the gutters at the top of the stairs; and the houses above the heads of + the ghastly men and women were swarming rookeries, hot and close and bare, + with window-panes broken, and hats, and coats, and rags stuffed in, and + men with bloodshot eyes and desperate faces sitting dogged with their hats + on, staring at nothing, or leaning on their ragged elbows on broken + tables, scowling from between their dirty hands at the world and the + future; while in higher rooms sat solitary girls in hard wooden chairs, a + pile of straw covered with a rug in the corner, and a box to put a change + of linen in, driving the needle silently and ceaselessly through shirts or + coats or trowsers, stooping over in the foul air during the heat of the + day, straining their eyes when the day darkened to save a candle, hearing + the roar and the rush and the murmur far away, mingled in the distance, as + if they were dead and buried in their graves, and dreaming a horrid dream + until the resurrection. + </p> + <p> + Only sometimes an acute withering pain, as if something or somebody were + sewing the sewer and pierced her with a needle sharp and burning, made the + room swim and the straw in the corner glimmer; and the girl dropped the + work and closed her eyes—the cheeks were black and hollow beneath + them—and she gasped and panted, and leaned back, while the roar went + on, and the hot sun glared, and the neighboring church clock, striking the + hour, seemed to beat on her heart as it smote relentlessly the girl’s + returning consciousness. Then she took up the work again, and the needle, + with whose little point in pain and sickness and consuming solitude, in + darkness, desolation, and flickering, fainting faith, she pricked back + death and dishonor. + </p> + <p> + At neighboring corners were the reefs upon which human health, hope, and + happiness lay stranded, broken up and gone to pieces. Bloated faces + glowered through the open doors—their humanity sunk away into mere + bestiality. Human forms—men no longer—lay on benches, hung + over chairs, babbled, maundered, shrieked or wept aloud; while women came + in and took black bottles from under tattered shawls, and said nothing, + but put down a piece of money; and the man behind the counter said + nothing, but took the money and filled the bottles, which were hidden + under the tattered shawl again, and the speechless phantoms glided out, + guarding that little travesty of modesty even in that wild ruin. + </p> + <p> + In shops beyond, yards of tape, and papers of pins, and boots and shoes + and bread, and all the multitudinous things that are bought and sold every + minute, were being done up in papers by complaisant, or surly, or + conceited, or well-behaved clerks; and in all the large and little houses + of the city, in all the spacious and narrow streets, there were women + cooking, washing, sweeping, scouring, rubbing, lifting, carrying, sewing, + reading, sleeping—tens and twenties and fifties and hundreds and + thousands of men, women, and children. More than two hundred thousand of + them were toiling, suffering, struggling, enjoying, dreaming, despairing + on a summer day, doing their share of the world’s work. The eye was + full of the city’s activity; the ear was tired with its noise; the + heart was sick with the thought of it; the streets and houses swarmed with + people, but the world was out of town. There was nobody at home. + </p> + <p> + In the mighty stream, of which men and women are the waves, that poured + ceaselessly along its channels, friends met surprised—touched each + other’s hands. + </p> + <p> + “Came in this morning—off to-night—droll it looks—nobody + in town—” + </p> + <p> + And the tumultuous throng bore them apart. + </p> + <p> + In the evening the Park Theatre is jammed to hear Mr. Forrest, who made + his first appearance in Philadelphia nine or ten years ago, and is already + a New York favorite. Contoit’s garden flutters with the cool dresses + of the promenaders, who move about between the arbors looking for friends + and awaiting ices. The click of billiard balls is heard in the glittering + café at the corner of Reade Street, and a gay company smokes and sips at + the Washington Hotel. Life bursts from every door, from every window, but + there is nobody in town. + </p> + <p> + More than two hundred thousand men, women, and children go to their beds + and wake up to the morrow, but there is nobody in town. Nobody in town, + because Mrs. Boniface Newt & Co. have gone to Saratoga—no + cathedral left, because some plastering has tumbled off an upper stone—no + forest left, because a few leaves have whirled away. Nobody in town, + because Mrs. Boniface Newt & Co. have gone to Saratoga, and are doing + their part of the world’s work there. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Alfred Dinks, Mr. Zephyr Wetherley, and Mr. Bowdoin Beacon, were + slowly sauntering down Broadway, when, they were overtaken and passed by a + young woman walking rapidly for so warm a morning. + </p> + <p> + There was an immense explosion of adjectives expressing surprise when the + three young, gentlemen discovered that the young lady who was passing them + was Miss Amy Waring. + </p> + <p> + “Why, Miss Waring!” cried they, simultaneously. + </p> + <p> + She bowed and smiled. They lifted their hats. + </p> + <p> + “You in town!” said Mr. Beacon. + </p> + <p> + “In town?” echoed Mr. Dinks. + </p> + <p> + “Town?” murmured Mr. Wetherley. + </p> + <p> + “Town,” said Miss Waring, with her eyes sparkling. + </p> + <p> + “Where did you come from? I thought you were all at Saratoga,” + she continued. + </p> + <p> + “It’s stupid there,” said Mr. Beacon. + </p> + <p> + “Quite stupid,” echoed Mr. Dinks. + </p> + <p> + “Stupid,” murmured Mr. Wetherley. + </p> + <p> + “Stupid?” asked the lady, this time making the interrogation + in the antistrophe of the chant. + </p> + <p> + “We wanted a little fun.” + </p> + <p> + “A little fun.” + </p> + <p> + “Fun,” replied the gentlemen. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I’m going about my business,” said she. “Good-morning.” + </p> + <p> + “About your business?” + </p> + <p> + “Your business?” + </p> + <p> + “Business?” murmured the youths, in order. Zephyr concluding. + </p> + <p> + “Business!” said Miss Amy, bursting into a little laugh, in + which the listless, perfectly good-humored youths cheerfully joined. + </p> + <p> + “It’s dreadful hot,” said Mr. Beacon. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! horrid!” said Mr. Dinks. + </p> + <p> + “Very,” said Zephyr. And the gentlemen wiped their foreheads. + </p> + <p> + “Coming to Saratoga, Miss Waring?” they asked. + </p> + <p> + “Hardly, I think, but possibly,” said she, and moved away, + with her little basket; while the gentlemen, swearing at the heat, the + dust, and the smells, sauntered on, asseverated that Amy Waring was an odd + sort of girl; and finally went in to the Washington Hotel, where each + lolled back in an armchair, with the white duck legs reposing in another—excepting + Mr. Dinks, who poised his boots upon the window-sill that commanded + Broadway; and so, comforted with a cigar in the mouth, and a glass of iced + port-wine sangaree in the hand, the three young gentlemen labored through + the hot hours until dinner. + </p> + <p> + Amy Waring walked quite as rapidly as the heat would permit. She crossed + the Park, and, striking into Fulton Street, continued toward the river, + but turned into Water Street. The old peach-women at the corners, sitting + under huge cotton umbrellas, and parching in the heat, saw the lovely face + going by, and marked the peculiarly earnest step, which the sitters in the + streets, and consequent sharp students of faces and feet, easily enough + recognized as the step of one who was bound upon some especial errand. + Clerks looked idly at her from open shop doors, and from windows above; + and when she entered the marine region of Water Street, the heavy stores + and large houses, which here and there were covered with a dull grime, as + if the squalor within had exuded through the dingy red bricks, seemed to + glare at her unkindly, and sullenly ask why youth, and beauty, and cleanly + modesty should insult with sweet contrast that sordid gloom. + </p> + <p> + The heat only made it worse. Half-naked children played in the foul + gutters with the pigs, which roamed freely at large, and comfortably at + home in the purlieus of the docks and the quarter of poverty. Carts + jostled by with hogsheads, and boxes, and bales; the red-faced carmen, + furious with their horses, or smoking pipes whose odor did not sweeten the + air, staring, with rude, curious eyes, at the lady making her way among + the casks and bales upon the sidewalks. There was nothing that could + possibly cheer the eye or ear, or heart or imagination, in any part of the + street—not even the haggard faces, thin with want, rusty with + exposure, and dull with drink, that listlessly looked down upon her from + the windows of lodging-houses. + </p> + <p> + The door of one of these was open, and Amy Waring went in. She passed + rapidly through the desolate entry and up the dirty stairs with the broken + railing—stairs that creaked under her light step. At a room upon the + back of the house, in the third story, she stopped and tapped at the door. + A voice cried, “Who’s there?” The girl answered, “Amy,” + and the door was immediately unlocked. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XX. — AUNT MARTHA. + </h2> + <p> + The room was clean. There was a rag carpet on the floor; a pine bureau + neatly varnished; a half dozen plain but whole chairs; a bedstead, upon + which the bedding was scrupulously neat; a pine table, upon which lay a + much-thumbed leather-bound family Bible and a few religious books; and + between the windows, over the bureau, hung a common engraving of Christ + upon the Cross. The windows themselves looked upon the back of the stores + on South Street. Upon the floor was a large basket full of work, with + which the occupant of the room was evidently engaged. The whole room had + an air of severity and cheerlessness, yet it was clear that every thing + was most carefully arranged, and continually swept and washed and dusted. + </p> + <p> + The person who had opened the door was a woman of nearly forty. She was + dressed entirely in black. She had not so much as a single spot of white + any where about her. She had even a black silk handkerchief twisted about + her head in the way that negro women twine gay cloths; and such was her + expression that it seemed as if her face, and her heart, and her soul, and + all that she felt, or hoped, or remembered, or imagined, were clad and + steeped in the same mourning garments and utter gloom. + </p> + <p> + “Good-morning, Amy,” said she, in a hard and dry, but not + unkind voice. In fact, the rigidity of her aspect, the hardness of her + voice, and the singular blackness of her costume, seemed to be too + monotonously uniform and resolute not to indicate something willful or + unhealthy in the woman’s condition, as if the whole had been rather + superinduced than naturally developed. + </p> + <p> + “Aunt Martha, I have brought you some things that I hope you will + find comforting and agreeable.” + </p> + <p> + The young woman glanced around the desolately regular and forbidding room, + and sighed. The other took the basket and stepped to a closet, but paused + as she opened it, and turning to Amy, said, in the same dry, hopeless + manner, + </p> + <p> + “This bounty is too good for a sinner; and yet it would be the + unpardonable sin for so great a sinner to end her own life willfully.” + </p> + <p> + The solemn woman put the contents of the basket into the closet; but it + seemed as if, in that gloom, the sugar must have already lost its + sweetness and the tea its flavor. + </p> + <p> + Amy still glanced round the room, and her eyes filled with tears. + </p> + <p> + “Dear Aunt Martha, when may I tell?” she asked, with piteous + earnestness. + </p> + <p> + “Amy, would you thwart God? He is too merciful already. I almost + fear that to tolerate your sympathy and kindness is a sore offense in me. + Think what a worm I am! How utterly foul and rank with sin!” + </p> + <p> + She spoke with clasped hands lying before her in her lap, in the same hard + tone as if the words were cut in ebony; with the same fixed lips—the + same pale, unsmiling severity of face; above which the abundant hair, + streaked with early gray, was almost entirely lost in the black + handkerchief. + </p> + <p> + “But surely God is good!” said Amy, tenderly and sadly. + “If we sin, He only asks us to repent and be forgiven.” + </p> + <p> + “But we must pay the penalty, Amy,” said the other. “There + is a price set upon every sin; and mine is so vast, so enormous—” + </p> + <p> + She paused a moment, as if overwhelmed by the contemplation of it; then, + in the same tone, she continued: “You, Amy, can not even conceive + how dreadful it is. You know what it is, but not how bad it is.” + </p> + <p> + She was silent again, and her soul appeared to wrap itself in denser + gloom. The air of the room seemed to Amy stifling. The next moment she + felt as if she were pierced with sharp spears of ice. She sprang up: + </p> + <p> + “I shall smother!” said she; and opened the window. + </p> + <p> + “Aunt Martha, I begin to feel that this is really wicked! If you + only knew Lawrence Newt—” + </p> + <p> + The older woman raised one thin finger, without lifting the hand from her + lap. Implacable darkness seemed to Amy to be settling upon her too. + </p> + <p> + “At least, aunt, let me have you moved to some less horrid place.” + </p> + <p> + “Foulness and filth are too sweet and fair for me,” said the + dark woman; “and I have been too long idle already.” + </p> + <p> + She lifted the work and began to sew. Amy’s heart ached as she + looked at her, with sympathy for her suffering and a sense of inability to + help her. + </p> + <p> + There came a violent knock at the door. + </p> + <p> + “Who’s there?” asked Aunt Martha, calmly. + </p> + <p> + “Come, come; open this door, and let’s see what’s going + on!” cried a loud, coarse voice. + </p> + <p> + “Who is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Who is it? Why, it’s me—Joseph!” replied the + voice. + </p> + <p> + Aunt Martha rose and unlocked the door. A man whose face was like his + voice bustled noisily into the room, with a cigar in his mouth and his hat + on. + </p> + <p> + “Come, come; where’s that work? Time’s up! Quick, quick! + No time, no pay!” + </p> + <p> + “It is not quite done, Mr. Joseph.” + </p> + <p> + The man stared at Aunt Martha for a moment; then laughed in a jeering way. + </p> + <p> + “Old lady Black, when you undertake to do a piece of work what d’ye + mean by not having it done? Damn it, there’s a little too much of + the lady about you! Show me that work!” and he seated himself. + </p> + <p> + The woman brought the basket to him, in the bottom of which were several + pieces completed and carefully folded. The man turned them over rapidly. + </p> + <p> + “And why, in the devil’s name, haven’t you done the + rest? Give ‘em here!” + </p> + <p> + He took the whole, finished and unfinished, and, bundling them up, made + for the door. “No time, no pay, old lady; that’s the rule. + That’s the only way to work such infernally jimmy old bodies as you!” + </p> + <p> + The sewing woman remained perfectly passive as Mr. Joseph was passing out; + but Amy sprang forward from the window: + </p> + <p> + “Stop, Sir!” said she, firmly. The man involuntarily turned, + and such was his overwhelming surprise at seeing a lady suddenly standing + before him, and a lady who spoke with perfect authority, that, with the + instinct of obsequiousness instinctive in every man who depends upon the + favor of customers, he took off his hat. + </p> + <p> + “If you take that work without paying for it you shall be made to + pay,” said Amy, quietly, her eyes flashing, and her figure firm and + erect. + </p> + <p> + The man hesitated for a moment. + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes, ma’am, oh certainly, ma’am! Pay for it, of + course, ma’am! ‘Twas only to frighten the woman, ma’am; + oh certainly, certainly—oh! yes, ma’am, pay for it, of course.” + </p> + <p> + “At once,” said Amy, without moving. + </p> + <p> + “Certainly, ma’am; here’s the money,” and Mr. + Joseph counted it out upon the pine table. + </p> + <p> + “And you’d better leave the rest to be done at once.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll do so, ma’am,” said the man, putting down + the bundle. + </p> + <p> + “And remember that if you ever harm this woman by a word or look, + even,” added Amy, bending her head toward her aunt, “you will + repent it bitterly.” + </p> + <p> + The man stared at her and fumbled with his hat. The cigar had dropped upon + the floor. Amy pointed to it, and said, “Now go.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Joseph stooped, picked up the stump, and departed. Amy felt weak. Her + aunt stood by her, and said, calmly, + </p> + <p> + “It was only part of my punishment.” + </p> + <p> + Amy’s eyes flashed. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, aunt; and if any body should break into your room and steal + every thing you have and throw you out of the window, or break your bones + and leave you here to die of starvation, I suppose you would think it all + part of your punishment.” + </p> + <p> + “It would be no more than I deserve, Amy.” + </p> + <p> + “Aunt Martha,” replied Amy, “if you don’t take + care you will force me to break my promise to you.” + </p> + <p> + “Amy, to do that would be to bring needless disgrace upon your + mother and all her family and friends. They have considered me dead for + nearly sixteen years. They have long ago shed the last tear of regret for + one whom they believed to be as pure as you are now. Why should you take + her to them from the tomb, living still, but a loathsome mass of sin? I am + equal to my destiny. The curse is great, but I will bear it alone; and the + curse of God will fall upon you if you betray me.” + </p> + <p> + Amy was startled by the intensity with which these words were uttered. + There was no movement of the hands or head upon the part of the older + woman. She stood erect by the table, and, as her words grew stronger, the + gloom of her appearance appeared to intensify itself, as a thunder-cloud + grows imperceptibly blacker and blacker. + </p> + <p> + When she stopped, Amy made no reply; but, troubled and uneasy, she drew a + chair to the window and sat down. The older woman took up her work again. + Amy was lost in thought, wondering what she could do. She saw nothing as + she looked down into the dirty yards of the houses; but after some time, + forgetting, in the abstraction of her meditation, where she was, she was + suddenly aware of the movement of some white object; and looking curiously + to see what it was, discovered Lawrence Newt gazing up at her from the + back window of his store, and waving his handkerchief to attract her + attention. + </p> + <p> + As she saw the kindly face she smiled and shook her hand. There was a + motion of inquiry: “Shall I come round?” And a very resolute + telegraphing by the head back again: “No, no!” There was + another question, in the language of shoulders, and handkerchief, and + hands: “What on earth are you doing up there?” The answer was + prompt and intelligible: “Nothing that I am ashamed of.” Still + there came another message of motion from below, which Amy, knowing + Lawrence Newt, unconsciously interpreted to herself thus: “I know + you, angel of mercy! You have brought some angelic soup to some poor + woman.” The only reply was a smile that shone down from the window + into the heart of the merchant who stood below. The smile was followed by + a wave of the hand from above that said farewell. Lawrence Newt looked up + and kissed his own, but the smiling face was gone. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXI. — THE CAMPAIGN. + </h2> + <p> + Miss Fanny Newt went to Saratoga with a perfectly clear idea of what she + intended to do. She intended to be engaged to Mr. Alfred Dinks. + </p> + <p> + That young gentleman was a second cousin of Hope Wayne’s, and his + mother had never objected to his little visits at Pinewood, when both he + and Hope were young, and when the unsophisticated human heart is flexible + as melted wax, and receives impressions which only harden with time. + </p> + <p> + “Let the children play together, my dear,” she said, in + conjugal seclusion to her husband, the Hon. Budlong Dinks, who needed only + sufficient capacity and a proper opportunity to have been one of the most + distinguished of American diplomatists. He thought he was such already. + There was, indeed, plenty of diplomacy in the family, and that most + skillful of all diplomatic talents, the management of distinguished + diplomatists, was not unknown there. + </p> + <p> + Fanny Newt had made the proper inquiries. The result was that there were + rumors—“How <i>do</i> such stories start?” asked Mrs. + Budlong Dinks of all her friends who were likely to repeat the rumor—that + it was a family understanding that Mr. Alfred Dinks and his cousin Hope + were to make a match. “And they <i>do</i> say,” said Mrs. + Dinks, “what ridiculous things people are! and they <i>do</i> say + that, for family reasons, we are going to keep it all quiet! What a world + it is!” + </p> + <p> + The next day Mrs. Cod told Mrs. Dod, in a morning call, that Mrs. Budlong + Dinks said that the engagement between her son Alfred and his cousin Hope + Wayne was kept quiet for family reasons. Before sunset of that day society + was keeping it quiet with the utmost diligence. + </p> + <p> + These little stories were brought by little birds to New York, so that + when Mrs. Dinks arrived the air was full of hints and suggestions, and the + name of Hope Wayne was not unknown. Farther acquaintance with Mr. Alfred + Dinks had revealed to Miss Fanny that there was a certain wealthy ancestor + still living, in whom the Dinkses had an interest, and that the only + participant with them in that interest was Miss Hope Wayne. That was + enough for Miss Fanny, whose instinct at once assured her that Mrs. Dinks + designed Hope Wayne for her son Alfred, in order that the fortune should + be retained in the family. + </p> + <p> + Miss Fanny having settled this, and upon farther acquaintance with Mr. + Dinks having discovered that she might as well undertake the matrimonial + management of him as of any other man, and that the Burt fortune would + probably descend, in part at least, to the youth Alfred, she decided that + the youth Alfred must marry her. + </p> + <p> + But how should Hope Wayne be disposed of? Fanny reflected. + </p> + <p> + She lived in Delafield. Brother Abel, now nearly nineteen—not a + childish youth—not unhandsome—not too modest—lived also + in Delafield. Had he ever met Hope Wayne? + </p> + <p> + By skillful correspondence, alluding to the solitude of the country, et + cetera, and his natural wish for society, and what pleasant people were + there in Delafield, Fanny had drawn her lines around Abel to carry the + fact of his acquaintance, if possible, by pure strategy. + </p> + <p> + In reply, Abel wrote about many things—about Mrs. Kingo and Miss + Broadbraid—the Sutlers and Grabeaus—he praised the peaceful + tone of rural society, and begged Fanny to beware of city dissipation; but + not a word of old Burt and Hope Wayne. + </p> + <p> + Sister Fanny wrote again in the most confiding manner. Brother Abel + replied in a letter of beautiful sentiments and a quotation from Dr. + Peewee. + </p> + <p> + He overdid it a little, as we sometimes do in this world. We appear so + intensely unconscious that it is perfectly evident we know that somebody + is looking at us. So Fanny, knowing that Christopher Burt was the richest + man in the village, and lived in a beautiful place, and that his lovely + grand-daughter lived with him constantly, with which information in detail + Alfred Dinks supplied her, and perceiving from Abel’s letter that he + was not a recluse, but knew the society of the village, arrived very + naturally and easily at the conclusion that brother Abel did know Hope + Wayne, and was in love with her. She inferred the latter from the fact + that she had long ago decided that brother Abel would not fall in love + with any poor girl, and therefore she was sure that if he were in the + immediate neighborhood of a lady at once young, beautiful, of good family + and very rich, he would be immediately in love—very much in love. + </p> + <p> + To make every thing sure, Abel had not been at home half an hour before + Fanny’s well-directed allusion to Hope as the future Mrs. Dinks had + caused her brother to indicate an interest which revealed every thing. + </p> + <p> + “If now,” pondered Miss Fanny, “somebody who shall be + nameless becomes Mrs. Alfred Dinks, and the nameless somebody’s + brother marries Miss Hope Wayne, what becomes of the Burt property?” + </p> + <p> + She went, therefore, to Saratoga in great spirits, and with an unusual + wardrobe. The opposing general, Field-marshal Mrs. Budlong Dinks, had + certainly the advantage of position, for Hope Wayne was of her immediate + party, and she could devise as many opportunities as she chose for + bringing Mr. Alfred and his cousin together. She did not lose her chances. + There were little parties for bowling in the morning, and early walking, + and Fanny was invited very often, but sometimes omitted, as if to indicate + that she was not an essential part of the composition. There was music in + the parlor before dinner, and working of purses and bags before the + dressing-bell. There was the dinner itself, and the promenade, with music, + afterward. Drives, then, and riding; the glowing return at sunset—the + cheerful cup of tea—the reappearance, in delightful toilet, for the + evening dance—windows—balconies—piazzas—moonlight! + </p> + <p> + Every time that Fanny, warm with the dance, declared that she must have + fresh air, and that was every time she danced with Alfred, she withdrew, + attended by him, to the cool, dim piazza, and every time Mrs. Dinks beheld + the departure. On the cool, dim piazza the music sounded more faintly, the + quiet moonlight filled the air, and life seemed all romance and festival. + </p> + <p> + “How beautiful after the hot room!” Fanny said, one evening as + they sat there. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, how beautiful!” replied Alfred. + </p> + <p> + “How happy I feel!” sighed Fanny. “Ever since I have + been here I have been so happy!” + </p> + <p> + “Have you been happy? So I have been happy too. How very funny!” + replied Alfred. + </p> + <p> + “Yes; but pleasant too. Sympathy is always pleasant.” And + Fanny turned her large black eyes upon him, while the young Dinks was + perplexed by a singular feeling of happiness. + </p> + <p> + They were content to moralize upon sympathy for some time. Alfred was + fascinated, and a little afraid. Fanny moved her Junonine shoulders, bent + her swan-like neck, drew off one glove and played with her rings, fanned + herself gently at intervals, and, with just enough embarrassment not to + frighten her companion, opened and closed her fan. + </p> + <p> + “What a fine fellow Bowdoin Beacon is!” said Miss Fanny, a + little suddenly, and in a tone of suppressed admiration, as she drew on + her glove and laid her fan in her lap, as if on the point of departure. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, he’s a very good sort of fellow.” + </p> + <p> + “How cold you men always are in speaking of each other! I think him + a splendid fellow. He’s so handsome. He has such glorious dark hair—almost + as dark as yours, Mr. Dinks.” + </p> + <p> + Alfred half raged, half smiled. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know,” continued Fanny, looking down a little, and + speaking a little lower—“do you know if he has any particular + favorites among the girls here?” + </p> + <p> + Alfred was dreadfully alarmed. + </p> + <p> + “If he has, how happy they must be! I think him a magnificent sort + of man; but not precisely the kind I should think a girl would fall in + love with. Should you?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” replied Alfred, mollified and bewildered. He rallied in + a moment. “What sort of man do girls fall in love with, Miss Fanny?” + </p> + <p> + Fanny Newt was perfectly silent. She looked down upon the floor of the + piazza, fixing her eyes upon a pine-knot, patiently waiting, and wondering + which way the grain of the wood ran. + </p> + <p> + The silence continued. Every moment Alfred was conscious of an increasing + nervousness. There were the Junonine shoulders—the neck—the + downcast eyes—moonlight—the softened music. + </p> + <p> + “Why don’t you answer?” asked he, at length. + </p> + <p> + Fanny bent her head nearer to him, and dropped these words into his + waistcoat: + </p> + <p> + “How good you are! I am so happy!” + </p> + <p> + “What on earth have I done?” was the perplexed, and pleased, + and ridiculous reply. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Dinks, how could I answer the question you asked without + betraying—?” + </p> + <p> + “What?” inquired Alfred, earnestly. + </p> + <p> + “Without betraying what sort of man <i>I</i> love,” breathed + Fanny, in the lowest possible tone, which could be also perfectly + distinct, and with her head apparently upon the point of dropping after + her words into his waistcoat. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” said Dinks. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I can not do that, but I will make a bargain with you. If you + will say what sort of girl you would love, I will answer your question.” + </p> + <p> + Fanny dreaded to hear a description of Hope Wayne. But Alfred’s mind + was resolved. The foolish youth answered with his heart in his mouth, and + barely whispering, + </p> + <p> + “If you will look in your glass to-night, you will see.” + </p> + <p> + The next moment Fanny’s head had fallen into the waistcoat—Alfred + Dinks’s arms were embracing her. He perceived the perfume from her + abundant hair. He was frightened, and excited, and pleased. + </p> + <p> + “Dear Alfred!” + </p> + <p> + “Dear Fanny!” + </p> + <p> + “Come Hope, dear, it is very late,” said Mrs. Dinks in the + ball-room, alarmed at the long absence of Fanny and Alfred, and resolved + to investigate the reason of it. + </p> + <p> + The lovers heard the voice, and were sitting quietly just a little apart, + as Mrs. Dinks and her retinue came out. + </p> + <p> + “Aren’t you afraid of taking cold, Miss Newt?” inquired + Alfred’s mother. + </p> + <p> + “Oh not at all, thank you, I am very warm. But you are very wise to + go in, and I shall join you. Good-night, Mr. Dinks.” As she rose, + she whispered—“After breakfast.” + </p> + <p> + The ladies rustled along the piazza in the moonlight. Alfred, flushed and + nervous and happy, sauntered into the bar-room, lit a cigar, and drank + some brandy and water. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile the Honorable Budlong Dinks sat in an armchair at the other end + of the piazza with several other honorable gentlemen—Major + Scuppernong from Carolina, Colonel le Fay from Louisiana, Captain Lamb + from Pennsylvania, General Arcularius Belch of New York, besides Captain + Jones, General Smith, Major Brown, Colonel Johnson, from other States, and + several honorable members of Congress, including, and chief of all, the + Honorable B.J. Ele, a leading statesman from New York, with whom Mr. Dinks + passed as much time as possible, and who was the chief oracle of the wise + men in armchairs who came to the springs to drink the waters, to humor + their wives and daughters in their foolish freaks for fashion and + frivolity, and who smiled loftily upon the gay young people who amused + themselves with setting up ten-pins and knocking them down, while the wise + men devoted themselves to talking politics and showing each other, from + day to day, the only way in which the country could be made great and + glorious, and fulfill its destiny. + </p> + <p> + “I am not so clear about General Jackson’s policy,” said + the Honorable Budlong Dinks, with the cautious wisdom of a statesman. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Sir, I am clear enough about it,” replied Major + Scuppernong. “It will ruin this country just as sure as that,” + and the Major with great dexterity directed a stream of saliva which fell + with unerring precision upon the small stone in the gravel walk at which + it was evidently aimed. + </p> + <p> + The Honorable Budlong Dinks watched the result of the illustration with + deep interest, and shook his head gravely when he saw that the stone was + thoroughly drenched by the salivary cascade. He seemed to feel the force + of the argument. But he was not in a position to commit himself. + </p> + <p> + “Now, <i>I</i> think,” said the Honorable B.J. Ele, “that + it is the only thing that can save the country.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! you do,” said the Honorable B. Dinks. + </p> + <p> + And so they kept it up day after day, pausing in the intervals to smile at + the ardor with which the women played their foolish game of gossip and + match-making. + </p> + <p> + When Mrs. Dinks withdrew from her idle employments to the invigorating air + of the Honorable B.‘s society, he tapped her cheek sometimes with + his finger—as he had read great men occasionally did when they were + with their wives in moments of relaxation from intellectual toil—asked + her what would become of the world if it were given up to women, and by + his manner refreshed her consciousness of the honor under which she + labored in being Mrs. Budlong Dinks. + </p> + <p> + The weaker vessel smiled consciously, as if he very well knew that was the + one particular thing which under no conceivable circumstances could she + forget. + </p> + <p> + “Budlong, I really think Alfred ought to keep a horse.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear!” replied the Honorable B., in a tone of mingled + reproach, amusement, contempt, and surprise. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! I know we can’t afford it. But it would be so pleasant if + he could drive out his cousin Hope, as so many of the other young men do. + People get so well acquainted in that way. Have you observed that Bowdoin + Beacon is a great deal with her? How glad Mrs. Beacon would be!” + Mrs. Dinks took off her cap, and was unpinning her collar, without in the + least pressing her request. Not at all. His word was enough. She had + evidently yielded the point. The horse was out of the question. + </p> + <p> + Now the state of the country did not so entirely engross her husband’s + mind, that he had not seen all the advantage of Hope’s marrying + Alfred. + </p> + <p> + “It <i>is</i> a pleasant thing for a young man to have his own + horse. My dear, I will see what can be done,” said he. + </p> + <p> + Then the diplomatist untied his cravat as if he had been undoing the + parchment of a great treaty. He fell asleep in the midst of rehearsing the + speech which he meant to make upon occasion of his presentation as foreign + minister somewhere; while his beloved partner lay by his side, and + resolved that Alfred Dinks must immediately secure Hope Wayne before Fanny + Newt secured Alfred Dinks. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXII. — THE FINE ARTS. + </h2> + <p> + The whole world of Saratoga congratulated Mrs. Dinks upon her beautiful + niece, Miss Wayne. Even old Mrs. Dagon said to every body: + </p> + <p> + “How lovely she is! And to think she comes from Boston! Where did + she get her style? Fanny dear, I saw you hugging—I beg your pardon, + I mean waltzing with Mr. Dinks.” + </p> + <p> + But when Hope Wayne danced there seemed to be nobody else moving. She + filled the hall with grace, and the heart of the spectator with an + indefinable longing. She carried strings of bouquets. She made men happy + by asking them to hold some of her flowers while she danced; and then, + when she returned to take them, the gentlemen were steeped in such a gush + of sunny smiling that they stood bowing and grinning—even the wisest—but + felt as if the soft gush pushed them back a little; for the beauty which, + allured them defended her like a fiery halo. + </p> + <p> + It was understood that she was engaged to Mr. Alfred Dinks, her cousin, + who was already, or was to be, very rich. But there was apparently nothing + very marked in his devotion. + </p> + <p> + “It is so much better taste for young people who are engaged not to + make love in public,” said Mrs. Dinks, as she sat in grand conclave + of mammas and elderly ladies, who all understood her to mean her son and + niece, and entirely agreed with her. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile all the gentlemen who could find one of her moments disengaged + were walking, bowling, driving, riding, chatting, sitting, with Miss + Wayne. She smiled upon all, and sat apart in her smiling. Some foolish + young fellows tried to flirt with her. When they had fully developed their + intentions she smiled full in their faces, not insultingly nor familiarly, + but with a soft superiority. The foolish young fellows went down to light + their cigars and drink their brandy and water, feeling as if their faces + had been rubbed upon an iceberg, for not less lofty and pure were their + thoughts of her, and not less burning was their sense of her superb scorn. + </p> + <p> + But Arthur Merlin, the painter, who had come to pass a few days at + Saratoga on his way to Lake George, and whose few days had expanded into + the few weeks that Miss Wayne had been there—Arthur Merlin, the + painter, whose eyes were accustomed not only to look, but to see, observed + that Miss Wayne was constantly doing something. It was dance, drive, bowl, + ride, walk incessantly. From the earliest hour to the latest she was in + the midst of people and excitement. She gave herself scarcely time to + sleep. + </p> + <p> + The painter was introduced to her, and became one of her habitual + attendants. Every morning after breakfast Hope Wayne held a kind of court + upon the piazza. All the young men surrounded her and worshipped. + </p> + <p> + Arthur Merlin was intelligent and ingenuous. His imagination gave a kind + of airy grace to his conversation and manner. Passionately interested in + his art, he deserted its pursuit a little only when the observation of + life around him seemed to him a study as interesting. He and Miss Wayne + were sometimes alone together; but although she was conscious of a + peculiar sympathy with his tastes and character, she avoided him more than + any of the other young men. Mrs. Dagon said it was a pity Miss Wayne was + so cold and haughty to the poor painter. She thought that people might be + taught their places without cruelty. + </p> + <p> + Arthur Merlin constantly said to himself in a friendly way that if he had + been less in love with his art, or had not perceived that Miss Wayne had a + continual reserved thought, he might have fallen in love with her. As it + was, he liked her so much that he cared for the society of no other lady. + He read Byron with her sometimes when they went in little parties to the + lake, and somehow he and Hope found themselves alone under the trees in a + secluded spot, and the book open in his hand. + </p> + <p> + He also read to her one day a poem upon a cloud, so beautiful that Hope + Wayne’s cheek flushed, and she asked, eagerly, + </p> + <p> + “Whose is that?” + </p> + <p> + “It is one of Shelley’s, a friend of Byron’s.” + </p> + <p> + “But how different!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, they were different men. Listen to this.” + </p> + <p> + And the young man read the ode to a Sky-lark. + </p> + <p> + “How joyous it is!” said Hope; “but I feel the sadness.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I often feel that in people as well as in poems,” + replied Arthur, looking at her closely. + </p> + <p> + She colored a little—said that it was warm—and rose to go. + </p> + <p> + The cold black eyes of Miss Fanny Newt suddenly glittered upon them. + </p> + <p> + “Will you go home with us, Miss Wayne?” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, I am just coming;” and Hope passed into the wood. + </p> + <p> + When Arthur Merlin was left alone he quietly lighted a cigar, opened his + port-folio and spread it before him, then sharpened a pencil and began to + sketch. But while he looked at the tree before him, and mechanically + transferred it to the paper, he puffed and meditated. + </p> + <p> + He saw that Hope Wayne was constantly with other people, and yet he felt + that she was a woman who would naturally like her own society. He also saw + that there was no person then at Saratoga in whom she had such an interest + that she would prefer him to her own society. + </p> + <p> + And yet she was always seeking the distraction of other people. + </p> + <p> + Puff—puff—puff. + </p> + <p> + Then there was something that made the society of her own thoughts + unpleasant—almost intolerable. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Arthur Merlin vigorously rubbed out with a piece of stale bread a + false line he had drawn. + </p> + <p> + What is that something—or some-bod-y? + </p> + <p> + He stopped sketching, and puffed for a long time. + </p> + <p> + As he returned at sunset Hope Wayne was standing upon the piazza of the + hotel. + </p> + <p> + “Have you been successful?” asked she, dawning upon him. + </p> + <p> + “You shall judge.” + </p> + <p> + He showed her his sketch of a tree-stump. + </p> + <p> + “Good; but a little careless,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Do you draw, Miss Wayne?” + </p> + <p> + A curious light glimmered across her face, for she remembered where she + had last heard those words. She shrank a little, almost imperceptibly, as + if her eyes had been suddenly dazzled. Then a little more distantly—not + much more, but Arthur had remarked every thing—she said: + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I draw a little. Good-evening.” + </p> + <p> + “Stop, please, Miss Wayne!” exclaimed Arthur, as he saw that + she was going. She turned and smiled—a smile that seemed to him like + starlight, it was so clear and cool and dim. + </p> + <p> + “I have drawn this for you, Miss Wayne.” + </p> + <p> + She bent and took the sketch which he drew from his port-folio. + </p> + <p> + “It is Manfred in the Coliseum,” said he. + </p> + <p> + She glanced at it; but the smile faded entirely. Arthur stared at her in + astonishment as the blood slowly ebbed from her cheeks, then streamed back + again. The head of Manfred was the head of Abel Newt. Hope Wayne looked + from the sketch to the artist, searching him with her eye to discover if + he knew what he was doing. Arthur was sincerely unconscious. + </p> + <p> + Hope Wayne dropped the paper almost involuntarily. It floated into the + road. + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon, Mr. Merlin,” said she, making a step to + recover it. + </p> + <p> + He was before her, and handed it to her again. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you,” said she, quietly, and went in. + </p> + <p> + It was still twilight, and Arthur lighted a cigar and sat down to a + meditation. The result of it was clear enough. + </p> + <p> + “That head looks like somebody, and that somebody is Hope Wayne’s + secret.” Puff—puff—puff. + </p> + <p> + “Where did I get that head?” He could not remember. “Tut!” + cried he, suddenly bringing his chair down upon its legs with a force that + knocked his cigar out of his mouth, “I copied it from a head which + Jim Greenidge has, and which he says was one of his school-fellows.” + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile Hope Wayne had carefully locked the door of her room. Then she + hurriedly tore the sketch into the smallest possible pieces, laid them in + her hand, opened the window, and whiffed them away into the dark. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXIII. — BONIFACE NEWT, SON, AND CO., DRY GOODS ON + COMMISSION. + </h2> + <p> + Abel Newt smoked a great many cigars to enable him to see his position + clearly. + </p> + <p> + When he told his mother that he could not accompany her to the Springs + because he was about entering his father’s counting-room, it was not + so much because he was enamored of business as that his future relations + with Hope were entirely doubtful, and he did not wish to complicate them + by exposing himself to the chances of Saratoga. + </p> + <p> + “Business, of course, is the only career in this country, my son,” + said Boniface Newt. “What men want, and women too, is money. What is + this city of New York? A combination of men and machines for making money. + Every body respects a rich man. They may laugh at him behind his back. + They may sneer at his ignorance and awkwardness, and all that sort of + thing, but they respect his money. Now there’s old Jacob Van + Boozenberg. I say to you in strict confidence, my son, that there was + never a greater fool than that man. He absolutely knows nothing at all. + When he dies he will be no more missed in this world than an old dead + stage-horse who is made into a manure heap. He is coarse, and vulgar, and + mean. His daughter Kate married his clerk, young Tom Witchet—not a + cent, you know, but five hundred dollars salary. ‘Twas against the + old man’s will, and he shut his door, and his purse, and his heart. + He turned Witchet away; told his daughter that she might lie in the bed + she had made for herself; told Witchet that he was a rotten young + swindler, and that, as he had married his daughter for her money, he’d + be d——d if he wouldn’t be up with him, and deuce of a + cent should they get from him. They live I don’t know where, nor + how. Some of her old friends send her money—actually give + five-dollar bills to old Jacob Van Boozenberg’s daughter, somewhere + over by the North River. Every body knows it, you know; but, for all that, + we have to make bows to old Van B. Don’t we want accommodations? + Look here, Abel; if Jacob were not worth a million of dollars, he would be + of less consequence than the old fellow who sells apples at the corner of + his bank. But as it is, we all agree that he is a shrewd, sensible old + fellow; rough in some of his ways—full of little prejudices—rather + sharp; and as for Mrs. Tom Witchet, why, if girls will run away, and all + that sort of thing, they must take the consequences, you know. Of course + they must. Where should we be if every rich merchant’s daughters + were at the mercy of his clerks? I’m sorry for all this. It’s + sad, you know. It’s positively melancholy. It troubles me. Ah, yes! + where was I? Oh, I was saying that money is the respectable thing. And + mark, Abel, if this were the Millennium, things would be very different. + But it isn’t the Millennium. It’s give one and take two, if + you can get it. That’s what it is here; and let him who wants to, + kick against the pricks.” + </p> + <p> + Abel hung his legs over the arms of the office-chairs in the + counting-room, and listened gravely. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t suppose, Sir, that ‘tis money <i>as</i> money + that is worth having. It is only money as the representative of + intelligence and refinement, of books, pictures, society—as a vast + influence and means of charity; is it not, Sir?” + </p> + <p> + Upon which Mr. Abel Newt blew a prodigious cloud of smoke. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Boniface Newt responded, “Oh fiddle! that’s all very fine. + But my answer to that is Jacob Van Boozenberg.” + </p> + <p> + “Bless my soul! here he comes. Abel put your legs down! throw that + cigar away!” + </p> + <p> + The great man came in. His clothes were snuffy and baggy—so was his + face. + </p> + <p> + “Good-mornin’, Mr. Newt. Beautiful mornin’. I sez to ma + this mornin’, ma, sez I, I should like to go to the country to-day, + sez I. Go ‘long; pa! sez she. Werry well, sez I, I’ll go + ‘long if you’ll go too. Ma she laughed; she know’d I + wasn’t in earnest. She know’d ‘twasn’t only a + joke.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Van Boozenberg drew out a large red bandana handkerchief, and blew his + nose as if it had been a trumpet sounding a charge. + </p> + <p> + Messrs. Newt & Son smiled sympathetically. The junior partner + observed, cheerfully, + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Sir.” + </p> + <p> + The millionaire stared at the young man. + </p> + <p> + “Ma’s going to Saratogy,” remarked Mr. Van Boozenberg. + “She said she wanted to go. Werry well, sez I, ma, go.” + </p> + <p> + Messrs. Newt & Son smiled deferentially, and hoped Mrs. Van B. would + enjoy herself. + </p> + <p> + “No, I ain’t no fear of that,” replied the millionaire. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Van Boozenberg,” said Boniface Newt, half-hesitatingly, + “you were very kind to undertake that little favor—I—I—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! yes, I come in to say I done that as you wanted. It’s all + right.” + </p> + <p> + “And, Mr. Van Boozenberg, I am pleased to introduce to you my son + Abel, who has just entered the house.” + </p> + <p> + Abel rose and bowed. + </p> + <p> + “Have you been in the store?” asked the old gentleman. + </p> + <p> + “No, Sir, I’ve been at school.” + </p> + <p> + “What! to school till now? Why, you must be twenty years old!” + exclaimed Mr. Van Boozenberg, in great surprise. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Sir, in my twentieth year.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, Mr. Newt,” said Mr. Van B., with the air of a man who is + in entire perplexity, “what on earth has your boy been doing at + school until now?” + </p> + <p> + “It was his grandfather’s will, Sir,” replied Boniface + Newt. + </p> + <p> + “Well, well, a great pity! a werry great pity! Ma wanted one of our + boys to go to college. Ma, sez I, what on earth should Corlaer go to + college for? To get learnin’, pa, sez ma. To get learnin’! sez + I. I’ll get him learnin’, sez I, down to the store, Werry + well, sez ma. Werry well, sez I, and so ‘twas; and I think I done a + good thing by him.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Van Boozenberg talked at much greater length of his general + intercourse with ma. Mr. Boniface Newt regarded him more and more + contemptuously. + </p> + <p> + But the familiar style of the old gentleman’s conversation begot a + corresponding familiarity upon the part of Mr. Newt. Mr. Van Boozenberg + learned incidentally that Abel had never been in business before. He + observed the fresh odor of cigars in the counting-room—he remarked + the extreme elegance of Abel’s attire, and the inferential tailor’s + bills. He learned that Mrs. Newt and the family were enjoying themselves + at Saratoga. He derived from the conversation and his observation that + there were very large family expenses to be met by Boniface Newt. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile that gentleman had continually no other idea of his visitor than + that he was insufferable. He had confessed to Abel that the old man was + shrewd. His shrewdness was a proverb. But he is a dull, ignorant, + ungrammatical, and ridiculous old ass for all that, thought Boniface Newt; + and the said ass sitting in Boniface Newt’s counting-room, and + amusing and fatiguing Messrs. Newt & Son with his sez I’s, and + sez shes, and his mas, and his done its, was quietly making up his mind + that the house of Newt & Son had received no accession of capital or + strength by the entrance of the elegant Abel into a share of its active + management, and that some slight whispers which he had heard remotely + affecting the standing of the house must be remembered. + </p> + <p> + “A werry pretty store you have here, Mr. Newt. Find Pearl Street as + good as Beaver?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes, Sir,” replied Boniface Newt, bowing and rubbing his + hands. “Call again, Sir; it’s a rare pleasure to see you here, + Mr. Van Boozenberg.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you know, ma, sez she, now pa you mustn’t sit in + draughts. It’s so sort of draughty down town in your horrid offices, + pa, sez she—sez ma, you know—that I’m awful ‘fraid + you’ll catch your death, sez she, and I must mind ma, you know. + Good-mornin’, Mr. Newt, a werry good-mornin’, Sir,” said + the old gentleman, as he stepped out. + </p> + <p> + “Do you have much of that sort of thing to undergo in business, + father?” asked Abel, when Jacob Van Boozenberg had gone. + </p> + <p> + “My dear son,” replied the older Mr. Newt, “the world is + made up of fools, bores, and knaves. Some of them speak good grammar and + use white cambric pocket-handkerchiefs, some do not. It’s dreadful, + I know, and I am rather tired of a world where you are busy driving + donkeys with a chance of their presently driving you.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Boniface Newt shook his foot pettishly. + </p> + <p> + “Father,” said Abel. + </p> + <p> + “Well.” + </p> + <p> + “Which is Uncle Lawrence—a fool, a bore, or a knave?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Boniface Newt’s foot stopped, and, after looking at his son for + a few moments, he answered: + </p> + <p> + “Abel, your Uncle Lawrence is a singular man. He’s a sort of + exception to general rules. I don’t understand him, and he doesn’t + help me to. When he was a boy he went to India and lived there several + years. He came home once and staid a little while, and then went back + again, although I believe he was rich. It was mysterious, I never could + quite understand it—though, of course, I believe there was some + woman in it. Neither your mother nor I could ever find out much about it. + By-and-by he came home again, and has been in business here ever since. He’s + a bachelor, you know, and his business is different from mine, and he has + queer friends and tastes, so that I don’t often see him except when + he comes to the house, and that isn’t very often.” + </p> + <p> + “He’s rich, isn’t he?” asked Abel. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, he’s very rich, and that’s the curious part of it,” + answered his father, “and he gives away a great deal of money in + what seems to me a very foolish way. He’s a kind of dreamer—an + impracticable man. He pays lots of poor people’s rents, and I try to + show him that he is merely encouraging idleness and crime. But I can’t + make him see it. He declares that, if a sewing-girl makes but two dollars + a week and has a helpless mother and three small sisters to support + besides rent and fuel, and so on, it’s not encouraging idleness to + help her with the rent. Well, I suppose it <i>is</i> hard sometimes with + some of those people. But you’ve no right to go by particular cases + in these matters. You ought to go by the general rule, as I constantly + tell him. ‘Yes,’ says he, in that smiling way of his which + does put me almost beside myself, ‘yes, you shall go by the general + rule, and let people starve; and I’ll go by particular cases, and + feed ‘em.’ Then he is just as rich as if he were an old flint + like Van Boozenberg. Well, it is the funniest, foggiest sort of world. I + swear I don’t see into it at all—I give it all up. I only know + one thing; that it’s first in first win. And that’s extremely + sad, too, you know. Yes, very sad! Where was I? Ah yes! that we are all + dirty scoundrels.” + </p> + <p> + Abel had relighted his cigar, after Mr. Van Boozenberg’s departure, + and filled the office with smoke until the atmosphere resembled the fog in + which his father seemed to be floundering. + </p> + <p> + “Abel, merchants ought not to smoke cigars in their counting-rooms,” + said his father, in a half-pettish way. + </p> + <p> + “No, I suppose not,” replied Abel, lightly; “they ought + to smoke other people. But tell me, father, do you know nothing about the + woman that you say was mixed up with Uncle Lawrence’s affairs?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing at all” + </p> + <p> + “Not even her name?” + </p> + <p> + “Not a syllable.” + </p> + <p> + “Pathetic and mysterious,” rejoined Abel; “a case of + unhappy love, I suppose.” + </p> + <p> + “If it is so,” said Mr. Newt, “your Uncle Lawrence is + the happiest miserable man I ever knew.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, there’s a difference among men, you know, father. Some + wear their miseries like an order in their button-holes. Some do as the + Spartan boy did when the wolf bit him.” + </p> + <p> + “How’d the Spartan boy do?” asked Mr. Newt. + </p> + <p> + “He covered it up, laughed, and dropped dead.” + </p> + <p> + “Gracious!” said Mr. Boniface Newt. + </p> + <p> + “Or like Boccaccio’s basil-pot,” continued Abel, calmly; + pouring forth smoke, while his befogged papa inquired, + </p> + <p> + “What on earth do you mean by Boccaccio’s basil-pot?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, a girl’s lover had his head cut off, and she put it in a + flower-pot, and covered it up that way, and instead of laughing herself, + set flowers to blooming over it.” + </p> + <p> + “Goodness me, Abel, what are you talking about?” + </p> + <p> + “Of Love, the canker-worm, Sir,” replied Abel, imperturbable, + and emitting smoke. + </p> + <p> + It was evidently not the busy season in the Dry-goods Commission House of + Boniface Newt & Son. + </p> + <p> + When Mr. Van Boozenberg went home to dinner, he said: + </p> + <p> + “Ma, you’d better improve this werry pleasant weather and + start for Saratogy as soon as you can. Mr. Boniface Newt tells me his wife + and family is there, and you’ll find them werry pleasant folks. I + jes’ want you to write me all about ‘em. You see, ma, one of + our directors to-day sez to me, after board, sez he, ‘The Boniface + Newts is a going it slap-dash up to Saratogy.’ I laughed, and sez I, + ‘Why shouldn’t they? but I don’t believe they be,’ + sez I. Sez he, ‘I’ll bet you a new shawl for your wife they + be,’ sez he. Sez I, ‘Done.’ So you see ma, if so be they + be, werry well. A new shawl for some folks, you know; only jes’ + write me all about it.” + </p> + <p> + Ma was not reluctant to depart at the earliest possible moment. Her son + Corlaer, whose education had been intercepted by his father, was of + opinion, when he heard that the Newts were at Saratoga, that his health + imperatively required Congress water. But papa had other views. + </p> + <p> + “Corlaer, I wish you would make the acquaintance of young Mr. Newt. + I done it to-day. He is a well-edicated young man; I shall ask him to + dinner next Sunday. Don’t be out of the way.” + </p> + <p> + Jacob Van Boozenberg having dined, arose from the table, seated himself in + a spacious easy-chair, and drawing forth the enormous red bandana, spread + it over his head and face, and after a few muscular twitches, and a + violent nodding of the head, which caused the drapery to fall off several + times, finally propped the refractory head against the back of the chair, + and bobbing and twitching no longer, dropped off into temporary oblivion. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXIV. — “QUEEN AND HUNTRESS.” + </h2> + <p> + Hope Wayne leaned out of the window from which she had just scattered the + fragments of the drawing Arthur Merlin had given her. The night was soft + and calm, and trees, not far away, entirely veiled her from observation. + </p> + <p> + She thought how different this window was from that other one at home, + also shaded by the trees; and what a different girl it was who looked from + it. She recalled that romantic, musing, solitary girl of Pinewood, who + lived alone with a silent, grave old nurse, and the quiet years that + passed there like the shadows and sunlight over the lawn. She remembered + the dark, handsome face that seemed to belong to the passionate poems that + girl had read, and the wild dreams she had dreamed in the still, old + garden. In the hush of the summer twilight she heard again the rich voice + that seemed to that other girl of Pinewood sweeter than the music of the + verses, and felt the penetrating glance, that had thrilled the heart of + that girl until her red cheek was pale. + </p> + <p> + How well for that girl that the lips which made the music had never + whispered love! Because—because— + </p> + <p> + Hope raised herself from lightly leaning on the window-sill as the thought + flashed in her mind, and she stood erect, as if straightened by a sudden, + sharp, almost insupportable pain—“because,” she went on + saying in her mind, “had they done so, that other romantic, solitary + girl at Pinewood”—dear child! Hope’s heart trembled for + her—“might have confessed that she loved!” + </p> + <p> + Hope Wayne clenched her hands, and, all alone in her dim room, flushed, + and then turned pale, and a kind of cold splendor settled on her face, so + that if Arthur Merlin could have seen her he would have called her Diana. + </p> + <p> + During the moment in which she thought these things—for it was + scarcely more—the little white bits of paper floated and fell + beneath her. She watched them as they disappeared, conscious of them, but + not thinking of them. They looked like rose-leaves, they were so pure; and + how silently they sank into the darkness below! + </p> + <p> + And if she had confessed she loved, thought Hope, how would it be with + that girl now? Might she not be standing in the twilight, watching her + young hopes scattered like rose-leaves and disappearing in the dark? + </p> + <p> + She clasped her hands before her, and walked gently up and down the room. + The full moon was rising, and the tender, tranquil light streamed through + the trees into her chamber. + </p> + <p> + But, she thought, since she did not—since the young girl dreamed, + perhaps only for a moment, perhaps so very vaguely, of what might have + been—she has given nothing, she has lost nothing. There was a + pleasant day which she remembers, far back in her childhood—oh! so + pleasant! oh! so sunny, and flowery, and serene! A pleasant day, when + something came that never comes—that never can come—but once. + </p> + <p> + She stopped by the window, and looked out to see if she could yet discover + any signs of the scattered paper. She strained her eyes down toward the + ground. But it was entirely dark there. All the light was above—all + the light was peaceful and melancholy, from the moon. + </p> + <p> + She laid her face in that moonlight upon the window-sill, and covered it + with her hands. The low wind shook the leaves, and the trees rustled + softly as if they whispered to her. She heard them in her heart. She knew + what they were saying. They sang to her of that other girl and her wishes, + and struggles and prayers. + </p> + <p> + Then came the fierce, passionate, profuse weeping—the spring freshet + of a woman’s soul. + </p> + <p> + —She heard a low knock at the door. She remained perfectly silent. + Another knock. Still she did not move. + </p> + <p> + The door was tried. + </p> + <p> + Hope Wayne raised her head, but said nothing. + </p> + <p> + There was a louder knock, and the voice of Fanny Newt: + </p> + <p> + “Miss Wayne, are you asleep? Please let me in.” + </p> + <p> + It was useless to resist longer. Hope Wayne opened the door, and Fanny + Newt entered. Hope sat down with her back to the window. + </p> + <p> + “I heard you come in,” said Fanny, “and I did not hear + you go out; so I knew you were still here. But I was afraid you would + oversleep yourself, and miss the ball.” + </p> + <p> + Hope replied that she had not been sleeping. + </p> + <p> + “Not sleeping, but sitting in the moonlight, all alone?” said + Fanny. “How romantic!” + </p> + <p> + “Is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, of course it is! Why, Mr. Dinks and I are romantic every + evening. He <i>will</i> come and sit in the moonlight, and listen to the + music. What an agreeable fellow he is!” And Fanny tried to see Hope’s + face, which was entirely hidden. + </p> + <p> + “He is my cousin, you know,” replied Hope. + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes, we all know that; and a dangerous relationship it is too,” + said Fanny. + </p> + <p> + “How dangerous?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, cousins are such privileged people. They have all the intimacy + of brothers, without the brotherly right of abusing us. In fact, a cousin + is naturally half-way between a brother and a lover.” + </p> + <p> + “Having neither brother nor lover,” said Hope, quietly, + “I stop half-way with the cousin.” + </p> + <p> + Fanny laughed her cold little laugh. “And you mean to go on the + other half, I suppose?” said she. + </p> + <p> + “Why do you suppose so?” asked Hope. + </p> + <p> + “It is generally understood, I believe,” said Fanny, “that + Mr. Alfred Dinks will soon lead to the hymeneal altar his beautiful and + accomplished cousin, Miss Hope Wayne. At least, for further information + inquire of Mrs. Budlong Dinks.” And Fanny laughed again. + </p> + <p> + “I was not aware of the honor that awaited me,” replied Hope. + </p> + <p> + “Oh no! of course not. The family reasons, I suppose—” + </p> + <p> + “My mind is as much in the dark as my body,” said Hope. + “I really do not see the point of the joke.” + </p> + <p> + “Still you don’t seem very much surprised at it.” + </p> + <p> + “Why should I be? Every girl is at the mercy of tattlers.” + </p> + <p> + “Exactly,” said Fanny. “They’ve had me engaged to + I don’t know how many people. I suppose they’ll doom Alfred + Dinks to me next. You won’t be jealous, will you?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Hope, “I’ll congratulate him.” + </p> + <p> + Fanny Newt could not see Hope Wayne’s face, and her voice betrayed + nothing. She, in fact, knew no more than when she came in. + </p> + <p> + “Good-by, dear, <i>à ce soir!</i>” said she, as she sailed out + of the room. + </p> + <p> + Hope lingered for some time at the window. Then she rang for candles, and + sat down to write a letter. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0025" id="link2HCH0025"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXV. — A STATESMAN—AND STATESWOMAN. + </h2> + <p> + In the same twilight Mrs. Dinks and Alfred sat together in her room. + </p> + <p> + “Alfred, my dear, I see that Bowdoin Beacon drives out your Cousin + Hope a good deal.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Dinks arranged her cap-ribbon as if she were at present mainly + interested in that portion of her dress. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, a good deal,” replied Mr. Alfred, in an uncertain tone, + for he always felt uncomfortably at the prospect of a conversation with + his mother. + </p> + <p> + “I am surprised he should do so,” continued Mrs. Dinks, with + extraordinary languor, as if she should undoubtedly fall fast asleep + before the present interview terminated. And yet she was fully awake. + </p> + <p> + “Why shouldn’t he drive her out if he wants to?” + inquired Alfred. + </p> + <p> + “Now, Alfred, be careful. Don’t expose yourself even to me. It + is too hot to be so absurd. I suppose there is some sort of honor left + among young men still, isn’t there?” + </p> + <p> + And the languid mamma performed a very well-executed yawn. + </p> + <p> + “Honor? I suppose there is. What do you mean?” replied Alfred. + </p> + <p> + Mamma yawned again. + </p> + <p> + “How drowsy one does feel here! I am so sleepy! What was I saying? + Oh I remember. Perhaps, however, Mr. Beacon doesn’t know. That is + probably the reason. He doesn’t know. Well, in that case it is not + so extraordinary. But I should think he must have seen, or inferred, or + heard. A man may be very stupid; but he has no right to be so stupid as + that. How many glasses do you drink at the spring in the morning, Alfred? + Not more than six at the outside, I hope. Well, I believe I’ll take + a little nap.” + </p> + <p> + She played with her cap string, somehow as if she were an angler playing a + fish. There is capital trouting at Saratoga—or was, thirty years + ago. You may see to this day a good many fish that were caught there, and + with every kind of line and bait. + </p> + <p> + Alfred bit again. + </p> + <p> + “I wish you wouldn’t talk in such a puzzling kind of way, + mother. What do you mean about his knowing, and hearing, and inferring?” + </p> + <p> + “Come, come, Alfred, you are getting too cunning. Why, you sly dog, + do you think you can impose upon me with an air of ignorance because I am + so sleepy. Heigh-ho.” + </p> + <p> + Another successful yawn. Sportsmen are surely the best sport in the world. + </p> + <p> + “Now, Alfred,” continued his mother, “are you so silly + as to suppose for one moment that Bowdoin Beacon has not seen the whole + thing and known it from the beginning?” + </p> + <p> + “Why,” exclaimed Alfred, in alarm, “do you?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course. He has eyes and ears, I suppose, and every body + understood it.” + </p> + <p> + “Did they?” asked Alfred, bewildered and wretched; “I + didn’t know it.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course. Every body knew it must be so, and agreed that it was + highly proper—in fact the only thing.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, certainly. Clearly the only thing,” replied Alfred, + wondering whether his mother and he meant the same thing. + </p> + <p> + “And therefore I say it is not quite honorable in Beacon to drive + her out in such a marked manner. And I may as well say at once that I + think you had better settle the thing immediately. The world understands + it already, so it will be a mere private understanding among ourselves, + much more agreeable for all parties. Perhaps this evening even—hey, + Alfred?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Dinks adjusted herself upon the sofa in a sort of final manner, as if + the affair were now satisfactorily arranged. + </p> + <p> + “It’s no use talking that way, mother; it’s all done.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Dinks appeared sleepy no longer. She bounced like an India-rubber + ball. Even the cap-ribbons were left to shift for themselves. She turned + and clasped Alfred in her arms. + </p> + <p> + “My blessed son!” + </p> + <p> + Then followed a moment of silent rapture, during which she moistened his + shirt-collar with maternal tears. + </p> + <p> + “Alfred,” whispered she, “are you really engaged?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes’m.” + </p> + <p> + She squeezed him as if he were a bag of the million dollars of which she + felt herself to be henceforth mistress. + </p> + <p> + “You dear, good boy! Then you <i>are</i> sly after all!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes’m, I’m afraid I am,” rejoined Alfred very + uncomfortably, and with an extremely ridiculous and nervous impression + that his mother was congratulating him upon something she knew nothing + about. + </p> + <p> + “Dear, <i>dear</i>, DEAR boy!” said Mrs. Dinks, with a + crescendo affection and triumph. While she was yet embracing him, his + father, the unemployed statesman, the Honorable Budlong Dinks, entered. + </p> + <p> + To the infinite surprise of that gentleman, his wife rose, came to him, + put her arm affectionately in his, and leaning her head upon his shoulder, + whispered exultingly, and not very softly, + </p> + <p> + “It’s done without the wagon. Our dear boy has justified our + fondest hopes, Budlong.” + </p> + <p> + The statesman slipped his shoulder from under her head. If there were one + thing of which he was profoundly persuaded it was that a really great man—a + man to whom important public functions may be properly intrusted—must, + under no circumstances, be wheedled by his wife. He must gently, but + firmly, teach her her proper sphere. She must <i>not</i> attempt to bribe + that judgment to which the country naturally looks in moments of + difficulty. + </p> + <p> + Having restored his wife to an upright position, the honorable gentleman + looked upon her with distinguished consideration; and, playing with the + seals that hung at the end of his watch-ribbon, asked her, with the most + protective kindness in the world, what she was talking about. + </p> + <p> + She laid her cap-ribbons properly upon her shoulder, smoothed her dress, + and began to fan herself in a kind of complacent triumph, as she answered, + </p> + <p> + “Alfred is engaged as we wished.” + </p> + <p> + The honorable gentleman beamed approval with as much cordiality as + statesmen who are also fathers of private families, as well as of the + public, ought to indulge toward their children. Shaking the hand of his + son as if his shoulder wanted oiling, he said, + </p> + <p> + “Marriage is a most important relation. Young men can not be too + cautious in regard to it. It is not an affair of the feelings merely; but + common sense dictates that when new relations are likely to arise, + suitable provision should be made. Hence every well-regulated person + considers the matter from a pecuniary point of view. The pecuniary point + of view is indispensable. We can do without sentiment in this world, for + sentiment is a luxury. We can not dispense with money, because money is a + necessity. It gives me, therefore, great pleasure to hear that the choice + of my son has evinced the good sense which, I may say without affectation, + I hope he has inherited, and has justified the pains and expense which I + have been at in his education. My son, I congratulate you. Mrs. Dinks, I + congratulate you.” + </p> + <p> + The honorable gentleman thereupon shook hands with his wife and son, as if + he were congratulating them upon having such an eloquent and dignified + husband and father, and then blew his nose gravely and loudly. Having + restored his handkerchief, he smiled in general, as it were—as if he + hung out signals of amity with all mankind upon condition of good behavior + on their part. + </p> + <p> + Poor Alfred was more speechless than ever. He felt very warm and red, and + began to surmise that to be engaged was not necessarily to be free from + carking care. He was sorely puzzled to know how to break the real news to + his parents: + </p> + <p> + “Oh! dear me,” thought Alfred; “oh! dear me, I wonder if + Fanny wouldn’t do it. I guess I’d better ask her. I wonder if + Hope would have had me! Oh! dear me. I wonder if old Newt is rich. How’d + I happen to do it? Oh! dear me.” + </p> + <p> + He felt very much depressed indeed. + </p> + <p> + “Well, mother, I’m going down,” said he. + </p> + <p> + “My dear, dear son! Kiss me, Alfred,” replied his mother. + </p> + <p> + He stooped and kissed her cheek. + </p> + <p> + “How happy we shall all be!” murmured she. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, very, very happy!” answered Alfred, as he opened the + door. + </p> + <p> + But as he closed it behind him, the best billiard-player at the + Trimountain billiard-rooms said, ruefully, in his heart, while he went to + his beloved, + </p> + <p> + “Oh! dear me! Oh!—dear—me! How’d I happen to do + it?” + </p> + <p> + Fanny Newt, of course, had heard from Alfred of the interview with his + mother on the same evening, as they sat in Mrs. Newt’s parlor before + going into the ball. Fanny was arrayed in a charming evening costume. It + was low about the neck, which, except that it was very white, descended + like a hard, round beach from the low shrubbery of her back hair to the + shore of the dress. It was very low tide; but there was a gentle ripple of + laces and ribbons that marked the line of division. Mr. Alfred Dinks had + taken a little refreshment since the conversation with his mother, and + felt at the moment quite equal to any emergency. + </p> + <p> + “The fact is, Fanny dear,” said he, “that mother has + always insisted that I should marry Hope Wayne. Now Hope Wayne is a very + pretty girl, a deuced pretty girl; but, by George! she’s not the + only girl in the world—hey, Fanny?” + </p> + <p> + At this point Mr. Dinks made free with the lips of Miss Newt. + </p> + <p> + “Pah! Alfred, my dear, you have been drinking wine,” said she, + moving gently away from him. + </p> + <p> + “Of course I have, darling; haven’t I dined?” replied + Alfred, renewing the endearment. + </p> + <p> + Now Fanny’s costume was too careful, her hair too elaborately + arranged, to withstand successfully these osculatory onsets. + </p> + <p> + “Alfred, dear, we may as well understand these little matters at + once,” said she. + </p> + <p> + “What little matters, darling?” inquired Mr. Dinks, with + interest. He was unwontedly animated, but, as he explained—he had + dined. + </p> + <p> + “Why, this kissing business.” + </p> + <p> + “You dear!” cried Alfred, impetuously committing a fresh + breach of the peace. + </p> + <p> + “Stop, Alfred,” said Fanny, imperiously. “I won’t + have this. I mean,” said she, in a mollified tone, remembering that + she was only engaged, not married—“I mean that you tumble me + dreadfully. Now, dear, I’ll make a little rule. You know you don’t + want your Fanny to look mussed up, do you, dear?” and she touched + his cheek with the tip of one finger. Dinks shook his head negatively. + “Well, then, you shall only kiss me when I am in my morning-dress, + and one kiss, with hands off, when we say good-night.” + </p> + <p> + She smiled a little cold, hard, black smile, smoothing her rumpled + feathers, and darting glances at herself in the large mirror opposite, as + if she considered her terms the most reasonable in the world. + </p> + <p> + “It seems to me very little,” said Alfred Dinks, + discontentedly; “besides, you always look best when you are dressed.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, love,” returned Fanny; “just remember the + morning-dress, please, for I shall; and now tell me all about your + conversation with your mother.” + </p> + <p> + Alfred told the story. Fanny listened with alarm. She had watched Mrs. + Dinks closely during the whole summer, and she was sure—for Fanny + knew herself thoroughly, and reasoned accordingly—that the lady + would stop at nothing in the pursuit of her object. + </p> + <p> + “What a selfish woman it is!” thought Fanny. “Not + content with Alfred’s share of the inheritance, she wants to bring + the whole Burt fortune into her family. How insatiable some people are!” + </p> + <p> + “Alfred, has your mother seen Hope since she talked with you?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m sure I don’t know.” + </p> + <p> + “Why didn’t you warn her not to?” + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t think of it.” + </p> + <p> + “But why didn’t you think of it? If you’d only have put + her off, we could have got time,” said Fanny, a little pettishly. + </p> + <p> + “Got time for what?” asked Alfred, blankly. + </p> + <p> + “Alfred,” said Fanny, coaxing herself to speak gently, “I’m + afraid you will be trying, dear. I am very much afraid of it.” + </p> + <p> + The lover looked doubtful and alarmed. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t look like a fool, Alfred, for Heaven’s sake!” + cried Fanny; but she immediately recovered herself, and said, with a + smile, “You see, dear, how I can scold if I want to. But you’ll + never let me, I know.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Dinks hoped certainly that he never should. “But I sha’n’t + be a very hard husband, Fanny. I shall let you do pretty much as you want + to.” + </p> + <p> + “Dearest, I know you will,” rejoined his charmer. “But + the thing is now to know whether your mother has seen Hope Wayne.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll go and ask her,” said Alfred, rising. + </p> + <p> + “My dear fellow,” replied Fanny, with her mouth screwed into a + semblance of smiling, “you’ll drive me distracted. I must + insist on common sense. It is too delicate a question for you to ask.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Dinks grinned and look bewildered. Then he assumed a very serious + expression. + </p> + <p> + “It doesn’t seem to me to be hard to ask my mother if she has + seen my cousin.” + </p> + <p> + “Pooh! you silly—I mean, my precious darling, your mother’s + too smart for you. She’d have every thing out of you in a twinkling.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose she would,” said Alfred, meekly. + </p> + <p> + Fanny Newt wagged her foot very rapidly, and looked fixedly upon the + floor. Alfred gazed at her admiringly—thought what a splendid Mrs. + Alfred Dinks he had secured, and smacked his lips as if he were tasting + her. He kissed his hand to her as he sat. He kissed the air toward her. He + might as well have blown kisses to the brown spire of Trinity Church. + </p> + <p> + “Alfred, you must solemnly promise me one thing,” she said, at + length. + </p> + <p> + “Sweet,” said Alfred, who began to feel that he had dined very + much, indeed—“sweet, come here!” + </p> + <p> + Fanny flushed and wrinkled her brow. Mr. Dinks was frightened. + </p> + <p> + “Oh no, dear—no, not at all,” said he. + </p> + <p> + “My love,” said she, in a voice as calm but as black as her + eyes, “do you promise or not? That’s all.” + </p> + <p> + Poor Dinks! He said Yes, in a feeble way, and hoped she wouldn’t be + angry. Indeed—indeed, he didn’t know how much he had been + drinking. But the fellers kept ordering wine, and he had to drink on; and, + oh! dear, he wouldn’t do so again if Fanny would only forgive him. + Dear, dear Fanny, please to forgive a miserable feller! And Miss Newt’s + betrothed sobbed, and wept, and half writhed on the sofa in maudlin woe. + </p> + <p> + Fanny stood erect, patting the floor with her foot and looking at this + spectacle. She thought she had counted the cost. But the price seemed at + this instant a little high. Twenty-two years old now, and if she lived to + be only seventy, then forty-eight years of Alfred Dinks! It was a very + large sum, indeed. But Fanny bethought her of the balm in Gilead. + Forty-eight years of married life was very different from an engagement of + that period. <i>Courage, ma chère!</i> + </p> + <p> + “Alfred,” said she, at length, “listen to me. Go to your + mother before she goes to bed to-night, and say to her that there are + reasons why she must not speak of your engagement to any body, not even to + Hope Wayne. And if she begins to pump you, tell her that it is the + especial request of the lady—whom you may call ‘she,’ + you needn’t say Hope—that no question of any kind shall be + asked, or the engagement may be broken. Do you understand, dear?” + </p> + <p> + Fanny leaned toward him coaxingly as she asked the question. + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes, I understand,” replied Alfred. + </p> + <p> + “And you’ll do just as Fanny says, won’t you, dear?” + said she, even more caressingly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I will, I promise,” answered Alfred. + </p> + <p> + “You may kiss me, dear,” said Fanny, leaning toward him, so + that the operation need not disarrange her toilet. + </p> + <p> + Alfred Dinks kept his word; and his mother was perfectly willing to do as + she was asked. She smiled with intelligence whenever she saw her son and + his cousin together, and remarked that Hope Wayne’s demeanor did not + in the least betray the engagement. And she smiled with the same + intelligence when she remarked how devoted Alfred was to Fanny Newt. + </p> + <p> + “Can it possibly be that Alfred knows so much?” she asked + herself, wondering at the long time during which her son’s cunning + had lain dormant. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0026" id="link2HCH0026"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXVI. — THE PORTRAIT AND THE MINIATURE. + </h2> + <p> + The golden days of September glimmered through the dark sighing trees, and + relieved the white brightness that had burned upon the hills during the + dog-days. Mr. Burt drove into town and drove out. Dr. Peewee called at + short intervals, played backgammon with his parishioner, listened to his + stories, told stories of his own, and joined him in his little excursions + to the West Indies. Mrs. Simcoe was entirely alone. + </p> + <p> + One day Hiram brought her a letter, which she took to her own room and sat + down by the window to read. + </p> + <h3> + “SARATOGA. + </h3> + <p> + “DEAR AUNTY,—We’re about going away, and we have been so + gay that you would suppose I had had ‘society’ enough. Do you + remember our talk? There have been a great many people here from every + part of the country; and it has been nothing but bowling, walking, riding, + dancing, dining at the lake, and listening to music in the moonlight, all + the time. Aunt Dinks has been very kind, but although I have met a great + many people I have not made many friends. I have seen nobody whom I like + as much as Amy Waring or Mr. Lawrence Newt, of whom I wrote you from New + York, and they have neither of them been here. I think of Pinewood a great + deal, but it seems to me long and long ago that I used to live there. It + is strange how much older and different I feel. But I never forget you, + dearest Aunty, and I should like this very moment to stand by your side at + your window as I used to, and look out at the hills, or, better still, to + lie in your lap or on my bed, and hear you sing one of the dear old hymns. + I thought I had forgotten them until lately. But I remember them very + often now. I think of Pinewood a great deal, and I love you dearly; and + yet somehow I do not feel as if I cared to go back there to live. Isn’t + that strange? Give my love to Grandpa, and tell him I am neither engaged + to a foreign minister, nor a New York merchant, nor a Southern planter—nor + to any body else. But he must keep up heart, for there’s plenty of + time yet. Good-by, dear Aunty. I seem to hear you singing, + </p> + <p> + “‘Oh that I now the rest might know!’ + </p> + <p> + “Do you know how often you used to sing that? Good-by. + </p> + <p> + “Your affectionate, HOPE.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Simcoe held the letter in her hand for a long time, looking, as + usual, out of the window. + </p> + <p> + Presently she rose, and went to a bureau, and unlocked a drawer with a key + that she carried in her pocket. Taking out an ebony box like a casket, she + unlocked that in turn, and then lifted from it a morocco case, evidently a + miniature. She returned to her chair and seated herself again, swaying her + body gently to and fro as if confirming some difficult resolution, but + with the same inscrutable expression upon her face. Still holding the case + in her hands unopened, she murmured: + </p> + <p> + “I want a sober mind, A self-renouncing will, That tramples down and + casts behind The baits of pleasing ill.” + </p> + <p> + She repeated the whole hymn several times, as if it were a kind of spell + or incantation, and while she was yet saying it she opened the miniature. + </p> + <p> + The western light streamed over the likeness of a man of a gallant, + graceful air, in whom the fires of youth were not yet burned out, and in + whose presence there might be some peculiar fascination. The hair was + rather long and fair—the features were handsomely moulded, but wore + a slightly jaded expression, which often seems to a woman an air of + melancholy, but which a man would have recognized at once as the result of + dissipation. There was a singular cast in the eye, and a kind of lofty, + irresistible command in the whole aspect, which appeared to be quite as + much an assumption of manner as a real superiority. In fact it was the + likeness of what is technically called a man of the world, whose frank + insolence and symmetry of feature pass for manly beauty and composure. + </p> + <p> + The miniature was in the face of a gold locket, on the back of which there + was a curl of the same fair hair. It was so fresh and glossy that it might + have been cut off the day before. But the quaintness of the setting and + the costume of the portrait showed that it had been taken many years + previous, and that in the order of nature the original was probably dead. + </p> + <p> + As Mrs. Simcoe held the miniature in both hands and looked at it, her body + still rocked over it, and her lips still murmured. + </p> + <p> + Then rocking and murmuring stopped together, and she seemed like one + listening to music or the ringing of distant bells. + </p> + <p> + And as she sat perfectly still in the golden September sunshine, it was as + if it had shone into her soul; so that a softer light streamed into her + eyes, and the hard inscrutability of her face melted as by some internal + warmth, and a tender rejuvenescence somehow blossomed out upon her cheeks + until all the sweetness became sadness, and heavy tears dropped from her + eyes upon the picture. + </p> + <p> + Then, with the old harshness stealing into her face again, she rose + calmly, carrying the miniature in her hand, and went out of the room, and + down the stairs into the library, which was opposite the parlor in which + Abel Newt had seen the picture of old Grandpa Burt at the age of ten, + holding a hoop and book. + </p> + <p> + There were book-shelves upon every side but one—stately ranges of + well-ordered books in substantial old calf and gilt English bindings, and + so carefully placed upon the shelves, in such methodical distribution of + shapes and sizes, that the whole room had an air of preternatural + propriety utterly foreign to a library. It seemed the most select and + aristocratic society of books—much too fine to permit the excitement + of interest in any thing they contained—much too high-bred to be of + the slightest use in imparting information. Glass doors were carefully + closed over them and locked, as if the books were beatified and laid away + in shrines. And the same solemn order extended to the library table, which + was precisely in the middle of the room, with a large, solemn family Bible + precisely in the middle of the table, and smaller books, like satellites, + precisely upon the corners, and precisely on one side an empty glass + inkstand, innocent of ink spot or stain of any kind, with a pen carefully + mended and evidently carefully never used, and an exemplary pen-wiper, + which was as unsullied as might be expected of a wiper which had only + wiped that pen which was never dipped into that inkstand which had been + always empty. The inkstand was supported on the other side of the Bible by + an equally immaculate ivory paper-knife. + </p> + <p> + The large leather library chairs were arranged in precisely the proper + angle at the corners of the table, and the smaller chairs stood under the + windows two by two. All was cold and clean, and locked up—all—except + a portrait that hung against the wall, and below which Mrs. Simcoe + stopped, still holding the miniature in her hand. + </p> + <p> + It was the likeness of a lovely girl, whose rich, delicate loveliness, + full of tender but tremulous character, seemed to be a kind of + foreshadowing of Hope Wayne. The eyes were of a deep, soft darkness, that + held the spectator with a dreamy fascination. The other features were + exquisitely moulded, and suffused with an airy, girlish grace, so innocent + that the look became almost a pathetic appeal against the inevitable + griefs of life. + </p> + <p> + As Mrs. Simcoe stood looking at it and at the miniature she held, the + sadness which had followed the sweetness died away, and her face resumed + the old rigid inscrutability. She held the miniature straight before her, + and directly under the portrait; and, as she looked, the apparent pride of + the one and the tremulous earnestness of the other indescribably blended + into an expression which had been long familiar to her, for it was the + look of Hope Wayne. + </p> + <p> + While she thus stood, unconscious of the time that passed, the sun had set + and the room was darkening. Suddenly she heard a sound close at her side, + and started. Her hand instinctively closed over the miniature and + concealed it. + </p> + <p> + There stood a man kindly regarding her. He was not an old man, but there + was a touch of quaintness in his appearance. He did not speak when she saw + him, and for several minutes they stood silent together. Then their eyes + rose simultaneously to the picture, met again, and Mrs. Simcoe, putting + out her hand, said, in a low voice, + </p> + <p> + “Lawrence Newt!” + </p> + <p> + He shook her hand warmly, and made little remarks, while she seemed to be + studying into his face, as if she were looking for something she did not + find there. Every body did it. Every body looked into Lawrence Newt’s + face to discover what he was thinking of, and nobody ever saw. Mrs. Simcoe + remembered a time when she had seen. + </p> + <p> + “It is more than twenty years since I saw you. Have I grown very + old?” asked he. + </p> + <p> + “No, not old. I see the boy I remember; but your face is not so + clear as it used to be.” + </p> + <p> + Lawrence Newt laughed. + </p> + <p> + “You compliment me without knowing it. My face is the lid of a chest + full of the most precious secrets; would you have the lid transparent? I + am a merchant. Suppose every body could look in through my face and see + what I really think of the merchandise I am selling! What profit do you + think I should make? No, no, we want no tell-tale faces in South Street.” + </p> + <p> + He said this in a tone that corresponded with the expression which baffled + Mrs. Simcoe, and perplexed her only the more. But it did not repel her nor + beget distrust. A porcupine hides his flesh in bristling quills; but a + magnolia, when its time has not yet come, folds its heart in and in with + over-lacing tissues of creamy richness and fragrance. The flower is not + sullen, it is only secret. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose you are twenty years wiser than you were,” said + Mrs. Simcoe. + </p> + <p> + “What is wisdom?” asked Lawrence Newt. + </p> + <p> + “To give the heart to God,” replied she. + </p> + <p> + “That I have discovered,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “And have you given it?” + </p> + <p> + “I hope so.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but haven’t you the assurance?” asked she, + earnestly. + </p> + <p> + “I hope so,” responded Lawrence Newt, in the same kindly tone. + </p> + <p> + “But assurance is a gift,” continued she. + </p> + <p> + “A gift of what?” + </p> + <p> + “Of Peace,” replied Mrs. Simcoe. + </p> + <p> + “Ah! well, I have that,” said the other, quietly, as his eyes + rested upon the portrait. + </p> + <p> + There was moisture in the eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Her daughter is very like her,” he said, musingly; and the + two stood together silently for some time looking at the picture. + </p> + <p> + “Not entirely like her mother,” replied Mrs. Simcoe, as if to + assert some other resemblance. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps not; but I never saw her father.” + </p> + <p> + As Lawrence Newt said this, Mrs. Simcoe raised her hand, opened it, and + held the miniature before his eyes. He took it and gazed closely at it. + </p> + <p> + “And this is Colonel Wayne,” said he, slowly. “This is + the man who broke another man’s heart and murdered a woman.” + </p> + <p> + A mingled expression of pain, indignation, passionate regret, and + resignation suddenly glittered on the face of Mrs. Simcoe. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Newt, Mr. Newt,” said she, hurriedly, in a thick voice, + “let us at least respect the dead!” + </p> + <p> + Lawrence Newt, still holding the miniature in his hand, looked surprised + and searchingly at his companion. A lofty pity shot into his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Could I speak of her otherwise?” + </p> + <p> + The sudden change in Mrs. Simcoe’s expression conveyed her thought + to him before her words: + </p> + <p> + “No, no! not of <i>her</i>, but—” + </p> + <p> + She stopped, as if wrestling with a fierce inward agony. The veins on her + forehead were swollen, and her eyes flashed with singular light. It was + not clear whether she were trying to say something to conceal something, + or simply to recover her self-command. It was a terrible spectacle, and + Lawrence Newt felt as if he must veil his eyes, as if he had no right to + look upon this great agony of another. + </p> + <p> + “But—” said he, mechanically, as if by repeating her + last word to help her in her struggle. + </p> + <p> + The sad, severe woman stood before him in the darkening twilight, erect, + and more than erect, drawn back from him, and quivering and defiant. She + was silent for an instant; then, leaning forward and reaching toward him, + she took the miniature from Lawrence Newt, closed her hand over it + convulsively, and gasped in a tone that sounded like a low, wailing cry: + </p> + <p> + “But of <i>him</i>.” + </p> + <p> + Lawrence Newt raised his eyes from the vehement woman to the portrait that + hung above her. + </p> + <p> + In the twilight that lost loveliness glimmered down into his very heart + with appealing pathos. Perhaps those parted lips in their red bloom had + spoken to him—lips so long ago dust! Perhaps those eyes, in the days + forever gone—gone with hopes and dreams, and the soft lustre of + youth—had looked into his own, had answered his fond yearning with + equal fondness. By all that passionate remembrance, by a lost love, by the + early dead, he felt himself conjured to speak, nor suffer his silence even + to seem to shield a crime. + </p> + <p> + “And why not of him?” he began, calmly, and with profound + melancholy rather than anger. “Why not of him, who did not hesitate + to marry the woman whom he knew loved another, and whom the difference of + years should rather have made his daughter than his wife? Why not of him, + who brutally confessed, when she was his wife, an earlier and truer love + of his own, and so murdered her slowly, slowly—not with blows of the + hand, oh no!—not with poison in her food, oh no!” cried + Lawrence Newt, warming into bitter vehemence, clenching his hand and + shaking it in the air, “but who struck her blows on the heart—who + stabbed her with sharp icicles of indifference—who poisoned her soul + with the tauntings of his mean suspicions—mean and false—and + the meaner because he knew them to be false? Why not of him, who—” + </p> + <p> + “Stop! in the name of God!” she cried, fiercely, raising her + hand as if she appealed to Heaven. + </p> + <p> + It fell again. The hard voice sank to a tremulous, pitiful tone: + </p> + <p> + “Oh! stop, if you, are a man!” + </p> + <p> + They stood opposite each other in utter silence. The light had almost + faded. The face in the picture was no longer visible. + </p> + <p> + Bewildered and awed by the passionate grief of his companion, Lawrence + Newt said, gently, + </p> + <p> + “Why should I stop?” + </p> + <p> + The form before him had sunk into a chair. Both its hands were clasped + over the miniature. He heard the same strange voice like the wailing cry + of a child: + </p> + <p> + “Because I am the woman he loved—because I loved him.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0027" id="link2HCH0027"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXVII. — GABRIEL AT HOME. + </h2> + <p> + During all this time Gabriel Bennet is becoming a merchant. Every morning + he arrives at the store with the porter or before him. He helps him sweep + and dust; and it is Gabriel who puts Lawrence Newt’s room in order, + laying the papers in place, and taking care of the thousand nameless + details that make up comfort. He reads the newspapers before the other + clerks arrive, and sits upon chests of tea or bales of matting in the + loft, that fill the air with strange, spicy, Oriental odors, and talks + with the porter. In the long, warm afternoons, too, when there is no + pressure of business, and the heat is overpowering, he sits also alone + among those odors, and his mind is busy with all kinds of speculations, + and dreams, and hopes. + </p> + <p> + As he walks up Broadway toward evening, his clear, sweet eyes see every + thing that floats by. He does not know the other side of the fine dresses + he meets any more than of the fine houses, with the smiling, glittering + windows. The sun shines bright in his eyes—the street is gay—he + nods to his friends—he admires the pretty faces—he wonders at + the fast men driving fast horses—he sees the flowers in the windows, + the smiling faces between the muslin curtains—he gazes with a kind + of awe at the funerals going by, and marks the white bands of the + clergymen and the physicians—the elm-trees in the hospital yard + remind him of the woods at Delafield; and here comes Abel Newt, laughing, + chatting, smoking, with an arm in the arms of two other young men, who are + also smoking. As Gabriel passes Abel their eyes meet. Abel nods airily, + and Gabriel quietly; the next moment they are back to back again—one + is going up street, the other down. + </p> + <p> + It is not one of the splendid houses before which Gabriel stops when he + has reached the upper part of the city. It is not a palace, nor is it near + Broadway. Nor are there curtains at the window, but a pair of smiling + faces, of friendly women’s faces. One is mild and maternal, with + that kind of tender anxiety which softens beauty instead of hardening it. + It has that look which, after she is dead, every affectionate son thinks + he remembers to have seen in his mother’s face; and the other is + younger, brighter—a face of rosy cheeks, and clustering hair, and + blue eyes—a beaming, loyal, loving, girlish face. + </p> + <p> + They both smile welcome to Gabriel, and the younger face, disappearing + from the window, reappears at the door. Gabriel naturally kisses those + blooming lips, and then goes into the parlor and kisses his mother. Those + sympathetic friends ask him what has happened during the day. They see if + he looks unusually fatigued; and if so, why so? they ask. Gabriel must + tell the story of the unlading the ship <i>Mary B.</i>, which has just + come in—which is Lawrence Newt’s favorite ship; but why called + <i>Mary B.</i> not even Thomas Tray knows, who knows every thing else in + the business. Then sitting on each side of him on the sofa, those women + wonder and guess why the ship should be called <i>Mary B.</i> What Mary + B.? Oh! dear, there might be a thousand women with those initials. And + what has ever happened to Mr. Newt that he should wish to perpetuate a + woman’s name? Stop! remembers mamma, his mother’s name was + Mary. Mary what? asks the daughter. Mamma, <i>you</i> remember, of course. + </p> + <p> + Mamma merely replies that his mother’s name was Bunley—Mary + Bunley—a famous belle of the close of the last century, when she was + the most beautiful woman at President Washington’s levees—Mary + Bunley, to whom Aaron Burr paid his addresses in vain. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, mamma; but who was Aaron Burr?” ask those blooming lips, + as the bright young eyes glance from under the clustering curls at her + mother. + </p> + <p> + “Ellen, do you remember this spring, as we were coming up Broadway, + we passed an old man with a keen black eye, who was rather carelessly + dressed, and who wore a cue, with thick hair of his own, white as snow, + whom a good many people looked at and pointed out to each other, but + nobody spoke to?—who gazed at you as we passed so peculiarly that + you pressed nearer to me, and asked who it was, and why such an old man + seemed to be so lonely, and in all that great throng, which evidently knew + him, was as solitary as if he had been in a desert?” + </p> + <p> + “Perfectly—I remember it,” replies Ellen. + </p> + <p> + “That friendless old man, my dear, whom at this moment perhaps + scarcely a single human being in the world loves, was the most brilliant + beau and squire of dames that has ever lived in this country; handsome, + accomplished, and graceful, he has stepped many a stately dance with the + queenly Mary Bunley, mother of Lawrence Newt. But that was half a century + ago.” + </p> + <p> + “Mamma,” asks Ellen, full of interest in her mother’s + words, “but why does nobody speak to him? Why is he so alone? Had he + not better have died half a century ago?” + </p> + <p> + “My dear, you have seen Mrs. Beriah Dagon, an aunt of Mr. Lawrence + Newt’s? She was Cecilia Bunley, sister of Mary. When she was younger + she used to go to the theatre with a little green snake coiled around her + arm like a bracelet. It was the most lovely green—the softest color + you ever saw; it had the brightest eyes, the most sinuous grace; it had a + sort of fascination, but it filled you with fear; fortunately, it was + harmless. But, Ellen, if it could have stung, how dreadful it would have + been! Aaron Burr was graceful, and, accomplished, and brilliant; he coiled + about many a woman, fascinating her with his bright eyes and his sinuous + manner; but if he had stung, dear?” + </p> + <p> + Ellen shakes her head as her mother speaks, and Gabriel involuntarily + thinks of Abel Newt. + </p> + <p> + When Mrs. Bennet goes out of the room to attend to the tea, Gabriel says + that for his part he doesn’t believe in the least that the ship was + named for old Mrs. Newt; people are not romantic about their mothers; and + Miss Ellen agrees with him. + </p> + <p> + The room in which they sit is small, and very plain. There are only a + sofa, and table, and some chairs, with shelves of books, and a coarse + carpet. Upon the wall hangs a portrait representing a young and beautiful + woman, not unlike Mrs. Bennet; but the beauty of the face is flashing and + passionate, not thoughtful and mild like that of Gabriel’s mother. + But although every thing is very plain, it is perfectly cheerful. There is + nothing forlorn in the aspect of the room. Roses in a glass upon the + table, and the voice and manner of the mother and daughter, tell every + thing. + </p> + <p> + Presently they go in to tea, and Mr. Bennet joins them. His face is pale, + and of gentle expression, and he stoops a little in his walk. He wears + slippers and an old coat, and has the air of a clergyman who has made up + his mind to be disappointed. But he is not a clergyman, although his white + cravat, somewhat negligently tied, and his rusty black dress-coat, favor + that theory. There is a little weariness in his expression, and an + involuntary, half-deferential smile, as if he fully assented to every + thing that might be presented—not because he is especially + interested in it or believes it, but because it is the shortest way of + avoiding discussion and getting back to his own thoughts. + </p> + <p> + “Gabriel, my son, I am glad to see you!” his father says, as + he seats himself, not opposite his wife, but at one side of the table. He + inquires if Mr. Newt has returned, and learns that he has been at home for + several days. He hopes that he has enjoyed his little journey; then sips + his tea, and looks to see if the windows are closed; shakes himself + gently, and says he feels chilly; that the September evenings are already + autumnal, and that the time is coming when we must begin to read aloud + again after tea. And what book shall we read? Perhaps the best of all we + can select is Irving’s Life of Columbus; Mr. Bennet himself has read + it in the previous year, but he is sure his children will be interested + and delighted by it; and, for himself, he likes nothing better than to + read over and over a book he knows and loves. He puts down his knife as he + speaks, and plays with his tea-spoon on the edge of the cup. + </p> + <p> + “I find myself enchanted with the description of the islands in the + Gulf, and the life of those soft-souled natives. As I read on, I smell the + sweet warm odors from the land; I pick up the branches of green trees + floating far out upon the water; I see the drifting sea-weed, and the + lights at night upon the shore; then I land, and lie under the palm-trees, + and hear the mellow tongue of the tropics; I taste the luscious fruits; I + bask in that rich, eternal sun—” His eyes swim with tropical + languor as he speaks. He still mechanically balances the spoon upon the + cup, while his mind is deep sunk in reverie. As his wife glances at him, + both the look of tenderness and of anxiety in her face deepen. But the + moment of silence rouses him, and with the nervous smile upon his face, he + says, “Oh—ah!—I—yes—let it be Irving’s + Columbus!” + </p> + <p> + Toward his wife Mr. Bennet’s manner is almost painfully thoughtful. + His eye constantly seeks hers; and when he speaks to her, the mechanical + smile which greets every body else is replaced by a kind of indescribable, + touching appeal for forgiveness. It is conveyed in no particular thing + that he says or does, but it pervades his whole intercourse with her. As + Gabriel and Ellen grow up toward maturity, Mrs. Bennet observes that the + same peculiarity is stealing into his manner toward them. It is as if he + were involuntarily asking pardon for some great wrong that he has + unconsciously done them. And yet his mildness, and sweetness, and + simplicity of nature are such, that this singular manner does not disturb + the universal cheerfulness. + </p> + <p> + “You look a little tired to-night, father,” says Gabriel, when + they are all seated in the front room again, by the table, with the lamp + lighted. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” replies the father, who sits upon the sofa, with his + wife by his side—“yes; Mr. Van Boozenberg was very angry + to-day about some error he thought he had discovered, and he was quite + short with us book-keepers, and spoke rather sharply.” + </p> + <p> + A slight flush passes over Mr. Bennet’s face, as if he recalled + something extremely disagreeable. His eyes become dreamy again; but after + a moment the old smile returns, and, as if begging pardon, in a half + bewildered way, he resumes: + </p> + <p> + “However, his position is trying. Fortunately there wasn’t any + mistake except of his own.” + </p> + <p> + He is silent again. After a little while he asks, “Couldn’t we + have some music? Ellen, can’t you sing something?” + </p> + <p> + Ellen thinks she can, if Gabriel will sing second; Gabriel says he will + try, with pleasure; but really—he is so overwhelmed—the state + of his voice—he feigns a little cough—if the crowded and + fashionable audience will excuse—he really—in fact, he will—but + he is sure— + </p> + <p> + During this little banter Nellie cries, “Pooh, pooh!” mamma + looks pleased, and papa smiles gently. Then the fresh young voices of the + brother and sister mingle in “Bonnie Doon.” + </p> + <p> + The room is not very light, for there is but one lamp upon the table by + which the singers sit. The parents sit together upon the sofa; and as the + song proceeds the hand of the mother steals into that of the father, which + holds it closely, while his arm creeps noiselessly around her waist. Their + hearts float far away upon that music. His eyes droop as when he was + speaking of the tropic islands—as if he were hearing the soft + language of those shores. As his wife looks at him she sees on his face, + beneath the weariness of its expression, the light which shone there in + the days when they sang “Bonnie Doon” together. He draws her + closer to him, and his head bows as if by long habit of humility. Her eyes + gradually fill with tears; and when the song is over her head is lying on + his breast. + </p> + <p> + While they are still sitting in silence there is a ring at the door, and + Lawrence Newt and Amy Waring enter the room. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0028" id="link2HCH0028"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXVIII. — BORN TO BE A BACHELOR. + </h2> + <p> + “The truth is, Madame,” began Lawrence Newt, addressing Mrs. + Bennet, “that I am ashamed of myself—I ought to have called a + hundred times. I ask your pardon, Sir,” he continued, turning to Mr. + Bennet, who was standing irresolutely by the sofa, half-leaning upon the + arm. + </p> + <p> + “Oh!—ah! I am sure,” replied Mr. Bennet, with the + nervous smile flitting across his face and apparently breaking out all + over him; and there he remained speechless and bowing, while Mr. Newt + hastened to seat himself, that every body else might sit down also. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Bennet said that she was really, glad to see the face of an old + friend again whom she had not seen for so long. + </p> + <p> + “But I see you every day in Gabriel, my dear Madame,” replied + Lawrence Newt, with quaint dignity. Mother and son both smiled, and the + father bowed as if the remark had been addressed to him. + </p> + <p> + Amy seated herself by Gabriel and Ellen, and talked very animatedly with + them, while the parents and Mr. Newt sat together. She praised the roses, + and smelled them very often; and whenever she did so, her eyes, having + nothing in particular to do at the moment, escaped, as it were, under her + brows through the petals of the roses as she bent over them, and wandered + away to Lawrence Newt, whose kind, inscrutable eyes, by the most + extraordinary chance in the world, seemed to be expecting hers, and were + ready to receive them with the warmest welcome, and a half-twinkle—or + was it no twinkle at all? which seemed to say, “Oh! you came—did + you?” And every time his eyes seemed to say this Amy burst out into + fresh praises of those beautiful roses to her younger cousins, and pressed + them close to her cheek, as if she found their moist, creamy coolness + peculiarly delicious and refreshing—pressed them so close, indeed, + that she seemed to squeeze some of their color into her cheeks, which + Gabriel and Ellen both thought, and afterward declared to their mother, to + be quite as beautiful as roses. + </p> + <p> + Amy’s conversation with her young cousins was very lively indeed, + but it had not a continuous interest. There were incessant little pauses, + during which the eyes slipped away again across the room, and fell as + softly as before, plump into the same welcome and the same little + interrogation in those other eyes, twinkling with that annoying “did + you?” + </p> + <p> + Amy Waring was certainly twenty-five, although Gabriel laughed and jeered + at any such statement. But mamma and the Family Bible were too much for + him. Lawrence Newt was certainly more than forty. But the Newt Family + Bible was under a lock of which the key lay in Mrs. Boniface Newt’s + bureau, who, in a question of age, preferred tradition, which she could + judiciously guide, to Scripture. When Boniface Newt led Nancy Magot to the + altar, he recorded, in a large business hand, both the date of his + marriage and his wife’s birth. She protested, it was vulgar. And + when the bridegroom inquired whether the vulgarity were in the fact of + being born or in recording it, she said: “Mr. Newt, I am ashamed of + you,” and locked up the evidence. + </p> + <p> + There was a vague impression in the Newt family—Boniface had already + mentioned it to his son Abel—that there was something that Uncle + Lawrence never talked about—many things indeed, of course, but still + something in particular. Outside the family nothing was suspected. + Lawrence Newt was simply one of those incomprehensibly pleasant, + eccentric, benevolent men, whose mercantile credit was as good as Jacob + Van Boozenberg’s, but who perversely went his own way. One of these + ways led to all kinds of poor people’s houses; and it was upon a + visit to the widow of the clergyman to whom Boniface Newt had given eight + dollars for writing a tract entitled “Indiscriminate Almsgiving a + Crime,” that Lawrence Newt had first met Amy Waring. As he was + leaving money with the poor woman to pay her rent, Amy came in with a + basket of comfortable sugars and teas. She carried the flowers in her + face. Lawrence Newt was almost blushing at being caught in the act of + charity; and as he was sliding past her to get out, he happened to look at + her face, and stopped. + </p> + <p> + “Bless my soul! my dear young lady, surely your name is Darro!” + </p> + <p> + The dear young lady smiled and colored, and replied, + </p> + <p> + “No, mine is not, but my mother’s was.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course it was. Those eyes of yours are the Darro eyes. Do you + think I do not know the Darro eyes when I see them?” + </p> + <p> + And he took Amy’s hand, and said, “Whose daughter are you?” + </p> + <p> + “My name is Amy Waring.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! then you are Corinna’s daughter. Your aunt Lucia married + Mr. Bennet, and—and—” Lawrence Newt’s voice paused + and hesitated for a moment, “and—there was another.” + </p> + <p> + There was something so tenderly respectful in the tone that Amy, with only + a graver face, replied, + </p> + <p> + “Yes, there was my Aunt Martha.” + </p> + <p> + “I remember all. She is gone; my dear young lady, you will forgive + me, but your face recalls other years.” Then turning to the widow, + he said, “Mrs. Simmer, I am sure that you could have no kinder, no + better friend than this young lady.” + </p> + <p> + The young lady looked at him with a gentle inquiry in her eyes as who + should say, “What do you know about it?” + </p> + <p> + Lawrence Newt’s eyes understood in a moment, and he answered: + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I know it as I know that a rose smells sweet.” + </p> + <p> + He bowed as he said it, and took her hand. + </p> + <p> + “Will you remember to ask your mother if she remembers Lawrence + Newt, and if he may come and see her?” + </p> + <p> + Amy Waring said Yes, and the gentleman, bending and touching the tips of + her fingers with his lips, said, “Good-by, Mrs. Simmer,” and + departed. + </p> + <p> + He called at Mrs. Waring’s within a few days afterward. He had known + her as a child, but his incessant absence from home when he was younger + had prevented any great intimacy with old acquaintances. But the Darros + were dancing-school friends and partners. Since those days they had become + women and mothers. He had parted with Corinna Darro, a black-eyed little + girl in short white frock and short curling hair and red ribbons. He met + her as Mrs. Delmer Waring, a large, maternal, good-hearted woman. + </p> + <p> + This had happened two years before, and during all the time since then + Lawrence Newt had often called—had met Amy in the street on many + errands—had met her at balls whenever he found she was going. He did + not ask her to drive with him. He did not send her costly gifts. He did + nothing that could exclude the attentions of younger men. But sometimes a + basket of flowers came for Miss Waring—without a card, without any + clue. The good-hearted mother thought of various young men, candidates for + degrees in Amy’s favor, who had undoubtedly sent the flowers. The + good-hearted mother, who knew that Amy was in love with none of them, + pitied them—thought it was a great shame they should lose their time + in such an utterly profitless business as being in love with Amy; and when + any of them called said, with a good-humored sigh, that she believed her + daughter would never be any thing but a Sister of Charity. + </p> + <p> + Sometimes also a new book came, and on the fly-leaf was written, “To + Miss Amy Waring, from her friend Lawrence Newt.” Then the + good-hearted mother remarked that some men were delightfully faithful to + old associations, and that it was really beautiful to see Mr. Newt keeping + up the acquaintance so cordially, and complimenting his old friend so + delicately by thinking of pleasing her daughter. What a pity he had never + married, to have had daughters of his own! “But I suppose, Amy, some + men are born to be bachelors.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose they are, mother,” Amy replied, and found + immediately after that she had left her scissors, she couldn’t + possibly remember where; perhaps in your room, mamma, perhaps in mine. + </p> + <p> + They must be looked for, however, and, O how curious! there they lay in + her own room upon the table. In her own room, where she opened the new + book and read in it for half an hour at a time, but always poring on the + same page. It was such a profound work. It was so full of weighty matter. + When would she ever read it through at this rate, for the page over which + she pored had less on it than any other page in the book. In fact it had + nothing on it but that very commonplace and familiar form of words, + “To Miss Amy Waring, from her friend Lawrence Newt.” + </p> + <p> + Amy was entirely of her mother’s opinion. Some men are undoubtedly + born to be bachelors. Some men are born to be as noble as the heroes of + romances—simple, steadfast, true; to be gentle, intelligent, + sagacious, with an experience that has mellowed by constant and various + intercourse with men, but with a heart that that intercourse has never + chilled, and a faith which that experience has only confirmed. Some men + are born to possess every quality of heart, and mind, and person that can + awaken and satisfy the love of a woman. Yes, unquestionably, said Amy + Waring in her mind, which was so cool, so impartial, so merely + contemplating the subject as an abstract question, some men—let me + see, shall I say like Lawrence Newt, simply as an illustration?—well, + yes—some men like Lawrence Newt, for instance, are born to be all + that some women dream of in their souls, and they are the very ones who + are born to be bachelors. + </p> + <p> + It might be very sad not to be aware of it, thought Amy. What a profound + pity it would be if any young woman should not see it, for instance, in + the case of Lawrence Newt. But when a young woman is in no doubt at all, + when she knows perfectly well that such a man is not intended by nature to + be a marrying man, and therefore never thinks of such a thing, but only + with a grace, and generosity, and delicacy beyond expression offers his + general homage to the sex by giving little gifts to her, “why, then—then,” + thought Amy, and she was thinking so at the very moment when she sat with + Gabriel and Ellen, talking in a half wild, lively, incoherent way, “why, + then—then,” and her eyes leaped across the room and fell, as + it were, into the arms of Lawrence Newt’s, which caressed them with + soft light, and half-laughed “You came again, did you?”—“why, + then—then,” and Amy buried her face in the cool, damp roses, + and did not dare to look again, “then she had better go and be a + Sister of Charity.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0029" id="link2HCH0029"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXIX. — MR. ABEL NEWT, GRAND STREET. + </h2> + <p> + As the world returned to town and the late autumnal festivities began, the + handsome person and self-possessed style of Mr. Abel Newt became the + fashion. Invitations showered upon him. Mrs. Dagon proclaimed every where + that there had been nobody so fascinating since the days of the brilliant + youth of Aaron Burr, whom she declared that she well remembered, and + added, that if she could say it without blushing, or if any reputable + woman ought to admit such things, she should confess that in her younger + days she had received flowers and even notes from that fascinating man. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t deny, my dears, that he was a naughty man. But I can + tell you one thing, all the naughty men are not in disgrace yet, though he + is. And, if you please, Miss Fanny, with all your virtuous sniffs, dear, + and all your hugging of men in waltzing, darling, Colonel Burr was not + sent to Coventry because he was naughty. He might have been naughty all + the days of his life, and Mrs. Jacob Van Boozenberg and the rest of + ‘em would have been quite as glad to have him at their houses. No, + no, dears, society doesn’t punish men for being naughty—only + women. I am older than you, and I have observed that society likes spice + in character. It doesn’t harm a man to have stories told about him.” + </p> + <p> + No ball was complete without Abel Newt. Ladies, meditating parties, + engaged him before they issued a single invitation. At dinners he was + sparkling and agreeable, with tact enough not to extinguish the other men, + who yet felt his superiority and did not half like it. They imitated his + manner; but what was ease or gilded assurance in him was open insolence, + or assurance with the gilt rubbed off, in them. The charm and secret of + his manner lay in an utter devotion, which said to every woman, “There’s + not a woman in the world who can resist me, except you. Have you the heart + to do it?” Of course this manner was assisted by personal magnetism + and beauty. Wilkes said he was only half an hour behind the handsomest man + in the world. But he would never have overtaken him if the handsome man + had been Wilkes. + </p> + <p> + In his dress Abel was costly and elegant. With the other men of his day, + he read “Pelham” with an admiration of which his life was the + witness. Pelham was the Byronic hero made practicable, purged of romance, + and adapted to society. Mr. Newt, Jun., was one of a small but influential + set of young men about town who did all they could to repair the + misfortune of being born Americans, by imitating the habits of foreign + life. + </p> + <p> + It was presently clear to him that residence under the parental roof was + incompatible with the habits of a strictly fashionable man. + </p> + <p> + “There are hours, you know, mother, and habits, which make a + separate lodging much more agreeable to all parties. I have friends to + smoke, or to drink a glass of punch, or to play a game of whist; and we + must sing, and laugh, and make a noise, as young men will, which is not + seemly for the paternal mansion, mother mine.” With which he took + his admiring mother airily under the chin and kissed her—not having + mentioned every reason which made a separate residence desirable. + </p> + <p> + So Abel Newt hired a pleasant set of rooms in Grand Street, near Broadway, + in the neighborhood of other youth of the right set. He furnished them + sumptuously, with the softest carpets, the most luxurious easy-chairs, the + most costly curtains, and pretty, bizarre little tables, and bureaus, and + shelves. Various engravings hung upon the walls; a profile-head of Bulwer, + with a large Roman nose and bushy whiskers, and one of his Majesty George + IV., in that famous cloak which Lord Chesterfield bought at the sale of + his Majesty’s wardrobe for eleven hundred dollars, and of which the + sable lining alone originally cost four thousand dollars. Then there were + little vases, and boxes, and caskets standing upon all possible places, + with a rare flower in some one of them often, sent by some kind dowager + who wished to make sure of Abel at a dinner or a select soiree. Pipes, of + course, and boxes of choice cigars, were at hand, and in a convenient + closet such a beautiful set of English cut glass for the use of a + gentleman! + </p> + <p> + It was no wonder that the rooms of Abel Newt became a kind of club-room + and elegant lounge for the gay gentlemen about town. He even gave little + dinners there to quiet parties, sometimes including two or three extremely + vivacious and pretty, as well as fashionably dressed, young women, whom he + was not in the habit of meeting in society, but who were known quite + familiarly to Abel and his friends. + </p> + <p> + Upon other occasions these little dinners took place out of town, whither + the gentlemen drove alone in their buggies by daylight, and, meeting the + ladies there, had the pleasure of driving them back to the city in the + evening. The “buggy” of Abel’s day was an open gig + without a top, very easy upon its springs, but dangerous with stumbling + horses. The drive was along the old Boston road, and the rendezvous, Cato’s—Cato + Alexander’s—near the present shot-tower. If the gentlemen + returned alone, they finished the evening at Benton’s, in Ann + Street, where they played a game of billiards; or at Thiel’s retired + rooms over the celebrated Stewart’s, opposite the Park, where they + indulged in faro. Abel Newt lost and won his money with careless grace—always + a little glad when he won, for somebody had to pay for all this luxurious + life. + </p> + <p> + Boniface Newt remonstrated. His son was late at the office in the morning. + He drew large sums to meet his large expenses. Several times, instead of + instantly filling out the checks as Abel directed, the book-keeper had + delayed, and said casually to Mr. Newt during Abel’s absence at + lunch, which was usually prolonged, that he supposed it was all right to + fill up a check of that amount to Mr. Abel’s order? Mr. Boniface + Newt replied, in a dogged way, that he supposed it was. + </p> + <p> + But one day when the sum had been large, and the paternal temper more than + usually ruffled, he addressed the junior partner upon his return from + lunch and his noontide glass with his friends at the Washington Hotel, to + the effect that matters were going on much too rapidly. + </p> + <p> + “To what matters do you allude, father?” inquired Mr. Abel, + with composure, as he picked his teeth with one hand, and surveyed a cigar + which he held in the other. + </p> + <p> + “I mean, Sir, that you are spending a great deal too much money.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, how is that, Sir?” asked his son, as he called to the + boy in the outer office to bring him a light. + </p> + <p> + “By Heavens! Abel, you’re enough to make a man crazy! Here I + have put you into my business, over the heads of the clerks who are a + hundred-fold better fitted for it than you; and you not only come down + late and go away early, and destroy all kind of discipline by smoking and + lounging, but you don’t manifest the slightest interest in the + business; and, above all, you are living at a frightfully ruinous rate! + Yes, Sir, ruinous! How do you suppose I can pay, or that the business can + pay, for such extravagance?” + </p> + <p> + Abel smoked calmly during this energetic discourse, and blew little rings + from his mouth, which he watched with interest as they melted in the air. + </p> + <p> + “Certain things are inevitable, father.” + </p> + <p> + His parent, frowning and angry, growled at him as he made this remark, and + muttered, + </p> + <p> + “Well, suppose they are.” + </p> + <p> + “Now, father,” replied his son, with great composure, “let + us proceed calmly. Why should we pretend not to see what is perfectly + plain? Business nowadays proceeds by credit. Credit is based upon + something, or the show of something. It is represented by a bank-bill. + Here now—” And he opened his purse leisurely and drew out a + five-dollar note of the Bank of New York, “here is a promise to pay + five dollars—in gold or silver, of course. Do you suppose that the + Bank of New York has gold and silver enough to pay all those promises it + has issued? Of course not.” + </p> + <p> + Abel knocked off the ash from his cigar, and took a long contemplative + whiff, as if he were about making a plunge into views even more profound. + Mr. Newt, half pleased with the show of philosophy, listened with less + frowning brows. + </p> + <p> + “Well, now, if by some hocus-pocus the Bank of New York hadn’t + a cent in coin at this moment, it could redeem the few claims that might + be made upon it by borrowing, could it not?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Newt shook his head affirmatively. + </p> + <p> + “And, in fine, if it were entirely bankrupt, it could still do a + tremendous business for a very considerable time, could it not?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Newt assented. + </p> + <p> + “And the managers, who knew it to be so, would have plenty of time + to get off before an explosion, if they wanted to?” + </p> + <p> + “Abel, what do you mean?” inquired his father. + </p> + <p> + The young man was still placidly blowing rings of smoke from his mouth, + and answered: + </p> + <p> + “Nothing terrible. Don’t be alarmed. It is only an + illustration of the practical value of credit, showing how it covers a + retreat, so to speak. Do you see the moral, father?” + </p> + <p> + “No; certainly not. I see no moral at all.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, suppose that nobody wanted to retreat, but that the Bank was + only to be carried over a dangerous place, then credit is a bridge, isn’t + it? If it were out of money, it could live upon its credit until it got + the money back again.” + </p> + <p> + “Clearly,” answered Mr. Newt. + </p> + <p> + “And if it extended its operations, it would acquire even more + credit?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Because people, believing in the solvency of the Bank, would + suppose that it extended itself because it had more means?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “And would not feel any dust in their eyes?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Mr. Newt, following his son closely. + </p> + <p> + “Well, then; don’t you see?” + </p> + <p> + “No, I don’t see,” replied the father; “that is, I + don’t see what you mean.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, father, look here! I come into your business. The fact is + known. People look. There’s no whisper against the house. We extend + ourselves; we live liberally, but we pay the bills. Every body says, + ‘Newt & Son are doing a thumping business.’ Perhaps we are—perhaps + we are not. We are crossing the bridge of credit. Before people know that + we have been living up to our incomes—quite up, father dear”—Mr. + Newt frowned an entire assent—“we have plenty of money!” + </p> + <p> + “How, in Heaven’s name!” cried Boniface Newt, springing + up, and in so loud a tone that the clerks looked in from the outer office. + </p> + <p> + “By my marriage,” returned Abel, quietly. + </p> + <p> + “With whom?” asked Mr. Newt, earnestly. + </p> + <p> + “With an heiress.” + </p> + <p> + “What’s her name?” + </p> + <p> + “Just what I am trying to find out,” replied Abel, lightly, as + he threw his cigar away. “And now I put it to you, father, as a man + of the world and a sensible, sagacious, successful merchant, am I not more + likely to meet and marry such a girl, if I live generously in society, + than if I shut myself up to be a mere dig?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Newt was not sure. Perhaps it was so. Upon the whole, it probably was + so. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Abel did not happen to suggest to his father that, for the purpose of + marrying an heiress, if he should ever chance to be so fortunate as to + meet one, and, having met her, to become enamored so that he might be + justified in wooing her for his wife—that for all these + contingencies it was a good thing for a young man to have a regular + business connection and apparent employment—and very advantageous, + indeed, that that connection should be with a man so well known in + commercial and fashionable circles as his father. That of itself was one + of the great advantages of credit. It was a frequent joke of Abel’s + with his father, after the recent conversation, that credit was the most + creditable thing going. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0030" id="link2HCH0030"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXX. — CHECK. + </h2> + <p> + During these brilliant days of young bachelorhood Abel, by some curious + chance, had not met Hope Wayne, who was passing the winter in New York + with her Aunt Dinks, and who had hitherto declined all society. It was + well known that she was in town. The beautiful Boston heiress was often + enough the theme of discourse among the youth at Abel’s rooms. + </p> + <p> + “Is she really going to marry that Dinks? Why, the man’s a + donkey!” said Corlaer Van Boozenberg. + </p> + <p> + “And are there no donkeys among your married friends?” + inquired Abel, with the air of a naturalist pursuing his researches. + </p> + <p> + One day, indeed, as he was passing Stewart’s, he saw Hope alighting + from a carriage. He was not alone; and as he passed their eyes met. He + bowed profoundly. She bent her head without speaking, as one acknowledges + a slight acquaintance. It was not a “cut,” as Abel said to + himself; “not at all. It was simply ranking me with the herd.” + </p> + <p> + “Who’s that stopping to speak with her?” asked Corlaer, + as he turned back to see her. + </p> + <p> + “That’s Arthur Merlin. Don’t you know? He’s a + painter. I wonder how the deuce he came to know her!” + </p> + <p> + In fact, it was the painter. It was the first time he had met her since + the summer days of Saratoga; and as he stood talking with her upon the + sidewalk, and observed that her cheeks had an unusual flush, and her + manner a slight excitement, he could not help feeling a secret pleasure—feeling, + in truth, so deep a delight, as he looked into that lovely face, that he + found himself reflecting, as he walked away, how very fortunate it was + that he was so entirely devoted to his art. It is very fortunate indeed, + thought he. And yet it might be a pity, too, if I should chance to meet + some beautiful and sympathetic woman; because, being so utterly in love + with my art, it would be impossible for me to fall in love with her! Quite + impossible! Quite out of the question! + </p> + <p> + Just as he thought this he bumped against some one, and looked up + suddenly. A calm, half-amused face met his glance, as Arthur said, + hastily, “I beg your pardon.” + </p> + <p> + “My pardon is granted,” returned the gentleman; “but + still you had better look out for yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! I shall not hit any body else,” said Arthur, as he bowed + and was passing on. + </p> + <p> + “I am not speaking of other people,” replied the other, with a + look which was very, friendly, but very puzzling. + </p> + <p> + “Whom do you mean, then?” asked Arthur Merlin. + </p> + <p> + “Yourself, of course,” said the gentleman with the half-amused + face. + </p> + <p> + “How?” inquired Arthur. + </p> + <p> + “To guard against Venus rising from the fickle sea, or Hope + descending from a carriage,” rejoined his companion, putting out his + hand. + </p> + <p> + Arthur looked surprised, and, could he have resisted the face of his new + acquaintance, he would have added indignation to his expression. But it + was impossible. + </p> + <p> + “To whom do I owe such excellent advice?” + </p> + <p> + “To Lawrence Newt,” answered that gentleman, putting out his + hand. “I am glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. Arthur Merlin.” + </p> + <p> + The painter shook the merchant’s hand cordially. They had some + further conversation, and finally Mr. Merlin turned, and the two men + strolled together down town. While they yet talked, Lawrence Newt observed + that the eyes of his companion studied every carriage that passed. He did + it in a very natural, artless way; but Lawrence Newt smiled with his eyes, + and at length said, as if Arthur had asked him the question, “There + she comes!” + </p> + <p> + Arthur was a little bit annoyed, and said, suddenly, and with a fine air + of surprise, “Who?” + </p> + <p> + Lawrence turned and looked him full in the face; upon which the painter, + who was so fanatically devoted to his art that it was clearly impossible + he should fall in love, said, “Oh!” as if somebody had + answered his question. + </p> + <p> + The next moment both gentlemen bowed to Hope Wayne, who passed with Mrs. + Dinks in her carriage. + </p> + <p> + “Who are those gentlemen to whom you are bowing, Hope?” Mrs. + Dinks asked, as she saw her niece lean forward and blush as she bowed. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Merlin and Mr. Lawrence Newt,” replied Hope. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I did not observe.” + </p> + <p> + After a while she said, “Don’t you think, Hope, you could make + up your mind to go to Mrs. Kingfisher’s ball next week? You know you + haven’t been out at all.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps,” replied Hope, doubtfully. + </p> + <p> + “Just as you please, dear. I think it is quite as well to stay away + if you want to. Your retirement is very natural, and proper, and + beautiful, under the circumstances, although it is unusual. Of course I + don’t fully understand. But I have perfect confidence in the justice + of your reasons.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Dinks looked at Hope tenderly and sagaciously as she said this, and + smiled meaningly. + </p> + <p> + Hope was entirely bewildered. Then a sudden apprehension shot through her + mind as she thought of what her aunt had said. She asked suddenly and a + little proudly, + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean by ‘circumstances,’ aunt?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Dinks was uneasy in her turn. But she pushed bravely on, and said + kindly, + </p> + <p> + “Why on earth shouldn’t I know why you are unwilling to have + it known, Hope? You know I am as still as the grave.” + </p> + <p> + “Have what known, aunt?” asked Hope. + </p> + <p> + “Why, dear,” replied Mrs. Dinks, confused by Hope’s air + of innocence, “your engagement, of course.” + </p> + <p> + “My engagement?” said Hope, with a look of utter amazement; + “to whom, I should like to know?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Dinks looked at her for an instant, and asked, in a clear, dry tone: + </p> + <p> + “Are you not engaged to Alfred?” + </p> + <p> + Hope Wayne’s look of anxious surprise melted into an expression of + intense amusement. + </p> + <p> + “To Alfred Dinks!” said she, in a slow, incredulous tone, and + with her eyes sparkling with laughter. “Why, my dear aunt?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Dinks was overwhelmed by a sudden consciousness of bitter + disappointment, mingled with an exasperating conviction that she had been + somehow duped. The tone was thick in which she answered. + </p> + <p> + “What is the meaning of this? Hope, are you deceiving me?” + </p> + <p> + She knew Hope was not deceiving her as well as she knew that they were + sitting together in the carriage. + </p> + <p> + Hope’s reply was a clear, ringing, irresistible laugh. Then she + said, + </p> + <p> + “It’s high time I went to balls, I see. I will go to Mrs. + Kingfisher’s. But, dear aunt, have you seriously believed such a + story?” + </p> + <p> + “Do I think my son is a liar?” replied Mrs. Dinks, + sardonically. + </p> + <p> + The laugh faded from Hope’s face. + </p> + <p> + “Did he say so?” asked she. + </p> + <p> + “Certainly he did.” + </p> + <p> + “Alfred Dinks told you I was engaged to him?” + </p> + <p> + “Alfred Dinks told me you were engaged to him.” + </p> + <p> + They drove on for some time without speaking. + </p> + <p> + “What does he mean by using my name in that way?” said Hope, + with the Diana look in her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! that you must settle with him,” replied the other. + “I’m sure I don’t know.” + </p> + <p> + And Field-marshal Mrs. Dinks settled herself back upon the seat and said + no more. Hope Wayne sat silent and erect by her side. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0031" id="link2HCH0031"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXI. — AT DELMONICO’S. + </h2> + <p> + Lawrence Newt had watched with the warmest sympathy the rapid development + of the friendship between Amy Waring and Hope Wayne. He aided it in every + way. He called in the assistance of Arthur Merlin, who was in some doubt + whether his devotion to his art would allow him to desert it for a moment. + But as the doubt only lasted while Lawrence Newt was unfolding a plan he + had of reading books aloud with the ladies—and—in fact, a + great many other praiseworthy plans which all implied a constant meeting + with Miss Waring and Miss Wayne, Mr. Merlin did not delay his co-operation + in all Mr. Newt’s efforts. + </p> + <p> + And so they met at Amy Waring’s house very often and pretended to + read, and really did read, several books together aloud. Ostensibly poetry + was pursued at the meetings of what Lawrence Newt called the Round Table. + </p> + <p> + “Why not? We have our King Arthur, and our Merlin the Enchanter,” + he said. + </p> + <p> + “A speech from Mr. Merlin,” cried Amy, gayly, while Hope + looked up from her work with encouraging, queenly eyes. Arthur looked at + them eagerly. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Diana! Diana!” he thought, but did not say. That was the + only speech he made, and nobody heard it. + </p> + <p> + The meetings of the Round Table were devoted to poetry, but of a very + practical kind. It was pure romance, but without any thing technically + romantic. Mrs. Waring often sat with the little party, and, as she worked, + talked with Lawrence Newt of earlier days—“days when you were + not born, dears,” she said, cheerfully, as if to appropriate Mr. + Newt. And whenever she made this kind of allusion Amy’s work became + very intricate indeed, demanding her closest attention. But Hope Wayne, + remembering her first evening in his society, raised her eyes again with + curiosity, and as she did so Lawrence smiled kindly and gravely, and his + eyes hung upon hers as if he saw again what he had thought never to see; + while Hope resolved that she would ask him under what circumstances he had + known Pinewood. But the opportunity had not yet arrived. She did not wish + to ask before the others. There are some secrets that we involuntarily + respect, while we only know that they are secrets. + </p> + <p> + The more Arthur Merlin saw of Hope Wayne the more delighted he was to + think how impossible it was for him, in view of his profound devotion to + his art, to think of beautiful women in any other light than that of + picturesque subjects. + </p> + <p> + “Really, Mr. Newt,” Arthur said to him one evening as they + were dining together at Delmonico’s—which was then in William + Street—“if I were to paint a picture of Diana when she loved + Endymion—a picture, by-the-by, which I intend to paint—I + should want to ask Miss Wayne to sit to me for the principal figure. It is + really remarkable what a subdued splendor there is about her—Diana + blushing, you know, as it were—the moon delicately veiled in cloud. + It would be superb, I assure you.” + </p> + <p> + Lawrence Newt smiled—he often smiled—as he wiped his mouth, + and asked, + </p> + <p> + “Who would you ask to sit for Endymion?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, let me see,” replied Arthur, cheerfully, and pondering + as if to determine who was exactly the man. It was really beautiful to see + his exclusive enthusiasm for his art. “Let me see. How would it do + to paint an ideal figure for Endymion?” + </p> + <p> + “No, no,” said Lawrence Newt, laughing; “art must get + its ideal out of the real. I demand a good, solid, flesh-and-blood + Endymion.” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t just think of any body,” replied Arthur Merlin, + musingly, looking upon the floor, and thinking so intently of Hope, in + order to image to himself a proper Endymion, that he quite forgot to think + of the candidates for that figure. + </p> + <p> + “How would my young friend Hal Battlebury answer?” asked + Lawrence Newt. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, not at all,” replied Arthur, promptly; “he’s + too light, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, let me see,” continued the other, “what do you + think of that young Southerner, Sligo Moultrie, who was at Saratoga? I + used to think he had some of the feeling for Hope Wayne that Diana wanted + in Endymion, and he has the face for a picture.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, he’s not at all the person. He’s much too dark, you + see,” answered Arthur, at once, with remarkable readiness. + </p> + <p> + “There’s Alfred Dinks,” said Lawrence Newt, smiling. + </p> + <p> + “Pish!” said Arthur, conclusively. + </p> + <p> + “Really, I can not think of any body,” returned his companion, + with a mock gravity that Arthur probably did not perceive. The young + artist was evidently very closely occupied with the composition of his + picture. He half-closed his eyes, as if he saw the canvas distinctly, and + said, + </p> + <p> + “I should represent her just lighting upon the hill, you see, with a + rich, moist flush upon her face, a cold splendor just melting into + passion, half floating, as she comes, so softly superior, so queenly + scornful of all the world but him. Jove! it would make a splendid picture!” + </p> + <p> + Lawrence Newt looked at his friend as he imagined the condescending Diana. + The artist’s face was a little raised as he spoke, as if he saw a + stately vision. It was rapt in the intensity of fancy, and Lawrence knew + perfectly well that he saw Hope Wayne’s Endymion before him. But at + the same moment his eye fell upon his nephew Abel sitting with a choice + company of gay youths at another table. There was instantly a mischievous + twinkle in Lawrence Newt’s eye. + </p> + <p> + “Eureka! I have Endymion.” + </p> + <p> + Arthur started and felt a half pang, as if Lawrence Newt had suddenly told + him of Miss Wayne’s engagement. He came instantly out of the clouds + on Latinos, where he was dreaming. + </p> + <p> + “What did you say?” asked he. + </p> + <p> + “Why, of course, how dull I am! Abel will be your Endymion, if you + can get him.” + </p> + <p> + “Who is Abel?” inquired Arthur. + </p> + <p> + “Why, my nephew, Abel Don Juan Pelham Newt, of Grand Street, and + Boniface Newt, Son, & Company, Dry Goods on Commission, Esquire,” + replied Lawrence Newt, with perfect gravity. + </p> + <p> + Arthur looked at him bewildered. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you know my nephew, Abel Newt?” + </p> + <p> + “No, not personally. I’ve heard of him, of course.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, he’s a very handsome young man; and though he be dark, + he may also be Endymion. Why not? Look at him; there he sits. ‘Tis + the one just raising the glass to his lips.” + </p> + <p> + Lawrence Newt bent his head as he spoke toward the gay revelers, who sat, + half a dozen in number, and the oldest not more than twenty-five, all + dandies, all men of pleasure, at a neighboring table spread with a profuse + and costly feast. Abel was the leader, and at the moment Arthur Merlin and + Lawrence Newt turned to look he was telling some anecdote to which they + all listened eagerly, while they sipped the red wine of France, poured + carefully from a bottle reclining in a basket, and delicately coated with + dust. Abel, with his glass in his hand and the glittering smile in his + eye, told the story with careless grace, as if he were more amused with + the listeners’ eagerness than with the anecdote itself. The extreme + gayety of his life was already rubbing the boyish bloom from his face, but + it developed his peculiar beauty more strikingly by removing that + incongruous innocence which belongs to every boyish countenance. + </p> + <p> + As he looked at him, Arthur Merlin was exceedingly impressed by the air of + reckless grace in his whole appearance, which harmonized so entirely with + his face. Lawrence Newt watched his friend as the latter gazed at Abel. + Lawrence always saw a great deal whenever he looked any where. Perhaps he + perceived the secret dissatisfaction and feeling of sudden alarm which, + without any apparent reason, Arthur felt as he looked at Abel. + </p> + <p> + But the longer Arthur Merlin looked at Abel the more curiously perplexed + he was. The feeling which, if he had not been a painter so utterly devoted + to his profession that all distractions were impossible, might have been + called a nascent jealousy, was gradually merged in a half-consciousness + that he had somewhere seen Abel Newt before, but where, and under what + circumstances, he could not possibly remember. He watched him steadily, + puzzling himself to recall that face. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly he clapped his hand upon the table. Lawrence Newt, who was + looking at him, saw the perplexity of his expression smooth itself away; + while Arthur Merlin, with an “oh!” of surprise, satisfaction, + and alarm, exclaimed—and his color changed— + </p> + <p> + “Why, it’s Manfred in the Coliseum!” + </p> + <p> + Lawrence Newt was confounded. Was Arthur, then, not deceiving himself, + after all? Did he really take an interest in all these people only as a + painter, and think of them merely as subjects for pictures? + </p> + <p> + Lawrence Newt was troubled. He had seen in Arthur with delight what he + supposed the unconscious beginnings of affection for Hope Wayne. He had + pleased himself in bringing them together—of course Amy Waring must + be present too when he himself was, that any <i>tête-à -tête</i> which + arose might not be interrupted—and he had dreamed the most agreeable + dreams. He knew Hope—he knew Arthur—it was evidently the hand + of Heaven. He had even mentioned it confidentially to Amy Waring, who was + profoundly interested, and who charitably did the same offices for Arthur + with Hope Wayne that Lawrence Newt did for the young candidates with her. + The conversation about the picture of Diana had only confirmed Lawrence + Newt in his conviction that Arthur Merlin really loved Hope Wayne, whether + he himself knew it or not. + </p> + <p> + And now was he all wrong, after all? Ridiculous! How could he be? + </p> + <p> + He tried to persuade himself that he was not. But he could not forget how + persistently Arthur had spoken of Hope only as a fine Diana; and how, + after evidently being struck with Abel Newt, he had merely exclaimed, with + a kind of suppressed excitement, as if he saw what a striking picture he + would make, “Manfred in the Coliseum!” + </p> + <p> + Lawrence Newt drank a glass of wine, thoughtfully. Then he smiled + inwardly. + </p> + <p> + “It is not the first time I have been mistaken,” thought he. + “I shall have to take Amy Waring’s advice about it.” + </p> + <p> + As he and his friend passed the other table, on their way out, Abel nodded + to his uncle; and as Arthur Merlin looked at him carefully, he was very + sure that he saw the person whose face so singularly resembled that of + Manfred’s in the picture he had given Hope Wayne. + </p> + <p> + “I am all wrong,” thought Lawrence Newt, ruefully, as they + passed out into the street. + </p> + <p> + “Abel Newt, then, is Hope Wayne’s somebody,” thought + Arthur Merlin, as he took his friend’s arm. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0032" id="link2HCH0032"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXII. — MRS. THEODORE KINGFISHER AT HOME. <i>On dansera.</i> + </h2> + <p> + Society stared when it beheld Miss Hope Wayne entering the drawing-room of + Mrs. Theodore Kingfisher. + </p> + <p> + “Really, Miss Wayne, I am delighted,” said Mrs. Kingfisher, + with a smile that might have been made at the same shop with the flowers + that nodded over it. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Kingfisher’s friendship for Miss Wayne and her charming aunt + consisted in two pieces of pasteboard, on which was printed, in German + text, “Mrs. Theodore Kingfisher, St. John’s Square,” + which she had left during the winter; and her pleasure at seeing her was + genuine—not that she expected they would solace each other’s + souls with friendly intercourse, but that she knew Hope to be a famous + beauty who had held herself retired until now at the very end of the + season, when she appeared for the first time at her ball. + </p> + <p> + This reflection secured an unusually ardent reception for Mrs. Dagon, who + followed Mrs. Dinks’s party, and who, having made her salutation to + the hostess, said to Mr. Boniface Newt, her nephew, who accompanied her, + </p> + <p> + “Now I’ll go and stand by the pier-glass, so that I can rake + the rooms. And, Boniface, mind, I depend upon your getting me some lobster + salad at supper, with plenty of dressing—mind, now, plenty of + dressing.” + </p> + <p> + Perched like a contemplative vulture by the pier, Mrs. Dagon declined + chairs and sofas, but put her eye-glass to her eyes to spy out the land. + She had arrived upon the scene of action early. She always did. + </p> + <p> + “I want to see every body come in. There’s a great deal in + watching how people speak to each other. I’ve found out a great many + things in that way, my dear, which were not suspected.” + </p> + <p> + Presently a glass at the other end of the room that was bobbing up and + down and about at everybody and thing—at the ceiling, and the wall, + and the carpet—discovering the rouge upon cheeks whose ruddy + freshness charmed less perceptive eyes—reducing the prettiest lace + to the smallest terms in substance and price—detecting base cotton + with one fell glance, and the part of the old dress ingeniously furbished + to do duty as new—this philosophic and critical glass presently + encountered Mrs. Dagon’s in mid-career. The two ladies behind the + glasses glared at each other for a moment, then bowed and nodded, like two + Chinese idols set up on end at each extremity of the room. + </p> + <p> + “Good-evening, dear, good Mrs. Winslow Orry,” said the smiling + eyes of Mrs. Dagon to that lady. “How doubly scraggy you look in + that worn-out old sea-green satin!” said the smiling old lady to + herself. + </p> + <p> + “How do, darling Mrs. Dagon?” said the responsive glance of + Mrs. Orry, with the most gracious effulgence of aspect, as she glared + across the room—inwardly thinking, “What a silly old hag to + lug that cotton lace cape all over town!” + </p> + <p> + People poured in. The rooms began to swarm. There was a warm odor of kid + gloves, scent-bags, and heliotrope. There was an incessant fluttering of + fans and bobbing of heads. One hundred gentlemen said, “How warm it + is!” One hundred ladies of the highest fashion answered, “Very.” + Fifty young men, who all wore coats, collars, and waistcoats that seemed + to have been made in the lump, and all after the same pattern, stood + speechless about the rooms, wondering what under heaven to do with their + hands. Fifty older married men, who had solved that problem, folded their + hands behind their backs, and beamed vaguely about, nodding their heads + whenever they recognized any other head, and saying, “Good-evening,” + and then, after a little more beaming, “How are yer?” Waiters + pushed about with trays covered with little glasses of lemonade and + port-sangaree, which offered favorable openings to the unemployed young + men and the married gentlemen, who crowded along with a glass in each + hand, frightening all the ladies and begging every body’s pardon. + </p> + <p> + All the Knickerbocker jewels glittered about the rooms. Mrs. Bleecker Van + Kraut carried not less than thirty thousand dollars’ worth of + diamonds upon her person—at least that was Mrs. Orry’s + deliberate conclusion after a careful estimate. Mrs. Dagon, when she heard + what Mrs. Orry said, merely exclaimed, “Fiddle! Anastatia Orry can + tell the price of lutestring a yard because Winslow Orry failed in that + business, but she knows as much of diamonds as an elephant of good + manners.” + </p> + <p> + The Van Kraut property had been bowing about the drawing-rooms of New York + for a year or two, watched with palpitating hearts and longing eyes. Until + that was disposed of, nothing else could win a glance. There were several + single hundreds of thousands openly walking about the same rooms, but + while they were received very politely, they were made to feel that two + millions were in presence and unappropriated, and they fell humbly back. + </p> + <p> + Fanny Newt, upon her debut in society, had contemplated the capture of the + Van Kraut property; but the very vigor with which she conducted the + campaign had frightened the poor gentleman who was the present member for + that property, in society, so that he shivered and withdrew on the dizzy + verge of a declaration; and when he subsequently encountered Lucy Slumb, + she was immediately invested with the family jewels. + </p> + <p> + “Heaven save me from a smart woman!” prayed Bleecker Van + Kraut; and Heaven heard and kindly granted his prayer. + </p> + <p> + Presently, while the hot hum went on, and laces, silks, satins, brocades, + muslins, and broadcloth intermingled and changed places, so that Arthur + Merlin, whom Lawrence Newt had brought, declared the ball looked like a + shot silk or a salmon’s belly—upon overhearing which, Mrs. + Bleecker Van Kraut, who was passing with Mr. Moultrie, looked unspeakable + things—the quick eyes of Fanny Newt encountered the restless orbs of + Mrs. Dinks. + </p> + <p> + Alfred had left town for Boston on the very day on which Hope Wayne had + learned the story of her engagement. Neither his mother nor Hope, + therefore, had had an opportunity of asking an explanation. + </p> + <p> + “I am glad to see Miss Wayne with you to-night,” said Fanny. + </p> + <p> + “My niece is her own mistress,” replied Mrs. Dinks, in a + sub-acid tone. + </p> + <p> + Fanny’s eyes grew blacker and sharper in a moment. An Indian whose + life depends upon concealment from his pursuer is not more sensitive to + the softest dropping of the lightest leaf than was Fanny Newt’s + sagacity to the slightest indication of discovery of her secret. There is + trouble, she said to herself, as she heard Mrs. Dinks’s reply. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Wayne has been a recluse this winter,” remarked Fanny, + with infinite blandness. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, she has had some kind of whim,” replied Mrs. Dinks, + shaking her shoulders as if to settle her dress. + </p> + <p> + “We girls have all suspected, you know, of course, Mrs. Dinks,” + said Miss Newt, with a very successful imitation of archness and a little + bend of the neck. + </p> + <p> + “Have you, indeed!” retorted Mrs. Dinks, in almost a bellicose + manner. + </p> + <p> + “Why, yes, dear Mrs. Dinks; don’t you remember at Saratoga—you + know?” continued Fanny, with imperturbable composure. + </p> + <p> + “What happened at Saratoga?” asked Mrs. Dinks, with smooth + defiance on her face, and conscious that she had never actually mentioned + any engagement between Alfred and Hope. + </p> + <p> + “Dear me! So many things happen at Saratoga,” answered Fanny, + bridling like a pert miss of seventeen. “And when a girl has a + handsome cousin, it’s very dangerous.” Fanny Newt was + determined to know where she was. + </p> + <p> + “Some girls are very silly and willful,” tartly remarked Mrs. + Dinks. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose,” said Fanny, with extraordinary coolness, + continuing the <i>rôle</i> of the arch maid of seventeen—“I + suppose, if every thing one hears is true, we may congratulate you, dear + Mrs. Dinks, upon an interesting event?” And Fanny raised her bouquet + and smelled at it vigorously—at least, she seemed to be doing so, + because the flowers almost covered her face, but really they made an + ambush from which she spied the enemy, unseen. + </p> + <p> + The remark she had made had been made a hundred times before to Mrs. + Dinks. In fact, Fanny herself had used it, under various forms, to assure + herself, by the pleased reserve of the reply which Mrs. Dinks always + returned, that the lady had no suspicion that she was mistaken. But this + time Mrs. Dinks, whose equanimity had been entirely disturbed by her + discovery that Hope was not engaged to Alfred, asked formally, and not + without a slight sneer which arose from an impatient suspicion that Fanny + knew more than she chose to disclose— + </p> + <p> + “And pray, Miss Newt, what do people hear? Really, if other people + are as unfortunate as I am, they hear a great deal of nonsense.” + </p> + <p> + Upon which Mrs. Budlong Dinks sniffed the air like a charger. + </p> + <p> + “I know it—it is really dreadful,” returned Fanny Newt. + “People do say the most annoying and horrid things. But this time, I + am sure, there can be nothing very vexatious.” And Miss Newt fanned + herself with persistent complacency, as if she were resolved to prolong + the pleasure which Mrs. Dinks must undoubtedly have in the conversation. + </p> + <p> + Hitherto it had been the policy of that lady to demur and insinuate, and + declare how strange it was, and how gossipy people were, and finally to + retreat from a direct reply under cover of a pretty shower of ohs! and + ahs! and indeeds! and that policy had been uniformly successful. Everybody + said, “Of course Alfred Dinks and his cousin are engaged, and Mrs. + Dinks likes to have it alluded to—although there are reasons why it + must be not openly acknowledged.” So Field-marshal Mrs. Dinks + outgeneraled Everybody. But the gallant young private, Miss Fanny Newt, + was resolved to win her epaulets. + </p> + <p> + As Mrs. Dinks made no reply, and assumed the appearance of a lady who, for + her own private and inscrutable reasons, had concluded to forego the + prerogative of speech for evermore, while she fanned herself calmly, and + regarded Fanny with a kind of truculent calmness that seemed to say, + “What are you going to do about that last triumphant move of mine?” + Fanny proceeded in a strain of continuous sweetness that fairly rivaled + the smoothness of the neck, and the eyes, and the arms of Mrs. Bleecker + Van Kraut: + </p> + <p> + “I suppose there can be nothing very disagreeable to Miss Wayne’s + friends in knowing that she is engaged to Mr. Alfred Dinks?” + </p> + <p> + Alas! Mrs. Dinks, who knew Hope, knew that the time for dexterous + subterfuges and misleadings had passed. She resolved that people, when + they discovered what they inevitably soon must discover, should not + suppose that she had been deceived. So, looking straight into Fanny Newt’s + eyes without flinching—and somehow it was not a look of profound + affection—she said, + </p> + <p> + “I was not aware of any such engagement.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed!” replied the undaunted Fanny, “I have heard + that love is blind, but I did not know that it was true of maternal love. + Mr. Dinks’s mother is not his confidante, then, I presume?” + </p> + <p> + The bad passions of Mr. Dinks’s mother’s heart were like the + heathen, and furiously raged together at this remark. She continued the + fanning, and said, with a sickly smile, + </p> + <p> + “Miss Newt, you can contradict from me the report of any such + engagement.” + </p> + <p> + That was enough. Fanny was mistress of the position. If Mrs. Dinks were + willing to say that, it was because she was persuaded that it never would + be true. She had evidently discovered something. How much had she + discovered? That was the next step. + </p> + <p> + As these reflections flashed through the mind of Miss Fanny Newt, and her + cold black eye shone with a stony glitter, she was conscious that the time + for some decisive action upon her part had arrived. To be or not to be + Mrs. Alfred Dinks was now the question; and even as she thought of it she + felt what must be done. She did not depreciate the ability of Mrs. Dinks, + and she feared her influence upon Alfred. Poor Mr. Dinks! he was at that + moment smoking a cigar upon the forward deck of the <i>Chancellor + Livingston</i> steamer, that plied between New York and Providence. Mr. + Bowdoin Beacon sat by his side. + </p> + <p> + “She’s a real good girl, and pretty, and rich, though she is + my cousin, Bowdoin. So why don’t you?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Beacon, a member of the upper sex, replied, gravely, “Well, + perhaps!” + </p> + <p> + They were speaking of Hope Wayne. + </p> + <p> + At the same instant also, in Mrs. Kingfisher’s swarming + drawing-rooms, looking on at the dancers and listening to the music, stood + Hope Wayne, Lawrence Newt, Amy Waring, and Arthur Merlin. They were + chatting together pleasantly, Lawrence Newt usually leading, and Hope + Wayne bending her beautiful head, and listening and looking at him in a + way to make any man eloquent. The painter had been watching for Mr. Abel + Newt’s entrance, and, after he saw him, turned to study the effect + produced upon Miss Wayne by seeing him. + </p> + <p> + But Abel, who saw as much in his way as Mrs. Dagon in hers, although + without the glasses, had carefully kept in the other part of the rooms. He + had planted his batteries before Mrs. Bleecker Van Kraut, having resolved + to taste her, as Herbert Octoyne had advised, notwithstanding that she had + no flavor, as Abel himself had averred. + </p> + <p> + But who eats merely for the flavor of the food? + </p> + <p> + That lady clicked smoothly as Abel, metaphorically speaking, touched her. + Louis Wilkottle, her cavalier, slipped away from her he could not tell + how: he merely knew that Abel Newt was in attendance, vice Wilkottle, + disappeared. So Wilkottle floated about the rooms upon limp pinions for + sometime, wondering where to settle, and brushed Fanny Newt in flying. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! Mr. Wilkottle, you are just the man. Mr. Whitloe, Laura Magot, + and I were just talking about Batrachian reptiles. Which are the best + toads, the fattest?” + </p> + <p> + “Or does it depend upon the dressing?” asked Mr. Whitloe. + </p> + <p> + “Or the quantity of jewelry in the head?” said Laura Magot. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Wilkottle smiled, bowed, and passed on. + </p> + <p> + If they had called him an ass—as they were ladies of the best + position—he would have bowed, smiled, and passed on. + </p> + <p> + “An amiable fellow,” said Fanny, as he disappeared; “but + quite a remarkable fool.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Zephyr Wetherley, still struggling with the hand problem, approached + Miss Fanny, and remarked that it was very warm. + </p> + <p> + “You’re cool enough in all conscience, Mr. Wetherley,” + said she. + </p> + <p> + “My dear Miss Newt, ‘pon honor,” replied Zephyr, + beginning to be very red, and wiping his moist brow. + </p> + <p> + “I call any man cool who would have told St. Lawrence upon the + gridiron that he was frying,” interrupted Fanny. + </p> + <p> + “Oh!—ah!—yes!—on the gridiron! Yes, very good! Ha! + ha! Quite on the gridiron—very much so! ‘Tis very hot here. + Don’t you think so? It’s quite confusing, like—sort of + bewildering. Don’t you think so, Miss Newt?” + </p> + <p> + Fanny was leveling her black eyes at him for a reply, but Mr. Wetherley, + trying to regulate his hands, said, hastily, + </p> + <p> + “Yes, quite on the gridiron—very!” and rapidly moved off + it by moving on. + </p> + <p> + “Good evenin’, Mrs. Newt,” said a voice in another part + of the room. “Good-evenin’, marm. I sez to ma, Now ma, sez I, + you’d better go to Mrs. Kingfisher’s ball. Law, pa, sez she, I + reckon ‘twill be so werry hot to Mrs. Kingfisher’s that I’d + better stay to home, sez she. So she staid. Well, ‘tis dreadful hot, + Mrs. Newt. I’m all in a muck. As I was a-puttin’ on my coat, I + sez, Now, ma, sez I, I hate to wear that coat, sez I. A man does git so + nasty sweaty in a great, thick coat, sez I. Whew! I’m all sticky.” + </p> + <p> + And Mr. Van Boozenberg worked himself in his garments and stretched his + arms to refresh himself. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Boniface Newt, to whom he made this oration, had been taught by her + husband that Mr. Van Boozenberg was an oaf, but an oaf whose noise was to + be listened to with the utmost patience and respect. “He’s a + brute, my dear; but what can we do? When I am rich we can get rid of such + people.” + </p> + <p> + On the other hand, Jacob Van Boozenberg had his little theory of Boniface + Newt, which, unlike that worthy commission merchant, he did not impart to + his ma and the partner of his bosom, but locked up in the vault of his own + breast. Mr. Van B. gloried in being what he called a self-made man. He was + proud of his nasal twang and his want of grammar, and all amenities and + decencies of speech. He regarded them as inseparable from his success. He + even affected them in the company of those who were peculiarly elegant, + and was secretly suspicious of the mercantile paper of all men who were + unusually neat in their appearance, and who spoke their native language + correctly. The partner of his bosom was the constant audience of his + self-glorification. + </p> + <p> + A little while before, her lord had returned one day to dinner, and said, + with a tone of triumph, + </p> + <p> + “Well, ma, Gerald Bennet & Co. have busted up—smashed all + to pieces. Always knew they would. I sez to you, ma, a hundred times—don’t + you remember?—Now, ma, sez I, ‘tain’t no use. He’s + been to college, and he talks grammar, and all that; but what’s the + use? What’s the use of talkin’ grammar? Don’t help + nothin’. A man feels kind o’ stuck up when he’s been to + college. But, ma, sez I, gi’ me a self-made man—a man what + knows werry well that twice two’s four. A self-made man ain’t + no time for grammar, sez I. If a man expects to get on in this world he + mustn’t be too fine. This is the second time Bennet’s busted. + Better have no grammar and more goods, sez I. You remember—hey, ma?” + </p> + <p> + When, a little while afterward, Mr. Bennet applied for a situation as + book-keeper in the bank of which Mr. Van Boozenberg was president, that + officer hung, drew, and quartered the English language, before the very + eyes of Mr. Bennet, to show him how he despised it, and to impress him + with the great truth that he, Jacob Van Boozenberg, a self-made man, who + had no time to speak correctly, nor to be comely or clean, was yet a + millionaire before whom Wall Street trembled—while he, Gerald + Bennet, with all his education, and polish, and care, and scrupulous + neatness and politeness, was a poverty-stricken, shiftless vagabond; and + what good had grammar done him? The ruined gentleman stood before the + president—who was seated in his large armchair at the bank—holding + his hat uncertainly, the nervous smile glimmering like heat lightning upon + his pale, anxious face, in which his eyes shone with that singular, soft + light of dreams. + </p> + <p> + “Now, Mr. Bennet, I sez to ma this very mornin’—sez I, + ‘Ma, I s’pose Mr. Bennet ‘ll be wantin’ a place in + our bank. If he hadn’t been so wery fine,’ sez I, ‘he + might have got on. He talks be-youtiful grammar, ma,’” said + the worthy President, screwing in the taunt, as it were; “‘but + grammar ain’t good to eat,’ sez I. ‘He ain’t a + self-made man, as some folks is,’ sez I; ‘but I suppose I’ll + have to stick him in somewheres,’ sez I—that’s all of + it.” + </p> + <p> + Gerald Bennet winced. Beggars mustn’t be choosers, said he, feebly, + in his sad heart, and he thankfully took the broken victuals Jacob Van + Boozenberg threw him. But he advised Gabriel, as we saw, to try Lawrence + Newt. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Newt agreed with Mr. Van Boozenberg that it was very warm. + </p> + <p> + “I heerd about you to Saratogy last summer, Mrs. Newt; but you ain’t + been to see ma since you come home. ‘Ma,’ sez I, ‘why + don’t Mrs. Newt call and see us?’ ‘Law, pa,’ sez + she, ‘Mrs. Newt can’t call and see such folks as we be!’ + sez she. ‘We ain’t fine enough for Mrs. Newt,’” + said the great man of Wall Street, and he laughed aloud at the excellent + joke. + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Van Boozenberg is very much mistaken,” replied Mrs. + Newt, anxiously. “I am afraid she did not get my card. I am very + sorry. But I hope you will tell her.” + </p> + <p> + The great Jacob knew perfectly well that Mrs. Newt had called, but he + liked to show himself how vast his power was. He liked to see fine ladies + in splendid drawing-rooms bowing, down before his ungrammatical throne, + and metaphorically kissing his knobby red hand. + </p> + <p> + “Your son, Abel, seems to enjoy himself werry well, Mrs. Newt,” + said Mr. Van Boozenberg, as he observed that youth, in sumptuous array, + dancing devotedly with Mrs. Bleecker Van Kraut. + </p> + <p> + “Oh dear, yes,” replied Mrs. Newt. “But you know what + young sons are, Mr. Van Boozenberg.’” + </p> + <p> + The conversation was setting precisely as that gentleman wished, and as he + had intended to direct it. + </p> + <p> + “Mercy, yes, Mrs. Newt! Ma sez to me, ‘Pa, what a boy Corlear + is! how he does spend money!’ And I sez to ma, ‘Ma, he do.’ + Tut, tut! The bills. I have to pay for that bay—! I s’pose, + now, your Abel don’t lay up no money—ha! ha!” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Van Boozenberg laughed again, and Mrs. Newt joined, but in a low and + rather distressed way, as if it were necessary to laugh, although nothing + funny had been said. + </p> + <p> + “It’s positively dreadful the way he spends money,” + replied she. “I don’t know where it will end.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh ho! it’s the way with all young men, marm. I always sez to + ma she needn’t fret her gizzard. Young men will sow their wild oats. + Oh, ‘tain’t nothin’. Mr. Newt knows that werry well. + Every man do.” + </p> + <p> + He watched Mrs. Newt’s expression as he spoke. She answered, + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know about that; but Mr. Newt shakes his head + dismally nowadays about something or other, and he’s really grown + old.” + </p> + <p> + In uttering these words Mrs. Newt had sealed the fate of a large offering + for discount made that very day by Boniface Newt, Son, & Co. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0033" id="link2HCH0033"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXIII. — ANOTHER TURN IN THE WALTZ. + </h2> + <p> + The music streamed through the rooms in the soft, yearning, lingering, + passionate, persuasive measures of a waltz. Arthur Merlin had been very + intently watching Hope Wayne, because he saw Abel Newt approaching with + Mrs. Van Kraut, and he wished to catch the first look of Hope upon seeing + him. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Bleecker Van Kraut, when she waltzed, was simply a circular + advertisement of the Van Kraut property. Her slow rising and falling + motion displayed the family jewels to the utmost advantage. The same + insolent smoothness and finish prevailed in the whole performance. It was + almost as perfect as the Paris toys which you wind up, and which spin + smoothly round upon the table. Abel Newt, conscious master of the dance + and chief of brilliant youth, waltzed with an air of delicate deference + toward his partner, and, gay defiance toward the rest of the world. + </p> + <p> + The performance was so novel and so well executed that the ball instantly + became a spectacle of which Abel and Mrs. Van Kraut were the central + figures. The crowd pressed around them, and Abel gently pushed them back + in his fluctuating circles. Short ladies in the back-ground stood upon + chairs for a moment to get a better view; while Mrs. Dagon and Mrs. Orry, + whom no dexterous waltzer would ever clasp in the dizzy whirl, spattered + their neighborhood with epithets of contempt and indignation, thanking + Heaven that in their day things had not quite come to such a pass as that. + Colonel Burr himself, my dears, never dared to touch more than the tips of + his partner’s fingers in the contra-dance. + </p> + <p> + Hope Wayne had not met Abel Newt since they had parted after the runaway + at Delafield, except in his mother’s conservatory, and when she was + stepping from the carriage. In the mean while she had been learning every + thing at once. + </p> + <p> + As her eyes fell upon him now she remembered that day upon the lawn at + Pinewood, when he stood suddenly beside her, casting a shadow upon the + page she was reading. The handsome boy had grown into this proud, gallant, + gay young man, surrounded by that social prestige which gives graceful + confidence to the bearing of any man. He knew that Hope had heard of his + social success; but he could not justly estimate its effect upon her. + </p> + <p> + Of all those who stood by her Arthur Merlin was the only one who knew that + she had ever known Abel, and Arthur only inferred it from Abel’s + resemblance to the sketch of Manfred, which had evidently deeply affected + Hope. Lawrence Newt, who knew Delafield, had wondered if Abel and Hope had + ever met. Perhaps he had a little fear of their meeting, knowing Abel to + be audacious and brilliant, and Hope to be romantic. Perhaps the anxiety + with which he now looked upon the waltz arose from the apprehension that + Hope could not help, at least, fancying such a handsome fellow. And then—what? + </p> + <p> + Amy Waring certainly did not know, although Lawrence Newt’s eyes + seemed to ask hers the question. + </p> + <p> + Hope heard the music, and her heart beat time. As she saw Abel and + remembered the days that were no more, for a moment her cheek flushed—not + tumultuously, but gently—and Lawrence Newt and the painter remarked + it. The emotion passed, almost imperceptibly, and her eyes followed the + dancers calmly, with only a little ache in the heart—with only a + vague feeling that she had lived a long, long time. + </p> + <p> + Abel Newt had not lost Hope Wayne from his attention for a single moment + during the evening; and before the interest in the dance was palled, + before people had begun to buzz again and turn away, while Mrs. Van Kraut + and he were still the spectacle upon which all eyes were directed, he + suddenly whirled his partner toward the spot where Hope Wayne and her + friends were standing, and stopped. + </p> + <p> + It was no more necessary for Mrs. Van Kraut to fan herself than if she had + been a marble statue. But it is proper to fan one’s self when one + has done dancing—so she waved the fan. Besides, it was a Van Kraut + heir-loom. It came from Amsterdam. It was studded with jewels. It was part + of the property. + </p> + <p> + As for Abel, he turned and bowed profoundly to Miss Wayne. Of course she + knew that people were looking. She bowed as if to a mere acquaintance. + Abel said a few words, signifying nothing, to his partner, then he + remarked to Miss Wayne that he was very glad indeed to meet her again; + that he had not called because he knew she had been making a convent of + her aunt’s house—making herself a nun—a Sister of + Charity, he did not doubt, doing good as she always did—making every + body in the world happy, as she could not help doing, and so forth. + </p> + <p> + Abel rattled on, he did not know why; but he did know that his Uncle + Lawrence, and Amy Waring, and Mr. Merlin heard every thing he said. Hope + looked at him calmly, and listened to the gay cascade of talk. + </p> + <p> + The music was still playing; Mr. Van Boozenberg spoke to Lawrence Newt; + Amy Waring said that she saw her Aunt Bennet. Would Mr. Merlin take her to + her aunt?—he should return to his worship in one moment. Mr. Merlin + was very gallant, and replied with spirit that when her worship returned—here + he made a low bow—his would. As they moved away Amy Waring laughed + at him, and said that men would compliment as long as—as women are + lovely, interpolated Mr. Merlin. Arthur also wished to know what speech + was good for, if not to say the sweetest things; and so they were lost to + view, still gayly chatting with the pleasant freedom of a young man and + woman who know that they are not in love with each other, and are + perfectly content not to be so, because—whether they know it or not—they + are each in love with somebody else. + </p> + <p> + This movement had taken place as Abel was finishing his scattering volley + of talk. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said he, as he saw that he was not overheard, and + sinking his voice into that tone of tender music which Hope so well + remembered—“yes, making every body in the world happy but one + person.” + </p> + <p> + His airy persiflage had not pleased Hope Wayne. The sudden modulation into + sentiment offended her. Before she replied—indeed she had no + intention of replying—the round eyes of Mrs. Van Kraut informed her + partner that she was ready for another turn, and forth they whirled upon + the floor. + </p> + <p> + “I jes’ sez to Mrs. Dagon, you know, ma’am, sez I, I don’t + like to see a young man like Mr. Abel Newt, sez I, wasting himself upon + married women. No, sez I, ma’am, when you women have made your + market, sez I, you oughter stan’ one side and give the t’others + a chance, sez I.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Van Boozenberg addressed this remark to Lawrence Newt. In the eyes of + the old gentleman it was another instance of imprudence on Abel’s + part not to be already engaged to some rich girl. + </p> + <p> + Lawrence Newt replied by looking round the room as if searching for some + one, and then saying: + </p> + <p> + “I don’t see your daughter, Mrs. Witchet, here to-night, Mr. + Van Boozenberg.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” growled the papa, and moved on to talk with Mrs. Dagon. + </p> + <p> + “My dear Sir,” said the Honorable Budlong Dinks, approaching + just as Lawrence Newt finished his remark, and Van Boozenberg, growling, + departed: + </p> + <p> + “That was an unfortunate observation. You are, perhaps, not aware—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! thank you, yes, I am fully aware,” replied Lawrence Newt. + “But one thing I do not know.” + </p> + <p> + The Honorable Budlong Dinks bowed with dignity as if he understood Mr. + Newt to compliment him by insinuating that he was the man who knew all + about it, and would immediately enlighten him. + </p> + <p> + “I do not know why, if a man does a mean and unfeeling, yes, an + inhuman act, it is bad manners to speak of it. Old Van Boozenberg ought to + be sent to the penitentiary for his treatment of his daughter, and we all + know it.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; but really,” replied the Honorable Budlong Dinks, + “really—you know—it would be impossible. Mr. Van + Boozenberg is a highly respectable man—really—we should lapse + into chaos,” and the honorable gentleman rubbed his hands with + perfect suavity. + </p> + <p> + “When did we emerge?” asked Lawrence Newt, with such a kindly + glimmer in his eyes, that Mr. Dinks said merely, “really,” and + moved on, remarking to General Arcularius Belch, with a diplomatic shrug, + that Lawrence Newt was a very odd man. + </p> + <p> + “Odd, but not without the coin. He can afford to be odd,” + replied that gentleman. + </p> + <p> + While these little things were said and done, Lawrence moved through the + crowd and somehow found himself at the side of Amy Waring, who was talking + with Fanny Newt. + </p> + <p> + “You young Napoleon,” said Lawrence to his niece as he joined + them. + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean, you droll Uncle Lawrence?” demanded Fanny, + her eyes glittering with inquiry. + </p> + <p> + “Where’s Mrs. Wurmser—I mean Mrs. Dinks?” + continued Lawrence. “Why, when I saw you talking together a little + while ago, I could think of nothing but the young Bonaparte and the old + Wurmser.” + </p> + <p> + “You droll Uncle Lawrence, aren’t you ashamed of yourself?” + </p> + <p> + It was an astuter young Napoleon than Uncle Lawrence knew. Even then and + there, in Mrs. Kingfisher’s ball-room, had Fanny Newt resolved how + to carry her Mantua by a sudden coup. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0034" id="link2HCH0034"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXIV. — HEAVEN’S LAST BEST GIFT. + </h2> + <p> + “My dear Alfred, I am glad to see you. You may kiss me—carefully, + carefully!” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Alfred Dinks therewith kissed lips upon his return from Boston. + </p> + <p> + “Sit down, Alfred, my dear, I wish to speak to you,” said + Fanny Newt, with even more than her usual decision. The eyes were + extremely round and black. Alfred seated himself with vague trepidation. + </p> + <p> + “My dear, we must be married immediately,” remarked Fanny, + quietly. + </p> + <p> + The eyes of the lover shone with pleasure. + </p> + <p> + “Dear Fanny!” said he, “have you told mother?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” answered she, calmly. + </p> + <p> + “Well, but then you know—” rejoined Alfred. He would + have said more, but he was afraid. He wanted to inquire whether Fanny + thought that her father would supply the sinews of matrimony. Alfred’s + theory was that he undoubtedly would. He was sure that a young woman of + Fanny’s calmness, intrepidity, and profound knowledge of the world + would not propose immediate matrimony without seeing how the commissariat + was to be supplied. She has all her plans laid, of course, thought he—she + is so talented and cool that ‘tis all right, I dare say. Of course + she knows that I have nothing, and hope for nothing except from old Burt, + and he’s not sure for me, by any means. But Boniface Newt is rich + enough. + </p> + <p> + And Alfred consoled himself by thinking of the style in which that worthy + commission merchant lived, and especially of his son Abel’s expense + and splendor. + </p> + <p> + “Alfred, dear—just try not to be trying, you know, but think + what you are about. Your mother has found out that something has gone + wrong—that you are not engaged to Hope Wayne.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—yes, I know,” burst in Alfred; “she treated + me like a porcupine this morning—or ant-eater, which is it, Fanny—the + thing with quills, you know?” + </p> + <p> + Miss Fanny Newt patted the floor with her foot. Alfred continued: + </p> + <p> + “Yes, and Hope sent down, and she wanted to see me alone some time + to-day.” + </p> + <p> + Fanny’s foot stopped. + </p> + <p> + “Alfred, dear,” said she, “you are a good fellow, but + you are too amiable. You must do just as I want you to, dearest, or + something awful will happen.” + </p> + <p> + “Pooh! Fanny; nothing shall happen. I love you like any thing.” + </p> + <p> + Smack! smack! + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, listen, Alfred! Your mother doesn’t like me. She + would do any thing to prevent your marrying me. The reasons I will tell + you at another time. If you go home and talk with her and Hope Wayne, you + can not help betraying that you are engaged to me; and—you know your + mother, Alfred—she would openly oppose the marriage, and I don’t + know what she might not say to my father.” + </p> + <p> + Fanny spoke clearly and rapidly, but calmly. Alfred looked utterly + bewildered. + </p> + <p> + “It’s a great pity, isn’t it?” said he, feebly. + “What do you think we had better do?” + </p> + <p> + “We must be married, Alfred, dear!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; but when, Fanny?” + </p> + <p> + “To-day,” said Fanny, firmly, and putting out her hand to her + beloved. + </p> + <p> + He seized it mechanically. + </p> + <p> + “To-day, Fanny?” asked he, after a pause of amazement. + </p> + <p> + “Certainly, dear—to-day. I am as ready now as I shall be a + year hence.” + </p> + <p> + “But what will my mother say?” inquired Alfred, in alarm. + </p> + <p> + “It will be too late for her to say any thing. Don’t you see, + Alfred, dear!” continued Fanny, in a most assuring tone, “that + if we go to your mother and say, ‘Here we are, married!’ she + has sense enough to perceive that nothing can be done; and after a little + while all will be smooth again?” + </p> + <p> + Her lover was comforted by this view. He was even pleased by the audacity + of the project. + </p> + <p> + “I swear, Fanny,” said he, at length, in a more cheerful and + composed voice, “I think it’s rather a good idea!” + </p> + <p> + “Of course it is, dear. Are you ready?” + </p> + <p> + Alfred gasped a little at the prompt question, despite his confidence. + </p> + <p> + “Why, Fanny, you don’t mean actually now—this very day? + Gracious!” + </p> + <p> + “Why not now? Since we think best to be married immediately and in + private, why should we put it off until to-night, or next week, when we + are both as ready now as we can be then?” asked Fanny, quietly; + “especially as something may happen to make it impossible then.” + </p> + <p> + Alfred Dinks shut his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “What will your father say?” he inquired, at length, without + raising his eyelids. + </p> + <p> + “Do you not see he will have to make up his mind to it, just as your + mother will?” replied Fanny. + </p> + <p> + “And my father!” said Alfred, in a state of temporary + blindness continued. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, and your father too,” answered Fanny, both she and + Alfred treating the Honorable Budlong Dinks as a mere tender to that + woman-of-war his wife, in a way that would have been incredible to a + statesman who considered his wife a mere domestic luxury. + </p> + <p> + There was a silence of several minutes. Then Mr. Dinks opened his eyes, + and said, + </p> + <p> + “Well, Fanny, dear!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, Alfred, dear!” and Fanny leaned toward him, with her + head poised like that of a black snake. Alfred was fascinated. Perhaps he + was sorry he was so; perhaps he wanted to struggle. But he did not. He was + under the spell. + </p> + <p> + There was still a lingering silence. Fanny waited patiently. At length she + asked again, putting her hand in her lover’s: + </p> + <p> + “Are you ready?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes!” said Alfred, in a crisp, resolute tone. + </p> + <p> + Fanny raised her hand and rang the bell. The waiter appeared. + </p> + <p> + “John, I want a carriage immediately.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Miss.” + </p> + <p> + “And, John, tell Mary to bring me my things. I am going out.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Miss.” And hearing nothing farther, John disappeared. + </p> + <p> + It was perhaps a judicious instinct which taught Fanny not to leave Alfred + alone by going up to array herself in her own chamber. The intervals of + delay between the coming of the maid and the coming of the carriage the + young woman employed in conversing dexterously about Boston, and the + friends he had seen there, and in describing to him the great Kingfisher + ball. + </p> + <p> + Presently she was bonneted and cloaked, and the carriage was at the door. + </p> + <p> + Her home had not been a Paradise to Fanny Newt—nor were Aunt Dagon, + Papa and Mamma Newt, and brother Abel altogether angels. She had no + superfluous emotions of any kind at any time; but as she passed through + the hall she saw her sister May—the youngest child—a girl of + sixteen—Uncle Lawrence’s favorite—standing upon the + stairs. + </p> + <p> + She said nothing; the hall was quite dim, and as the girl stood in the + half light her childlike, delicate beauty seemed to Fanny more striking + than ever. If Uncle Lawrence had seen her at the moment he would have + thought of Jacob’s ladder and the angels ascending and descending. + </p> + <p> + “Good-by, May!” said Fanny, going up to her sister, taking her + face between her hands and kissing her lips. + </p> + <p> + The sisters looked at each other, each inexplicably conscious that it was + not an ordinary farewell. + </p> + <p> + “Good-by, darling!” said Fanny, kissing her again, and still + holding her young, lovely face. + </p> + <p> + Touched and surprised by the unwonted tenderness of her sister’s + manner, May threw her arms around her neck and burst into tears. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! Fanny.” + </p> + <p> + Fanny did not disengage the arms that clung about her, nor raise the young + head that rested upon her shoulder. Perhaps she felt that somehow it was a + benediction. + </p> + <p> + May raised her head at length, kissed Fanny gently upon the lips, smoothed + her black hair for a moment with her delicate hand, half smiled through + her tears as she thought that after this indication of affection she + should have such a pleasant intercourse with her sister, and then pushed + her softly away, saying, + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Dinks is waiting for you, Fanny.” + </p> + <p> + Fanny said nothing, but drew her veil over her face, and Mr. Dinks handed + her into the carriage. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0035" id="link2HCH0035"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXV. — MOTHER-IN-LAW AND DAUGHTER-IN-LAW. + </h2> + <p> + Mrs. Dinks and Hope Wayne sat together in their lodgings, waiting + impatiently for Alfred’s return. They were both working busily, and + said little to each other. Mrs. Dinks had resolved to leave New York at + the earliest possible moment. She waited only to have a clear explanation + with her son. Hope Wayne was also waiting for an explanation. She was + painfully curious to know why Alfred Dinks had told his mother that they + were engaged. As her Aunt Dinks looked at her, and saw how noble and lofty + her beauty was, yet how simple and candid, she was more than ever angry + with her, because she felt that it was impossible she should ever have + loved Alfred. + </p> + <p> + They heard a carriage in the street. It stopped at the door. In a moment + the sound of a footstep was audible. + </p> + <p> + “My dear, I wish to speak to Alfred alone. I hear his step,” + said Mrs. Dinks. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, aunt,” answered Hope Wayne, rising, and taking her + little basket she moved toward the door. Just as she reached it, it + opened, and Alfred Dinks and Fanny Newt entered. Hope bowed, and was + passing on. + </p> + <p> + “Stop, Hope!” whispered Alfred, excitedly. + </p> + <p> + She turned at the door and looked at her cousin, who, with uncertain + bravado, advanced with Fanny to his mother, who was gazing at them in + amazement, and said, in a thick, hurried voice, + </p> + <p> + “Mother, this is your daughter Fanny—my wife—Mrs. Alfred + Dinks.” + </p> + <p> + As she heard these words Hope Wayne went out, closing the door behind her, + leaving the mother alone with her children. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Dinks sat speechless in her chair for a few moments, staring at + Alfred, who looked as if his legs would not long support him, and at + Fanny, who stood calmly beside him. At length she said to Alfred, + </p> + <p> + “Is that woman really your wife?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, ‘m,” replied the new husband. + </p> + <p> + “What are you going to support her with?” + </p> + <p> + “I have my allowance,” said Alfred, in a very small voice. + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Alfred Dinks, your husband’s allowance is six hundred + dollars a year from his father. I wish you joy.” + </p> + <p> + There was a sarcastic sparkle in her eyes. Mrs. Dinks had long felt that + she and Fanny were contesting a prize. At this moment, while she knew that + she had not won, she was sure that Fanny had lost. + </p> + <p> + Fanny was prepared for such a reception. She did not shrink. She + remembered the great Burt fortune. But before she could speak Mrs. Dinks + rose, and, with an air of contemptuous defiance, inquired, + </p> + <p> + “Where are you living, Mrs. Dinks?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Alfred looked at his wife in profound perplexity. He thought, for his + part, that he was living in that very house. But his wife answered, + quietly, + </p> + <p> + “We are at Bunker’s, where we shall be delighted to see you. + Good-morning, Mrs. Dinks.” + </p> + <p> + And Fanny took her husband by the arm and went out, having entirely + confounded her mother-in-law, who meant to have wished her children + good-morning, and then have left them to their embarrassment. But victory + seemed to perch upon Fanny’s standards along the whole line. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0036" id="link2HCH0036"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXVI. — THE BACK WINDOW. + </h2> + <p> + Lawrence Newt was not unmindful of the difference of age between Amy + Waring and himself; and instinctively he did nothing which could show to + others that he felt more for her than for a friend. Younger men, who could + not help yielding to the charm of her presence, never complained of him. + He was never “that infernal old bore, Lawrence Newt,” to them. + More than one of them, in the ardor of young feeling, had confided his + passion to Lawrence, who said to him, bravely, “My dear fellow, I do + not wonder you feel so. God speed you—and so will I, all I can.” + </p> + <p> + And he did so. He mentioned the candidate kindly to Miss Waring. He + repeated little anecdotes that he had heard to his advantage. Lawrence + regarded the poor suitor as a painter does a picture. He took him up in + the arms of his charity and moved him round and round. He put him upon his + sympathy as upon an easel, and turned on the kindly lights and judiciously + darkened the apartment. + </p> + <p> + His generosity was chivalric, but it was unavailing. Beautiful flowers + arrived from the aspiring youths. They were so lovely, so fragrant! What + taste that young Hal Battlebury has! remarks Lawrence Newt, admiringly, as + he smells the flowers that stand in a pretty vase upon the centre-table. + Amy Waring smiles, and says that it is Thorburn’s taste, of whom Mr. + Battlebury buys the flowers. Mr. Newt replies that it is at least very + thoughtful in him. A young lady can not but feel kindly, surely, toward + young men who express their good feeling in the form of flowers. Then he + dexterously leads the conversation into some other channel. He will not + harm the cause of poor Mr. Battlebury by persisting in speaking of him and + his bouquets, when that persistence will evidently render the subject a + little tedious. + </p> + <p> + Poor Mr. Hal Battlebury, who, could he only survey the Waring mansion from + the lower floor to the roof, would behold his handsome flowers that came + on Wednesday withering in cold ceremony upon the parlor-table—and in + Amy Waring’s bureau-drawer would see the little book she received + from “her friend Lawrence Newt” treasured like a priceless + pearl, with a pressed rose laid upon the leaf where her name and his are + written—a rose which Lawrence Newt playfully stole one evening from + one of the ceremonious bouquets pining under its polite reception, and + said gayly, as he took leave, “Let this keep my memory fragrant till + I return.” + </p> + <p> + But it was a singular fact that when one of those baskets without a card + arrived at the house, it was not left in superb solitary state upon the + centre-table in the parlor, but bloomed as long as care could coax it in + the strict seclusion of Miss Waring’s own chamber, and then some + choicest flower was selected to be pressed and preserved somewhere in the + depths of the bureau. + </p> + <p> + Could the bureau drawers give up their treasures, would any human being + longer seem to be cold? would any maiden young or old appear a voluntary + spinster, or any unmarried octogenarian at heart a bachelor? + </p> + <p> + For many a long hour Lawrence Newt stood at the window of the loft in the + rear of his office, and looked up at the window where he had seen Amy + Waring that summer morning. He was certainly quite as curious about that + room as Hope about his early knowledge of her home. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll just run round and settle this matter,” said the + merchant to himself. + </p> + <p> + But he did not stir. His hands were in his pockets. He was standing as + firmly in one spot as if he had taken root. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—upon the whole, I’ll just run round,” thought + Lawrence, without the remotest approach to motion of any kind. But his + fancy was running round all the time, and the fancies of men who watch + windows, as Lawrence Newt watched this window, are strangely fantastic. He + imagined every thing in that room. It was a woman with innumerable + children, of course—some old nurse of Amy’s—who had a + kind of respectability to preserve, which intrusion would injure. No, no, + by Heaven! it was Mrs. Tom Witchet, old Van Boozenberg’s daughter! + Of course it was. An old friend of Amy’s, half-starving in that + miserable lodging, and Amy her guardian angel. Lawrence Newt mentally + vowed that Mrs. Tom Witchet should never want any thing. He would speak to + Amy at the next meeting of the Round Table. + </p> + <p> + Or there were other strange fancies. What will not an India merchant dream + as he gazes from his window? It was some old teacher of Amy’s—some + music-master, some French teacher—dying alone and in poverty, or + with a large family. No, upon the whole, thought Lawrence Newt, he’s + not old enough to have a large family—he is not married—he has + too delicate a nature to struggle with the world—he was a gentleman + in his own country; and he has, of course, it’s only natural—how + could he possibly help it?—he has fallen in love with Miss Waring. + These music-masters and Italian teachers are such silly fellows. I know + all about it, thought Mr. Newt; and now he lies there forlorn, but + picturesque and very handsome, singing sweetly to his guitar, and reciting + Petrarch’s sonnets with large, melancholy eyes. His manners refined + and fascinating. His age? About thirty. Poor Amy! Of course common + humanity requires her to come and see that he does not suffer. Of course + he is desperately in love, and she can only pity. Pity? pity? Who says + something about the kinship of pity? I really think, says Lawrence Newt to + himself, that I ought to go over and help that unfortunate young man. + Perhaps he wishes to return to his native country. I am sure he ought to. + His native air will be balm to him. Yes, I’ll ask Miss Waring about + it this very evening. + </p> + <p> + He did not. He never alluded to the subject. They had never mentioned that + summer noontide exchange of glance and gesture which had so curious an + effect on Lawrence Newt that he now stood quite as often at his back + window, looking up at the old brick house, as at his front window, looking + out over the river and the ships, and counting the spires—at least + it seemed so—in Brooklyn. + </p> + <p> + For how could Lawrence know of the book that was kept in the bureau drawer—of + the rose whose benediction lay forever fragrant upon those united names? + </p> + <p> + “I am really sorry for Hal Battlebury,” said the merchant to + himself. “He is such a good, noble fellow! I should have supposed + that Miss Waring would have been so very happy with him. He is so suitable + in every way; in age, in figure, in tastes—in sympathy altogether. + Then he is so manly and modest, so simple and true. It is really very—very—” + </p> + <p> + And so he mused, and asked and answered, and thought of Hal Battlebury and + Amy Waring together. + </p> + <p> + It seemed to him that if he were a younger man—about the age of + Battlebury, say—full of hope, and faith, and earnest endeavor—a + glowing and generous youth—it would be the very thing he should do—to + fall in love with Amy Waring. How could any man see her and not love her? + His reflections grew dreamy at this point. + </p> + <p> + “If so lovely a girl did not return the affection of such a young + man, it would be—of course, what else could it be?—it would be + because she had deliberately made up her mind that, under no conceivable + circumstances whatsoever, would she ever marry.” + </p> + <p> + As he reached this satisfactory conclusion Lawrence Newt paced up and down + before the window, with his hands still buried in his pockets, thinking of + Hal Battlebury—thinking of the foreign youth with the large, + melancholy eyes pining upon a bed of pain, and reciting Petrarch’s + sonnets, in the miserable room opposite—thinking also of that + strange coldness of virgin hearts which not the ardors of youth and love + could melt. + </p> + <p> + And, stopping before the window, he thought of his own boyhood—of + the first wild passion of his young heart—of the little hand he held—of + the soft darkness of eyes whose light mingled with his own—again the + palm-trees—the rushing river—when, at the very window upon + which he was unconsciously gazing, one afternoon a face appeared, with a + black silk handkerchief twisted about the head, and looking down into the + court between the houses. + </p> + <p> + Lawrence Newt stared at it without moving. Both windows were closed, nor + was the woman at the other looking toward him. He had, indeed, scarcely + seen her fully before she turned away. But he had recognized that face. He + had seen a woman he had so long thought dead. In a moment Amy Waring’s + visit was explained, and a more heavenly light shone upon her character as + he thought of her. + </p> + <p> + “God bless you, Amy dear!” were the words that unconsciously + stole to his lips; and going into the office, Lawrence Newt told Thomas + Tray that he should not return that afternoon, wished his clerks good-day, + and hurried around the corner into Front Street. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0037" id="link2HCH0037"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXVII. — ABEL NEWT, <i>vice</i> SLIGO MOULTRIE REMOVED. + </h2> + <p> + The Plumers were at Bunker’s. The gay, good-hearted Grace, full of + fun and flirtation, vowed that New York was life, and all the rest of the + world death. + </p> + <p> + “You do not compliment the South very much,” said Sligo + Moultrie, smiling. + </p> + <p> + “Oh no! The South is home, and we don’t compliment relations, + you know,” returned Miss Grace. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, thank Heaven! the South <i>is</i> home, Miss Grace. New York + is like a foreign city. The tumult is fearful; yet it is only a sea-port + after all. It has no metropolitan repose. It never can have. It is a + trading town.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I like trading towns, if that is it,” returned Miss + Grace, looking out into the bustling street. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Moultrie smiled—a quiet, refined, intelligent, and accomplished + smile. + </p> + <p> + He smiled confidently. Not offensively, but with that half-shy sense of + superiority which gave the high grace of self-possession to his manner—a + languid repose which pervaded his whole character. The symmetry of his + person, the careless ease of his carriage, a sweet voice, a handsome face, + were valuable allies of his intellectual accomplishments; and when all the + forces were deployed they made Sligo Moultrie very fascinating. He was not + audacious nor brilliant. It was a passive, not an active nature. He was + not rich, although Mrs. Boniface Newt had a vague idea that every Southern + youth was <i>ex-officio</i> a Croesus. Scion of a fine old family, like + the Newts, and Whitloes, and Octoynes of New York, Mr. Sligo Moultrie, + born to be a gentleman, but born poor, was resolved to maintain his state. + </p> + <p> + Miss Grace Plumer, as we saw at Mrs. Boniface Newt’s, had bright + black eyes, profusely curling black hair, olive skin, pouting mouth, and + pearly teeth. Very rich, very pretty, and very merry was Miss Grace + Plumer, who believed with enthusiastic faith that life was a ball, but who + was very shrewd and very kindly also. + </p> + <p> + Sligo Moultrie understood distinctly why he was sitting at the window with + Grace Plumer. + </p> + <p> + “The roses are in bloom at your home, I suppose, Miss Grace?” + said he. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I suppose they are, and a dreadfully lonely time they’re + having of it. Southern life, of course, is a hundred times better than + life here; but it is a little lonely, isn’t it, Mr. Moultrie?” + </p> + <p> + Grace said this turning her neck slightly, and looking an arch + interrogatory at her companion. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it is lonely in some ways. But then there is so much going up + to town and travelling that, after all, it is only a few months that we + are at home; and a man ought to be at home a good deal—he ought not + to be a vagabond.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you,” said Grace, bowing mockingly. + </p> + <p> + “I said ‘a man,’ you observe, Miss Grace.” + </p> + <p> + “Man includes woman, I believe, Mr. Moultrie.” + </p> + <p> + “In two cases—yes.” + </p> + <p> + “What are they?” + </p> + <p> + “When he holds her in his arms or in his heart.” + </p> + <p> + Here was a sudden volley masked in music. Grace Plumer was charmed. She + looked at her companion. He had been “a vagabond” all winter + in New York; but there were few more presentable men. Moreover, she felt + at home with him as a <i>compatriot</i>. Yes, this would do very well. + </p> + <p> + Miss Grace Plumer had scarcely mentally installed Mr. Sligo Moultrie as + first flirter in her corps, when a face she remembered looked up at the + window from the street, more dangerous even than when she had seen it in + the spring. It was the face of Abel Newt, who raised his hat and bowed to + her with an admiration which he concealed that he took care to show. + </p> + <p> + The next moment he was in the room, perfectly <i>comme il faut</i>, + sparkling, resistless. + </p> + <p> + “My dear Miss Plumer, I knew spring was coming. I felt it as I + approached Bunker’s. I said to Herbert Octoyne (he’s off with + the Shrimp; Papa Shrimp was too much, he was so old that he was rank)—I + said, either I smell the grass sprouting in the Battery or I have a + sensation of spring. I raise my eyes—I see that it is not grass, but + flowers. I recognize the dear, delicious spring. I bow to Miss Plumer.” + </p> + <p> + He tossed it airily off. It was audacious. It would have been outrageous, + except that the manner made it seem persiflage, and therefore allowable. + Grace Plumer blushed, bowed, smiled, and met his offered hand half-way. + Abel Newt knew perfectly what he was doing, and raised it respectfully, + bowed over it, kissed it. + </p> + <p> + “Moultrie, glad to see you. Miss Plumer, ‘tis astonishing how + this man always knows the pleasant places. If I want to know where the + best fruits and the earliest flowers are, I ask Sligo Moultrie.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Moultrie bowed. + </p> + <p> + “The first rose of the year blooms in Mr. Moultrie’s + button-hole,” continued Abel, who galloped on, laughing, and seating + himself upon an ottoman, so that his eyes were lower than the level of + Grace Plumer’s. + </p> + <p> + She smiled, and joined the hunt. + </p> + <p> + “He talks nothing but ‘ladies’ delights,’” + said she. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—two other things, please, Miss Grace,” said + Moultrie. + </p> + <p> + “What, Mr. Moultrie, two other cases? You always have two more.” + </p> + <p> + “Better two more than too much,” struck in Abel, who saw that + Miss Plumer had put out her darling little foot from beneath her dress, + and therefore had fixed his eyes upon it, with an admiration which was not + lost upon the lady. + </p> + <p> + “Heavens!” cried Moultrie, laughing and looking at them. + “You are both two more and too much for me.” + </p> + <p> + “Good, good, good for Moultrie!” applauded Abel; “and + now, Miss Plumer, I submit that he has the floor.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well, Mr. Moultrie. What are the two other things that you + talk?” + </p> + <p> + “Pansies and rosemary,” said the young man, rising and bowing + himself out. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Plumer, you have been the inspiration of my friend Sligo, who + was never so brilliant in his life before. How generous in you to rise and + shine on this wretched town! It is Sahara. Miss Plumer descends upon it + like dew. Where have you been?” + </p> + <p> + “At home, in Louisiana.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! yes. Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle—I have + never been there; but it comes to me here when you come, Miss Plumer.” + </p> + <p> + Still the slight persiflage to cover the audacity. + </p> + <p> + “And so, Mr. Newt, I have the honor of seeing the gentleman of whom + I have heard most this winter.” + </p> + <p> + “What will not our enemies say of us, Miss Plumer?” + </p> + <p> + “You have no enemies,” replied she, “except, perhaps—no, + I’ll not mention them.” + </p> + <p> + “Who? who? I insist,” said Abel, looking at Grace Plumer + earnestly for a moment, then dropping his eyes upon her very pretty and + very be-ringed white hands, where the eyes lingered a little and + worshipped in the most evident manner. + </p> + <p> + “Except, then, your own sex,” said the little Louisianian, + half blushing. + </p> + <p> + “I do them no harm,” replied Abel. + </p> + <p> + “No; but you make them jealous.” + </p> + <p> + “Jealous of what?” returned the young man, in a lower tone, + and more seriously. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! it’s only of—of—of—of what I hear from + the girls,” said Grace, fluttering a little, as she remembered the + conservatory at Mrs. Boniface Newt’s, which also Abel had not + forgotten. + </p> + <p> + “And what do you hear, Miss Grace?” he asked, in pure music. + </p> + <p> + Grace blushed, and laughed. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! only of your success with poor, feeble women,” said she. + </p> + <p> + “I have no success with women,” returned Abel Newt, in a + half-serious way, and in his most melodious voice. “Women are + naturally generous. They appreciate and acknowledge an honest admiration, + even when it is only honest.” + </p> + <p> + “Only honest! What more could it be, Mr. Newt?” + </p> + <p> + “It might be eloquent. It might be fascinating and irresistible. + Even when a man does not really admire, his eloquence makes him dangerous. + If, when he truly admires, he were also eloquent, he would be + irresistible. There is no victory like that. I should envy Alexander + nothing and Napoleon nothing if I thought I could really conquer one woman’s + heart. My very consciousness of the worth of the prize paralyzes my + efforts. It is musty, but it is true, that fools rush in where angels fear + to tread.” + </p> + <p> + He sat silent, gazing abstractedly at the two lovely feet of Miss Grace + Plumer, with an air that implied how far his mind had wandered in their + conversation from any merely personal considerations. Miss Grace Plumer + had not made as much progress as Mr. Newt since their last meeting. Abel + Newt seemed to her the handsomest fellow she had ever seen. What he had + said both piqued and pleased her. It pleased her because it piqued her. + </p> + <p> + “Women are naturally noble,” he continued, in a low, rippling + voice. “If they see that a man sincerely admires them they forgive + him, although he can not say so. Yes, and a woman who really loves a man + forgives him every thing.” + </p> + <p> + He was looking at her hands, which lay white, and warm, and glittering in + her lap. She was silent. + </p> + <p> + “What a superb ruby, Miss Grace! It might be a dew-drop from a + pomegranate in Paradise.” + </p> + <p> + She smiled at the extravagant conceit, while he took her hand as he spoke, + and admired the ring. The white, warm hand remained passive in his. + </p> + <p> + “Let me come nearer to Paradise,” he said, half-abstractedly, + as if he were following his own thoughts, and he pressed his lips to the + fingers upon which the ruby gleamed. + </p> + <p> + Miss Grace Plumer was almost frightened. This was a very different + performance from Mr. Sligo Moultrie’s—very different from any + she had known. She felt as if she suggested, in some indescribable way, + strange and beautiful thoughts to Abel Newt. He looked and spoke as if he + addressed himself to the thoughts she had evoked rather than to herself. + Yet she felt herself to be both the cause and the substance. It was very + sweet. She did not know what she felt; she did not know how much she + dared. But when he went away she knew that Abel Newt was appointed first + flirter, <i>vice</i> Sligo Moultrie removed. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0038" id="link2HCH0038"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXVIII. — THE DAY AFTER THE WEDDING. + </h2> + <p> + “On the 23d instant, Alfred Dinks, Esq., of Boston, to Fanny, oldest + daughter of Boniface Newt, Esq., of this city.” + </p> + <p> + Fanny wrote the notice with her own hands, and made Alfred take it to the + papers. In this manner she was before her mother-in-law in spreading the + news. In this manner, also, as Boniface Newt, Esq., sat at breakfast, he + learned of his daughter’s marriage. His face grew purple. He looked + apoplectic as he said to his wife, + </p> + <p> + “Nancy, what in God’s name does this mean?” + </p> + <p> + His frightened wife asked what, and he read the announcement aloud. + </p> + <p> + He rose from table, and walked up and down the room. + </p> + <p> + “Did you know any thing of this?” inquired he. “What + does it mean?” + </p> + <p> + “Dear me! I thought he was engaged to Hope Wayne,” replied + Mrs. Newt, crying. + </p> + <p> + There was a moment’s silence. Then Mr. Newt said, with a sneer, + </p> + <p> + “It seems to me that a mother whose, daughter gets married without + her knowledge is a very curious kind of mother—an extremely + competent kind of mother.” + </p> + <p> + He resumed his walking. Mrs. Newt went on with her weeping. But Boniface + Newt was aware of the possibilities in the case of Alfred, and therefore + tried to recover himself and consider the chances. + </p> + <p> + “What do you know about this fellow?” said he, petulantly, to + his wife. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know any thing in particular,” she sobbed. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know whether he has money, or whether his father has?” + </p> + <p> + “No; but old Mr. Burt is his grandfather.” + </p> + <p> + “What! his mother’s father?” + </p> + <p> + “I believe so. I know Fanny always said he was Hope Wayne’s + cousin.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Newt pondered for a little while. His brow contracted. + </p> + <p> + “Why on earth have they run away? Did Mr. Burt’s grandson + suppose he would be unwelcome to me? Has he been in the habit of coming + here, Nancy?” + </p> + <p> + “No, not much.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you seen them since this thing?” + </p> + <p> + “No, indeed,” replied the mother, bursting into tears afresh. + </p> + <p> + Her husband looked at her darkly. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t blubber. What good does crying do? G—! if any + thing happens in this world, a woman falls to crying her eyes out, as if + that would help it.” + </p> + <p> + Boniface Newt was not usually affectionate. But there was almost a + ferocity in his address at this moment which startled his wife into + silence. His daughter May turned pale as she saw and heard her father. + </p> + <p> + “I thought Abel was trial enough!” said he, bitterly; “and + now the girl must fall to cutting up shines. I tell you plainly, Nancy, if + Fanny has married a beggar, a beggar she shall be. There is some reason + for a private marriage that we don’t understand. It can’t be + any good reason; and, daughter or no daughter, she shall lie in the bed + she has made.” + </p> + <p> + He scowled and set his teeth as he said it. His wife did not dare to cry + any more. May went to her mother and took her hand, while the father of + the family walked rapidly up and down. + </p> + <p> + “Every thing comes at once,” said he. “Just as I am most + bothered and driven down town, this infernal business of Fanny’s + must needs happen. One thing I’m sure of—if it was all right + it would not be a private wedding. What fools women are! And Fanny, whom I + always thought so entirely able to take care of herself, turns out to be + the greatest fool of all! This fellow’s a booby, I believe, Mrs. + Newt. I think I have heard even you make fun of him. But to be poor, too! + To run away with a pauper-booby, by Heavens, it’s too absurd!” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Newt laughed mockingly, while the tears flowed fast from the eyes of + his wife, who said at intervals, “I vow,” and “I + declare,” with such utter weakness of tone and movement that her + husband suddenly exclaimed, in an exasperated tone, + </p> + <p> + “Nancy, if you don’t stop rocking your body in that inane way, + and shaking your hand and your handkerchief, and saying those imbecile + things, I shall go mad. I suppose this is the kind of sympathy a man gets + from a woman in his misfortunes!” + </p> + <p> + May Newt looked shocked and indignant. “Mother, I am sorry for poor + Fanny,” said she. + </p> + <p> + She said it quietly and tenderly, and without the remotest reference in + look, or tone, or gesture to her father. + </p> + <p> + He turned toward her suddenly. + </p> + <p> + “Hold your tongue, Miss!” + </p> + <p> + “Mamma, I shall go and see Fanny to-day,” May continued, as if + her father had not spoken. Her mother looked frightened, and turned to her + deprecatingly with a look that said, “For Heaven’s sake, don’t!” + Her father regarded her for a moment in amazement. + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean, you little vixen? Let me catch you disobeying me + and going to see that ungrateful wicked girl, if you think fit!” + </p> + <p> + There was a moment in which May Newt turned pale, but she said, in a very + low voice, + </p> + <p> + “I must go.” + </p> + <p> + “May, I forbid your going,” said Mr. Newt, severely and + loudly. + </p> + <p> + “Father, you have no right to forbid me.” + </p> + <p> + “I forbid your going,” roared her father, planting himself in + front of her, and quite white with wrath. + </p> + <p> + May said no more. + </p> + <p> + “A pretty family you have brought up, Mrs. Nancy Newt,” said + he, at length, looking at his wife with all the contempt which his voice + expressed. “A son who ruins me by his extravagance, a daughter who + runs away with—with”—he hesitated to remember the exact + expression—“with a pauper-booby, and another daughter who + defies and disobeys her father. I congratulate you upon your charming + family, upon your distinguished success, Mrs. Newt. Is there no younger + brother of your son-in-law whom you might introduce to Miss May Newt? I + beg your pardon, she is Miss Newt, now that her sister is so happily + married,” said Boniface Newt, bowing ceremoniously to his daughter. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Newt clasped her hands in an utterly helpless despair, and + unconsciously raised them in a beseeching attitude before her. + </p> + <p> + “The husband’s duty takes him away from home,” continued + Mr. Newt. “While he is struggling for the maintenance of his family + he supposes that his wife is caring for his children, and that she has, at + least, the smallest speck of an idea of what is necessary to be done to + make them tolerably well behaved. Some husbands are doomed to be mistaken.” + </p> + <p> + Boniface Newt bowed, and smiled sarcastically. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, and as if it were not enough to have my wife such a model + trainer—and my son so careful—and my daughter so obedient—and + my younger daughter so affectionate—I must also have trials in my + business. I expected a great loan from Van Boozenberg’s bank, and I + haven’t got it. He’s an old driveling fool. Mrs. Newt, you + must curtail expenses. There’s one mouth less, and one Stewart’s + bill less, at any rate.” + </p> + <p> + “Father,” said May, as if she could not bear the cool cutting + adrift of her sister from the family, “Fanny is not dead.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” replied her father, sullenly. “No, the more’s + the—” + </p> + <p> + He stopped, for he caught May’s eye, and he could not finish the + sentence. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Newt,” said his wife, at length, “perhaps Alfred + Dinks is not poor.” + </p> + <p> + That was the chance, but Mr. Newt was skeptical. He had an instinctive + suspicion that no rich young man, however much a booby, would have married + Fanny clandestinely. Men are forced to know something of their + reputations, and Boniface Newt was perfectly aware that it was generally + understood he had no aversion to money. He knew also that he was reputed + rich, that his family were known to live expensively, and he was quite + shrewd enough to believe that any youth in her own set who ran off with + his daughter did so because he depended upon her father’s money. He + was satisfied that the Newt family was not to be a gainer by the new + alliance. The more he thought of it the more he was convinced, and the + more angry he became. He was still storming, when the door was thrown open + and Mrs. Dagon rushed in. + </p> + <p> + “What does it all mean?” asked she. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Newt stopped in his walk, smiled contemptuously, and pointed to his + wife, who sat with her handkerchief over her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Pooh!” said Mrs. Dagon, “I knew ‘twould come to + this. I’ve seen her hugging him the whole winter, and so has every + body else who has eyes.” + </p> + <p> + And she shook her plumage as she settled into a seat. + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Boniface Newt is unfortunately blind; that is to say, she sees + every body’s affairs but her own,” said Mr. Newt, tauntingly. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Dagon, without heeding him, talked on. + </p> + <p> + “But why did they run away to be married? What does it mean? Fanny’s + not romantic, and Dinks is a fool. He’s rich, and a proper match + enough, for a woman can’t expect to have every thing. I can’t + see why he didn’t propose regularly, and behave like other people. + Do you suppose he was actually engaged to his cousin Hope Wayne, and that + our darling Fanny has outwitted the Boston beauty, and the Boston beau + too, for that matter? It looks like it, really. I think that must be it. + It’s a pity a Newt should marry a fool—” + </p> + <p> + “It is not the first time,” interrupted her nephew, making a + low bow to his wife. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Dagon looked a little surprised. She had seen little jars and rubs + before in the family, but this morning she seemed to have happened in upon + an earthquake. She continued: + </p> + <p> + “But we must make the best of it. Are they in the house?” + </p> + <p> + “No, Aunt Dagon,” said Mr. Newt. “I knew nothing of it + until, half an hour ago, I read it in the paper with all the rest of the + world. It seems it was a family secret.” And he bowed again to his + wife, + </p> + <p> + “Don’t, don’t,” sobbed she. “You know I didn’t + know any thing about it. Oh! Aunt Dagon, I never knew him so unjust and + wicked as he is to-day. He treats me cruelly.” And the poor woman + covered her red eyes again with her handkerchief, and rocked herself + feebly. Mr. Newt went out, and slammed the door behind him. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0039" id="link2HCH0039"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXIX. — A FIELD-DAY. + </h2> + <p> + “Now, Nancy, tell me about this thing,” said Mrs. Dagon, when + the husband was gone. + </p> + <p> + But Nancy had nothing to tell. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t like his running away with her—that looks bad,” + continued Mrs. Dagon. She pondered a few moments, and then said: + </p> + <p> + “I can tell you one thing, Nancy, which it wasn’t worth while + to mention to Boniface, who seems to be nervous this morning—but I + am sure Fanny proposed the running off. Alfred Dinks is too great a fool. + He never would have thought of it, and he would never have dared to do it + if he had.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh dear me!” responded Mrs. Newt. + </p> + <p> + “Pooh! it isn’t such a dreadful thing, if he is only rich + enough,” said Aunt Dagon, in a consoling voice. “Every thing + depends on that; and I haven’t much doubt of it. Alfred Dinks is a + fool, my dear, but Fanny Newt is not; and Fanny Newt is not the girl to + marry a fool, except for reasons. You may trust Fanny, Nancy. You may + depend there was some foolish something with Hope Wayne, on the part of + Alfred, and Fanny has cut the knot she was not sure of untying. Pooh! + pooh! When you are as old as I am you won’t be distressed over these + things. Fanny Newt is fully weaned. She wants an establishment, and she + has got it. There are plenty of people who would have been glad to marry + their daughters to Alfred Dinks. I can tell you there are some great + advantages in having a fool for your husband. Don’t you see Fanny + never would have been happy with a man she couldn’t manage. It’s + quite right, my dear.” + </p> + <p> + At this moment the bell rang, and Mrs. Newt, not wishing to be caught with + red eyes, called May, who had looked on at this debate, and left the room. + </p> + <p> + While Mrs. Dagon had been so volubly talking she had also been busily + thinking. She knew that if Alfred were a fool his mother was not—at + least, not in the way she meant. There had been no love lost between the + ladies, so that Mrs. Dagon was disposed to criticise the other’s + conduct very closely. She saw, therefore, that if Alfred Dinks were not + rich—and it certainly was a question whether he were so really, or + only in expectation from Mr. Burt—then also he might not be engaged + to Hope Wayne. But the story of his wealth and his engagement might very + easily have been the <i>ruse</i> by which the skillful Mrs. Dinks meant to + conduct her campaign in New York. In that case, what was more likely than + that she should have improved Fanny’s evident delusion in regard to + her son, and, by suggesting to him an elopement, have secured for him the + daughter of a merchant so universally reputed wealthy as Boniface Newt? + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Dagon was clever—so was Mrs. Dinks; and it is the homage that + one clever person always pays to another to believe the other capable of + every thing that occurs to himself. + </p> + <p> + In the matter of the marriage Mrs. Budlong Dinks had been defeated, but + she was not dismayed. She had lost Hope Wayne, indeed, and she could no + longer hope, by the marriage of Alfred with his cousin, to consolidate the + Burt property in her family. She had been very indignant—very deeply + disappointed. But she still loved her son, and the meditation of a night + refreshed her. + </p> + <p> + Upon a survey of the field, Mrs. Dinks felt that under no circumstances + would Hope have married Alfred; and he had now actually married Fanny. So + much was done. It was useless to wish impossible wishes. She did not + desire her son to starve or come to social shame, although he had married + Fanny; and Fanny, after all, was rather a belle, and the daughter of a + rich merchant, who would have to support them. She knew, of course, that + Fanny supposed her husband would share in the great Burt property. But as + Mrs. Dinks herself believed the same thing, that did not surprise her. In + fact, they would all be gainers by it; and nothing now remained but to + devote herself to securing that result. + </p> + <p> + The first step under the circumstances was clearly a visit to the Newts, + and the ring which had sent Mrs. Newt from the room was Mrs. Dinks’s. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Dagon was alone when Mrs. Dinks entered, and Mrs. Dagon was by no + means sure, whatever she said to Nancy, that Mrs. Dinks had not outwitted + them all. As she entered Mrs. Dagon put up her glasses and gazed at her; + and when Mrs. Dinks saluted her, Mrs. Dagon bowed behind the glasses, as + if she were bowing through a telescope at the planet Jupiter. + </p> + <p> + “Good-morning, Mrs. Dagon!” + </p> + <p> + “Good-morning, Mrs. Dinks!” replied that lady, still + contemplating the other as if she were a surprising and incomprehensible + phenomenon. + </p> + <p> + Profound silence followed. Mrs. Dinks was annoyed by the insult which Mrs. + Dagon was tacitly putting upon her, and resolving upon revenge. Meanwhile + she turned over some illustrated books upon the table, as if engravings + were of all things those that afforded her the profoundest satisfaction. + </p> + <p> + But she was conscious that she could not deceive Mrs. Dagon by an + appearance of interest; so, after a few moments, Mrs. Dinks seated herself + in a large easy-chair opposite that lady, who was still looking at her, + shook her dress, glanced into the mirror with the utmost nonchalance, and + finally, slowly drawing out her own glasses, raised them to her eyes, and + with perfect indifference surveyed the enemy. + </p> + <p> + The ladies gazed at each other for a few moments in silence. + </p> + <p> + “How’s your daughter, Mrs. Alfred Dinks?” asked Mrs. + Dagon, abruptly. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Dinks continued to gaze without answering. She was resolved to put + down this dragon that laid waste society. The dragon was instantly + conscious that she had made a mistake in speaking, and was angry + accordingly. She said nothing more; she only glared. + </p> + <p> + “Good-morning, my dear Mrs. Dinks,” said Mrs. Newt, in a + troubled voice, as she entered the room. “Oh my! isn’t it—isn’t + it—singular?” + </p> + <p> + For Mrs. Newt was bewildered. Between her husband and Mrs. Dagon she had + been so depressed and comforted that she did not know what to think. She + was sure it was Fanny who had married Alfred, and she supposed, with all + the world, that he had, or was to have, a pretty fortune. Yet she felt, + with her husband, that the private marriage was suspicious. It seemed, at + least, to prove the indisposition of Mrs. Dinks to the match. But, as they + were married, she did not wish to alienate the mother of the rich + bridegroom. + </p> + <p> + “Singular, indeed, Mrs. Newt!” rejoined Mrs. Dinks; “I + call it extraordinary!” + </p> + <p> + “I call it outrageous,” interpolated Mrs. Dagon. “Poor + girl! to be run away with and married! What a blow for our family!” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Dinks resumed her glasses, and looked unutterably at Mrs. Dagon. But + Mrs. Dinks, on her side, knowing the limitations of Alfred’s income, + and believing in the Newt resources, did not wish to divert from him any + kindness of the Newts. So she outgeneraled Mrs. Dagon again. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, indeed, it is an outrage upon all our feelings. We must, of + course, be mutually shocked at the indiscretion of these members of both + our families.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, oh yes!” answered Mrs. Newt. “I do declare! what + do people do so for?” + </p> + <p> + Neither cared to take the next step, and make the obvious and necessary + inquiries as to the future, for neither wished to betray the thought that + was uppermost. At length Mrs. Dinks ventured to say, + </p> + <p> + “One thing, at least, is fortunate.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed!” ejaculated Mrs. Dagon behind the glasses, as if she + scoffed at the bare suggestion of any thing but utter misfortune being + associated with such an affair. + </p> + <p> + “I say one thing is fortunate,” continued Mrs. Dinks, in a + more decided tone, and without the slightest attention to Mrs. Dagon’s + remark. + </p> + <p> + “Dear me! I declare I don’t see just what you mean, Mrs. + Dinks,” said Mrs. Newt. + </p> + <p> + “I mean that they are neither of them children,” answered the + other. + </p> + <p> + “They may not be children,” commenced Mrs. Dagon, in the most + implacable tone, “but they are both fools. I shouldn’t wonder, + Nancy, if they’d both outwitted each other, after all; for whenever + two people, without the slightest apparent reason, run away to be married, + it is because one of them is poor.” + </p> + <p> + This was a truth of which the two mothers were both vaguely conscious, and + which by no means increased the comfort of the situation. It led to a long + pause in the conversation. Mrs. Dinks wished Aunt Dagon on the top of Mont + Blanc, and while she was meditating the best thing to say, Mrs. Dagon, who + had rallied, returned to the charge. + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” said she, “that is something that would + hardly be said of the daughter of Boniface Newt.” + </p> + <p> + And Mrs. Dagon resumed the study of Mrs. Dinks. + </p> + <p> + “Or of the grand-nephew of Christopher Burt,” said the latter, + putting up her own glasses and returning the stare. + </p> + <p> + “Grand-nephew! Is Alfred Dinks not the grandson of Mr. Burt?” + asked Mrs. Newt, earnestly. + </p> + <p> + “No, he is his grand-nephew. I am the niece of Mr. Burt—daughter + of his brother Jonathan, deceased,” replied Mrs. Dinks. + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” said Mrs. Newt, dolefully. + </p> + <p> + “Not a very near relation,” added Mrs. Dagon. “Grand-nephews + don’t count.” + </p> + <p> + That might be true, but it was thin consolation for Mrs. Newt, who began + to take fire. + </p> + <p> + “But, Mrs. Dinks, how did this affair come about?” asked she. + </p> + <p> + “Exactly,” chimed in Aunt Dagon; “how did it come about?” + </p> + <p> + “My dear Mrs. Newt,” replied Mrs. Dinks, entirely overlooking + the existence of Mrs. Dagon, “you know my son Alfred and your + daughter Fanny. So do I. Do you believe that Alfred ran away with Fanny, + or Fanny with Alfred. Theoretically, of course, the man does it. Do you + believe Alfred did it?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Dinks’s tone was resolute. Mrs. Newt was on the verge of + hysterics. + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean to insult my daughter to her mother’s face?” + exclaimed she. “O you mean to insinuate that—” + </p> + <p> + “I mean to insinuate nothing, my dear Mrs. Newt. I say plainly what + I mean to say, so let us keep as cool as we can for the sake of all + parties. They are married—that’s settled. How are they going + to live?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Newt opened her mouth with amazement. + </p> + <p> + “I believe the husband usually supports the wife,” ejaculated + the dragon behind the glasses. + </p> + <p> + “I understand you to say, then, my dear Mrs. Newt,” continued + Mrs. Dinks, with a superb disregard of the older lady, who had made the + remark, “that the husband usually supports the family. Now in this + matter, you know, we are going to be perfectly cool and sensible. You know + as well as I that Alfred has no profession, but that be will by-and-by + inherit a fortune from his grand-uncle—” + </p> + <p> + At this point Mrs. Dagon coughed in an incredulous and contemptuous + manner. Mrs. Dinks put her handkerchief to her nose, which she patted + gently, and waited for Mrs. Dagon to stop. + </p> + <p> + “As I was saying—a fortune from his grand-uncle. Now until + then provision must be made—” + </p> + <p> + “Really,” said Mrs. Dagon, for Mrs. Newt was bewildered into + silence by the rapid conversation of Mrs. Dinks—“really, these + are matters of business which, I believe, are usually left to gentlemen.” + </p> + <p> + “I know, of course, Mrs. Newt,” continued the intrepid Mrs. + Dinks, utterly regardless of Mrs. Dagon, for she had fully considered her + part, and knew her own intentions, “that such things are generally + arranged by the gentlemen. But I think sensible women like you and I, + mothers, too, are quite as much interested in the matter as fathers can + be. Our honor is as much involved in the happiness of our children as + their fathers’ is. So I have come to ask you, in a purely friendly + and private manner, what the chances for our dear children are?” + </p> + <p> + “I am sure I know nothing,” answered Mrs. Newt; “I only + know that Mr. Newt is furious.” + </p> + <p> + “Perfectly lunatic,” added Aunt Dagon, in full view of Mrs. + Dinks. + </p> + <p> + “Pity, pity!” returned Mrs. Dinks, with an air of + compassionate unconcern; “because these things can always be so + easily settled. I hope Mr. Newt won’t suffer himself to be + disturbed. Every thing will come right.” + </p> + <p> + “What does Mr. Dinks say?” feebly inquired Mrs. Newt. + </p> + <p> + “I really don’t know,” replied Mrs. Dinks, with a cool + air of surprise that any body should care what he thought—which made + Mrs. Dagon almost envious of her enemy, and which so impressed Mrs. Newt, + who considered the opinion of her husband as the only point of importance + in the whole affair, that she turned pale. + </p> + <p> + “I mean that his mind is so engrossed with other matters that he + rarely attends to the domestic details,” added Mrs. Dinks, who had + no desire of frightening any of her new relatives. “Have you been to + see Fanny yet?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” returned Mrs. Newt, half-sobbing again, “I have + only just heard of it; and—and—I don’t think Mr. Newt + would wish me to go.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Dinks raised her eyebrows, and again touched her face gently with the + handkerchief. Mrs. Dagon rubbed her glasses and waited, for she knew very + well that Mrs. Dinks had not yet discovered what she had come to learn. + The old General was not deceived by the light skirmishing. + </p> + <p> + “I am sorry not to have seen Mr. Newt before he went down town,” + began Mrs. Dinks, after a pause. “But since we must all know these + matters sooner or later—that is to say, those of us whose business + it is”—here she glanced at Mrs. Dagon—“you and I, + my dear Mrs. Newt, may talk confidentially. How much will your husband + probably allow Fanny until Alfred comes into his property?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Dinks leaned back and folded her shawl closely around her, and Mrs. + Dagon hemmed and smiled a smile of perfect incredulity. + </p> + <p> + “Gracious, gracious! Mrs. Dinks, Mr. Newt won’t give her a + cent!” answered Mrs. Newt. As she uttered the words Mrs. Dagon held + the enemy in full survey. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Dinks was confounded. That there would be some trouble in arranging + the matter she had expected. But the extreme dolefulness of Mrs. Newt had + already perplexed her; and the prompt, simple way in which she answered + this question precluded the suspicion of artifice. Something was clearly, + radically wrong. She knew that Alfred had six hundred a year from his + father. She had no profound respect for that gentleman; but men are + willful. Suppose he should take a whim to stop it? On the other side, she + knew that Boniface Newt was an obstinate man, and that fathers were + sometimes implacable. Sometimes, even, they did not relent in making their + wills. She knew all about Miss Van Boozenberg’s marriage with Tom + Witchet, for it was no secret in society. Was it possible her darling + Alfred might be in actual danger of such penury—at least until he + came into his property? And what property was it, and what were the + chances that old Burt would leave him a cent? + </p> + <p> + These considerations instantly occupied her mind as Mrs. Newt spoke; and + she saw more clearly than ever the necessity of propitiating old Burt. + </p> + <p> + At length she asked, with an undismayed countenance, and with even a show + of smiling: + </p> + <p> + “But, Mrs. Newt, why do you take so cheerless a view of your husband’s + intentions in this matter?” + </p> + <p> + The words that her husband had spoken in his wrath had rung in Mrs. Newt’s + mind ever since, and they now fell, echo-like, from her tongue. + </p> + <p> + “Because he said that, daughter or no daughter, she shall lie in the + bed she has made.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Dinks could not help showing a little chagrin. It was the sign for + Mrs. Newt to burst into fresh sorrow. Mrs. Dagon was as rigid as a bronze + statue. + </p> + <p> + “Very well, then, Mrs. Newt,” said her visitor, rising, + “Mr. Newt will have the satisfaction of seeing his daughter starve.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, her husband will take care of that,” said the bronze + statue, blandly. + </p> + <p> + “My son Alfred,” continued Mrs. Dinks, “has an allowance + of six hundred dollars a year, no profession, and expectations from his + grand-uncle. These are his resources. If his father chooses, he can cut + off his allowance. Perhaps he will. You can mention these facts to Mr. + Newt.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! mercy! mercy!” exclaimed Mrs. Newt. “What shall we + do? What will people say?” + </p> + <p> + “Good-morning, ladies!” said Mrs. Dinks, with a comprehensive + bow. She was troubled, but not overwhelmed; for she believed that the rich + Mr. Newt would not, of course, allow his daughter to suffer. Mrs. Dagon + was more profoundly persuaded than ever that Mrs. Dinks had managed the + whole matter. + </p> + <p> + “Nancy,” said she, as the door closed upon Mrs. Dinks, “it + is a scheming, artful woman. Her son has no money, and I doubt if he ever + will have any. Boniface will be implacable. I know him. He is capable of + seeing his daughter suffer. Fanny has made a frightful mistake. Poor + Fanny! she was not so clever as she thought herself. There is only one + hope—that is in old Burt. I think we had better present that view + chiefly to Boniface. We must concede the poverty, but insist and enlarge + upon the prospect. No Newt ought to be allowed to suffer if we can help + it. Poor Fanny! She was always pert, but not quite so smart as she thought + herself!” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Dagon indulged in a low chuckle of triumph, while Mrs. Newt was + overwhelmed with a vague apprehension that all her husband’s wrath + at his daughter’s marriage would be visited upon her. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0040" id="link2HCH0040"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XL. — AT THE ROUND TABLE. + </h2> + <p> + Mrs. Dinks had informed Hope that she was going home. That lady was + satisfied, by her conversation with Mrs. Newt, that it would be useless + for her to see Mr. Newt—that it was one of the cases in which facts + and events plead much more persuasively than words. She was sure the rich + merchant would not allow his daughter to suffer. Fathers do so in novels, + thought she. Of course they do, for it is necessary to the interest of the + story. And old Van Boozenberg does in life, thought she. Of course he + does. But he is an illiterate, vulgar, hard old brute. Mr. Newt is of + another kind. She had herself read his name as director of at least seven + different associations for doing good to men and women. + </p> + <p> + But Mrs. Dinks still delayed her departure. She knew that there was no + reason for her staying, but she staid. She loved her son dearly. She was + unwilling to leave him while his future was so dismally uncertain; and + every week she informed Hope that she was on the point of going. + </p> + <p> + Hope Wayne was not sorry to remain. Perhaps she also had her purposes. At + Saratoga, in the previous summer, Arthur Merlin had remarked her incessant + restlessness, and had connected it with the picture and the likeness of + somebody. But when afterward, in New York, he cleared up the mystery and + resolved who the somebody was, to his great surprise he observed, at the + same time, that the restlessness of Hope Wayne was gone. From the months + of seclusion which she had imposed upon herself he saw that she emerged + older, calmer, and lovelier than he had ever seen her. The calmness was, + indeed, a little unnatural. To his sensitive eye—for, as he said to + Lawrence Newt, in explanation of his close observation, it is wonderful + how sensitive an exclusive devotion to art will make the eye—to his + eye the calmness was still too calm, as the gayety had been too gay. + </p> + <p> + In the solitude of his studio, as he drew many pictures upon the canvas, + and sang, and smoked, and scuffled across the floor to survey his work + from a little distance—and studied its progress through his open + fist—or as he lay sprawling upon his lounge in a cotton velvet + Italian coat, inimitably befogged and bebuttoned—and puffed + profusely, following the intervolving smoke with his eye—his + meditations were always the same. He was always thinking of Hope Wayne, + and befooling himself with the mask of art, actually hiding himself from + himself: and not perceiving that when a man’s sole thought by day + and night is a certain woman, and an endless speculation about the quality + of her feeling for another man, he is simply a lover thinking of his + mistress and a rival. + </p> + <p> + The infatuated painter suddenly became a great favorite in society. He + could not tell why. Indeed there was no other secret than that he was a + very pleasant young gentleman who made himself agreeable to young women, + because he wished to know them and to paint them—not, as he wickedly + told Lawrence Newt, who winked and did not believe a word of it, because + the human being is the noblest subject of art—but only because he + wished to show himself by actual experience how much more charming in + character, and sprightly in intelligence, and beautiful in person and + manner, Hope Wayne was than all other young women. + </p> + <p> + He proved that important point to his perfect satisfaction. He punctually + attended every meeting of the Round Table, as Lawrence called the meetings + at which he and Arthur read and talked with Hope Wayne and Amy Waring, + that he might lose no opportunity of pursuing the study. He found Hope + Wayne always friendly and generous. She frankly owned that he had shown + her many charming things in poetry that she had not known, and had helped + her to form juster opinions. It was natural she should think it was Arthur + who had helped her. She did not know that it was a very different person + who had done the work—a person whose name was Abel Newt. For it was + her changing character—changing in consequence of her acquaintance + with Abel—which modified her opinions; and Arthur arrived upon her + horizon at the moment of the change. + </p> + <p> + She was always friendly and generous with him. But somehow he could not + divest himself of the idea that she must be the Diana of his great + picture. There was an indescribable coolness and remoteness about her. Has + it any thing to do with that confounded sketch at Saratoga, and that—equally + confounded Abel Newt? thought he. + </p> + <p> + For the conversation at the Round Table sometimes fell upon Abel. + </p> + <p> + “He is certainly a handsome fellow,” said Amy Waring. “I + don’t wonder at his success.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s beauty that does it, then, Miss Waring?” asked + Arthur. + </p> + <p> + “Does what?” said she. + </p> + <p> + “Why, that gives what you call social success.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! I mean that I don’t wonder such a handsome, bright, + graceful; accomplished young man, who lives in fine style, drives pretty + horses, and knows every body, should be a great favorite with the girls + and their mothers. Don’t you see, Abel Newt is a sort of Alcibiades?” + </p> + <p> + Lawrence Newt laughed. + </p> + <p> + “You don’t mean Pelham?” said he. + </p> + <p> + “No, for he has sense enough to conceal the coxcomb. But you ought + to know your own nephew, Mr. Newt,” answered Amy. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps; but I have a very slight acquaintance with him,” + said Mr. Newt. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t exactly like him,” said Arthur Merlin, with + perfect candor. + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t know you knew him,” replied Amy, looking up. + </p> + <p> + Arthur blushed, for he did not personally know him; but he felt as if he + did, so that he unwittingly spoke so. + </p> + <p> + “No, no,” said he, hastily; “I don’t know him, I + believe; but I know about him.” + </p> + <p> + As he said this he looked at Hope Wayne, who had been sitting, working, in + perfect silence. At the same moment she raised her eyes to his + inquiringly. + </p> + <p> + “I mean,” said Arthur, quite confused, “that I don’t—somehow—that + is to say, you know, there’s a sort of impression you get about + people—” + </p> + <p> + Lawrence Newt interposed— + </p> + <p> + “I suppose that Arthur doesn’t like Abel for the same reason + that oil doesn’t like water; for the same reason that you, Miss Amy, + and Miss Wayne, would probably not like such a man.” + </p> + <p> + Arthur Merlin looked fixedly at Hope Wayne. + </p> + <p> + “What kind of man is Mr. Newt?” asked Hope, faintly coloring. + She was trying herself. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you know him?” asked Arthur, abruptly and keenly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” replied Hope, as she worked on, only a little more + rapidly. + </p> + <p> + “Well, what kind of man do you think him to be?” continued + Arthur, nervously. + </p> + <p> + “That is not the question,” answered Hope, calmly. + </p> + <p> + Lawrence Newt and Amy Waring looked on during this little conversation. + They both wanted Hope to like Arthur. They both doubted how Abel might + have impressed her. Lawrence Newt had not carelessly said that neither Amy + nor Hope would probably like Abel. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Hope is right, Arthur,” said he. “She asks what + kind of man my nephew is. He is a brilliant man—a fascinating man.” + </p> + <p> + “So was Colonel Burr,” said Hope Wayne, without looking up. + </p> + <p> + “Exactly, Miss Hope. You have mentioned the reason why neither you + nor Amy would like my nephew.” + </p> + <p> + Hope and Amy understood. Arthur Merlin was bewildered. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t quite understand,” said he; “I am such a + great fool.” + </p> + <p> + Nobody spoke. + </p> + <p> + “I am sorry for that poor little Grace Plumer,” Lawrence Newt + gravely said. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you be troubled about little Grace Plumer. She can take + proper care of herself,” answered Arthur, merrily. + </p> + <p> + Hope Wayne’s busy fingers did not stop. She remembered Miss Grace + Plumer, and she did not agree with Arthur Merlin. Hope did not know Grace; + but she knew the voice, the manner, the magnetism to which the gay girl + was exposed, + </p> + <p> + “If Mr. Godefroi Plumer is really as rich as I hear,” said + Lawrence, “I think we shall have a Mrs. Abel Newt in the autumn. + Poor Mrs. Abel Newt!” + </p> + <p> + He shook his head with that look, mingled of feeling and irony, which was + very perplexing. The tone in which he spoke was really so full of + tenderness for the girl, that Hope, who heard every word and felt every + tone, was sure that Lawrence Newt pitied the prospective bride sincerely. + </p> + <p> + “I beg pardon, Mr. Newt, and Miss Wayne,” said Arthur Merlin; + “but how can a man have a high respect for women when he sees his + sister do what Fanny Newt has done?” + </p> + <p> + “Why should a man complain that his sister does precisely what he is + trying to do himself?” asked Lawrence. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0041" id="link2HCH0041"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLI. — A LITTLE DINNER. + </h2> + <p> + When Mrs. Dinks told her husband of Alfred’s marriage, the Honorable + Budlong said it was a great pity, but that it all came of the foolish + fondness of the boy’s mother; that nothing was more absurd than for + mothers to be eternally coddling their children. Although who would have + attended to Mr. Alfred if his mother had not, the unemployed statesman + forgot to state, notwithstanding that he had just written a letter upon + public affairs, in which he eloquently remarked that he had no aspirations + for public life; but that, afar from the turmoils of political strife, his + modest ambition was satisfied in the performance of the sweet duties which + the wise Creator, who has set the children of men in families, has imposed + upon all parents. + </p> + <p> + “However,” said he, “Mr. Newt is a wealthy merchant. It’s + all right, my dear! Women, and especially mothers, are peculiarly silly at + such times. Endeavor, Mrs. Dinks, to keep the absurdity—which, of + course, you will not be able to suppress altogether—within bounds. + Try to control your nerves, and rely upon Providence.” + </p> + <p> + Therewith the statesman stroked his wife’s chin. He controlled his + own nerves perfectly, and went to dress for dinner with a select party at + General Belch’s, in honor of the Honorable B. J. Ele, who, in his + capacity as representative in Washington, had ground an axe for his friend + the General. Therefore, when the cloth was removed, the General rose and + said: “I know that we are only a party of friends, but I can not + help indulging my feelings, and gratifying yours, by proposing the health + of our distinguished, able, and high-minded representative, whose + Congressional career proves that there is no office in the gift of a free + and happy people to which he may not legitimately aspire. I have the honor + and pleasure to propose, with three times three, the Honorable B. Jawley + Ele.” + </p> + <p> + The Honorable Budlong Dinks led off in gravely pounding the table with his + fork; and when the rattle of knives, and forks, and spoons, and glasses + had subsided, and when Major Scuppernong, of North Carolina—who had + dined very freely, and was not strictly following the order of events, but + cried out in a loud voice in the midst of the applause, “Encore, + encore! good for Belch!”—had been reduced to silence, then the + honorable gentleman who had been toasted rose, and expressed his opinion + of the state of the country, to the general effect that General Jackson—Sir, + and fellow-citizens—I mean my friends, and you, Mr. Speaker—I + beg pardon, General Belch, that General Jackson, gentlemen and ladies, + that is to say, the relatives here present—I mean—yes—is + one of the very greatest—I venture to say, and thrust it in the + teeth and down the throat of calumny—<i>the</i> greatest human being + that now lives, or ever did live, or ever can live. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Ele sat down amidst a fury of applause. Major Scuppernong, of North + Carolina, and Captain Lamb, of Pennsylvania, turned simultaneously to the + young gentleman who sat between them, and who had been introduced to them + by General Belch as Mr. Newt, son of our old Tammany friend Boniface Newt, + and said to him, with hysterical fervor, + </p> + <p> + “By G—, Sir! that is one of the greatest men in this country. + He does honor, Sir, to the American name!” + </p> + <p> + The gentlemen, without waiting for a reply, each seized a decanter and + filled their glasses. Abel smiled and bowed on each side of him, filled + his own glass and lighted a cigar. + </p> + <p> + Of course, after General Belch had spoken and Mr. Ele had responded, it + was necessary that every body else should be brought to a speech. General + Belch mentioned the key-stone of the arch of States; and Captain Lamb, in + reply, enlarged upon the swarthy sons of Pennsylvania. General Smith, of + Vermont, when green mountains were gracefully alluded to by General Belch, + was proud to say that he came—or, rather, he might say—yes, he + <i>would</i> say, <i>hailed</i> from the hills of Ethan Allen; and, in + closing, treated the company to the tale of Ticonderoga. The glittering + mouth of the Father of Waters was a beautiful metaphor which brought + Colonol le Fay, of Louisiana, to his feet; and the Colonel said that + really he did not know what to say. “Say that the Mississippi has + more water in its mouth than ever you had!” roared Major + Scuppernong, with great hilarity. The company laughed, and the Colonel sat + down. When General Belch mentioned Plymouth Hock, the Honorable Budlong + Dinks sprang upon it, and congratulated himself and the festive circle he + saw around him upon the inestimable boon of religious liberty which, he + might say, was planted upon the rock of Plymouth, and blazed until it had + marched all over the land, dispensing from its vivifying wings the healing + dew of charity, like the briny tears that lave its base. + </p> + <p> + “Beautiful! beautiful! My God, Sir, what a poetic idea!” + murmured, or rather gurgled, Major Scuppernong to Abel at his side. + </p> + <p> + But when General Belch rose and said that eloquence was unnecessary when + he mentioned one name, and that he therefore merely requested his friends + to fill and pledge, without further introduction, “The old North + State,” there was a prolonged burst of enthusiasm, during which + Major Scuppernong tottered on to his feet and wavered there, blubbering in + maudlin woe, and wiping his eyes with a napkin; while the company, who + perceived his condition, rattled the table, and shouted, and laughed, + until Sligo Moultrie, who sat opposite Abel, declared to him across the + table that it was an abominable shame, that the whole South was insulted, + and that he should say something. + </p> + <p> + “Fiddle-de-dee, Moultrie,” said Abel to him, laughing; “the + South is no more insulted because Major Scuppernong, of North Carolina, + gets drunk and makes a fool of himself than the North is insulted because + General Smith, of Vermont, and the Honorable Dinks, of Boston, make fools + of themselves without getting drunk. Do you suppose that, at this time of + night, any of these people have the remotest idea of the points of the + compass? Their sole interest at the present moment is to know whether the + gallant Major will tumble under the table before he gets through his + speech.” + </p> + <p> + But the gallant Major did not get through his speech at all, because he + never began it. The longer he stood the unsteadier he grew, and the more + profusely he wept. Once or twice he made a motion, as if straightening + himself to begin. The noise at table then subsided a little. The guests + cried “H’st.” There was a moment of silence, during + which the eloquent and gallant Major mopped the lingering tears with his + napkin, then his mouth opened in a maudlin smile; the roar began again, + until at last the smile changed into a burst of sobbing, and to Abel Newt’s + extreme discomfiture, and Sligo Moultrie’s secret amusement, Major + Scuppernong suddenly turned and fell upon Abel’s neck, and tenderly + embraced him, whispering with tipsy tenderness, “My dearest Belch, I + love you! Yes, by Heaven! I swear I love you!” + </p> + <p> + Abel called the waiters, and had the gallant and eloquent Major removed to + a sofa. + </p> + <p> + “He enjoys life, the Major, Sir,” said Captain Lamb, of + Pennsylvania, at Abel’s left hand; “a generous, large-hearted + man. So is our host, Sir. General Belch is a man who knows enough to go in + when it rains.” + </p> + <p> + Captain Lamb, of Pennsylvania, cocked one eye at his glass, and then + opening his mouth, and throwing his head a little back, tipped the entire + contents down at one swallow. He filled the glass again, took a puff at + his cigar, scratched his head a moment with the handle of a spoon, then + opening his pocket-knife, proceeded to excavate some recesses in his teeth + with the blade. + </p> + <p> + “Is Dinks a rising man in Massachusetts, do you know, Sir?” + asked Captain Lamb of Abel, while the knife waited and rested a moment on + the outside of the mouth. + </p> + <p> + “I believe he is, Sir,” said Abel, at a venture. + </p> + <p> + “Wasn’t there some talk of his going on a foreign mission? + Seems to me I heard something.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! yes,” replied Abel. “I’ve heard a good deal + about it. But I am not sure that he has received his commission yet.” + </p> + <p> + Captain Lamb cocked his eye at Abel as if he had been a glass of wine. + </p> + <p> + Abel rose, and, seating himself by Sligo Moultrie, entered into + conversation. + </p> + <p> + But his object in moving was not talk. It was to give the cue to the + company of changing their places, so that he might sit where he would. He + drifted and tacked about the table for some time, and finally sailed into + the port toward which he had been steering—an empty chair by Mr. + Dinks. They said, good-evening. Mr. Dinks added, with a patronizing air, + </p> + <p> + “I presume you are not often at dinners of this kind, Mr. Newt?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” replied Abel; “I usually dine on veal and spring + chickens.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” said Mr. Dinks, who thought Abel meant that he generally + ate that food. + </p> + <p> + “I mean that men of my years usually feed with younger and softer + people than I see around me here,” explained the young man. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, of course, I understand,” replied Mr. Dinks, loftily, + who had not the least idea what Abel meant; “young men must expect + to begin at women’s dinners.” + </p> + <p> + “They must, indeed,” replied Abel. “Now, Mr. Dinks, one + of the pleasantest I remember was this last winter, under the auspices of + your wife. Let me see, there were Mr. Moultrie there, Mr. Whitloe and Miss + Magot, Mr. Bowdoin Beacon and Miss Amy Waring—and who else? Oh! I + beg pardon, your son Alfred and my sister Fanny.” + </p> + <p> + As he spoke the young gentleman filled a glass of wine, and looked over + the rim at Mr. Dinks as he drained it. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” returned the Honorable Mr. Dinks, “I don’t + go to women’s dinners.” + </p> + <p> + He seemed entirely unconscious that he was conversing with the brother of + the young lady with whom his son had eloped. Abel smiled to himself. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose,” said he, “we ought to congratulate each + other, Mr. Dinks.” + </p> + <p> + The honorable gentleman looked at Abel, paused a moment, then said: + </p> + <p> + “My son marries at his own risk. Sir. He is of years of discretion, + I believe, and having an income of only six hundred dollars a year, which + I allow him, I presume he would not marry without some security upon the + other side. However, Sir, as that is his affair, and as I do not find it + very interesting—no offense, Sir, for I shall always be happy to see + my daughter-in-law—we had better, perhaps, find some other topic. + The art of life, my young friend, is to avoid what is disagreeable. Don’t + you think Mr. Ele quite a remarkable man? I regard him as an honor to your + State, Sir.” + </p> + <p> + “A very great honor, Sir, and all the gentlemen at this charming + dinner are honors to the States from which they come, and to our common + country, Mr. Dinks. We younger men are content to dine upon veal and + spring chickens so long as we know that such intellects have the guidance + of public affairs.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Abel Newt bowed to Mr. Dinks as he spoke, while that gentleman + listened with the stately gravity with which a President of the United + States hears the Latin oration in which he is made a Doctor of Laws. He + bowed in reply to the little speech of Abel’s, as if he desired to + return thanks for the combined intellects that had been complimented. + </p> + <p> + “And yet, Sir,” continued Abel, “if my father should + unhappily conceive a prejudice in regard to this elopement, and decline to + know any thing of the happy pair, six hundred dollars, in the present + liberal style of life incumbent upon a man who has moved in the circles to + which your son has been accustomed, would be a very limited income for + your son and daughter-in-law—very limited.” + </p> + <p> + Abel lighted another cigar. Mr. Dinks was a little confounded by the + sudden lurch of the conversation. + </p> + <p> + “Very, very,” he replied, as if he were entirely loth to + linger upon the subject. + </p> + <p> + “The father of the lady in these cases is very apt to be obdurate,” + said Abel. + </p> + <p> + “I think very likely,” replied Mr. Dinks, with the polite air + of a man assenting to an axiom in a science of which, unfortunately, he + has not the slightest knowledge. + </p> + <p> + “Now, Sir,” persisted Abel, “I will not conceal from you—for + I know a father’s heart will wish to know to what his son is exposed—that + my father is in quite a frenzy about this affair.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! he’ll get over it,” interrupted Mr. Dinks, + complacently. “They always do; and now, don’t you think that + we had better—” + </p> + <p> + “Exactly,” struck in the other. “But I, who know my + father well, know that he will not relent. Oh, Sir, it is dreadful to + think of a family divided!” Abel puffed for a moment in silence. + “But I think my dearest father loves me enough to allow me to mould + him a little. If, for instance, I could say to him that Mr. Dinks would + contribute say fifteen hundred dollars a year, until Mr. Alfred comes into + his fortune, I think in that case I might persuade him to advance as much; + and so, Sir, your son and my dear sister might live somewhat as they have + been accustomed, and their mutual affection would sustain them, I doubt + not, until the grandfather died. Then all would be right.” + </p> + <p> + Abel blew his nose as if to command his emotion, and looked at Mr. Dinks. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Newt, I should prefer to drop the subject. I can not afford to + give my son a larger allowance. I doubt if he ever gets a cent from Mr. + Burt, who is not his grandfather, but only the uncle of my wife. Possibly + Mrs. Dinks may receive something. I repeat that I presume my son + understands what he is about. If he has done a foolish thing, I am sorry. + I hope he has not. Let us drink to the prosperity of the romantic young + pair, Sir.” + </p> + <p> + “With all my heart,” said Abel. + </p> + <p> + He was satisfied. He had come to the dinner that he might discover, in the + freedom of soul which follows a feast, what Alfred Dinks’s prospects + really were, and what his father would do for him. Boniface Newt, upon + coming to the store after the <i>tête-à -tête</i> with his wife, had told + Abel of his sister’s marriage. Abel had comforted his parent by the + representation of the probable Burt inheritance. But the father was + skeptical. Therefore, when General Arcularius Belch requested the pleasure + of Mr. Abel Newt’s company at dinner, to meet the Honorable B. + Jawley Ele—an invitation which was dictated by General Belch’s + desire to stand well with Boniface Newt, who contributed generously to the + expenses of the party—the father and son both perceived the + opportunity of discovering what they wished. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. and Mrs. Alfred Dinks will have six hundred a year, as long as + papa Dinks chooses to pay it,” said Abel to his father the day after + the dinner. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Newt clenched his teeth and struck his fist upon the table. + </p> + <p> + “Not a cent shall they have from me!” cried he. “What + the devil does a girl mean, by this kind of thing?” + </p> + <p> + Abel was not discomposed. He did not clench his teeth or strike his fist. + </p> + <p> + “I tell you what they can do, father,” said he. + </p> + <p> + His father looked at him inquiringly. + </p> + <p> + “They can take Mr. and Mrs. Tom Witchet to board.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Newt remembered every thing he had said of Mr. Van Boozenberg. But of + late, his hair was growing very gray, his brow very wrinkled, his + expression very anxious and weary. When he remembered the old banker, it + was with no self-reproach that he himself was now doing what, in the + banker’s case, he had held up to Abel’s scorn. It was only to + remember that the wary old man had shut down the portcullis of the bank + vaults, and that loans were getting to be almost impossible. His face + darkened. He swore a sharp oath. “That—old villain!” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0042" id="link2HCH0042"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLII. — CLEARING AND CLOUDY. + </h2> + <p> + It was summer again, and Aunt Martha sat sewing in the hardest of wooden + chairs, erect, motionless. Yet all the bleakness of the room was conquered + by the victorious bloom of Amy’s cheeks, and the tender maidenliness + of Amy’s manner, and the winning, human, sympathetic sweetness which + was revealed in every word and look of Amy, who sat beside her aunt, + talking. + </p> + <p> + “Amy, Lawrence Newt has been here.” + </p> + <p> + The young woman looked almost troubled. + </p> + <p> + “No, Amy, I know you did not tell him,” said Aunt Martha. + “I was all alone here, as usual, and heard a knock. I cried, ‘Who’s + there?’ for I was afraid to open the door, lest I should see some + old friend. ‘A friend,’ was the reply. My knees trembled, Amy. + I thought the time had come for me to be exposed to the world, that the + divine wrath might be fulfilled in my perfect shame. I had no right to + resist, and said, 'Come in!’ The door opened, and a man entered whom + I did not at first recognize. He looked at me for a moment kindly—so + kindly, that it seemed to me as if a gentle hand were laid upon my head. + Then he said, ‘Martha Darro.’ ‘I am ready,’ I + answered. But he came to me and took my hand, and said, ‘Why, + Martha, have you forgotten Lawrence Newt?’” + </p> + <p> + She stopped in her story, and leaned back in her chair. The work fell from + her thin fingers, and she wept—soft tears, like a spring rain. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” said Amy, after a few moments, and her hand had taken + Aunt Martha’s, but she let it go again when she saw that it helped + her to tell the story if she worked. + </p> + <p> + “He said he had seen you at the window one day, and he was resolved + to find out what brought you into Front Street. But before he could make + up his mind to come, he chanced to see me at the same window, and then he + waited no longer.” + </p> + <p> + The tone was more natural than Amy had ever heard from Aunt Martha’s + lips. She remarked that the severity of her costume was unchanged, except + that a little strip of white collar around the throat somewhat alleviated + its dense gloom. Was it Amy’s fancy merely that the little line of + white was symbolical, and that she saw a more human light in her aunt’s + eyes and upon her face? + </p> + <p> + “Well?” said Amy again, after another pause. + </p> + <p> + The solemn woman did not immediately answer, but went on sewing, and + rocking her body as she did so. Amy waited patiently until her aunt should + choose to answer. She waited the more patiently because she was telling + herself who it was that had brought that softer light into the face, if, + indeed, it were really there. She was thinking why he had been curious to + know the reason that she had come into that room. She was remembering a + hundred little incidents which had revealed his constant interest in all + her comings, and goings, and doings; and therefore she started when Aunt + Martha, still rocking and sewing, said, quietly, + </p> + <p> + “Why did Lawrence Newt care what brought you here?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m sure I don’t know, Aunt Martha.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Amy looked as indifferent as she could, knowing that her companion + was studying her face. And it was a study that companion relentlessly + pursued, until Amy remarked that Lawrence Newt was such a generous + gentleman that he could get wind of no distress but he instantly looked to + see if he could relieve it. + </p> + <p> + Finding the theme fertile, Amy Waring, looking, with tender eyes at her + relative, continued. + </p> + <p> + And yet with all the freedom with which she told the story of Lawrence + Newt’s large heart, there was an unusual softness and shyness in her + appearance. The blithe glance was more drooping. The clear, ringing voice + was lower. The words that generally fell with such a neat, crisp + articulation from her lips now lingered upon them as if they were somehow + honeyed, and so flowed more smoothly and more slowly. She told of her + first encounter with Mr. Newt at the Widow Simmers’s—she told + of all that she had heard from her cousin, Gabriel Bennet. + </p> + <p> + “Indeed, Aunt Martha, I should like to have every body think of me + as kindly as he thinks of every body.” + </p> + <p> + She had been speaking for some time. When she stopped, Aunt Martha said, + quietly, + </p> + <p> + “But, Amy, although you have told me how charitable he is, you have + not told me why he wanted to come here because he saw you at the window.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose,” replied Amy, “it was because he thought + there must be somebody to relieve here.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you suppose he thinks there is somebody to relieve in + the next house, and the next, and has been ever since he has had an office + in South Street?” + </p> + <p> + Amy felt very warm, and replied, carelessly, that she thought it was quite + likely. + </p> + <p> + “I have plenty of time to think up here, my child,” continued + Aunt Martha. “God is so good that He has spared my reason, and I + have satisfied myself why Lawrence Newt wanted to come here.” + </p> + <p> + Amy sat without replying, as if she were listening to distant music. Her + head drooped slightly forward; her hands were clasped in her lap; the + delicate color glimmered upon her cheek, now deepening, now paling. The + silence was exquisite, but she must break it. + </p> + <p> + “Why?” said she, in a low voice. + </p> + <p> + “Because he loves you, Amy,” said the dark woman, as her busy + fingers stitched without pausing. + </p> + <p> + Amy Waring was perfectly calm. The words seemed to give her soul delicious + peace, and she waited to hear what her aunt would say next. + </p> + <p> + “I know that he loves you, from the way in which he spoke of you. I + know that you love him for the same reason.” + </p> + <p> + Aunt Martha went on working and rocking. Amy turned pale. She had not + dared to say to herself what another had now said to her. But suddenly she + started as if stung. “If Aunt Martha has seen this so plainly, why + may not Lawrence Newt have seen it?” The apprehension frightened + her. + </p> + <p> + A long silence followed the last words of Aunt Martha. She did not look at + Amy, for she had no external curiosity to satisfy, and she understood well + enough what Amy was thinking. + </p> + <p> + They were still silent, when there was a knock at the door. + </p> + <p> + “Come in,” said the clear, hard voice of Aunt Martha. + </p> + <p> + The door opened—the two women looked—and Lawrence Newt walked + into the room. He shook hands with Aunt Martha, and then turned to Amy. + </p> + <p> + “This time, Miss Amy, I have caught you. Have I not kept your secret + well?” + </p> + <p> + Amy was thinking of another secret than Aunt Martha’s living in + Front Street, and she merely blushed, without speaking. + </p> + <p> + “I tried very hard to persuade myself to come up here after I saw + you at the window. But I did not until the secret looked out of the window + and revealed itself. I came to-day to say that I am going out of town in a + day or two, and that I should like, before I go, to know that I may do + what I can to take Aunt Martha out of this place.” + </p> + <p> + Aunt Martha shook her head slowly. “Why should it be?” said + she. “Great sin must be greatly punished. To die, while I live; to + be buried alive close to my nearest and dearest; to know that my sister + thinks of me as dead, and is glad that I am so—” + </p> + <p> + “Stop, Aunt Martha, stop!” cried Amy, with the same firm tone + in which, upon a previous visit, in this room, she had dismissed the + insolent shopman, “how can you say such things?” and she stood + radiant before her aunt, while Lawrence Newt looked on. + </p> + <p> + “Amy, dear, you can not understand. Sons and daughters of evil, when + we see that we have sinned, we must be brave enough to assist in our own + punishment. God’s mercy enables me tranquilly to suffer the penalty + which his justice awards me. My path is very plain. Please God, I shall + walk in it.” + </p> + <p> + She said it very slowly, and solemnly, and sadly. Whatever her offense + was, she had invested her situation with the dignity of a religious duty. + It was clear that her idea of obedience to God was to do precisely what + she was doing. And this was so deeply impressed upon Amy Waring’s + mind that she was perplexed how to act. She knew that if her aunt + suspected in her any intention of revealing the secret of her abode, she + would disappear at once, and elude all search. And to betray it while it + was unreservedly confided to her was impossible for Amy, even if she had + not solemnly promised not to do so. + </p> + <p> + Observing that Amy meant to say nothing, Lawrence Newt turned to Aunt + Martha. + </p> + <p> + “I will not quarrel with what you say, but I want you to grant me a + request.” + </p> + <p> + Aunt Martha bowed, as if waiting to see if she could grant it. + </p> + <p> + “If it is not unreasonable, will you grant it?” + </p> + <p> + “I will,” said she. + </p> + <p> + “Well, now please, I want you to go next Sunday and hear a man + preach whom I am very fond of hearing, and who has been of the greatest + service to me.” + </p> + <p> + “Who is it?” + </p> + <p> + “First, do you ever go to church?” + </p> + <p> + “Always.” + </p> + <p> + “Where?” + </p> + <p> + Aunt Martha did not directly reply. She was lost in reverie. + </p> + <p> + “It is a youth like an angel,” said she at length, with an air + of curious excitement, as if talking to herself. “His voice is + music, but it strikes my soul through and through, and I am frightened and + in agony, as if I had been pierced with the flaming sword that waves over + the gate of Paradise. The light of his words makes my sin blacker and more + loathsome. Oh! what crowds there are! How he walks upon a sea of sinners, + with their uplifted faces, like waves white with terror! How fierce his + denunciation! How sweet the words of promise he speaks! ‘The + sacrifices of God are a broken spirit; a broken and a contrite heart, O + God, thou wilt not despise.’” + </p> + <p> + She had risen from her chair, and stood with her eyes lifted in a singular + condition of mental exaltation, which gave a lyrical tone and flow to her + words. + </p> + <p> + “That is Summerfield,” said Lawrence Newt. “Yes, he is a + wonderful youth. I have heard him myself, and thought that I saw the fire + of Whitfield, and heard the sweetness of Charles Wesley. I have been into + the old John Street meeting-house, where the crowds hung out at the + windows and doors like swarming bees clustered upon a hive. He swayed them + as a wind bends a grain-field, Miss Amy. He swept them away like a + mountain stream. He is an Irishman, with all the fervor of Irish genius. + But,” continued Lawrence Newt, turning again to Aunt Martha, “it + is a very different man I want you to hear.” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him inquiringly. + </p> + <p> + “His name is Channing. He comes from Boston.” + </p> + <p> + “Does he preach the truth?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “I think he does,” answered Lawrence, gravely. + </p> + <p> + “Does he drive home the wrath of God upon the sinful, rebellious + soul?” exclaimed she, raising both hands with the energy of her + words. + </p> + <p> + “He preaches the Gospel of Christ,” said Lawrence Newt, + quietly; “and I think you will like him, and that he will do you + good. He is called—” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t care what he is called,” interrupted Aunt + Martha, “if he makes me feel my sin.” + </p> + <p> + “That you will discover for yourself,” replied Lawrence, + smiling. “He makes me feel mine.” + </p> + <p> + Aunt Martha, whose ecstasy had passed, seated herself, and said she would + go, as Mr. Newt requested, on the condition that neither he nor Amy, if + they were there, would betray that they knew her. + </p> + <p> + This was readily promised, and Amy and Lawrence Newt left the room + together. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0043" id="link2HCH0043"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLIII. — WALKING HOME. + </h2> + <p> + “Miss Amy,” said Lawrence Newt, as they walked slowly toward + Fulton Street, “I hope that gradually we may overcome this morbid + state of mind in your aunt, and restore her to her home.” + </p> + <p> + Amy said she hoped so too, and walked quietly by his side. There was + something almost humble in her manner. Her secret was her own no longer. + Was it Lawrence Newt’s? Had she indeed betrayed herself? + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t say why I was going out of town. Yet I ought to tell + you,” said he. + </p> + <p> + “Why should you tell me?” she answered, quickly. + </p> + <p> + “Because it concerns our friend Hope Wayne,” said Lawrence. + “See, here is the note which I received this morning.” + </p> + <p> + As he spoke he opened it, and read aloud: + </p> + <p> + “MY DEAR MR. NEWT,—Mrs. Simcoe writes me that grandfather has + had a stroke of paralysis, and lies very ill. Aunt Dinks has, therefore, + resolved to leave on Monday, and I shall go with her. She seems very much + affected, indeed, by the news. Mrs. Simcoe writes that the doctor says + grandfather will hardly live more than a few days, and she wishes you + could go on with us. I know that you have some kind of association with + Pinewood—you have not told me what. In this summer weather you will + find it very beautiful; and you know how glad I shall be to have you for + my guest. My guest, I say; for while grandfather lies so dangerously ill I + must be what my mother would have been—mistress of the house. I + shall hardly feel more lonely than I always did when he was active, for we + had but little intercourse. In case of his death, which I suppose to be + very near, I shall not care to live at the old place. In fact, I do not + very clearly see what I am to do. But there is One who does; and I + remember my dear old nurse’s hymn, ‘On Thee I cast my care.’ + Come, if you can. + </p> + <p> + “Your friend, + </p> + <h3> + “HOPE WAYNE.” + </h3> + <p> + Lawrence Newt and Amy walked on for some time in silence. At length Amy + said, + </p> + <p> + “It is just one of the cases in which it is a pity she is not + married or engaged.” + </p> + <p> + “Isn’t that always a pity for a young woman?” asked + Lawrence, shooting entirely away from the subject. + </p> + <p> + “Theoretically, yes,” replied Amy, firmly, “but not + actually. It may be a pity that every woman is not married; but it might + be a greater pity that she should marry any of the men who ask her.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” said Lawrence Newt, dryly, “if she didn’t + love him.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, and sometimes even if she did.” + </p> + <p> + Amy Waring was conscious that her companion looked at her in surprise as + she said this, but she fixed her eyes directly before her, and walked + straight on. + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes,” said Mr. Newt; “I see. You mean when he does + not love her.” + </p> + <p> + “No, I mean sometimes even when they do love each other,” said + the resolute Amy. + </p> + <p> + Lawrence Newt was alarmed. “Does she mean to convey to me delicately + that there may be cases of true mutual love where it is better not to + marry?” thought he. “Where, for instance, there is a + difference of age perhaps, or where there has been some other and earlier + attachment?” + </p> + <p> + “I mean,” said Amy, as if answering his thoughts, “that + there may sometimes be reasons why even lovers should not marry—reasons + which every noble man and woman understand; and therefore I do not agree + with you that it is always a pity for a girl not to be married.” + </p> + <p> + Lawrence Newt said nothing. Amy Waring’s voice almost trembled with + emotion, for she knew that her companion might easily misunderstand what + she said; and yet there was no way to help it. At any rate, thought she, + he will see that I do not mean to drop into his arms. + </p> + <p> + They walked silently on. The people in the street passed them like + spectres. The great city hummed around them unheard. Lawrence Newt said to + himself, half bitterly, “So you have waked up at last, have you? You + have found that because a beautiful young woman is kind to you, it does + not follow that she will one day be your wife.” + </p> + <p> + Neither spoke. “She sees,” thought Lawrence Newt, “that + I love her, and she wishes to spare me the pain of hearing that it is in + vain.” + </p> + <p> + “At least,” he thought, with tenderness and longing toward the + beautiful girl that walked beside him—“at least, I was not + mistaken. She was nobler and lovelier than I supposed.” + </p> + <p> + At length he said, + </p> + <p> + “I have written to ask Hope Wayne to go and hear my preacher + to-morrow. Miss Amy, will you go too?” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him and bowed. Her eyes were glistening with tears. + </p> + <p> + “My dearest Miss Amy,” said Lawrence Newt, impetuously, + seizing her hand, as her face turned toward him. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! please, Mr. Newt—please—” she answered, + hastily, in a tone of painful entreaty, withdrawing her hand from his + grasp, confused and very pale. + </p> + <p> + The words died upon his lips. + </p> + <p> + “Forgive me—forgive me!” he said, with an air of + surprise and sadness, and with a voice trembling with tenderness and + respect. “She can not bear to give me the pain of plainly saying + that she does not love me,” thought Lawrence; and he gently took her + hand and laid her arm in his, as if to show that now they understood each + other perfectly, and all was well. + </p> + <p> + “At least, Miss Amy,” he said, by-and-by, tranquilly, and with + the old cheerfulness, “at least we shall be friends.” + </p> + <p> + Amy Waring bent her head and was silent. It seemed to her that she was + suffocating, for his words apprised her how strangely he had mistaken her + meaning. + </p> + <p> + They said nothing more. Arm in arm they passed up Broadway. Every moment + Amy Waring supposed the merchant would take leave of her and return to his + office. But every moment he was farther from doing it. Abel Newt and Grace + Plumer passed them, and opened their eyes; and Grace said to Abel, + </p> + <p> + “How long has Amy Waring been engaged to your Uncle Lawrence?” + </p> + <p> + When they reached Amy’s door Lawrence Newt raised her hand, bent + over it with quaint, courtly respect, held it a moment, then pressed it to + his lips. He looked up at her. She was standing on the step; her full, + dark eyes, swimming with moisture, were fixed upon his; her luxuriant hair + curled over her clear, rich cheeks—youth, love, and beauty, they + were all there. Lawrence Newt could hardly believe they were not all his. + It was so natural to think so. Somehow he and Amy had grown together. He + understood her perfectly. + </p> + <p> + “Perfectly?” he said to himself. “Why you are holding + her hand; you are kissing it with reverence; you are looking into the face + which is dearer and lovelier to you than all other human faces; and you + are as far off as if oceans rolled between.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0044" id="link2HCH0044"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLIV. — CHURCH GOING. + </h2> + <p> + The Sunday bells rang loud from river to river. Loud and sharp they rang + in the clear, still air of the summer morning, as if the voice of + Everardus Bogardus, the old Dominie of New Amsterdam, were calling the + people in many tones to be up and stirring, and eat breakfast, and wash + the breakfast things, and be in your places early, with bowed heads and + reverend minds, and demurely hear me tell you what sinners you always have + been and always will be, so help me God—I, Everardus Bogardus, in + the clear summer morning, ding, dong, bell, amen! + </p> + <p> + So mused Arthur Merlin, between sleeping and waking, as the bells rang + out, loud and low—distant and near—flowing like a rushing, + swelling tide of music along the dark inlets of narrow streets—touching + arid hearts with hope, as the rising water touches dry spots with green. + Come you, too, out of your filthy holes and hovels—come to church as + in the days when you were young and had mothers, and you, grisly, drunken, + blear-eyed thief, lisped in your little lessons—come, all of you, + come! The day has dawned; the air is pure; the hammer rests—come and + repent, and be renewed, and be young again. The old, weary, restless, + debauched, defeated world—it shall sing and dance. You shall be + lambs. I see the dawn of the millennium on the heights of Hoboken—yea, + even out of the Jerseys shall a good thing come! It is I who tell you—it + is I who order you—I, Everardus Bogardus, Dominie of New Amsterdam—ding, + dong, bell, amen! + </p> + <p> + The streets were quiet and deserted. A single hack rattled under his + window, and Arthur could hear its lessening sound until it was lost in the + sweet clangor of the bells. He lay in bed, and did not see the people in + the street; but he heard the shuffling and the slouching, the dragging + step and the bright, quick footfall. There were gay bonnets and black hats + already stirring—early worshippers at the mass at St. Peter’s + or St. Patrick’s—but the great population of the city was at + home. + </p> + <p> + Except, among the rest, a young man who comes hastily out of Thiel’s, + over Stewart’s—a young man of flowing black hair and fiery + black eyes, which look restlessly and furtively up and down Broadway, + which seems to the young man odiously and unnaturally bright. He gains the + street with a bound. He hurries along, restless, disordered, excited—the + black eyes glancing anxiously about, as if he were jealous of any that + should see his yesterday was not over, and that somehow his wild, headlong + night had been swept into the serene, open bay of morning. He hurries up + the street; tossing many thoughts together—calculating his losses, + for the black-haired young man has lost heavily at Thiel’s + faro-table—wondering about payments—remembering that it is + Sunday morning, and that he is to attend a young lady from the South to + church—a young lady whose father has millions, if universal + understanding be at all correct—thinking of revenge at the table, of + certain books full of figures in a certain counting-room, and the story + they tell—story known to not half a dozen people in the world; the + black-eyed youth, in evening dress, alert, graceful, but now meandering + and gliding swiftly like a snake, darts up Broadway, and does not seem to + hear the bells, whose first stroke startled him as he sat at play, and + which are now ringing strange changes in the peaceful air: Come, Newt! + Come, Newt! Abel Newt! Come, Newt! It is I, Everardus, Dominie Bogardus—come, + come, come! and be d——d, ding, dong, bell, amen-n-n-n! + </p> + <p> + Later in the morning the bells rang again. The house doors opened, and the + sidewalk swarmed with well-dressed people. Boniface Newt and his wife + sedately proceeded to church—not a new bonnet escaping Mrs. Nancy, + while May walked tranquilly behind—like an angel going home, as + Gabriel Bennet said in his heart when he passed her with his sister Ellen + leaning on his arm. The Van Boozenberg carriage rolled along the street, + conveying Mr. and Mrs. Jacob to meditate upon heavenly things. Mrs. Dagon + and Mrs. Orry passed, and bowed sweetly, on their way to learn how to love + their neighbors as themselves. And among the rest walked Lawrence Newt + with Amy Waring, and Arthur Merlin with Hope Wayne. + </p> + <p> + The painter had heard the voice of the Dominie Bogardus, which his fancy + had heard in the air; or was he obeying another Dominie, of a wider + parish, whose voice he heard in his heart? It was not often that the + painter went to church. More frequently, in his little studio at the top + of a house in Fulton Street, he sat smoking meditative cigars during the + Sunday hours; or, if the day were auspicious, even touching his canvas! + </p> + <p> + In vain his sober friends remonstrated. Aunt Winnifred, with whom he + lived, was never weary of laboring with him. She laid good books upon the + table in his chamber. He returned late at night, often, and found little + tracts upon his bureau, upon the chair in which he usually laid his + clothes when he retired—yes, even upon his pillow. “Aunt + Winnifred’s piety leaves its tracts all over my room,” he + said, smilingly, to Lawrence Newt. + </p> + <p> + But when the good lady openly attacked him, and said, + </p> + <p> + “Arthur, how can you? What will people think? Why don’t you go + to church?” + </p> + <p> + Arthur replied, with entire coolness, + </p> + <p> + “Aunt Winnifred, what’s the use of going to church when Van + Boozenberg goes, and is not in the least discomposed? I’m afraid of + the morality of such a place!” + </p> + <p> + Aunt Winnifred’s eyes dilated with horror. She had no argument to + throw at Arthur in return, and that reckless fellow always had to help her + out. + </p> + <p> + “However, dear aunt, you go; and I suppose you ought to be quite as + good a reason for going as Van Boozenberg for staying away.” + </p> + <p> + After such a conversation it fairly rained tracts in Arthur’s room. + The shower was only the signal for fresh hostilities upon his part; but + for all the hostility Aunt Winnifred was not able to believe her nephew to + be a very bad young man. + </p> + <p> + As he and his friends passed up Broadway toward Chambers Street they met + Abel Newt hastening down to Bunker’s to accompany Miss Plumer to + Grace Church. The young man had bathed and entirely refreshed himself + during the hour or two since he had stepped out of Thiel’s. There + was not a better-dressed man upon Broadway; and many a hospitable feminine + eye opened to entertain him as long and as much as possible as he passed + by. He had an unusual flush in his cheek and spring in his step. Perhaps + he was excited by the novelty of mixing in a throng of church-goers. He + had not done such a thing since on summer Sunday mornings he used to + stroll with the other boys along the broad village road, skirted with + straggling houses, to Dr. Peewee’s. Heavens! in what year was that? + he thought, unconsciously. Am I a hundred years old? On those mornings he + used to see—Precisely the person he saw at the moment the thought + crossed his mind—Hope Wayne—who bowed to him as he passed her + party. How much calmer, statelier, and more softly superior she was than + in those old Delafield days! + </p> + <p> + She remembered, too; and as the lithe, graceful figure of the handsome and + fascinating Mr. Abel Newt bent in passing, Arthur Merlin, who felt, at the + instant Abel passed, as if his own feet were very large, and his clothes + ugly, and his movement stupidly awkward—felt, in fact, as if he + looked like a booby—Arthur Merlin observed that his companion went + on speaking, that she did not change color, and that her voice was neither + hurried nor confused. + </p> + <p> + Why did the young painter, as he observed these little things, feel as if + the sun shone with unusual splendor? Why did he think he had never heard a + bird sing so sweetly as one that hung at an open window they passed? Nay, + why in that moment was he almost willing to paint Abel Newt as the + Endymion of his great picture? + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0045" id="link2HCH0045"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLV. — IN CHURCH. + </h2> + <p> + They turned into Chambers Street, in which was the little church where Dr. + Channing was to preach. Lawrence Newt led the way up the aisle to his pew. + The congregation, which was usually rather small, to-day quite filled the + church. There was a general air of intelligence and shrewdness in the + faces, which were chiefly of the New England type. Amy Waring saw no one + she had ever seen before. In fact, there were but few present in whose + veins New England blood did not run, except some curious hearers who had + come from a natural desire to see and hear a celebrated man. + </p> + <p> + When our friends entered the church a slow, solemn voluntary was playing + upon the organ. The congregation sat quietly in the pews. Chairs and + benches were brought to accommodate the increasing throng. Presently the + house was full. The bustle and distraction of entering were over—there + was nothing heard but the organ. + </p> + <p> + In a few moments a slight man, wrapped in a black silk gown, slowly + ascended the pulpit stairs, and, before seating himself, stood for a + moment looking down at the congregation. His face was small, and thin, and + pale; but there was a pure light, an earnest, spiritual sweetness in the + eyes—the irradiation of an anxious soul—as they surveyed the + people. After a few moments the music stopped. There was perfect silence + in the crowded church. Then, moving like a shadow to the desk, the + preacher, in a voice that was in singular harmony with the expression of + his face, began to read a hymn. His voice had a remarkable cadence, rising + and falling with yearning tenderness and sober pathos. It seemed to impart + every feeling, every thought, every aspiration of the hymn. It was full of + reverence, gratitude, longing, and resignation: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“While Thee I seek, protecting Power, + Be my vain wishes stilled; +And may this consecrated hour + With better hopes be filled.” + </pre> + <p> + When he had read it and sat down again, Hope Wayne felt as if a religious + service had already been performed. + </p> + <p> + The simplicity, and fervor, and long-drawn melody with which he had read + the hymn apparently inspired the choir with sympathy, and after a few + notes from the organ they began to sing an old familiar tune. It was taken + up by the congregation until the church trembled with the sound, and the + saunterers in the street outside involuntarily ceased laughing and + talking, and, touched by some indefinable association, raised their hats + and stood bareheaded in the sunlight, while the solemn music filled the + air. + </p> + <p> + The hymn was sung, the prayer was offered, the chapter was read; then, + after a little silence, that calm, refined, anxious, pale, yearning face + appeared again at the desk. The preacher balanced himself for a few + moments alternately upon each foot—moved his tongue, as if tasting + the words he was about to utter—and announced his text: “Peace + I leave with you: my peace I give unto you.” + </p> + <p> + He began in the same calm, simple way. A natural, manly candor certified + the truth of every word he spoke. The voice—at first high in tone, + and swinging, as it were, in long, wave-like inflections—grew + gradually deeper, and more equally sustained. There was very little + movement of the hands or arms; only now and then the finger was raised, or + the hand gently spread and waved. As he warmed in his discourse a kind of + celestial grace glimmered about his person, and his pale, thoughtful face + kindled and beamed with holy light. His sentences were entirely simple. + There was no rhetoric, no declamation or display. Yet the soul of the + hearer seemed to be fused in a spiritual eloquence which, like a white + flame, burned all the personality of the speaker away. The people sat as + if they were listening to a disembodied soul. + </p> + <p> + But the appeal and the argument were never to passion, or prejudice, or + mere sensibility. Fear and horror, and every kind of physical emotion, so + to say, were impossible in the calmness and sweetness of the assurance of + the Divine presence. It was a Father whose message the preacher brought. + Like as a father so the Lord pitieth His children, said he, in tones that + trickled like tears over the hearts of his hearers, although his voice was + equable and unbroken. He went on to show what the children of such a + Father must needs be—to show that, however sinful, and erring, and + lost, yet the Father had sent to tell them that the doctrine of wrath was + of old time; that the eye for the eye, and the tooth for the tooth, was + the teaching of an imperfect knowledge; that a faith which was truly + childlike knew the Creator only as a parent; and that out of such faith + alone arose the life that was worthy of him. + </p> + <p> + Wandering princes are we! cried the preacher, with a profound ecstasy and + exultation in his tone, while the very light of heaven shone in his aspect—wandering + princes are we, sons of the Great King. In foreign lands outcast and + forlorn, groveling with the very swine in the mire, and pining for the + husks that the swine do eat; envying, defying, hating, forgetting—but + never hated nor forgot; in the depths of our rage, and impotence, and sin—in + the darkest moment of our moral death, when we would crucify the very + image of that Parent who pities us—there is one voice deeper and + sweeter than all music, the voice of our elder brother pleading with that + common Father—“Forgive them, forgive them, for they know not + what they do!” + </p> + <p> + He sat down, but the congregation did not move. Leaning forward, with + upraised eyes glistening with tears and beaming with sympathy, with hope, + with quickened affection, they sat motionless, seemingly unwilling to + destroy the holy calm in which, with him, they had communed with their + Father. There were those in the further part of the church who did not + hear; but their mouths were open with earnest attention; their eyes + glittered with moisture; for they saw afar off that slight, rapt figure; + and so strong was the common sympathy of the audience that they seemed to + feel what they could not hear. + </p> + <p> + Lawrence Newt did not look round for Aunt Martha. But he thought of her + listening to the discourse, as one thinks of dry fields in a saturating + summer rain. She sat through the whole—black, immovable, silent. The + people near her looked at her compassionately. They thought she was an + inconsolable widow, or a Rachel refusing comfort. Nor, had they watched + her, could they have told if she had heard any thing to comfort or relieve + her sorrow. From the first word to the last she gazed fixedly at the + speaker. With the rest she rose and went out. But as she passed by the + pulpit stairs she looked up for a moment at that pallid face, and a finer + eye than any human saw that she longed, like another woman of old looking + at another teacher, to kiss the hem of his garment. Oh! not by earthquake + nor by lightning, but by the soft touch of angels at midnight, is the + stone rolled away from the door of the sepulchre. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0046" id="link2HCH0046"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLVI. — IN ANOTHER CHURCH. + </h2> + <p> + While thus one body of Christian believers worshipped, another was + assembled in the Methodist chapel in John Street, where Aunt Martha + usually went. + </p> + <p> + A vast congregation crowded every part of the church. They swarmed upon + the pulpit stairs, upon the gallery railings, and wherever a foot could + press itself to stand, or room be found to sit. As the young preacher, + Summerfield, rose in the pulpit, every eye in the throng turned to him and + watched his slight, short figure—his sweet blue eye, and his face of + earnest expression and a kind of fiery sweetness. He closed his eyes and + lifted his hands in prayer; and the great responsibility of speaking to + that multitude of human beings of their most momentous interests evidently + so filled and possessed him, that in the prayer he seemed to yearn for + strength and the gifts of grace so earnestly—he cried, so as if his + heart were bursting, “Help, Lord, or I perish!” that the great + congregation, murmuring with sobs, with gasps and sighs, echoed solemnly, + as if it had but one voice, and it were muffled in tears, “Help, + Lord, or I perish!” + </p> + <p> + When the prayer was ended a hymn was sung by all the people, to a quick, + martial melody, and seemed to leave them nervously awake to whatever + should be said. The preacher, with the sweet boyish face, began his sermon + gently, and in a winning voice. There was a kind of caressing persuasion + in his whole manner that magnetized the audience. He grew more and more + impassioned as he advanced, while the people sat open-mouthed, and + responding at intervals, “Amen!” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! sinner, sinner, it is he, our God, who shoots us through and + through with the sharp sweetness of his power. It is our God who scatters + the arrows of his wrath; but they are winged with the plumes of the dove, + the feathers of softness, and the Gospel. Oh! the promises! the promises!—Come + unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. + Yes, patriarch of white hairs, of wasted cheeks, and tottering step! the + burden bears you down almost to the ground to-day—into the ground + to-morrow. Here stands the Judge to give you rest. Yes, mother of sad eyes + and broken spirit! whose long life is a sorrowful vigil, waiting upon the + coming of wicked sons, of deceitful daughters—weary, weary, and + heavy laden with tribulation, here is the Comforter who shall give you + rest. And you, young man, and you, young maiden, sitting here to-day in + the plenitude of youth, and hope, and love, Remember your Creator in the + days of your youth, for the dark day cometh—yea, it is at hand!” + </p> + <p> + So fearfully did his voice, and look, and manner express apprehension, as + if something were about to fall upon the congregation, that there was a + sudden startled cry of terror. There were cries of “Lord! Lord! have + mercy!” Smothered shrieks and sobs filled the air; pale faces stared + at each other like spectres. People fell upon their knees, and cried out + that they felt the power of the Lord. “My soul sinks in deep waters, + Selah;” cried the preacher, “but they are the waters of grace + and faith, and I am convicted of all my sins.” Then pausing a + moment, while the vast crowd swayed and shook with the tumult of emotion, + with his arms outspread, the veins on his forehead swollen, and the light + flashing in his eyes, he raised his arms and eyes to heaven, and said, + with inexpressible sweetness, in tones which seemed to trickle with balm + into the very soul, as soft spring rains ooze into the ground, “Yea, + it is at hand, but so art thou! Come, Lord Jesus, come quickly; and when + youth, and hope, and love have become dead weights and burdens in these + young hearts, teach them how to feel the peace that passeth understanding. + Draw them to thee, for they, wearily labor: they are heavily laden, + gracious Father! Oh, give them rest!” + </p> + <p> + “Come!” he exclaimed, “freely come! It is the eternal + spring of living water. It is your life, and it flows for you. Come! come! + it is the good shepherd who calls his flock to wander by the still waters + and in the green pastures. Will you abide outside? Then, woe! woe! when + the night cometh, and the shepherd folds his flock, and you are not there. + Will you seek Philosophy, and confide in that? It is a ravening wolf, and + ere morning you are consumed. Will you lean on human pride—on your + own sufficiency? It is a broken reed, and your fall will be forever fatal. + Will you say there is no God?”—his voice sank into a low, + menacing whisper—“will you say there is no God?” He + raised his hands warningly, and shook them over the congregation while he + lowered his voice. “Hush! hush! lest he hear—lest he mark—lest + the great Jehovah”—his voice swelling suddenly into loud, + piercing tones—“Maker of heaven and earth, Judge of the quick + and the dead, the Alpha and the Omega, the Beginning and the End, the + eternal Godhead from everlasting to everlasting, should know that you, + pitiable, crawling worm—that you, corrupt in nature and conceived in + sin! child of wrath and of the devil! say that there is no God! Woe, woe! + for the Judge cometh! Woe, woe! for the gnashing of teeth and the outer + darkness! Woe, woe! for those who crucified him, and buffeted him, and + pierced him with thorns! Woe, woe! for the Lord our God is a just God, + slow to anger, and plenteous in mercy. But oh! when the day of mercy is + past! Oh! for the hour—sinner, sinner, beware! beware!—when + that anger rises like an ingulfing fiery sea, and sweeps thee away + forever!” + </p> + <p> + It seemed as if the sea had burst into the building; for the congregation + half rose, and a smothered cry swept over the people. Many rose upright + with clasped hands and cried, “Hallelujah!” “Praise be + to God!” Others lay cowering and struggling upon the seats; others + sobbed and gazed with frantic earnestness at the face of the young + apostle. Children with frightened eyes seized the cold hands of their + mothers. Some fainted, but could not be borne out, so solid was the + throng. Their neighbors loosened their garments and fanned them, repeating + snatches of hymns, and waiting for the next word of the preacher. “The + Lord is dealing with his people,” they said; “convicting + sinners, and calling the lost sheep home.” + </p> + <p> + The preacher stood as if lifted by an inward power, beholding with joy the + working of the Word, but with a total unconsciousness of himself. The + young man seemed meek and lowly while he was about his Father’s + business. And after waiting for a few moments, the music of his voice + poured out peace upon that awakened throng. + </p> + <p> + “‘Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I + will give you rest.’ Yes, fellow-sinners, rest. For all of us, rest. + For the weariest, rest. For you who, just awakened, tremble in doubt, + rest. For you, young woman, who despairest of heaven, rest. For you, young + man, so long in the bondage of sin, rest. Oh! that I had the wings of a + dove, for then would I fly away and be at rest. Brother, sister, it shall + be so. To your weary soul those wings shall be fitted. Far from the world + of grief and sin, of death and disappointment, you shall fly away. Deep in + the bosom of your God, you shall be at rest. That dove is his holy grace. + Those wings are his tender promises. That rest is the peace of heaven. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“Come, O thou all-victorious Lord, + Thy power to us make known; + Strike with the hammer of thy word, + And break these hearts of stone. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“Oh that we all might now begin + Our foolishness to mourn; + And turn at once from every sin, + And to the Saviour turn. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“Give us ourselves and thee to know, + In this our gracious day: + Repentance unto life bestow, + And take our sins away. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“Convince us first of unbelief, + And freely then release; + Fill every soul with sacred grief, + And then with sacred peace.” + </pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0047" id="link2HCH0047"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLVII. — DEATH. + </h2> + <p> + The clover-blossom perfumed the summer air. The scythe and the sickle + still hung in the barn. Grass and grain swayed and whispered and sparkled + in the sun and wind. June loitered upon all the gentle hills, and peaceful + meadows, and winding brook sides. June breathed in the sweet-brier that + climbed the solid stone posts of the gate-way, and clustered along the + homely country stone wall. June blossomed in the yellow barberry by the + road-side, and in the bright rhodora and the pale orchis in the dark + woods. June sang in the whistle of the robin swinging on the elm and the + cherry, and the gushing warble of the bobolink tumbling, and darting, and + fluttering in the warm meadow. June twinkled in the keen brightness of the + fresh green of leaves, and swelled in the fruit buds. June clucked and + crowed in the cocks and hens that stepped about the yard, followed by the + multitudinous peep of little chickens. June lowed in the cattle in the + pasture. June sprang, and sprouted, and sang, and grew in all the + sprouting and blooming, in all the sunny new life of the world. + </p> + <p> + White among the dark pine-trees stood the old house of Pinewood—a + temple of silence in the midst of the teeming, overpowering murmur of new + life; of silence and darkness in the midst of jubilant sunshine and + universal song, that seemed to press against the very windows over which + the green blinds were drawn. + </p> + <p> + But that long wave of rich life, as it glided across the lawn and in among + the solemn pine-trees, was a little hushed and subdued. The birds sang in + the trees beyond—the bobolinks gushed in the meadows below. But + there was a little space of silence about the house. + </p> + <p> + In the large drawing-room, draped in cool-colored chintz, where once + Gabriel Bennet and Abel Newt had seen Hope Wayne, on the table where books + had lain like porcelain ornaments, lay a strange piece of furniture, long, + and spreading at one end, smelling of new varnish, studded with high + silver-headed nails, and with a lid. It was lined with satin. Yes, it was + a casket. + </p> + <p> + The room was more formal, and chilly, and dim than ever. Puffs of air + crept through it as if frightened—frightened to death before they + got out again. The smell of the varnish was stronger than that of the + clover-blossoms, or the roses or honey-suckles outside in the fields and + gardens, and about the piazzas. + </p> + <p> + Upon the wall hung the portrait of Christopher Burt at the age of ten, + standing in clean clothes, holding a hoop in one hand and a book in the + other. It was sixty-four years before that the portrait was painted, and + if one had come searching for that boy he would have found him—by + lifting that lid he would have seen him; but in those sunken features, + that white hair, that startling stillness of repose, would he have + recognized the boy of the soft eyes and the tender heart, whose June + clover had not yet blossomed? + </p> + <p> + There was a creaking, crackling sound upon the gravel in the avenue, and + then a carriage emerged from behind the hedge, and another, and another. + They were family carriages, and stopped at the front door, which was swung + wide open. There was no sound but the letting down of steps and slamming + of doors, and the rolling away of wheels. People with grave faces, which + they seemed to have put on for the occasion as they put on white gloves + for weddings, stepped out and came up the steps. They were mostly clad in + sober colors, and said nothing, or conversed in a low, murmuring tone, or + in whispers. They entered the house and seated themselves in the library, + with the large, solemn Family Bible, and the empty inkstand, and the clean + pen-wiper, and the paper knife, and the melancholy recluses of books + locked into their cells. + </p> + <p> + Presently some one would come to the door and beckon with his finger to + some figure sitting in the silent library. The sitter arose and walked out + quietly, and went with the beckoner and looked in at the lid, and saw what + had once been a boy with soft eyes and tender heart. Coming back to the + library the smell of varnish was for a moment blown out of the wide entry + by the breath of the clover that wandered in, and reminded the silent + company of the song and the sunshine and bloom that were outside. + </p> + <p> + At length every thing was waiting. No more carriages came—no more + people. There was no more looking into the casket—no more whispering + and moving. The rooms were full of a silent company, and they were all + waiting. The clock ticked audibly. The wind rustled in the pine-trees. + What next? Would not the master of the house appear to welcome his guests? + </p> + <p> + He did not come; but from the upper entry, at the head of the stairs, near + a room in which sat Hope Wayne, and Lawrence Newt, and Mrs. Simcoe, and + Fanny Dinks, and Alfred, and his parents, and a few others, was heard the + voice of Dr. Peewee, saying, “Let us pray!” + </p> + <p> + And he prayed a long prayer. He spoke of the good works of this life, and + the sweet promises of the next; of the Christian hero, who fights the good + fight encompassed by a crowd of witnesses; of those who do justice and + love mercy, and walk in the way of the Lord. He referred to our dear + departed brother, and eulogized Christian merchants, calling those blessed + who, being rich, are almoners of the Lord’s bounty. He prayed for + those who remained, reminding them, that the Lord chastens whom he loves, + and that they who die, although full of years and honors, do yet go where + the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest, and at last + pass beyond to enter into the joy of their Lord. + </p> + <p> + His voice ceased, and silence fell again upon the house. Every body sat + quietly; the women fanned themselves, and the men looked about. Here was + again the sense of waiting—of vague expectation. What next? + </p> + <p> + Three or four workmen went into the parlor. One of them put down the lid + and screwed it tight. The casket was closed forever. They lifted it, and + carried it out carefully down the steps. They rolled it into a hearse that + stood upon the gravel, and the man who closed the lid buttoned a black + curtain over the casket. + </p> + <p> + The same man went to the front door and read several names from a paper in + a clear, dry voice. The people designated came down stairs, went out of + the door, and stepped into carriages. The company rose in the library and + drawing-room, and, moving toward the hall, looked at the mourners—at + Hope Wayne and Mrs. Simcoe, at Mr. and Mrs. Budlong Dinks, Mr. and Mrs. + Alfred Dinks, and others, as they passed out. + </p> + <p> + Presently the procession began to move slowly along the avenue. Those who + remained stepped out upon the piazza and watched it; then began to bustle + about for their own carriages. One after another they drove away. Mr. + Kingo said to Mr. Sutler that he believed the will was in the hands of Mr. + Budlong Dinks, and would be opened in the morning. They looked around the + place, and remarked that Miss Wayne would probably become its mistress. + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Alfred Dinks seems to be a very—a very—” + said Mr. Kingo, gravely, pausing upon the last word. + </p> + <p> + “Very much so, indeed,” replied Mr. Sutler, with equal + gravity. + </p> + <p> + “And yet,” said Mr. Grabeau, “if it had been so ordered + that young Mr. Dinks should marry his cousin, Miss Wayne, he would—that + is, I suppose he would—;” and he too hesitated. + </p> + <p> + “Undoubtedly,” replied both the other gentlemen, seriously, + “without question it would have been a very good thing. Mr. Burt + must have left a very large property.” + </p> + <p> + “He made every cent tell,” said Mr. Sutler, taking the reins + and stepping into his carriage. + </p> + <p> + “Rather—rather—a screw, perhaps?” inquired Mr. + Grabeau, gravely, as he took out his whip. + </p> + <p> + “Awful!” replied Mr. Kingo, as he drove away. + </p> + <p> + The last carriage went, and the stately old mansion stood behind its trees + deserted. The casket and its contents had been borne away forever; but + somebody had opened all the windows of the house, and June, with its song, + and perfume, and sunshine, overflowed the silent chambers, and banished + the smell of the varnish and every thought of death. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0048" id="link2HCH0048"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLVIII. — THE HEIRESS. + </h2> + <p> + The next morning it was hard to believe in the spectacle of the preceding + day. The house of Pinewood was pleasantly open to the sun and air. Hope + Wayne, in a black dress of the lightest possible texture, so thin that her + arms could be seen through the sleeves, sat by a window. Lawrence Newt sat + beside her. Dr. Peewee was talking with Mrs. Dinks. Her son Alfred was + sitting alone in a chair, looking at his mother, and Mrs. Fanny Newt Dinks + was looking out at a window upon the lawn. Mrs. Simcoe sat near Hope + Wayne. There was a table in the middle of the room, from which every thing + had been removed. The Honorable Budlong Dinks was walking slowly up and + down the room; and several legal-looking gentlemen, friends of his, were + conversing and smiling among themselves. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Dinks stopped in his walk, and, leaning upon the table with the tips + of two fingers and the thumb of his left hand, he thrust the right hand + into his waistcoat, by the side of the ruffle of his shirt, as if he were + about to address the house upon a very weighty question. + </p> + <p> + “In accordance,” said he, with an air of respect and + resignation, “with the wishes of the late Christopher Burt, as + expressed in a paper found in his secretary drawer after his decease, I am + about to open his will.” + </p> + <p> + The Honorable Mr. Dinks cleared his throat. Mrs. Fanny Newt Dinks turned + back from the window, and conversation ceased. All eyes were fixed upon + the speaker, who became more pigeon-breasted every moment. He took out his + glasses and placed them upon his nose, and slowly surveyed the company. He + then drew a sealed paper from his pocket, clearing his throat with great + dignity as he did so: + </p> + <p> + “This is the document,” said he, again glancing about the + room. At this point Hiram stepped gently in, and stood by the door. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Dinks proceeded to break the seal as if it had been sacramental bread, + and with occasional looks at the groups around him, opened the document—shook + it—creased it back—smoothed it—and held it carefully in + the attitude of reading. + </p> + <p> + When the audience had been sufficiently impressed with this ceremony, and + with a proper conviction of the fact that he of all other men had been + selected to reveal the contents of that important paper to mankind, he + began, and read that, being of sound mind and body, etc., etc., + Christopher Burt, etc., etc., as an humble Christian, and loving the old + forms, gave his body to the ground, his soul to his God, in the hope of a + happy resurrection, etc., etc.; and devised and bequeathed his property, + etc., etc., in the manner following, to wit; that is to say: + </p> + <p> + At this point Mr. Dinks paused, and blew his nose with profound gravity. + He proceeded: + </p> + <p> + “<i>First</i>. I give to my housekeeper, Jane Simcoe, the friend of + my darling daughter Mary, and the life-long friend and guardian of my dear + grand-daughter, Hope Wayne, one thousand dollars per annum, as hereinafter + specified.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Simcoe’s face did not change; nobody moved except Alfred Dinks, + who changed the position of his legs, and thought within himself—“By + Jove!” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Second.</i> I give to Almira Dinks, the daughter of my brother + Jonathan Burt, and the wife of Budlong Dinks, of Boston, the sum of five + thousand dollars.” + </p> + <p> + The voice of Mr. Dinks faltered. His wife half rose and sat down again—her + face of a dark mahogany color. Fanny Newt sat perfectly still and looked + narrowly at her father-in-law, with an expression which was very black and + dangerous. Alfred had an air of troubled consternation, as if something + fearful were about to happen. The whole company were disturbed. They + seemed to be in an electrical condition of apprehension, like the air + before a thunder-burst. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Dinks continued: + </p> + <p> + “<i>Third</i>. I give to Alfred Dinks, my grand-nephew, my silver + shoe-buckles, which belonged to his great-grandfather Burt.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Fourth.</i> And all the other estate, real and personal, of + which I may die seized, I give, devise, and bequeath to Budlong Dinks, + Timothy Kingo, and Selah Sutler, in trust, nevertheless, and for the sole + use, behoof, and benefit of my dearly-beloved grand-daughter, Hope Wayne.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Dinks stopped. There were some papers annexed, containing directions + for collecting the annuity to be paid to Mrs. Simcoe, and a schedule of + the property. The Honorable B. Dinks looked hastily at the schedule. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Wayne’s property will be at least a million of dollars,” + said he, in a formal voice. + </p> + <p> + There were a few moments of utter silence. Even the legal gentlemen ceased + buzzing; but presently the forefinger of one of them was laid in the palm + of his other hand, and as he stated his proposition to his neighbor, a + light conversation began again. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Fanny Dinks Newt seemed to have been smitten. She sat crushed up, as + it were, biting her nails nervously; her brow wrinkled incredulously, and + glaring at her father-in-law, as he folded the paper. Her face grew + altogether as black as her hair and her eyes; as if she might discharge a + frightful flash and burst of tempest if she were touched or spoken to, or + even looked at. + </p> + <p> + But Mrs. Dinks the elder did look at her, not at all with an air of sullen + triumph, but, on the contrary, with a singularly inquisitive glance of + apprehension and alarm, as if she felt that the petty trial of wits + between them was insignificant compared with the chances of Alfred’s + happiness. In one moment it flashed upon her mind that the consequences of + this will to her Alfred—to her son whom she loved—would be + overwhelming. Good Heavens! she turned pale as she thought of him and + Fanny together. + </p> + <p> + The young man had merely muttered “By Jove, that’s too d—— + bad!” and flung himself out of the room. + </p> + <p> + His wife did not observe that her mother-in-law was regarding her; she did + not see that her husband had left the room; she thought of no contest of + wits, of no game she had won or lost. She thought only of the tragical + mistake she had made—the dull, blundering crime she had committed; + and still bowed over, and gnawing her nails, she looked sideways with her + hard, round, black eyes, at Hope Wayne. + </p> + <p> + The heiress sat quietly by the side of her friend Lawrence Newt. She was + holding the hand of Mrs. Simcoe, who glanced sometimes at Lawrence, + calmly, and with no sign of regretful or revengeful remembrance. The + Honorable Budlong Dinks was walking up and down the room, stroking his + chin with his hand, not without a curiously vague indignation with the + late lamented proprietor of Pinewood. + </p> + <p> + It was a strange spectacle. A room full of living men and women who had + just heard what some of them considered their doom pronounced by a dead + man. They had carried him out of his house, cold, powerless, screwed into + the casket. They had laid him in the ground beneath the village spire, and + yet it was his word that troubled, enraged, disappointed, surprised, and + envenomed them. Beyond their gratitude, reproaches, taunts, or fury, he + lay helpless and dumb—yet the most terrible and inaccessible of + despots. + </p> + <p> + The conversation was cool and indifferent. The legal gentlemen moved about + with a professional and indifferent air, as if they assisted at such an + occasion as medical students at dissections. It was in the way of + business. As Mr. Quiddy, the confidential counsel of the late lamented Mr. + Burt, looked at Mrs. Alfred Dinks, he remarked to Mr. Baze, a younger + member of the bar, anxious to appear well in the eyes of Quiddy, that it + was a pity the friends of deceased parties permitted their disappointments + to overpower them upon these occasions. Saying which, Mr. Quiddy waved his + forefinger in the air, while Mr. Baze, in a deferential manner and tone, + answered, Certainly, because they could not help themselves. There was no + getting round a will drawn as that will was—here a slight bow to Mr. + Quiddy, who had drawn the will, was interpolated—and if people didn’t + like what they got, they had better grin and bear it. Mr. Quiddy further + remarked, with the forefinger still wandering in the air as if restlessly + seeking for some argument to point, that the silver shoe-buckles which had + so long been identified with the quaint costume of Mr. Burt, would be a + very pretty and interesting heir-loom in the family of young Mr. Dinks. + </p> + <p> + Upon which the eminent confidential counsel took snuff, and while he + flirted the powder from his fingers looked at his young friend Baze. + </p> + <p> + Young Mr. Baze said, “Very interesting!” and continued the + attitude of listening for further wisdom from his superior. + </p> + <p> + Lawrence Newt meanwhile had narrowly watched his niece Fanny. Nobody else + cared to approach her; but he went over to her presently. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Fanny.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, Uncle Lawrence.” + </p> + <p> + “Beautiful place, Fanny.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it?” + </p> + <p> + “So peaceful after the city.” + </p> + <p> + “I prefer town.” + </p> + <p> + “Fanny!” + </p> + <p> + “Uncle Lawrence.” + </p> + <p> + “What are you going to do?” + </p> + <p> + She had not looked at him before, but now she raised her eyes to his. She + might as well have closed them. Dropping them, she looked upon the floor + and said nothing. + </p> + <p> + “I’m sorry for you, Fanny.” + </p> + <p> + She looked fierce. There was a snake-like stealthiness in her appearance, + which Alfred’s mother saw across the room and trembled. Then she + raised her eyes again to her uncle’s, and said, with a kind of + hissing sneer, + </p> + <p> + “Indeed, Uncle Lawrence, thank you for nothing. It’s not very + hard for you to be sorry.” + </p> + <p> + Not dismayed, not even surprised by this speech, Lawrence was about to + reply, but she struck in, + </p> + <p> + “No, no; I don’t want to hear it. I’ve been cheated, and + I’ll have my revenge. As for you, my respected uncle, you have + played your cards better.” + </p> + <p> + He was surprised and perplexed. + </p> + <p> + “Why, Fanny, what cards? What do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “I mean that an old fox is a sly fox,” said she, with the + hissing sneer. + </p> + <p> + Lawrence looked at her in amazement. + </p> + <p> + “I mean that sly old foxes who have lined their own nests can afford + to pity a young one who gets a silver shoe-buckle,” hissed Fanny, + with bitter malignity. “If Alfred Dinks were not a hopeless fool, he’d + break the will. Better wills than this have been broken by good lawyers + before now. Probably,” she added suddenly, with a sarcastic smile, + “my dear uncle does not wish to have the will broken?” + </p> + <p> + Lawrence Newt was pondering what possible interest she thought he could + have in the will. + </p> + <p> + “What difference could it make to me in any case, Fanny?” + </p> + <p> + “Only the difference of a million of dollars,” said she, with + her teeth set. + </p> + <p> + Gradually her meaning dawned upon Lawrence Newt. With a mingled pain, and + contempt, and surprise, and a half-startled apprehension that others might + have thought the same thing, and that all kinds of disagreeable + consequences might flow from such misapprehension, he perceived what she + was thinking of, and said, so suddenly and sharply that even Fanny + started, + </p> + <p> + “You think I want to marry Hope Wayne?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course I do. So does every body else. Do you suppose we have not + known of your intimacies? Do you think we have heard nothing of your + meetings all winter with that artist and Amy Waring, and your reading + poetry, and your talking poetry?” said Fanny, with infinite + contempt. + </p> + <p> + There was a look of singular perplexity upon the face of Lawrence Newt. He + was a man not often surprised, but he seemed to be surprised and even + troubled now. He looked musingly across the room to Hope Wayne, who was + sitting engaged in earnest conversation with Mrs. Simcoe. In her whole + bearing and aspect there was that purity and kindliness which are always + associated with blue eyes and golden hair, and which made the painters + paint the angels as fair women. A lambent light played all over her form, + and to Lawrence Newt’s eyes she had never seemed so beautiful. The + girlish quiet which he had first known in her had melted into a sweet + composure—a dignified serenity which comes only with experience. The + light wind that blew in at the window by which she sat raised her hair + gently, as if invisible fingers were touching her with airy benedictions. + Was it so strange that such a woman should be loved? Was it not strange + that any man should see much of her, be a great deal with her, and not + love her? Was Fanny’s suspicion, was the world’s gossip, + unnatural? + </p> + <p> + He asked himself these questions as he looked at her, while a cloud of + thoughts and memories floated through his mind. + </p> + <p> + Yet a close observer, who could read men’s hearts in their faces—and + that could be more easily done with every one else than with him—would + have seen another expression gradually supplanting the first, or mingling + with it rather: a look as of joy at some unexpected discovery—as if, + for instance, he had said to himself, “She must be very dear whom I + love so deeply that it has not occurred to me I could love this angel!” + </p> + <p> + Something of that kind, perhaps; at least, something that brought a + transfigured cheerfulness into his face. + </p> + <p> + “Believe me, Fanny,” he said, at length, “I am not + anxious to marry Miss Wayne; nor would she marry me if I asked her.” + </p> + <p> + Then he rose and passed across the room to her side. + </p> + <p> + “We were talking about the future life of the mistress of this + mansion,” said Hope Wayne to Lawrence as he joined them. + </p> + <p> + “What does she wish?” asked he; “that is always the + first question.” + </p> + <p> + “To go from here,” said she, simply. + </p> + <p> + “Forever?” + </p> + <p> + “Forever!” + </p> + <p> + Hope Wayne said it quietly. Mrs. Simcoe sat holding her hand. The three + seemed to be all a little serious at the word. + </p> + <p> + “Aunty says she has no particular desire to remain here,” said + Hope. + </p> + <p> + “It is like living in a tomb,” said Mrs. Simcoe, turning her + calm face to Lawrence Newt. + </p> + <p> + “Would you sell it outright?” asked he. Hope Wayne bent her + head in assent. + </p> + <p> + “Why not? My own remembrances here are only gloomy. I should rather + find or make another home. We could do it, aunty and I.” + </p> + <p> + She said it simply. Lawrence shook his head smilingly, and replied, + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think it would be hard.” + </p> + <p> + “I am going to see my trustees this morning, Uncle Dinks says,” + continued Hope, “and I shall propose to them to sell immediately.” + </p> + <p> + “Where will you go?” asked Lawrence. + </p> + <p> + “My best friends are in New York,” replied she, with a tender + color. + </p> + <p> + Lawrence Newt thought of Arthur Merlin. + </p> + <p> + “With my aunty,” continued she, looking fondly at Mrs. Simcoe, + “I think I need not be afraid.” + </p> + <p> + Lunch was brought in; and meanwhile Mr. Kingo and Mr. Sutler had been sent + for, and arrived. Mr. Burt had not apprised them of his intention of + making them trustees. + </p> + <p> + They fell into conversation with Mr. Quiddy, and Mr. Baze, and Mr. Dinks. + Dr. Peewee took his leave, “H’m ha! yes. My dear Miss Wayne, I + congratulate you; congratulate you! h’m ha, yes, oh yes—congratulate + you.” The other legal gentlemen, friends of Mr. Dinks, drove off. + Nobody was left behind but the trustees and the family and Lawrence Newt—the + Dinks were of the family. + </p> + <p> + After business had been discussed, and the heiress—the owner of + Pinewood—had announced her wishes in regard to that property, she + also invited the company to remain to dinner, and to divert themselves as + they chose meanwhile. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Fanny Newt Dinks declined to stay. She asked her husband to call + their carriage, and when it came to the door she made a formal courtesy, + and did not observe—at least she did not take—the offered hand + of Hope Wayne. But as she bowed and looked at Hope that young lady visibly + changed color, for in the glance which Fanny gave her she seemed to see + the face of her brother Abel; and she was not glad to see it. + </p> + <p> + Toward sunset of that soft June day, when Uncle and Aunt Dinks—the + latter humiliated and alarmed—were gone, and the honest neighbors + were gone, Hope Wayne was sitting upon the very bench where, as she once + sat reading, Abel Newt had thrown a shadow upon her book. But not even the + memory of that hour or that youth now threw a shadow upon her heart or + life. The eyes with which she watched the setting sun were as free from + sorrow as they were from guile. + </p> + <p> + Lawrence Newt was standing near the window in the library, looking up at + the portrait that hung there, and deep into the soft, dark eyes. He had a + trustful, candid air, as if he were seeking from it a benediction or + consolation. As the long sunset light swept across the room, and touched + tenderly the tender girl’s face of the portrait, it seemed to him to + smile tranquilly and trustingly, as if it understood and answered his + confidence, and a deep peace fell upon his heart. + </p> + <p> + And high above, from her window that looked westward—with a clearer, + softer gaze, as if Time had cleared and softened the doubts and + obscurities of life—Mrs. Simcoe’s face was turned to the + setting sun. + </p> + <p> + Behind the distant dark-blue hills the June sun set—set upon three + hearts, at least, that Time and Life had taught and tempered—upon + three hearts that were brought together then and there, not altogether + understanding each other, but ready and willing to understand. As it + darkened within the library and the picture was hidden, Lawrence Newt + stood at the window and looked upon the lawn where Hope was sitting. He + heard a murmuring voice above him, and in the clear, silent air Hope heard + it too. It was only a murmur mingling with the whisper of the pine-trees. + But Hope knew what it was, though she could not hear the words. And yet + the words were heard: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“I hold Thee with a trembling hand, + And will not let Thee go; +Till steadfastly by faith I stand, + And all Thy goodness know.” + </pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0049" id="link2HCH0049"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLIX. — A SELECT PARTY. + </h2> + <p> + On a pleasant evening in the same month of June Mr. Abel Newt entertained + a few friends at supper. The same June air, with less fragrance, perhaps, + blew in at the open windows, which looked outside upon nothing but the + street and the house walls opposite, but inside upon luxury and ease. + </p> + <p> + It mattered little what was outside, for heavy muslin curtains hung over + the windows; and the light, the beauty, the revelry, were all within. + </p> + <p> + The boyish look was entirely gone now from the face of the lord of the + feast. It was even a little sallow in hue and satiated in expression. + There was occasionally that hard, black look in his eyes which those who + had seen his sister Fanny intimately had often remarked in her—a + look with which Alfred Dinks, for instance, was familiar. But the + companions of his revels were not shrewd of vision. It was not Herbert + Octoyne, nor Corlaer Van Boozenberg, nor Bowdoin Beacon, nor Sligo + Moultrie, nor any other of his set, who especially remarked his + expression; it was, oddly enough, Miss Grace Plumer, of New Orleans. + </p> + <p> + She sat there in the pretty, luxurious rooms, prettier and more luxurious + than they. For, at the special solicitation of Mr. Abel Newt, Mrs. Plumer + had consented to accept an invitation to a little supper at his rooms—very + small and very select; Mrs. Newt, of course, to be present. + </p> + <p> + The Plumers arrived, and Laura Magot; but a note from mamma excused her + absence—papa somewhat indisposed, and so forth; and Mr. Abel himself + so sorry—but Mrs. Plumer knows what these husbands are! Meanwhile + the ladies have thrown off their shawls. + </p> + <p> + The dinner is exquisite, and exquisitely served. Prince Abel, with royal + grace, presides. By every lady’s plate a pretty bouquet; the + handsomest of all not by Miss, but by Mrs. Plumer. Flowers are every + where. It is Grand Street, indeed, in the city; but the garden at + Pinewood, perhaps, does not smell more sweetly. + </p> + <p> + “There is, indeed, no perfume of the clover, which is the very + breath of our Northern June, Mrs. Plumer; but clover does not grow in the + city, Miss Grace.” + </p> + <p> + Prince Abel begins the little speech to the mother, but his voice and face + turn toward the daughter as it ends. + </p> + <p> + Flowers are in glasses upon the mantle, and in vases of many-colored + materials and of various shapes upon tables about the room. The last new + books, in English editions often, and a few solid classics, are in sight. + Pictures also. + </p> + <p> + “What a lovely Madonna!” says Miss Plumer, as she raises her + eyes to a beautiful and costly engraving that hangs opposite upon the + wall; which, indeed, was intended to be observed by her. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. It is the Sistine, you know,” says the Prince, as he + sees that the waiter pours wine for Mrs. Plumer. + </p> + <p> + The Prince forgets to mention that it is not the engraving which usually + hangs there. Usually it is a pretty-colored French print representing + “Lucille,” a young woman who has apparently very recently + issued from the bath. Indeed there is a very choice collection of French + prints which the young men sometimes study over their cigars, but which + are this evening in the port-folio, which is not in sight. + </p> + <p> + The waiters move very softly. The wants of the guests are revealed to them + by being supplied. Quiet, elegance, luxury prevail. + </p> + <p> + “Really, Mr. Newt”—it is Mrs. Plumer, of New Orleans, + who speaks—“you have created Paris in Grand Street!” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! madame, it is you who graciously bring Versailles and the + Tuileries with you!” + </p> + <p> + He speaks to the mother; he looks, as he ends, again at the daughter. + </p> + <p> + The daughter for the first time is in the sanctuary of a bachelor—of + a young man about town. It is a character which always interests her—which + half fascinates her. Miss Plumer, of New Orleans, has read more French + literature of the lighter sort—novels and romances, for instance—than + most of the young women whom Abel Newt meets in society. Her eyes are very + shrewd, and she is looking every where to see if she shall not light upon + some token of bachelor habits—something that shall reveal the man + who occupies those pretty rooms. + </p> + <p> + Every where her bright eyes fall softly, but every where upon quiet, + elegance, and luxury. There is the Madonna; but there are also the last + winner at the Newmarket, the profile of Mr. Bulwer, and a French + landscape. The books are good, but not too good. There is an air of candor + and honesty in the room, united with the luxury and elegance, that greatly + pleased Miss Grace Plumer. The apartment leads naturally up to that + handsome, graceful, dark-haired, dark-eyed gentleman whose eye is + following hers, while she does not know it; but whose mind has preceded + hers in the very journey around the room it has now taken. + </p> + <p> + Sligo Moultrie sits beyond Miss Plumer, who is at the left of Mr. Newt. + Upon his right sits Mrs. Plumer. The friendly relations of Abel and Sligo + have not been disturbed. They seem, indeed, of late to have become even + strengthened. At least the young men meet oftener; not infrequently in + Mrs. Plumer’s parlor. Somehow they are aware of each other’s + movements; somehow, if one calls upon the Plumers, or drives with them, or + walks with them alone, the other knows it. And they talk together freely + of all people in the world, except the Plumers of New Orleans. In Abel’s + room of an evening, at a late hour, when a party of youth are smoking, + there are many allusions to the pretty Plumer—to which it happens + that Newt and Moultrie make only a general reply. + </p> + <p> + As the dinner proceeds from delicate course to course, and the wines of + varying hue sparkle and flow, so the conversation purls along—a + gentle, continuous stream. Good things are said, and there is that kind of + happy appreciation which makes the generally silent speak and the clever + more witty. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Godefroi Plumer has traveled much, and enjoys the world. She is a + Creole, with the Tropics in her hair and complexion, and Spain in her + eyes. She wears a Parisian headdress, a brocade upon her ample person, and + diamonds around her complacent neck and arms. Diamonds also flash in the + fan which she sways gently, admiring Prince Abel. Diamonds—huge + solitaires—glitter likewise in the ears of Miss Grace. She wears + also a remarkable bracelet of the same precious stones; for the rest, her + dress is a cloud of Mechlin lace. She has quick, dark eyes, and an olive + skin. Her hands and feet are small. She has filbert nails and an arched + instep. Prince Abel, who hangs upon his wall the portrait of the last + Newmarket victor, has not omitted to observe these details. He thinks how + they would grace a larger house, a more splendid table. + </p> + <p> + Sligo Moultrie remembers a spacious country mansion, surrounded by a + silent plantation, somewhat fallen from its state, whom such a mistress + would superbly restore. He looks a man too refined to wed for money, + perhaps too indolently luxurious to love without it. + </p> + <p> + Half hidden under the muslin drapery by the window hangs a cage with a + canary. The bird sits silent; but as the feast proceeds he pours a shrill + strain into the murmur of the guests. For the noise of the golden-breasted + bird Sligo Moultrie can not hear something that is said to him by the ripe + mouth between the solitaires. He asks pardon, and it is repeated. + </p> + <p> + Then, still smiling and looking toward the window, he says, and, as he + says it, his eyes—at which he knows his companion is looking—wander + over the room, + </p> + <p> + “A very pretty cage!” + </p> + <p> + The eyes drop upon hers as they finish the circuit of the room. They say + no more than the lips have said. And Miss Grace Plumer answers, + </p> + <p> + “I thought you were going to say a very noisy bird.” + </p> + <p> + “But the bird is not very noisy,” says the young man, his dark + eyes still holding hers. + </p> + <p> + There is a moment of silence, during which Miss Plumer may have her fancy + of what he means. If so, she does not choose to betray it. If her eyes are + clear and shrewd, the woman’s wit is not less so. It is with an air + of the utmost simplicity that she replies, + </p> + <p> + “It was certainly noisy enough to drown what I was saying.” + </p> + <p> + There is a sound upon her other side as if a musical bell rang. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Plumer!” + </p> + <p> + Her head turns. This time Mr. Sligo Moultrie sees the massive dark braids + of her hair behind. The ripe mouth half smiles upon Prince Abel. + </p> + <p> + He holds a porcelain plate with a peach upon it, and a silver fruit-knife + in his hand. She smiles, as if the music had melted into a look. Then she + hears it again: + </p> + <p> + “Here is the sunniest side of the sunniest peach for Miss Plumer.” + </p> + <p> + Sligo Moultrie can not help hearing, for the tone is not low. But, while + he is expecting to catch the reply, Miss Magot, who sits beyond him, + speaks to him. The Prince Abel, who sees many things, sees this; and, in a + tone which is very low, Miss Plumer hears, and nobody else in the room + hears: + </p> + <p> + “May life always be that side of a sweet fruit to her!” + </p> + <p> + It is the tone and not the words which are eloquent. + </p> + <p> + The next instant Sligo Moultrie, who has answered Miss Magot’s + question, hears Miss Plumer say: + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, with all my heart.” + </p> + <p> + It seems to him a warm acknowledgment for a piece of fruit. + </p> + <p> + “I did not speak of the bird; I spoke of the cage,” are the + words that Miss Plumer next hears, and from the other side. + </p> + <p> + She turns to Sligo Moultrie and says, with eyes that expect a reply, + </p> + <p> + “Yes, you are right; it is a very pretty cage.” + </p> + <p> + “Even a cage may be a home, I suppose.” + </p> + <p> + “Ask the canary.” + </p> + <p> + “And so turned to the basest uses,” says Mr. Moultrie, as if + thinking aloud. + </p> + <p> + He is roused by a little ringing laugh: + </p> + <p> + “A pleasant idea of home you suggest, Mr. Moultrie.” + </p> + <p> + He smiles also. + </p> + <p> + “I do not wonder you laugh at me; but I mean sense, for all that,” + he says. + </p> + <p> + “You usually do,” she says, sincerely, and eyes and solitaires + glitter together. + </p> + <p> + Sligo Moultrie is happy—for one moment. The next he hears the + musical bell of that other voice again. Miss Plumer turns in the very + middle of a word which she has begun to address to him. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Grace?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, Mr. Newt.” + </p> + <p> + “You observe the engraving of the Madonna?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “You see the two cherubs below looking up?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “You see the serene sweetness of their faces?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you know what it is?” + </p> + <p> + Grace Plumer looks as if curiously speculating. Sligo Moultrie can not + help hearing every word, although he pares a peach and offers it to Miss + Magot. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Grace, do you remember what I said once of honest admiration—that + if it were eloquent it would be irresistible?” + </p> + <p> + Grace Plumer bows an assent. + </p> + <p> + “But that its mere consciousness—a sort of silent eloquence—is + pure happiness to him who feels it?” + </p> + <p> + She thinks she remembers that too, although the Prince apparently forgets + that he never said it to her before. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Miss Plumer, it seems to me the serene sweetness of that + picture is the expression of the perfect happiness of entire admiration—that + is to say, of love; whoever loves is like those cherubs—perfectly + happy.” + </p> + <p> + He looks attentively at the picture, as if he had forgotten his own + existence in the happiness of the cherubs. Grace Plumer glances at him for + a few moments with a peculiar expression. It is full of admiration, but it + is not the look with which she would say, as she just now said to Sligo + Moultrie, “You always speak sincerely.” + </p> + <p> + She is still looking at the Prince, when Mr. Moultrie begins again: + </p> + <p> + “I ought to be allowed to explain that I only meant that as a cage + is a home, so it is often used as a snare. Do you know, Miss Grace, that + the prettiest birds are often put into the prettiest cages to entice other + birds? By-the-by, how lovely Laura Magot is this evening!” + </p> + <p> + He cuts a small piece of the peach with his silver knife and puts it into + his mouth, + </p> + <p> + “Peaches are luxuries in June,” he says, quietly. + </p> + <p> + This time it is at Sligo Moultrie that Miss Grace Plumer looks fixedly. + </p> + <p> + “What kind of birds, Mr. Moultrie?” she says, at length. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Grace, do you know the story of the old Prince of Este?” + answers he, as he lays a bunch of grapes upon her plate. She pulls one + carelessly and lets it drop again. He takes it and puts it in his mouth. + </p> + <p> + “No; what is the story?” + </p> + <p> + “There was an old Prince of Este who had a beautiful villa and a + beautiful sister, and nothing else in the world but a fiery eye and an + eloquent tongue.” + </p> + <p> + Sligo Moultrie flushes a little, and drinks a glass of wine. Grace Plumer + is a little paler, and more serious. Prince Abel plies Madame Plumer with + fruit and compliments, and hears every word. + </p> + <p> + “Well.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, Miss Grace, she was so beautiful that many a lady became her + friend, and many of those friends sighed for the brother’s fiery + eyes and blushed as they heard his honeyed tongue. But he was looking for + a queen. At length came the Princess of Sheba—” + </p> + <p> + “Are you talking of King Solomon?” + </p> + <p> + “No, Miss Plumer, only of Alcibiades. And when the Princess of Sheba + came near the villa the Prince of Este entreated her to visit him, + promising that the sister should be there. It was a pretty cage, I think; + the sister was a lovely bird. And the Princess came.” + </p> + <p> + He stops and drinks more wine. + </p> + <p> + “Very well! And then?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, then, she had a very pleasant visit,” he says, gayly. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Moultrie, is that the whole of the story?” + </p> + <p> + “No, indeed, Miss Plumer; but that is as far as we have got.” + </p> + <p> + “I want to hear the rest.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t be in such a hurry; you won’t like the rest so + well.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; but that is my risk.” + </p> + <p> + “It <i>is</i> your risk,” says Sligo Moultrie, looking at her; + “will you take it?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course I will,” is the clear-eyed answer. + </p> + <p> + “Very well. The Princess came; but she did not go away.” + </p> + <p> + “How curious! Did she die of a peach-stone at the banquet?” + </p> + <p> + “Not at all. She became Princess of Este instead of Sheba.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh-h-h,” says Grace Plumer, in a long-drawn exclamation. + “And then?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, Miss Grace, how insatiable you are!—then I came away.” + </p> + <p> + “You did? I wouldn’t have come away.” + </p> + <p> + “No, Miss Grace, you didn’t.” + </p> + <p> + “How—I didn’t? What does that mean, Mr. Moultrie?” + </p> + <p> + “I mean the Princess remained.” + </p> + <p> + “So you said. Is that all?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Well.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! the rest is nothing. I mean nothing new.” + </p> + <p> + “Let me hear the old story, then, Mr. Moultrie.” + </p> + <p> + “The rest is merely that the Princess found that the fiery eyes + burned her and the eloquent tongue stung her, and truly that is the whole. + Isn’t it a pretty story? The moral is that cages are sometimes + traps.” + </p> + <p> + Sligo Moultrie becomes suddenly extremely attentive to Miss Magot. Grace + Plumer ponders many things, and among others wonders how, when, where, + Sligo Moultrie learned to talk in parables. She does not ask herself <i>why</i> + he does so. She is a woman, and she knows why. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0050" id="link2HCH0050"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER L. — WINE AND TRUTH. + </h2> + <p> + The conversation takes a fresh turn. Corlaer Van Boozenberg is talking of + the great heiress, Miss Wayne. He has drunk wine enough to be bold, and + calls out aloud from his end of the table, + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Abel Newt!” + </p> + <p> + That gentleman turns his head toward his guest. + </p> + <p> + “We are wondering down here how it is that Miss Wayne went away from + New York unengaged.” + </p> + <p> + “I am not her confidant,” Abel answers; and gallantly adds, + “I am sure, like every other man, I should be glad to be so.” + </p> + <p> + “But you had the advantage of every body else.” + </p> + <p> + “How so?” asks Abel, conscious that Grace Plumer is watching + him closely. + </p> + <p> + “Why, you were at school in Delafield until you were no chicken.” + </p> + <p> + Abel bows smilingly. + </p> + <p> + “You must have known her.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, a little.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, didn’t you know what a stunning heiress she was, and so + handsome! How’d you, of all men in the world, let her slip through + your fingers?” + </p> + <p> + A curious silence follows this effusion. Corlaer Van Boozenberg is + slightly flown with wine. Hal Battlebury, who sits near him, looks + troubled. Herbert Octoyne and Mellish Whitloe exchange meaning glances. + The young ladies—Mrs. Plumer is the only matron, except Mrs. Dagon, + who sits below—smile pleasantly. Sligo Moultrie eats grapes. Grace + Plumer waits to hear what Abel says, or to observe what he does. Mrs. + Dagon regards the whole affair with an approving smile, nodding almost + imperceptibly a kind of Freemason’s sign to Mrs. Plumer, who thinks + that the worthy young Van Boozenberg has probably taken too much wine. + </p> + <p> + Abel Newt quietly turns to Grace Plumer, saying, + </p> + <p> + “Poor Corlaer! There are disadvantages in being the son of a very + rich man; one is so strongly inclined to measure every thing by money.. As + if money were all!” + </p> + <p> + He looks her straight in the eyes as he says it. Perhaps it is some effort + he is making which throws into his look that cold, hard blackness which is + not beautiful. Perhaps it is some kind of exasperation arising from what + he has heard Moultrie say privately and Van Boozenberg publicly, as it + were, that pushes him further than he means to go. There is a dangerous + look of craft; an air of sarcastic cunning in his eyes and on his face. He + turns the current of talk with his neighbors, without any other indication + of disturbance than the unpleasant look. Van Boozenberg is silent again. + The gentle, rippling murmur of talk fills the room, and at a moment when + Moultrie is speaking with his neighbor, Abel says, looking at the + engraving of the Madonna, + </p> + <p> + “Miss Grace, I feel like those cherubs.” + </p> + <p> + “Why so, Mr. Newt?” + </p> + <p> + “Because I am perfectly happy.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Miss Grace, and for the same reason that I entirely love and + admire.” + </p> + <p> + Her heart beats violently. Sligo Moultrie turns and sees her face. He + divines every thing in a moment, for he loves Grace Plumer. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Miss Grace,” he says, in a quick, thick tone, as if he + were continuing a narration—“yes, she became Princess of Este; + but the fiery eyes burned her, and the sweet tongue stung her forever and + ever.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Plumer and Mrs. Dagon are rising. There is a rustling tumult of women’s + dresses, a shaking out of handkerchiefs, light gusts of laughter, and + fragments of conversation. The handsome women move about like birds, with + a plumy, elastic motion, waving their fans, smelling their bouquets, and + listening through them to tones that are very low. The Prince of the house + is every where, smiling, sinuous, dark in the eyes and hair. + </p> + <p> + It is already late, and there is no disposition to be seated. Sligo + Moultrie stands by Grace Plumer, and she is very glad and even grateful to + him. Abel, passing to and fro, looks at her occasionally, and can not + possibly tell if her confusion is pain or pleasure. There is a reckless + gayety in the tone with which he speaks to the other ladies. “Surely + Mr. Newt was never so fascinating,” they all think in their secret + souls; and they half envy Grace Plumer, for they know the little supper is + given for her, and they think it needs no sibyl to say why, or to prophesy + the future. + </p> + <p> + It is nearly midnight, and the moon is rising. Hark! + </p> + <p> + A band pours upon the silent night the mellow, passionate wail of “Robin + Adair.” The bright company stands listening and silent. The festive + scene, the hour, the flowers, the luxury of the place, the beauty of the + women, impress the imagination, and touch the music with a softer + melancholy. Hal Battlebury’s eyes are clear, but his heart is full + of tears as he listens and thinks of Amy Waring. He knows that all is in + vain. She has told him, with a sweet dignity that made her only lovelier + and more inaccessible, that it can not be. He is trying to believe it. He + is hoping to show her one day that she is wrong. Listening, he follows in + his mind the song the band is playing. + </p> + <p> + Sligo Moultrie feels and admires the audacious skill of Abel in crowning + the feast with music. Grace Plumer leans upon his arm. Abel Newt’s + glittering eyes are upon them. It is the very moment he had intended to be + standing by her side, to hold her arm in his, and to make her feel that + the music which pealed in long cadences through the midnight, and streamed + through the draped windows into the room, was the passionate entreaty of + his heart, the irresistible pathos of the love he bore her. + </p> + <p> + Somehow Grace Plumer is troubled. She fears the fascination she enjoys. + She dreads the assumption of power over her which she has observed in + Abel. She recoils from the cold blackness she has seen in his eyes. She + sees it at this moment again, in that glittering glance which slips across + the room and holds her as she stands. Involuntarily she leans upon Sligo + Moultrie, as if clinging to him. + </p> + <p> + There is more music?—a lighter, then a sadder and lingering strain. + It recedes slowly, slowly up the street. The company stand in the pretty + parlor, and not a word is spoken. It is past midnight; the music is over. + </p> + <p> + “What a charming party! Mr. Newt, how much we are obliged to you!” + says Mrs. Godefroi Plumer, as Abel hands her into the carriage. + </p> + <p> + “The pleasure is all mine, Madame,” replies Mr. Newt, as he + sees with bitterness that Sligo Moultrie stands ready to offer his hand to + assist Miss Plumer. The footman holds the carriage door open. Miss Plumer + can accept the assistance of but one, and Mr. Abel is resolved to know + which one. + </p> + <p> + “Permit me, Miss Plumer,” says Sligo. + </p> + <p> + “Allow me, Miss Grace,” says Abel. + </p> + <p> + The latter address sounds to her a little too free. She feels, perhaps, + that he has no rights of intimacy—at least not yet—or what + does she feel? But she gives her hand to Sligo Moultrie, and Abel bows. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you for a delightful evening, Mr. Newt. Good-night!” + </p> + <p> + The host bows again, bareheaded, in the moonlight. + </p> + <p> + “By-the-by, Mr. Moultrie,” says the ringing voice of the + clear-eyed girl, who remembers that Abel is listening, but who is sure + that only Sligo can understand, “I ought to have told you that the + story ended differently. The Princess left the villa. Good-night! + good-night!” + </p> + <p> + The carriage rattles down the street. + </p> + <p> + “Good-night, Newt; a very beautiful and pleasant party.” + </p> + <p> + “Good-night, Moultrie—thank you; and pleasant dreams.” + </p> + <p> + The young Georgian skips up the street, thinking only of Grace Plumer’s + last words. Abel Newt stands at his door for a moment, remembering them + also, and perfectly understanding them. The next instant he is shawling + and cloaking the other ladies, who follow the Plumers; among them Mrs. + Dagon, who says, softly, + </p> + <p> + “Good-night, Abel. I like it all very well. A very proper girl! Such + a complexion! and such teeth! Such lovely little hands, too! It’s + all very right. Go on, my dear. What a dreadful piece of work Fanny’s + made of it! I wonder you don’t like Hope Wayne. Think of it, a + million of dollars! However, it’s all one, I suppose—Grace or + Hope are equally pleasant. Good-night, naughty boy! Behave yourself. As + for your father, I’m afraid to go to the house lest he should bite + me. He’s dangerous. Good-night, dear!” + </p> + <p> + Yes, Abel remembers with singular distinctness that it was a word, only + one word, just a year ago to Grace Plumer—a word intended only to + deceive that foolish Fanny—which had cost him—at least, he + thinks so—Hope Wayne. + </p> + <p> + He bows his last guests out at the door with more sweetness in his face + than in his soul. Returning to the room he looks round upon the ruins of + the feast, and drinks copiously of the wine that still remains. Not at all + inclined to sleep, he goes into his bedroom and finds a cigar. Returning, + he makes a few turns in the room while he smokes, and stops constantly to + drink another glass. He half mutters to himself, as he addresses the chair + in which Grace Plumer has been sitting, + </p> + <p> + “Are you or I going to pay for this feast, Madame? Somebody has got + to do it. Young woman, Moultrie was right, and you are wrong. She <i>did</i> + become Princess of Este. I’ll pay now, and you’ll pay + by-and-by. Yes, my dear Grace, you’ll pay by-and-by.” + </p> + <p> + He says these last words very slowly, with his teeth set, the head a + little crouched between the shoulders, and a stealthy, sullen, ugly glare + in the eyes. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve got to pay now, and you shall pay by-and-by. Yes, Miss + Grace Plumer; you shall pay for to-night and for the evening in my mother’s + conservatory.” + </p> + <p> + He strides about the room a little longer. It is one o’clock, and he + goes down stairs and out of the house. Still smoking, he passes along + Broadway until he reaches Thiel’s. He hurries up, and finds only a + few desperate gamblers. Abel himself looks a little wild and flushed. He + sits down defiantly and plays recklessly. The hours are clanged from the + belfry of the City Hall. The lights burn brightly in Thiel’s rooms. + Nobody is sleeping there. One by one the players drop away—except + those who remark Abel’s game, for that is so careless and furious + that it is threatening, threatening, whether he loses or wins. + </p> + <p> + He loses constantly, but still plays on. The lights are steady. His eyes + are bright. The bank is quite ready to stay open for such a run of luck in + its favor. + </p> + <p> + The bell of the City Hall clangs three in the morning as a young man + emerges from Thiel’s, and hurries, then saunters, up Broadway. His + motions are fitful, his dress is deranged, and his hair matted. His face, + in the full moonlight, is dogged and dangerous. It is the Prince of the + feast, who had told Grace Plumer that he was perfectly happy. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0051" id="link2HCH0051"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LI. — A WARNING. + </h2> + <p> + A few evenings afterward, when Abel called to know how the ladies had + borne the fatigues of the feast, Mrs. Plumer said, with smiles, that it + was a kind of fatigue ladies bore without flinching. Miss Grace, who was + sitting upon a sofa by the side of Sligo Moultrie, said that it was one of + the feasts at which young women especially are supposed to be perfectly + happy. She emphasized the last words, and her bright black eyes opened + wide upon Mr. Abel Newt, who could not tell if he saw mischievous malice + or a secret triumph and sense release in them. + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” said he, gayly, “it would be too much for me hope + to make any ladies, and especially young ladies, perfectly happy.” + </p> + <p> + And he returned Miss Plumer’s look with a keen glance masked in + merriment. + </p> + <p> + Sligo Moultrie wagged his foot. + </p> + <p> + “There now is conscious power!” said Abel, with a laugh, as he + pointed at Miss Plumer’s companion. + </p> + <p> + They all laughed, but not very heartily. There appeared to be some meaning + lurking in whatever was said; and like all half-concealed meanings, it + seemed, perhaps, even more significant than it really was. + </p> + <p> + Abel was very brilliant, and told more and better stories than usual. Mrs. + Plumer listened and laughed, and declared that he was certainly the best + company she had met for a long time. Nor were Miss Plumer and Mr. Moultrie + reluctant to join the conversation. In fact, Abel was several times + surprised by the uncommon spirit of Sligo’s replies. + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” said Abel to himself, with a flash of the black + eyes that was startling. + </p> + <p> + All the evening he felt particularly belligerent toward Sligo Moultrie; + and yet a close observer would have discovered no occasion in the conduct + of the young man for such a feeling upon Abel’s part. Mr. Moultrie + sat quietly by the side of Grace Plumer—“as if somehow he had + a right to sit there,” thought Abel Newt, who resolved to discover + if indeed he had a right. + </p> + <p> + During that visit, however, he had no chance. Moultrie sat persistently, + and so did Abel. The clock pointed to eleven, and still they did not move. + It was fairly toward midnight when Abel rose to leave, and at the same + moment Sligo Moultrie rose also. Abel bade the ladies good-evening, and + passed out as if Moultrie were close by him. But that young man remained + standing by the sofa upon which Grace Plumer was seated, and said quietly + to Abel, + </p> + <p> + “Good-evening, Newt!” + </p> + <p> + Grace Plumer looked at him also, with the bright black eyes, and blushed. + </p> + <p> + For a moment Abel Newt’s heart seemed to stand still! An expression + of some bitterness must have swept over his face, for Mrs. Plumer stepped + toward him, as he stood with his hand upon the door, and said, + </p> + <p> + “Are you unwell?” + </p> + <p> + The cloud dissolved in a forced smile. + </p> + <p> + “No, thank you; not at all!” and he looked surprised, as if he + could not imagine why any one should think so. + </p> + <p> + He did not wait longer, and the next moment was in the street. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Plumer also left the room almost immediately after his departure. + Sligo Moultrie seated himself by his companion. + </p> + <p> + “My dear Grace, did you see that look?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “He suspects the truth,” returned Sligo Moultrie; and he might + have added more, but that his lips at that instant were otherwise engaged. + </p> + <p> + Abel more than suspected the truth. He was sure of it, and the certainty + made him desperate. He had risked so much upon the game! He had been so + confident! As he half ran along the street he passed many things rapidly + in his mind. He was like a seaman in doubtful waters, and the breeze was + swelling into a gale. + </p> + <p> + Turning out of Broadway he ran quickly to his door, opened it, and leaped + up stairs. + </p> + <p> + To his great surprise his lamp was lighted and a man was sitting reading + quietly at his table. As Abel entered his visitor closed his book and + looked up. + </p> + <p> + “Why, Uncle Lawrence,” said the young man, “you have a + genius for surprises! What on earth are you doing in my room?” + </p> + <p> + His uncle said, only half smiling, + </p> + <p> + “Abel, we are both bachelors, and bachelors have no hours. I want to + talk with you.” + </p> + <p> + Abel looked at his guest uneasily; but he put down his hat and lighted a + cigar; then seated himself, almost defiantly, opposite his uncle, with the + table between them. + </p> + <p> + “Now, Sir; what is it?” + </p> + <p> + Lawrence Newt paused a moment, while the young man still calmly puffed the + smoke from his mouth, and calmly regarded his uncle. + </p> + <p> + “Abel, you are not a fool. You know the inevitable results of + certain courses. I want to fortify your knowledge by my experience. I + understand all the temptations and excitements that carry you along. But I + don’t like your looks, Abel; and I don’t like the looks of + other people when they speak of you and your father. Remember, we are of + the same blood. Heaven knows its own mysteries! Your father and I were + sons of one woman. That is a tie which we can neither of us escape, if we + wanted to. Why should you ruin yourself?” + </p> + <p> + “Did you come to propose any thing for me to do, Sir, or only to + inform me that you considered me a reprobate?” asked Abel, + half-sneeringly, the smoke rising from his mouth. + </p> + <p> + Lawrence Newt did not answer. + </p> + <p> + “I am like other young men,” continued Abel. “I am fond + of living well, of a good horse, of a pretty woman. I drink my glass, and + I am not afraid of a card. Really, Uncle Lawrence, I see no such profound + sin or shame in it all, so long as I honestly pay the scot. Do I cheat at + cards? Do I lie in the gutters?” + </p> + <p> + “No!” answered Lawrence. + </p> + <p> + “Do I steal?” + </p> + <p> + “Not that I know,” said the other. + </p> + <p> + “Please, Uncle Lawrence, what do you mean, then?” + </p> + <p> + “I mean the way, the spirit in which you do things. If you are not + conscious of it, how can I make you? I can not say more than I have. I + came merely—” + </p> + <p> + “As a handwriting upon the wall, Uncle Lawrence?” + </p> + <p> + Lawrence Newt rose and stood a little back from the table. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, if you choose, as a handwriting on the wall. Abel, when the + prodigal son <i>came to himself</i>, he rose and went to his father. I + came to ask you to return to yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “From these husks, Sir?” asked Abel, as he looked around his + luxurious rooms, his eye falling last upon the French print of Lucille, + fresh from the bath. + </p> + <p> + Lawrence Newt looked at his nephew with profound gravity. The young man + lay back in his chair, lightly holding his cigar, and carelessly following + the smoke with his eye. The beauty and intelligence of his face, the + indolent grace of his person, seen in the soft light of the lamp, and set + like a picture in the voluptuous refinement of the room, touched the + imagination and the heart of the older man. There was a look of earnest, + yearning entreaty in his eyes as he said, + </p> + <p> + “Abel, you remember Milton’s Comus?” + </p> + <p> + The young man bowed. + </p> + <p> + “Do you think the revelers were happy?” + </p> + <p> + Abel smiled, but did not answer. But after a few minutes he said, with a + smile, + </p> + <p> + “I was not there.” + </p> + <p> + “You <i>are</i> there,” answered Lawrence Newt, with uplifted + finger, and in a voice so sad and clear that Abel started. + </p> + <p> + The two men looked at each other silently for a few moments. + </p> + <p> + “Good-night, Abel.” + </p> + <p> + “Good-night, Uncle Lawrence.” + </p> + <p> + The door closed behind the older man. Abel sat in his chair, intently + thinking. His uncle’s words rang in his memory. But as he recalled + the tone, the raised finger, the mien, with which they had been spoken, + the young man looked around him, and seemed half startled and frightened + by the stillness, and awe-struck by the midnight hour. He moved his head + rapidly and arose, like a person trying to rouse himself from sleep or + nightmare. Passing the mirror, he involuntarily started at the haggard + paleness of his face under the clustering black hair. He was trying to + shake something off. He went uneasily about the room until he had lighted + a match, and a candle, with which he went into the next room, still + half-looking over his shoulder, as if fearing that something dogged him. + He opened the closet where he kept his wine. He restlessly filled a large + glass and poured it down his throat—not as if he were drinking, but + as if he were taking an antidote. He rubbed his forehead with his hand, + and half-smiled a sickly smile. + </p> + <p> + But still his eyes wandered nervously to the spot in which his uncle had + stood; still he seemed to fear that he should see a ghostly figure + standing there and pointing at him; should see himself, in some phantom + counterpart, sitting in the chair. His eyes opened as if he were listening + intently. For in the midnight he thought he heard, in that dim light he + thought he saw, the Prophet and the King. He did not remember more the + words his uncle had spoken. But he heard only, “Thou art the man! + Thou art the man!” + </p> + <p> + And all night long, as he dreamed or restlessly awoke, he heard the same + words, spoken as if with finger pointed—“Thou art the man! + Thou art the man!” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0052" id="link2HCH0052"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LII. — BREAKERS. + </h2> + <p> + Lawrence Newt had certainly told the truth of his brother’s home. + Mr. Boniface Newt had become so surly that it was not wise to speak to + him. He came home late, and was angry if dinner were not ready, and cross + if it were. He banged all the doors, and swore at all the chairs. After + dinner he told May not to touch the piano, and begged his wife, for Heaven’s + sake, to take up some book, and not to sit with an air of imbecile vacancy + that was enough to drive a man distracted. He snarled at the servants, so + that they went about the house upon tip-toe and fled his presence, and + were constantly going away, causing Mrs. Newt to pass many hours of the + week in an Intelligence Office. Mr. Newt found holes in the carpets, + stains upon the cloths, knocks upon the walls, nicks in the glasses and + plates at table, scratches upon the furniture, and defects and misfortunes + every where. He went to bed without saying good-night, and came down + without a good-morning. He sat at breakfast morose and silent; or he + sighed, and frowned, and muttered, and went out without a smile or a + good-by. There was a profound gloom in the house, an unnatural order. + Nobody dared to derange the papers or books upon the tables, to move the + chairs, or to touch any thing. If May appeared in a new dress he frowned, + and his wife trembled every time she put in a breast-pin. + </p> + <p> + Only in her own room was May mistress of every thing. If any body had + looked into it he would have seen only the traces of a careful and elegant + hand, and often enough he would have seen a delicate girl-face, almost too + thoughtful for so young a face, resting upon the hand, as if May Newt were + troubled and perplexed by the gloom of the house and the silence of the + household. Her window opened over the street, and there were a few + horse-chestnut trees before the house. She made friends with them, and + they covered themselves with blossoms for her pleasure. She sat for hours + at her window, looking into the trees, sewing, reading, musing—solitary + as a fairy princess in a tower. + </p> + <p> + Sometimes flowers came, with Uncle Lawrence’s love. Or fine fruit + for Miss May Newt, with the same message. Several times from her window + May had seen who the messenger was: a young man with candid eyes, with a + quick step, and an open, almost boyish face. When the street was still she + heard him half-singing as he bounded along—as nobody sings, she + thought, whose home is not happy. + </p> + <p> + Solitary as a fairy princess in a tower, she looked down upon the figure + as it rapidly disappeared. The sewing or the reading stopped entirely; nor + were they resumed when he had passed out of sight. May Newt thought it + strange that Uncle Lawrence should send such a messenger in the middle of + the day. He did not look like a porter. He was not an office boy. He was + evidently one of the upper-clerks. It was certainly very kind in Uncle + Lawrence. + </p> + <p> + So thought the solitary Princess in the tower, her mind wandering from the + romance she was reading to a busy speculation upon the reality in the + street beneath her. + </p> + <p> + The blind was thrown partly back as she sat at the open window. A simple + airy dress, made by her own hands, covered her flower-like figure. The + brown hair was smoothed over the white temples, and the sweet girl eyes + looked kindly into the street from which the figure of the young man had + just passed. If by chance the eyes of that young man had been turned + upward, would he not have thought—since one Sunday morning, when he + passed her on the way to church, he was sure that she looked like an angel + going home—would he not have thought that she looked like an angel + bending down toward him out of heaven? + </p> + <p> + It was not strange that Uncle Lawrence had sent him. For somehow Uncle + Lawrence had discovered that if there was any thing to go to May Newt, + there was nothing in the world that Gabriel Bennet was so anxious to do as + to carry it. + </p> + <p> + But while the young man was always so glad to go to Boniface Newt’s + gloomy house—for some reason which he did not explain, and which + even his sister Ellen did not know—or, at least, which she pretended + not to know, although one evening that wily young girl talked with brother + Gabriel about May Newt, as if she had some particular purpose in the + conversation, until she seemed to have convinced herself of some hitherto + doubtful point—yet with all the willingness to go to the house, + Gabriel Bennet never went to the office of Boniface Newt, Son, & Co. + </p> + <p> + If he had done so it would not have been pleasant to him, for it was + perpetual field-day in the office. A few days after Uncle Lawrence’s + visit to his nephew, the senior partner sat bending his hard, anxious face + over account-books and letters. The junior partner lounged in his chair as + if the office had been a club-room. The “Company” never + appeared. + </p> + <p> + “Father, I’ve just seen Sinker.” + </p> + <p> + “D—— Sinker!” + </p> + <p> + “Come, come, father, let’s be reasonable! Sinker says that the + Canal will be a clear case of twenty per cent, per annum for ten years at + least, and that we could afford to lose a cent or two upon the Bilbo iron + to make it up, over and over again.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Abel Newt threw his leg over the arm of the chair and looked at his + boot. Mr. Boniface Newt threw his head around suddenly and fiercely. + </p> + <p> + “And what’s Sinker’s commission? How much money do you + suppose he has to put in? How much stock will he take?” + </p> + <p> + “He has sold out in the Mallow Mines to put in,” said Abel, a + little doggedly. + </p> + <p> + “Are you sure?” + </p> + <p> + “He says so,” returned Abel, shortly. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t believe a word of it!” said his father, tartly, + turning back again to his desk. + </p> + <p> + Abel put both hands in his pockets, and both feet upon the ground, side by + side, and rocked them upon the heels backward and forward, looking all the + time at his father. His face grew cloudy—more cloudy every moment. + At length he said, + </p> + <p> + “I think we’d better do it.” + </p> + <p> + His father did not speak or move. He seemed to have heard nothing, and to + be only inwardly cursing the state of things revealed by the books and + papers before him. + </p> + <p> + Abel looked at him for a moment, and then, raising his voice, continued: + </p> + <p> + “As one of the firm, I propose that we sell out the Bilbo and buy + into the Canal.” + </p> + <p> + Not a look or movement from his father. + </p> + <p> + Abel jumped up—his eyes black, his face red. He took his hat and + went to the door, saying, + </p> + <p> + “I shall go and conclude the arrangement!” + </p> + <p> + As he reached the door his father raised his eyes and looked at him. The + eyes were full of contempt and anger, and a sneering sound came from his + lips. + </p> + <p> + “You’ll do no such thing.” + </p> + <p> + The young man glanced sideways at his parent. + </p> + <p> + “Who will prevent me?” + </p> + <p> + “I!” roared the elder. + </p> + <p> + “I believe I am one of the firm,” said Abel, coldly. + </p> + <p> + “You’d better try it!” said the old man, disregarding + Abel’s remark. + </p> + <p> + Abel was conscious that his father had this game, at least, in his hands. + The word of the young man would hardly avail against a simultaneous veto + from the parent. No transaction would stand a moment under such + circumstances. The young man slowly turned from the door, and fixing his + eyes upon his father, advanced toward him with a kind of imperious + insolence. + </p> + <p> + “I should like to understand my position in this house,” said + he, with forced calmness. + </p> + <p> + “Good God! Sir, a bootblack, if I choose!” returned his + father, fiercely. “The unluckiest day of my life was when you came + in here, Sir. Ever since then the business has been getting more and more + complicated, until it is only a question of days how long it can even look + respectable. We shall all be beggars in a month. We are ruined. There is + no chance,” cried the old man, with a querulous wail through his set + teeth. “And you know who has done it all. You know who has brought + us all to shame and disgrace—to utter poverty;” and, rising + from his chair, the father shook his clenched hands at Abel so furiously + that the young man fell back abashed. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t talk to me, Sir. Don’t dare to say a word,” + cried Mr. Newt, in a voice shrill with anger. “All my life has come + to nothing. All my sacrifices, my industry, my efforts, are of no use. I + am a beggar, Sir; so are you!” + </p> + <p> + He sank back in his chair and covered his face with his hands. The noise + made the old book-keeper outside look in. But it was no new thing. The hot + debates of the private room were familiar to his ear. With the silent, sad + fidelity of his profession he knew every thing, and was dumb. Not a turn + of his face, not a light in his eye, told any tales to the most careful + and sagacious inquirer. Within the last few months Mr. Van Boozenberg had + grown quite friendly with him. When they met, the President had sought to + establish the most familiar intercourse. But he discovered that for the + slightest hint of the condition of the Newt business he might as well have + asked Boniface himself. Like a mother, who knows the crime her son has + committed, and perceives that he can only a little longer hide it, but + who, with her heart breaking, still smiles away suspicion, so the faithful + accountant, who supposed that the crash was at hand, was as constant and + calm as if the business were never before so prosperous. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0053" id="link2HCH0053"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LIII. — SLIGO MOULTRIE <i>vice</i> ABEL NEWT. + </h2> + <p> + Abel Newt had now had two distinct warnings of something which nobody knew + must happen so well as he. He dined sumptuously that very day, and dressed + very carefully that evening, and at eight o’clock was sitting alone + with Grace Plumer. The superb ruby was on her finger. But on the third + finger of her left hand he saw a large glowing opal. His eyes fastened + upon it with a more brilliant glitter. They looked at her too so strangely + that Grace Plumer felt troubled and half alarmed. “Am I too late?” + he thought. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Grace,” said Abel, in a low voice. + </p> + <p> + The tone was significant. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Newt,” said she, with a half smile, as if she accepted a + contest of badinage. + </p> + <p> + “Do you remember I said I was perfectly happy?” + </p> + <p> + He moved his chair a little nearer to hers. She drew back almost + imperceptibly. + </p> + <p> + “I remember you <i>said</i> so, and I was very glad to hear it.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you remember my theory of perfect happiness?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Miss Plumer, calmly, “I believe it was + perfect love. But I think we had better talk of something else;” and + she rose from her chair and stood by the table. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Plumer!” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Newt.” + </p> + <p> + “It was you who first emboldened me.” + </p> + <p> + “I do not understand, Sir.” + </p> + <p> + “It was a long time ago, in my mother’s conservatory.” + </p> + <p> + Grace Plumer remembered the evening, and she replied, more softly, + </p> + <p> + “I am very sorry, Mr. Newt, that I behaved so foolishly: I was + young. But I think we did each other no harm.” + </p> + <p> + “No harm, I trust, indeed, Miss Grace,” said Abel. “It + is surely no harm to love; at least, not as I love you.” + </p> + <p> + He too had risen, and tried to take her hand. She stepped back. He pressed + toward her. + </p> + <p> + “Grace; dear Grace!” + </p> + <p> + “Stop, Sir, stop!” said his companion, drawing herself up and + waving him back; “I can not hear you talk so. I am engaged.” + </p> + <p> + Abel turned pale. Grace Plumer was frightened. He sprang forward and + seized her hand. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! Grace, hear me but one word! You knew that I loved you, and you + allowed me to come. In honor, in truth, before God, you are mine!” + </p> + <p> + She struggled to release her hand. As she looked in his face she saw there + an expression which assured her that he was capable of saying any thing, + of doing any thing; and she trembled to think how much she might be—how + much any woman is—in the power of a desperate man. + </p> + <p> + “Indeed, Mr. Newt, you must let me go!” + </p> + <p> + “Grace, Grace, say that you love me!” + </p> + <p> + The frightened girl broke away from him, and ran toward the door. Abel + followed her, but the door opened, and Sligo Moultrie entered. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Sligo!” cried Grace, as he put his arm around her. + </p> + <p> + Abel stopped and bowed. + </p> + <p> + “Pardon me, Miss Plumer. Certainly Mr. Moultrie will understand the + ardor of a passion which in his case has been so fortunate. I am sorry, + Sir,” he said, turning to Sligo, “that my ignorance of your + relation to Miss Plumer should have betrayed me. I congratulate you both + from my soul!” + </p> + <p> + He bowed again, and before they could speak he was gone. The tone of his + voice lingering upon their ears was like a hiss. It was a most sinister + felicitation. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0054" id="link2HCH0054"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LIV. — CLOUDS AND DARKNESS. + </h2> + <p> + “At least, Miss Amy—at least, we shall be friends.” + </p> + <p> + Amy Waring sat in her chamber on the evening of the day that Lawrence Newt + had said these words. Her long rich brown hair clustered upon her + shoulders, and the womanly brown eyes were fixed upon a handful of + withered flowers. They were the blossoms she had laid away at various + times—gifts of Lawrence Newt, or consecrated by his touch. + </p> + <p> + She sat musing for a long time. The womanly brown eyes were soft with a + look of aching regret rather than of sharp disappointment. Then she rose—still + holding the withered remains—and paced thoughtfully up and down the + room. The night hours passed, and still she softly paced, or tranquilly + seated herself, without the falling of a tear, and only now and then a + long deep breath rather than a sigh. + </p> + <p> + At last she took all the flowers—dry, yellow, lustreless—and + opened a sheet of white paper. She laid them in it, and the brown womanly + eyes looked at them with yearning fondness. She sat motionless, as if she + could not prevail upon herself to fold the paper. But at length she sank + gradually to her knees—a sinless Magdalen; her brown hair fell about + her bending face, and she said, although her lips did not move, “To + each, in his degree, the cup is given. Oh, Father! strengthen each to + drain it and believe!” + </p> + <p> + She rose quietly and folded the paper, with the loving care and lingering + delay with which a mother smooths the shroud that wraps her baby. She tied + it with a pure white ribbon, so that it looked not unlike a bridal gift; + and pressing her lips to it long and silently, she laid it in the old + drawer. There it still remained. The paper was as white, the ribbon was as + pure as ever. Only the flowers were withered. But her heart was not a + flower. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Aunt Martha,” said she, several months after the death + of old Christopher Burt, “I really think you are coming back to this + world again.” + </p> + <p> + The young woman smiled, while the older one busily drove her needle. + </p> + <p> + “Why,” continued Amy, “here is a white collar; and you + have actually smiled at least six times in as many months!” + </p> + <p> + The older woman still said nothing. The old sadness was in her eyes, but + it certainly had become more natural—more human, as it were—and + the melodramatic gloom in which she had hitherto appeared was certainly + less obvious. + </p> + <p> + “Amy,” she said at length, “God leads his erring + children through the dark valley, but he does lead them—he does not + leave them. I did not know how deeply I had sinned until I heard the young + man Summerfield, who came to see me even in this room.” + </p> + <p> + She looked up and about, as if to catch some lingering light upon the + wall. + </p> + <p> + “And it was Lawrence Newt’s preacher who made me feel that + there was hope even for me.” + </p> + <p> + She sewed on quietly. + </p> + <p> + “I thank God for those two men; and for one other,” she added, + after a little pause. + </p> + <p> + Amy only looked, she did not ask who. + </p> + <p> + “Lawrence Newt,” said Aunt Martha, calmly looking at Amy—“Lawrence + Newt, who came to me as a brother comes to a sister, and said, ‘Be + of good cheer!’ Amy, what is the matter with you and Lawrence Newt?” + </p> + <p> + “How, aunty?” + </p> + <p> + “How many months since you met here?” + </p> + <p> + “It was several months ago, aunty.” + </p> + <p> + Aunt Martha sat quietly sewing, and after some time said, + </p> + <p> + “He is no longer a young man.” + </p> + <p> + “But, Aunt Martha, he is not old.” + </p> + <p> + Still sewing, the grave woman looked at the burning cheeks of her younger + companion. Amy did not speak. + </p> + <p> + The older woman continued: “When you and he went from this room + months ago I supposed you would be his wife before now.” + </p> + <p> + Still Amy did not speak. It was not because she was unwilling to confide + entirely in Aunt Martha, but there was something she did not wish to say + to herself. Yet suddenly, as if lifted upon a calm, irresistible purpose—as + a leaf is lifted upon the long swell of the sea—she said, with her + heart as quiet as her eyes, + </p> + <p> + “I do not think Lawrence Newt loves me.” + </p> + <p> + The next moment the poor leaf is lost in the trough of the sea. The next + moment Amy Waring’s heart beat tumultuously; she felt as if she + should fall from her seat. Her eyes were blind with hot tears. Aunt Martha + did not look up—did not start or exclaim—but deliberately + threaded her needle carefully, and creased her work with her thumb-nail. + After a little while, during which the sea was calming itself, she said, + slowly, repeating Amy’s words syllable by syllable, + </p> + <p> + “You do not believe Lawrence Newt loves you?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” was the low, firm whisper of reply. + </p> + <p> + “Whom do you think he loves?” + </p> + <p> + There was an instant of almost deathly stillness in that turbulent heart. + For a moment the very sea of feeling seemed to be frozen. + </p> + <p> + Then, and very slowly, a terrible doubt arose in Amy Waring’s mind. + Before this conversation every perplexity had resolved itself in the + consciousness that somehow it must all come right by-and-by. It had never + occurred to her to ask, Does he love any one else? But she saw now at once + that if he did, then the meaning of his words was plain enough; and so, of + course, he did. + </p> + <p> + Who was it? + </p> + <p> + Amy knew there was but one person in the world whose name could possibly + answer that question. + </p> + <p> + But had Lawrence not watched with her—and with delight—the + progress of Arthur Merlin’s feeling for that other? + </p> + <p> + Yes; but if, as he watched so closely, he saw and felt how lovely that + other was, was it so wonderful that he should love her? + </p> + <p> + These things flashed through her mind as she sat motionless by Aunt + Martha; and she said, with profound tranquillity, + </p> + <p> + “Very possibly, Hope Wayne.” + </p> + <p> + Aunt Martha did not look up. She seemed to feel that she should see + something too sad if she did so; but she asked, + </p> + <p> + “Is she worthy of him?” + </p> + <p> + “Perfectly!” answered Amy, promptly. + </p> + <p> + At this word Aunt Martha did look up, and her eyes met Amy’s. Amy + Waring burst into tears. Her aunt laid aside her work, and gently put her + arms about her niece. She waited until the first gush of feeling had + passed, and then said, tenderly, + </p> + <p> + “Amy, it is by the heart that God leads us women to himself. Through + love I fell; but through love, in another way, I hope to be restored. Do + you really believe he loves Hope Wayne?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know,” was the low reply. + </p> + <p> + “I know, Amy.” + </p> + <p> + The two women had risen, and were walking, with their arms clasped around + each other, up and down the room. They stopped at the window and looked + out. As they did so, their eyes fell simultaneously upon the man of whom + they were speaking, who was standing at the back of his lofts, looking up + at the window, which was a shrine to him. + </p> + <p> + “There she stood and smiled at me,” he said to himself + whenever he looked at it. + </p> + <p> + As their eyes met, he smiled and waved his hand. With his eyes and head he + asked, as when he had first seen her there, + </p> + <p> + “May I come up?” and he waved his handkerchief. + </p> + <p> + The two women looked at him. As Amy did so, she felt as if there had been + a long and gloomy war; and now, in his eager eyes and waving hand, she saw + the illumination and waving flags of victory and peace. + </p> + <p> + She smiled as she looked, and nodded No to him with her head. + </p> + <p> + But Aunt Martha nodded Yes so vehemently that Lawrence Newt immediately + disappeared from his window. + </p> + <p> + Alarmed at his coming, doubtful of Aunt Martha’s intention, Amy + Waring suddenly cried, “Oh! Aunt Martha!” and was gone in a + moment. Lawrence Newt dashed round, and knocked at the door. + </p> + <p> + “Come in!” + </p> + <p> + He rushed into the room. Some sweet suspicion had winged his feet and + lightened his heart; but he was not quick enough. He looked eagerly about + him. + </p> + <p> + “She is gone!” said Aunt Martha. + </p> + <p> + His eager eyes drooped, as if light had gone out of his life also. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Newt,” said Aunt Martha, “sit down. You have been + of the greatest service to me. How can I repay you?” + </p> + <p> + Lawrence Newt, who had felt during the moment in which he saw Amy at the + window, and the other in which he had been hastening to her, that the + cloud was about rolling from his life, was confounded by finding that it + was an account between Aunt Martha, instead of Amy, and himself that was + to be settled. + </p> + <p> + He bowed in some confusion, but recovering in a moment, he said, + courteously, + </p> + <p> + “I am aware of nothing that you owe me in any way.” + </p> + <p> + “Lawrence Newt,” returned the other, solemnly, “you have + known my story; you knew the man to whom I supposed myself married; you + have known of my child; you have known how long I have been dead to the + world and to all my family and friends, and when, by chance, you + discovered me, you became as my brother. How many an hour we have sat + talking in this room, and how constantly your sympathy has been my support + and your wisdom my guide!” + </p> + <p> + Lawrence Newt, whose face had grown very grave, waved his hand + deprecatingly. + </p> + <p> + “I know, I know,” she continued. “Let that remain + unsaid. It can not be unforgotten. But I know your secrets too.” + </p> + <p> + They looked at each other. + </p> + <p> + “You love Amy Waring.” + </p> + <p> + His face became inscrutable, and his eyes were fixed quietly upon hers. + She betrayed no embarrassment, but continued, + </p> + <p> + “Amy Waring loves you.” + </p> + <p> + A sudden light shot into that inscrutable face. The clear eyes were veiled + for an instant by an exquisite emotion. + </p> + <p> + “What separates you?” + </p> + <p> + There was an authority in the tone of the question which Lawrence Newt + found hard to resist. It was an authority natural to such intimate + knowledge of the relation of the two persons. But he was so entirely + unaccustomed to confide in any body, or to speak of his feelings, that he + could not utter a word. He merely looked at Aunt Martha as if he expected + her to answer all her own questions, and solve every difficulty and doubt. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile she had resumed her sewing, and was rocking quietly in her + chair. Lawrence Newt arose and found his tongue. He bowed in that quaint + way which seemed to involve him more closely in himself, and to warn off + every body else. + </p> + <p> + “I prefer to hear that a woman loves me from her own lips.” + </p> + <p> + The tone was perfectly kind and respectful; but Aunt Martha felt that she + had been struck dumb. + </p> + <p> + “I thank you from my heart,” Lawrence Newt said to her. And + taking her hand, he bent over it and kissed it. She sat looking at him, + and at length said, + </p> + <p> + “Mayn’t I do any thing to show my gratitude?” + </p> + <p> + “You have already done more than I deserve,” replied Lawrence + Newt. “I must go now. Good-by! God bless you!” + </p> + <p> + She heard his quick footfalls as he descended the stairs. For a long time + the sombre woman sat rocking idly to and fro, holding her work in her + hand, and with her eyes fixed upon the floor. She did not seem to see + clearly, whatever it might be she was looking at. She shook out her work + and straightened it, and folded it regularly, and looked at it as if the + secret would pop out of the proper angle if she could only find it. Then + she creased it and crimped it—still she could not see. Then she took + a few stitches slowly, regarding fixedly a corner of the room as if the + thought she was in search of was a mouse, and might at any moment run out + of his hole and over the floor. + </p> + <p> + And after all the looking, she shook her head intelligently and fell + quietly to work, as if the mystery were plain enough, saying to herself, + </p> + <p> + “Why didn’t I trust a girl’s instinct who loves as Amy + does? Of course she is right. Dear! dear! Of course he loves Hope Wayne.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0055" id="link2HCH0055"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LV. — ARTHUR MERLIN’S GREAT PICTURE. + </h2> + <p> + Arthur Merlin had sketched his great picture of Diana and Endymion a + hundred times. He talked of it with his friends, and smoked scores of + boxes of cigars during the conversations. He had completed what he called + the study for the work, which represented, he said, the Goddess alighting + upon Latmos while Endymion slept. He pointed out to his companions, + especially to Lawrence Newt, the pure antique classical air of the + composition. + </p> + <p> + “You know,” he said, as he turned his head and moved his hands + over the study as if drawing in the air, “you know it ought somehow + to seem silent, and cool, and remote; for it is ancient Greece, Diana, and + midnight. You see?” + </p> + <p> + Then came a vast cloud of smoke from his mouth, as if to assist the eyes + of the spectator. + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes, I see,” said every one of his companions—especially + Lawrence Newt, who did see, indeed, but saw only a head of Hope Wayne in a + mist. The Endymion, the mountain, the Greece, the antiquity, were all + vigorous assumptions of the artist. The study for his great picture was + simply an unfinished portrait of Hope Wayne. + </p> + <p> + Aunt Winnifred, who sometimes came into her nephew’s studio, saw the + study one day, and exclaimed, sorrowfully, + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Arthur! Arthur!” + </p> + <p> + The young man, who was busily mixing colors upon his pallet, and humming, + as he smoked, “‘Tis my delight of a shiny night,” turned + in dismay, thinking his aunt was suddenly ill. + </p> + <p> + “My dear aunt!” and he laid down his pallet and ran toward + her. + </p> + <p> + She was sitting in an armchair holding the study. Arthur stopped. + </p> + <p> + “My dear Arthur, now I understand all.” + </p> + <p> + Arthur Merlin was confused. He, perhaps, suspected that his picture of + Diana resembled a certain young lady. But how should Aunt Winnifred know + it, who, as he supposed, had never seen her? Besides, he felt it was a + disagreeable thing, when he was and had been in love with a young lady for + a long time, to have his aunt say that she understood all about it. How + could she understand all about it? What right has any body to say that she + understands all about it? He asked himself the petulant question because + he was very sure that he himself did not by any means understand all about + it. + </p> + <p> + “What do you understand, Aunt Winnifred?” demanded Arthur, in + a resolute and defiant tone, as if he were fully prepared to deny every + thing he was about to hear. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes,” continued Aunt Winnifred, musingly, and in a tone + of profound sadness, as she still held and contemplated the picture—“yes; + yes! I see, I see!” + </p> + <p> + Arthur was quite vexed. + </p> + <p> + “Now really my dear aunt,” said he, remonstratingly, “you + must be aware that it is not becoming in a woman like you to go on in this + way. You ought to explain what you mean,” he added, decidedly. + </p> + <p> + “Well, my poor boy, the hotter you get the surer I am. Don’t + you see?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Merlin did not seem to be in the least pacified by this reply. It was, + therefore, in an indignant tone that he answered: + </p> + <p> + “Aunt Winnifred, it is not kind in you to come up here and make me + lose my time and temper, while you sit there coolly and talk in infernal + parables!” + </p> + <p> + “Infernal parables!” cried the lady, in a tone of surprise and + horror. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Arthur, Arthur! that comes of not going to church. Infernal + parables! My soul and body, what an awful idea!” + </p> + <p> + The painter smiled. The contest was too utterly futile. He went slowly + back to his easel, and, after a few soothing puffs, began again to rub his + colors upon the pallet. He was humming carelessly once more, and putting + his brush to the canvas before him, when his aunt remarked, + </p> + <p> + “There, Arthur! now that you are reasonable, I’ll tell you + what I meant.” + </p> + <p> + The artist looked over his shoulder and laughed. + </p> + <p> + “Go on, dear aunt.” + </p> + <p> + “I understand now why you don’t go to our church.” + </p> + <p> + It was a remark so totally unexpected that Arthur stopped short and turned + quite round. + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean, Aunt Winnifred?” + </p> + <p> + “I mean,” said she, holding up the study as if to overwhelm + him with resistless proof, “I mean, Arthur—and I could cry as + I say it—that you are a Roman Catholic!” + </p> + <p> + Aunt Winnifred, who was an exemplary member of the Dutch Reformed Church, + or, as Arthur gayly called her to her face, a Dutch Deformed Woman, was + too simple and sincere in her religious faith to tolerate with equanimity + the thought that any one of the name of Merlin should be domiciled in the + House of Sin, as she poetically described the Church of Rome. + </p> + <p> + “Arthur! Arthur! and your father a clergyman. It’s too + dreadful!” + </p> + <p> + And the tender-hearted woman burst into tears. + </p> + <p> + But still weeping, she waved the picture in melancholy confirmation of her + assertion. Arthur was amused and perplexed. + </p> + <p> + “My dear aunt, what has put such a droll idea into your head?” + </p> + <p> + “Because—because,” said Aunt Winnifred, sobbing and + wiping her eyes, “because this picture, which you keep locked up so + carefully, is a picture of the Holy Virgin. Oh dear! just to think of it!” + </p> + <p> + There was a fresh burst of feeling from the honest and affectionate woman, + who felt that to be a Roman Catholic was to be visibly sealed and stamped + for eternal woe. But there was an answering burst of laughter from Arthur, + who staggered to a sofa, and lay upon his back shouting until the tears + also rolled from his eyes. + </p> + <p> + His aunt stopped, appalled, and made up her mind that he was not only a + Catholic but a madman. Then, as Arthur grew more composed, he and his aunt + looked at each other for some moments in silence. + </p> + <p> + “Aunt, you are right. It is the Holy Virgin!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! Arthur,” she groaned. + </p> + <p> + “It is my Madonna!” + </p> + <p> + “Poor boy!” sighed she. + </p> + <p> + “It is the face I worship.” + </p> + <p> + “Arthur! Arthur!” and his aunt despairingly patted her knees + slowly with her hands. + </p> + <p> + “But her name is not Mary.” + </p> + <p> + Aunt Winnifred looked surprised. + </p> + <p> + “Her name is Diana.” + </p> + <p> + “Diana?” echoed his aunt, as if she were losing her mind. + “Oh! I beg your pardon. Then it’s only a portrait after all? + Yes, yes. Diana who?” + </p> + <p> + Arthur Merlin curled one foot under him as he sat, and, lighting a fresh + cigar, told Aunt Winnifred the lovely legend of Latmos—talking of + Diana and Endymion, and thinking of Hope Wayne and Arthur Merlin. + </p> + <p> + Aunt Winnifred listened with the utmost interest and patience. Her nephew + was eloquent. Well, well, thought the old lady, if interest in his pursuit + makes a great painter, my dear nephew will be a great man. During the + course of the story Arthur paused several times, evidently lost in reverie—perhaps + tracing the analogy. When he ended there was a moment’s silence. + Then Aunt Winnifred looked kindly at him, and said: + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Arthur, as he uncurled his leg, and with a half + sigh, as if it were pleasanter to tell old legends of love than to paint + modern portraits. + </p> + <p> + “Is that the whole?” + </p> + <p> + “That is the whole.” + </p> + <p> + “Well; but Arthur, did she marry him after all?” + </p> + <p> + Arthur looked wistfully a moment at his aunt. + </p> + <p> + “Marry him! Bless you, no, Aunt Winnifred. She was a goddess. + Goddesses don’t marry.” + </p> + <p> + Aunt Winnifred did not answer. Her eyes softened like eyes that see days + and things far away—like eyes in which shines the love of a heart + that, under those conditions, would rather not be a goddess. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0056" id="link2HCH0056"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LVI. — REDIVIVUS. + </h2> + <p> + Ellen Bennet, like May Newt, was a child no longer—hardly yet a + woman, or only a very young one. Rosy cheeks, and clustering hair, and + blue eyes, showed only that it was May—June almost, perhaps—instead + of gusty March or gleaming April. + </p> + <p> + “Ellen,” said Gabriel, in a low voice—while his mother, + who was busily sewing, conversed in a murmuring undertone with her + husband, who sat upon the sofa, slowly swinging his slippered foot—“Ellen, + Lawrence Newt didn’t say that he should ask Edward to his dinner on + my birthday.” + </p> + <p> + Ellen’s cheeks answered—not her lips, nor her eyes, which were + bent upon a purse she was netting. + </p> + <p> + “But I think he will,” added Gabriel. “I think I have + mistaken Lawrence Newt if he does not.” + </p> + <p> + “He is usually very thoughtful,” whispered Ellen, as she + netted busily. + </p> + <p> + “Ellen, how handsome Edward is!” said Gabriel, with + enthusiasm. + </p> + <p> + The young woman said nothing. + </p> + <p> + “And how good!” added Gabriel. + </p> + <p> + “He is,” she answered, scarcely audibly. Then she said she had + left something up stairs. How many things are discovered by young women, + under certain circumstances, to have been left up stairs! Ellen rose and + left the room. + </p> + <p> + “I was saying to your father, Gabriel,” said his mother, + raising her voice, and still sewing, “that Edward comes here a great + deal.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, mother; and I am glad of it. He has very few friends in the + city.” + </p> + <p> + “He looks like a Spaniard,” said Mr. Bennet, slowly, dwelling + upon every word. “How rich that lustrous tropical complexion is! Its + duskiness is mysterious. The young man’s eyes are like summer + moonlight.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Bennet’s own eyes half closed as he spoke, as if he were + dreaming of gorgeous summer nights and the murmur of distant music. + </p> + <p> + Gabriel and his mother were instinctively silent. The click of her needle + was the only sound. + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes, yes—that is—I mean, my dear, he does come here + very often. I do go off on such foolish fancies!” remarked Mr. + Bennet, at length. + </p> + <p> + “He comes very often when you are not at home, Gabriel,” said + Mrs. Bennet, after a kind glance at her husband, and still sewing. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, mother.” + </p> + <p> + “Then it isn’t only to see you?” + </p> + <p> + “No, mother.” + </p> + <p> + “And often when your father and I return from an evening stroll in + the streets we find him here.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, mother.” + </p> + <p> + “It isn’t to see us altogether, then?” + </p> + <p> + “No, mother.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Bennet turned her work, and in so doing glanced for a moment at her + son. His eyes were upon her face, but he seemed to have said all he had to + say. + </p> + <p> + “I always feel,” said Mr. Bennet, in a tone and with an + expression as if he were looking at something very far away, “as if + King Arthur must have lived in the tropics. There is that sort of weird, + warm atmosphere in the romance. Where is Ellen? Shall we read some more in + this little edition of the old story?” + </p> + <p> + He laid his hand, as he spoke, upon a small copy of old Malory’s + Romance of Arthur. It was a kind of reading of which he was especially + fond, and to which the rest were always willing and glad to listen. + </p> + <p> + “Call Ellen,” said he to Gabriel; “and now then for King + Arthur!” + </p> + <p> + As he spoke the door-bell rang. The next moment a young man, apparently of + Gabriel’s age, entered the room. His large melancholy black eyes, + the massive black curls upon his head, the transparent olive complexion, a + natural elegance of form and of movement—all corresponded with what + Mr. Bennet had been saying. It was evidently Edward. + </p> + <p> + “Good-evening, Little Malacca!” cried Gabriel, gayly, as he + rose and put out his hand. + </p> + <p> + “Good-evening, Gabriel!” he answered, in a soft, ringing + voice; then bowed and spoke to Mr. and Mrs. Bennet. + </p> + <p> + “Gabriel doesn’t forget old school-days,” said the + new-comer to Mrs. Bennet. + </p> + <p> + “No, he has often told us of his friendship with Little Malacca,” + returned the lady calmly, as she resumed her work. + </p> + <p> + “And how little I thought I was to see him when I came to Mr. Newt’s + store,” said the young man. + </p> + <p> + “Where did you first know Mr. Lawrence Newt?” asked Mrs. + Bennet. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t remember when I didn’t know him, Madam,” + replied Edward. + </p> + <p> + “Happy fellow!” said Gabriel. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile Miss Ellen had probably found the mysterious something which she + had left up stairs; for she entered the room, and bowed very calmly upon + seeing Edward, and, seating herself upon the side of the table farthest + from him, was presently industriously netting. As for Edward, he had + snapped a sentence in the middle as he rose and bowed to her, and could + not possibly fit the two ends together when he sat down again, and so lost + it. + </p> + <p> + Gradually, as the evening wore on, the conversation threatened to divide + itself into <i>têtes-à -tête</i>; for Gabriel suddenly discovered that he + had an article upon Hemp to read in the Encyclopedia which he had recently + purchased, and was already profoundly immersed in it, while Mr. and Mrs. + Bennet resumed their murmuring talk, and the chair of the youth with the + large black eyes, somehow—nobody saw how or when—slipped round + until it was upon the same side of the table with that of Ellen, who was + busily netting. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Bennet was conscious that the chair had gone round, and the swimming + eyes of her husband lingered with pleasure upon the mass of black curls + bent toward the golden hair which was bowed over that intricate purse. + Ellen was sitting under that portrait of the lady, with the flashing, + passionate eyes, who seemed to bear a family likeness to Mrs. Bennet. + </p> + <p> + The more closely he looked at the handsome youth and the lovely girl the + more curious Mr. Bennet’s eyes became. He watched the two with such + intentness that his wife several times looked up at him surprised when she + received no answer to her remarks. Evidently something had impressed Mr. + Bennet exceedingly. + </p> + <p> + His wife bent her head a little nearer to his. + </p> + <p> + “My dear, did you never see a pair of lovers before?” + </p> + <p> + He turned his dreaming eyes at that, smiled, and pressed his lips silently + to the face which was so near his own that if it had been there for the + express purpose of being caressed it could hardly have been nearer. + </p> + <p> + Then slipping his arm around her waist, Mr. Bennet drew his wife toward + him and pointed with his head, but so imperceptibly that only she + perceived it, toward the young people, as if he saw something more than a + pair of lovers. The fond woman’s eyes followed her husband’s. + Gradually they became as intently fixed as his. They seemed to be + curiously comparing the face of the young man who sat at their daughter’s + side with the face of the portrait that hung above her head. Mrs. Bennet + grew perceptibly paler as she looked. The unconscious Edward and Ellen + murmured softly together. She did not look at him, but she felt the light + of his great eyes falling upon her, and she was not unhappy. + </p> + <p> + “My dear,” began Mr. Bennet in a low tone, still studying the + face and the portrait. + </p> + <p> + “Hush!” said his wife, softly, laying her head upon his + shoulder; “I see it all, I am sure of it.” + </p> + <p> + Gabriel turned at this moment from his Encyclopedia. He looked intently + for some time at the group by the table, as if studying all their + thoughts, and then said, gravely, in a loud, clear voice, so that Ellen + dropped a stitch, Edward stopped whispering, and Mr. and Mrs. Bennet sat + erect, + </p> + <p> + “Exactly. I knew how it was. It says distinctly, ‘This plant + is supposed to be a native of India; but it has long been naturalized and + extensively cultivated elsewhere, particularly in Russia, where it forms + an article of primary importance.’” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0057" id="link2HCH0057"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LVII. — DINING WITH LAWRENCE NEWT. + </h2> + <p> + Gabriel Bennett was not confident that Edward Wynne would be at the + birthday dinner given in his honor by Lawrence Newt, but he was very sure + that May Newt would be there, and so she was. It was at Delmonico’s; + and a carriage arrived at the Bennets’ just in time to convey them. + Another came to Mr. Boniface Newt’s, to whom brother Lawrence + explained that he had invited his daughter to dinner, and that he should + send a young friend—in fact, his confidential clerk, to accompany + Miss Newt. Brother Boniface, who looked as if he were the eternally + relentless enemy of all young friends, had nevertheless the profoundest + confidence in brother Lawrence, and made no objection. So the hero of the + day conducted Miss May Newt to the banquet. + </p> + <p> + The hero of the day was so engaged in conversation with Miss May Newt that + he said very little to his neighbor upon the other side, who was no other + than Hope Wayne. She had been watching very curiously a young man with + black curls and eyes, who seemed to have words only for his neighbor, Miss + Ellen Bennet. She presently turned and asked Gabriel if she had never seen + him before. “I have, surely, some glimmering remembrance of that + face,” she said, studying it closely. + </p> + <p> + Her question recalled a day which was strangely remote and unreal in + Gabriel’s memory. He even half blushed, as if Miss Wayne had + reminded him of some early treason to a homage which he felt in the very + bottom of his heart for his blue-eyed neighbor. But the calm, unsuspicious + sweetness of Hope Wayne’s face consoled him. He looked at her for a + moment without speaking. It was really but a moment, yet, as he looked, he + lay in a heavily-testered bed—he heard the beating of the sea upon + the shore—he saw the sage Mentor, the ghostly Calypso putting aside + the curtain—for a moment he was once more the little school-boy, + bruised and ill at Pinewood; but this face—no longer a girl’s + face—no longer anxious, but sweet, serene, and tender—was this + the half-haughty face he had seen and worshipped in the old village church—the + face whose eyes of sympathy, but not of love, had filled his heart with + such exquisite pain? + </p> + <p> + “That young man, Miss Wayne, is Edward Wynne,” he said, in + reply to the question. + </p> + <p> + It did not seem to resolve her perplexity. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t recall the name,” she answered. “I think + he must remind me of some one I have known.” + </p> + <p> + “He is as black as Abel Newt,” said Gabriel, looking with his + clear eyes at Hope Wayne. + </p> + <p> + “But much handsomer than Mr. Newt now is,” she answered, with + perfect unconcern. “His eyes are softer; and, in fact,” she + said, smiling pleasantly, “I am not surprised to see what a willing + listener his neighbor is. I wish I could recall him. I don’t think + that he resembles Mr. Newt at all, except in complexion.” + </p> + <p> + Arthur Merlin heard every word, and watched every movement, and marked + every expression of Hope Wayne’s, at whose other hand he sat, during + this little remark. Gabriel said, in reply to it, + </p> + <p> + “The truth is, Miss Wayne, you have seen him before. The first time + you ever saw me he was with me.” + </p> + <p> + The clear eyes of the young man were turned full upon her again. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, I remember now!” she answered. “He was your + friend in that terrible battle with Abel Newt. It seems long ago, does it + not?” + </p> + <p> + However far away it may have seemed, it was apparently a remembrance that + roused no especial emotion in Miss Hope Wayne’s heart. Having + satisfied herself, she released the attention of Gabriel, who had other + subjects of conversation with May Newt than his quarrel with her brother + for the favor of Hope Wayne. + </p> + <p> + But Arthur Merlin observed that while Hope Wayne listened with her ears to + him, with her eyes she listened to Lawrence Newt. His simple, unselfish, + and therefore unconscious urbanity—his genial, kindly humor—and + the soft, manly earnestness of his face, were not unheeded—how could + they be?—by her. Since the day the will was read he had been a + faithful friend and counselor. It was he who negotiated for her house. It + was he who daily called and gave her a thousand counsels in the details of + management, of which every woman who comes into a large property has such + constant need. And in all the minor arrangements of business she found in + him the same skill and knowledge, combined with a womanly reserve and + softness, which had first so strongly attracted her. + </p> + <p> + Yet his visits as financial counsel, as he called himself, did not + destroy, they only heightened, the pleasure of the meetings of the Round + Table. For the group of friends still met. They talked of poetry still. + They talked of many things, and perhaps thought of but a few. The pleasure + to all of them was evident enough; but it seemed more perplexed than + formerly. Hope Wayne felt it. Amy Waring felt it. Arthur Merlin felt it. + But not one of them could tell whether Lawrence Newt felt it. There was a + vague consciousness of something which nearly concerned them all, but not + one of them could say precisely what it was—except, possibly, Amy + Waring; and except, certainly, Lawrence Newt. + </p> + <p> + For Aunt Martha’s question had drawn from Amy’s lips what had + lain literally an unformed suspicion in her mind, until it leaped to life + and rushed armed from her mouth. Amy Waring saw how beautiful Hope Wayne + was. She knew how lovely in character she was. And she was herself + beautiful and lovely; so she said in her mind at once, “Why have I + never seen this? Why did I not know that he must of course love her?” + </p> + <p> + Then, if she reminded herself of the conversation she had held with + Lawrence Newt about Arthur Merlin and Hope Wayne, she was only perplexed + for a moment. She knew that he could not but be honest; and she said + quietly in her soul, “He did not know at that time how well worthy + his love she was.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0058" id="link2HCH0058"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LVIII. — THE HEALTH OF THE JUNIOR PARTNER. + </h2> + <p> + “I call for a bumper!” said Lawrence Newt, when the fruit was + placed upon the table. + </p> + <p> + The glasses were filled, and the host glanced around his table. He did not + rise, but he said: + </p> + <p> + “Ladies and gentlemen, commercial honesty is not impossible, but it + is rare. I do not say that merchants are worse than other people; I only + say that their temptations are as great, and that an honest man—a + man perfectly honest every how and every where—is a wonder. Whatever + an honest man does is a benefit to all the rest of us. If he become a + lawyer, justice is more secure; if a doctor, quackery is in danger; if a + clergyman, the devil trembles; if a shoemaker, we don’t wear rotten + leather; if a merchant, we get thirty-six inches to the yard. I have been + long in business. I have met many honest merchants. But I know that + ‘tis hard for a merchant to be honest in New York. Will you show me + the place where ‘tis easy? When we are all honest because honesty is + the best policy, then we are all ruined, because that is no honesty at + all. Why should a man make a million of dollars and lose his manhood? He + dies when he has won them, and what are the chances that he can win his + manhood again in the next world as easily as he has won the dollars in + this? For he can’t carry his dollars with him. Any firm, therefore, + that gets an honest man into it gets an accession of the most available + capital in the world. This little feast is to celebrate the fact that my + firm has been so enriched. I invite you to drink the health of Gabriel + Bennet, junior partner of the firm of Lawrence Newt & Co.!” + </p> + <p> + There was a moment of perfect silence. Then every body looked at Gabriel + except his mother, whose eyes were so full of tears that she could see + nothing. Gabriel himself was entirely surprised. He had had no hint from + Lawrence Newt of this good fortune. He had worked faithfully, constantly, + and intelligently—honestly, of course—that was all Gabriel + knew about his position. He had been for some time confidential clerk, so + that he was fully cognizant of the state of the business, and knew how + prosperous it was. And yet, in this moment of delight and astonishment, he + had but one feeling, which seemed entirely alien and inadequate to the + occasion, for it was merely the hope that now he might be a regular + visitor at the house of Boniface Newt. + </p> + <p> + Hope Wayne’s eye had hung upon Lawrence Newt, during the little + speech he had made, so intently, that Arthur Merlin’s merriment had + been entirely checked. He found himself curiously out of spirits. Until + that moment, and especially after the little conversation between Hope and + Gabriel, in which Abel Newt’s name had been mentioned, Arthur had + thought it, upon the whole, the pleasantest little dinner he had ever + known. He was not of the same opinion now. + </p> + <p> + Edward Wynne and Ellen Bennet showed entire satisfaction with the dinner, + and especially with Lawrence Newt’s toast. And when the first hum of + applause and pleasure had ceased, Edward cried out lustily, + </p> + <p> + “A speech from the junior partner! A speech! a speech!” + </p> + <p> + There was a general call. Gabriel could not help rising, and blushing, and + bowing, and stuttering, and sitting down again, amidst tempestuous + applause, without the slightest coherent idea of what he had said, except + that he was very happy, and very glad, and very sure, and very, etc., etc. + </p> + <p> + But he did not care a song for what he had said, nor for the applause that + greeted it, when he saw certain blue eyes glistening, and a soft shyness + upon certain cheeks and lips, as if they had themselves been speaking, and + had been saying—what was palpably, undeniably, conspicuously true—that + they were very happy, and very glad, and very sure, and very, etc., etc. + Very, indeed! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0059" id="link2HCH0059"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LIX. — MRS. ALFRED DINKS. + </h2> + <p> + It was but a few days after the dinner that the junior partner was taking + the old path that led under the tower of the fairy princess, when lo! he + met her in the way. In her eyes there was that sweet light of expectation + and happiness which illuminated all Gabriel’s thoughts of her, and + persuaded him that he was the happiest and unworthiest of men. + </p> + <p> + “Where are you going, May?” + </p> + <p> + “I am going to Fanny’s.” + </p> + <p> + “May I go too?” + </p> + <p> + May Newt looked at him and said, gravely, “No, I am going to ask + Little Malacca to go with me.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, very well,” replied Mr. Gabriel Bennet, with equal + gravity. + </p> + <p> + “What splendid, melancholy eyes he has!” said May, with + unusual ardor. + </p> + <p> + “Ah! you think so?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course I do, and such hair! Why, Mr. Bennet, did you ever see + such magnificent hair—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you like black hair?” + </p> + <p> + “And his voice—” + </p> + <p> + “Now, May—” + </p> + <p> + “Well, Sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Please—” + </p> + <p> + What merry light in the fairy eyes! What dazzling splendor of love and + happiness in the face that turned to his as he laid her arm in his own! + One would have thought she, too, had been admitted a junior partner in + some most prosperous firm. + </p> + <p> + They passed along the street, which was full of people, and Gabriel and + May unconsciously looked at the crowd with new eyes and thoughts. Can it + be possible that all these people are so secretly happy as two that we + know? thought they. “All my life,” said Gabriel to himself, + without knowing it, “have I been going up and down, and never + imagined how much honey there was hived away in all the hearts of which I + saw only the rough outside?” “All my life,” mused May, + with sweet girl-eyes, “have I passed lovers as if they were mere men + and women?” And under her veil, where no eye could see, her cheek + was flushed, and her eyes were sweeter. + </p> + <p> + They passed up Broadway and turned across to the Bowery. Crossing the + broad pavement of the busy thoroughfare, they went into a narrow street + beyond, and so toward the East River. At length they stopped before a low, + modest house near a quiet corner. A sloppy kitchen-maid stood upon the + area steps abreast of the street. A few miserable trees, pining to death + in the stone desert of the town, were boxed up along the edge of the + sidewalk. A scavenger’s cart was joggling along, and a little + behind, a ragman’s wagon with a string of jangling bells. The smell + of the sewer was the chief odor, and the long lines of low, red brick + houses, with wooden steps and balustrades, and the blinds closed, + completed a permanent camp of dreariness. + </p> + <p> + “Does Fanny Newt live there?” asked Gabriel, in a tone which + indicated that there might be hearts in which honey was not abundantly + hived. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said May, gravely. “You know they have very + little to live upon, and—and—oh dear, I don’t like to + speak of it, Gabriel, but they are very miserable.” + </p> + <p> + Gabriel said nothing, but rang the bell. + </p> + <p> + The sloppy servant having stared wildly for a moment at the apparition of + blooming love that had so incomprehensibly alighted upon the steps, ducked + under them, and in a moment reappeared at the door. She seemed to + recognize May, and said “Yes’m” before any question had + been asked. + </p> + <p> + Gabriel and May walked into the little parlor. It was dark and formal. + There was a black haircloth sofa with wooden edges all over it, so that + nobody could lean or lounge, or do any thing but sit uncomfortably + upright. There were black haircloth chairs, a table with two or three + books; two lamps with glass drops upon the mantle; a thin cheap carpet; + gloom, silence, and a complicated smell of grease—as if the ghosts + of all the wretched dinners that had ever been cooked in the house haunted + it spitefully. + </p> + <p> + While May went up stairs to find Fanny, Gabriel Bennet looked and smelled + around him. He had not believed that a human home could be so dismal, and + he could not understand how haircloth furniture and dimness could make it + so. His father’s house was certainly not very large; and it was + scantily and plainly furnished, but no Arabian palace had ever seemed so + splendid to his imagination as that home was dear to his heart. No, it isn’t + the furniture nor the smell, thought he. I am quite sure it is something + that I neither see nor smell that makes the difference. + </p> + <p> + As he sat on the uncomfortable sofa and heard the jangling bells of the + ragman die away into the distance, and the loud, long, mournful whoop of + the chimney-sweep, his fancy was busy with the figures of a thousand + things that might be—of a certain nameless somebody, mistress of + that poor, sombre house, but so lighting it up with grace and gay + sweetness that the hard sofa became the most luxurious lounge, and the + cheap table more gorgeous than ormolu; and of a certain other nameless + somebody coming home at evening—an opening door—a rustle in + the hall as of women’s robes—a singular sound as of meeting + lips—then a coming together arm in arm into the dingy furnished + little parlor, but with such a bright fire blazing under the wooden mantle—and + then—and then—a pattering of little feet down the stairs—Hem! + hem! said Gabriel Bennet, clearing his throat, as if to arouse himself by + making a noise. For there was a sound of feet upon the stairs, and the + next moment May and her sister Fanny entered the room. Gabriel rose and + bowed, and held out his hand. Mrs. Alfred Dinks said, “How do you + do?” and seated herself without taking the hand. + </p> + <p> + Time had not softened her face, but sharpened it, and her eyes were of a + fierce blackness. She looked forty years old; and there was a permanent + frown of her dark brows. + </p> + <p> + “So this silly May is going to marry you?” said she, + addressing Gabriel. + </p> + <p> + Surprised by this kind of congratulation, but also much amused by it, as + if there could be nothing so ludicrous as the idea of May not marrying a + man who loved her as he loved, Gabriel gravely responded, + </p> + <p> + “Yes, ma’am, she is set upon it.” + </p> + <p> + Fanny Newt, who had seated herself with an air of utter and chronic + contempt and indifference, and who looked away from Gabriel the moment she + had spoken to him, now turned toward him again suddenly with an expression + like that of an animal which pricks up his ears. The keen fire of the old + days shot for a moment into her eyes, for it was the first word of + badinage or humor that Fanny Newt had heard for a long, long time. + </p> + <p> + “A woman who is such a fool as to marry ought to be unhappy,” + she replied, with her eyes fixed upon Gabriel. + </p> + <p> + “A man who persuades her to do it ought to be taken out and hung,” + answered he, with aphoristic gravity. + </p> + <p> + Fanny was perplexed. + </p> + <p> + “Better to be the slave of a parent than a husband,” she + continued. + </p> + <p> + “I’d lock him out,” retorted Gabriel, with pure + irrelevancy; “I’d scotch his sheets; I’d pour water in + his boots; I’d sift sand in his hair-brush; I’d spatter + vitriol on his shirts. A man who marries a woman deserves nothing better.” + </p> + <p> + He wagged his foot carelessly, took up one of the books upon the table, + and looked into it indifferently. Fanny Newt turned to her sister, who sat + smiling by her side. + </p> + <p> + “What is the matter with this man?” asked Mrs. Alfred Dinks, + audibly, of May. + </p> + <p> + “There is a pregnant text, my dear Mrs. Dinks, <i>née</i> Newt, a + name which I delight to pronounce,” said Gabriel, striking in before + May could reply, with the lightest tone and the soberest face in the + world, “which instructs us to answer a fool according to his folly.” + </p> + <p> + Fanny was really confounded. She had heard Abel in old days speak of + Gabriel Bennet as a spooney—a saint in the milk—a goodsey, + boodsey, booby—a sort of youth who would turn pale and be snuffed + out by one of her glances. She found him incomprehensible. She owed him + the first positive emotion of human interest she had known for years. + </p> + <p> + May Newt looked and listened without speaking. The soft light glimmered in + her eyes, for she knew what it all meant. It meant precisely what her + praises of Little Malacca meant. It meant that she and Gabriel loved each + other. + </p> + <p> + The junior partner was still holding the book when a heavy step was heard + in the entry. Fanny’s eyes grew darker and the frown deeper. There + was a blundering movement outside—a hat fell—a cane struck + something—and Gabriel knew as perfectly as if he could look through + the wall what kind of man was coming. The door opened with a burst, and + Mr. Alfred Dinks stopped as his eye fell upon the company. A heavy, + coarse, red-faced, dull-eyed man, with an air of brutish obstinacy in + every lineament and movement, he stared for a moment without a word or + sign of welcome, and then looking at his wife, said, in a grunting, surly + tone, + </p> + <p> + “Look here; don’t be fooling round. The old man’s bust + up!” + </p> + <p> + He banged the door violently to, and they heard his clumsy footsteps + creaking up the stairs. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0060" id="link2HCH0060"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LX. — POLITICS. + </h2> + <p> + “In course; I sez to ma—why, Lord bless me, it must have been + three or four years ago—that ‘twould all turn out so. What’s + rotten will come to pieces, ma, sez I. Every year she sez to me, sez she, + why ain’t the Newts failed yet? as you said they was going to. Jest + you be quiet, sez I, ma, it’s comin’. So ‘twas. I know’d + all about it.” + </p> + <p> + President Van Boozenberg thus unburdened his mind and justified his + vaticinations to the knot of gentlemen who were perpetually at the bank. + They listened, and said ah! and yes, and shook their heads; and the shaky + ones wondered whether the astute financier had marked them and had said to + ma, sez he, that for all they looked so bright and crowded canvas so + smartly, they are shaky, ma—shaky. + </p> + <p> + General Belch heard the news at his office. He was sitting on the end of + his back-bone, which was supported on the two hind legs of a wooden chair, + while the two fore legs and his own were lifted in the air. His own, + however, went up at a more precipitate angle and rested with the feet + apart upon the mantle. By a skillful muscular process the General ejected + tobacco juice from his mouth, between his legs, and usually lodged it in + the grate before him. It was evident, however, that many of his friends + had not been so successful, for the grate, the hearth, and the neighboring + floor were spotted with the fluid. + </p> + <p> + The Honorable Mr. Ele was engaged in conversation with his friend Belch, + who was giving him instructions for the next Congressional session. + </p> + <p> + “You see, Ele, if we could only send something of the right stamp—the + right stamp, I say, in the place of Watkins Bodley from the third + district, we should be all right. Bodley is very uncertain.” + </p> + <p> + “I know,” returned the Honorable Mr. Ele, “Bodley is not + sound. He has not the true party feeling. He is not willing to make + sacrifices. And yet I think that—that—perhaps—” + </p> + <p> + He looked at General Belch inquiringly. That gentleman turned, beamed + approval, and squirted a copious cascade. + </p> + <p> + “Exactly,” said Mr. Ele, “I was saying that I think if + Mr. Bodkins, who is a perfectly honorable man—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, perfectly; nothing against his character. Besides, it’s a + free country, and every body may have his opinions,” said General + Belch. + </p> + <p> + “Precisely,” resumed Mr. Ele, “as I was saying; being a + perfectly honorable man—in fact, unusually honorable, I happen to + know that he is in trouble—ahem! ahem! pecuniary trouble.” + </p> + <p> + He paused a moment, while his friend of the military title looked hard at + the grate, as if selecting a fair mark, then made a clucking noise, and + drenched it completely. He then said, musingly, + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes—ah yes—I see. It is a great pity. The best men + get into such trouble. How much money did you say he wanted?” + </p> + <p> + “I said he was in pecuniary trouble,” returned Mr. Ele, with a + slight tone of correction. + </p> + <p> + “I understand, Mr. Ele,” answered the other, a little + pompously, and with an air of saying, “Know your place, Sir.” + </p> + <p> + “I understand, and I wish to know how large a sum would relieve Mr. + Bodley from his immediate pressure.” + </p> + <p> + “I think about eight or nine thousand dollars. Perhaps a thousand + more.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose,” said General Belch, slowly, still looking into + the blank, dismal grate, and rubbing his fat nose steadily with his fat + forefinger and thumb, “I suppose that a man situated as Mr. Bodley + is finds it very detrimental to his business to be engaged in public life, + and might possibly feel it to be his duty to his family and creditors to + resign his place, if he saw a promising way of righting his business, + without depending upon the chances of a Congressional career.” + </p> + <p> + As he drew to the end of this hypothetical harangue General Belch looked + sideways at his companion to see if he probably understood him. + </p> + <p> + The Honorable Mr. Ele shook his head in turn, looked solemnly into the + empty grate, and said, slowly and with gravity: + </p> + <p> + “The supposition might be entertained for the sake of the argument.” + </p> + <p> + The General was apparently satisfied with this reply, for he continued: + </p> + <p> + “Let us, then, suppose that a sum of eight or nine thousand dollars + having been raised—and Mr. Bodley having resigned—that a new + candidate is to be selected who shall—who shall, in fact, serve his + country from our point of view, who ought the man to be?” + </p> + <p> + “Precisely; who ought the man to be?” replied Mr. Ele. + </p> + <p> + The two gentlemen looked gravely into the grate. General Belch squirted + reflectively. The Honorable Mr. Ele raised his hand and shaded his eyes, + and gazed steadfastly, as if he expected to see the candidate emerge from + the chimney. While they still sat thoughtfully a knock was heard at the + door. The General started and brought down his chair with a crash. Mr. Ele + turned sharply round, as if the candidate had taken him by surprise in + coming in by the door. + </p> + <p> + A boy handed General Belch a note: + </p> + <p> + “MY DEAR BELCH,—B. Newt, Son, & Co. have stopped. We do + not hear of an assignment, so desire you to take steps at once to secure + judgment upon the inclosed account. + </p> + <p> + “Yours, PERIWING & BUDDBY.” + </p> + <p> + “Hallo!” said General Belch, as the messenger retired, “old + Newt’s smashed! However, it’s a great while since he has done + any thing for the party.—By Jove!” + </p> + <p> + The last exclamation was sudden, as if he had been struck by a happy + thought. He took a fresh quid in his mouth, and, putting his hands upon + his knees, sat silently for five minutes, and then said, + </p> + <p> + “I have the man!” + </p> + <p> + “You have the man?” said Ele, looking at him with interest. + </p> + <p> + “Certainly. Look here!” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Ele did look, as earnestly as if he expected the General to take the + man out of his pocket. + </p> + <p> + “You know we want to get the grant, at any rate. If we only have men + who see from our point of view, we are sure of it. I think I know a man + who can be persuaded to look at the matter from that point—a man who + may be of very great service to the party, if we can persuade him to see + from our point of view.” + </p> + <p> + “Who is that?” asked Mr. Ele. + </p> + <p> + “Abel Newt,” replied General Belch. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Ele seemed somewhat surprised. + </p> + <p> + “Oh—yes—ah—indeed. I did not know he was in + political life,” said he. + </p> + <p> + “He isn’t,” returned General Belch. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Ele looked for further instructions. + </p> + <p> + “Every body must begin,” said Belch. “Look here. If we + don’t get this grant from Congress, what on earth is the use of + having worked so long in this devilish old harness of politics? Haven’t + we been to primary meetings, and conventions, and elections, and all the + other tomfoolery, speechifying and plotting and setting things right, and + being bled, by Jupiter!—bled to the tune of more hundreds than I + mean to lose; and now, just as we are where a bold push will save every + thing, and make it worth while to have worked in the nasty mill so long, + we must have our wits about us. Do you know Abel Newt?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “I do. He is a gentleman without the slightest squeamishness. He is + perfectly able to see things from particular points of view. He has great + knowledge of the world, and he is a friend of the people, Sir. His + politics are of the right kind,” said General Belch, in a tone which + seemed to be setting the tune for any future remarks Mr. Ele might have to + make about Mr. Newt—at public meetings, for instance, or elsewhere. + </p> + <p> + “I am glad to hear he is a friend of the people,” returned Mr. + Ele. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Sir, he is the consistent enemy of a purse-proud aristocracy, + Sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Exactly; purse-proud aristocracy,” repeated Mr. Ele, as if + conning a lesson by rote. + </p> + <p> + “Dandled in the lap of luxury, he does not hesitate to descend from + it to espouse the immortal cause of popular rights.” + </p> + <p> + “Popular rights,” returned the Honorable Mr. Ele, studying his + lesson. + </p> + <p> + “Animated by a glowing patriotism, he stands upon the people, and + waves above his head the glorious flag of our country.” + </p> + <p> + “Glorious flag of our country,” responded the other. + </p> + <p> + “The undaunted enemy of monopoly, he is equally the foe of class + legislation and the friend of State rights.” + </p> + <p> + “Friend of State rights.” + </p> + <p> + “Ahem!” said General Belch, looking blankly at Mr. Ele, + “where was I?” + </p> + <p> + “Friend of State rights,” parroted Mr. Ele. + </p> + <p> + “Exactly; oh yes! And if ever the glorious fabric of our country’s—our + country’s—our country’s—d—— it! our + country’s what, Mr. Ele?” + </p> + <p> + That honorable gentleman was engaged with his own thoughts while he + followed with his tongue the words of his friend, so that, perhaps a + little maliciously, perhaps a little unconsciously, he went on in the same + wooden tone of repetition. + </p> + <p> + “D—— it! Our country’s what, Mr. Ele?” + </p> + <p> + General Belch looked at his companion. They both smiled. + </p> + <p> + “How the old phrases sort o’ slip out, don’t they?” + asked the General, squirting. + </p> + <p> + “They do,” said Mr. Ele, taking snuff. + </p> + <p> + “Well, now, don’t you see what kind of man Abel Newt is?” + </p> + <p> + “I do, indeed,” replied Ele. + </p> + <p> + “I tell you, if you fellows from the city don’t look out for + yourselves, you’ll find him riding upon your shoulders. He is a + smart fellow. I am very sorry for Watkins Bodley. Any family?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—a good deal,” replied Mr. Ele, vaguely. + </p> + <p> + “Ah indeed! Pity! pity! I suppose, then, that a proper sense of what + he owes to his family—eh?” + </p> + <p> + “Without question. Oh! certainly.” + </p> + <p> + General Belch rose. + </p> + <p> + “I do not see, then, that we have any thing else that ought to + detain you. I will see Mr. Newt, and let you know. Good-morning, Mr. Ele—good-morning, + my dear Sir.” + </p> + <p> + And the General bowed out the representative so imperatively that the + Honorable B. Jawley Ele felt very much as if he had been kicked down + stairs. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0061" id="link2HCH0061"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LXI. — GONE TO PROTEST. + </h2> + <p> + There was an unnatural silence and order in the store of Boniface Newt, + Son, & Co. The long linen covers were left upon the goods. The cases + were closed. The boys sat listlessly and wonderingly about. The porter lay + upon a bale reading a newspaper. There was a sombre regularity and repose, + like that of a house in which a corpse lies, upon the morning of the + funeral. + </p> + <p> + Boniface Newt sat in his office haggard and gray. His face, like his + daughter Fanny’s, had grown sharp, and almost fierce. The blinds + were closed, and the room was darkened. His port-folio lay before him upon + the desk, open. The paper was smooth and white, and the newly-mended pens + lay carefully by the inkstand. But the merchant did not write. He had not + written that day. His white, bony hand rested upon the port-folio, and the + long fingers drummed upon it at intervals, while his eyes half-vacantly + wandered out into the store and saw the long shrouds drawn over the goods. + Occasionally a slight sigh of weariness escaped him. But he did not seem + to care to distract his mind from its gloomy intentness; for the morning + paper lay beside him unopened, although it was afternoon. + </p> + <p> + In the outer office the book-keeper was still at work. He looked from book + to book, holding the leaves and letting them fall carefully—comparing, + computing, writing in the huge volumes, and filing various papers away. + Sometimes, while he yet held the leaves in his hands and the pen in his + mouth, with the appearance of the utmost abstraction in his task, his eyes + wandered in to the inner office, and dimly saw his employer sitting silent + and listless at his desk. For many years he had been Boniface Newt’s + clerk; for many years he had been a still, faithful, hard-worked servant. + He had two holidays, besides the Sundays—New Year’s Day and + the Fourth of July. The rest of the year he was in the office by nine in + the morning, and did not leave before six at night. During the time he had + been quietly writing in those great red books he had married a wife and + seen the roses fade in her cheeks—he had had children grow-up around + him—fill his evening home and his Sunday hours with light—marry, + one after another, until his home had become as it was before a child was + born to him, and then gradually grow bright and musical again with the + eyes and voices of another generation. Glad to earn his little salary, + which was only enough for decency of living, free from envy and ambition, + he was bound by a kind of feudal tenure to his employer. + </p> + <p> + As he looked at the merchant and observed his hopeless listlessness, he + thought of his age, his family, and of the frightful secrets hidden in the + huge books that were every night locked carefully into the iron safe, as + if they were written all over with beautiful romances instead of terrible + truths—and the eyes of the patient plodder were so blurred that he + could not see, and turning his head that no one might observe him, he + winked until he could see again. + </p> + <p> + A young man entered the store hastily. The porter dropped the paper and + sprang up; the boys came expectantly forward. Even the book-keeper stopped + to watch the new-comer as he came rapidly toward the office. Only the head + of the house sat unconcernedly at his desk—his long, pale, bony + fingers drumming on the port-folio—his hard eyes looking out at the + messenger. + </p> + <p> + “This way,” said the book-keeper, suddenly, as he saw that he + was going toward Mr. Newt’s room. + </p> + <p> + “I want Mr. Newt.” + </p> + <p> + “Which one?” + </p> + <p> + “The young one, Mr. Abel Newt.” + </p> + <p> + “He is not here.” + </p> + <p> + “Where is he?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know.” + </p> + <p> + Before the book-keeper was aware the young man had opened the door that + communicated with Mr. Newt’s room. The haggard face under the gray + hair turned slowly toward the messenger. There was something in the + sitting figure that made the youth lift his hand and remove his cap, and + say, in a low, respectful voice, + </p> + <p> + “Can you tell me, Sir, where to find Mr. Abel Newt?” + </p> + <p> + The long, pale, bony fingers still listlessly drummed. The hard eyes + rested upon the questioner for a few moments; then, without any evidence + of interest, the old man answered simply, “No,” and looked + away as if he had forgotten the stranger’s presence. + </p> + <p> + “Here’s a note for him from General Belch.” + </p> + <p> + The gray head beckoned mechanically toward the other room, as if all + business were to be transacted there; and the young man bowing again, with + a vague sense of awe, went in to the outer office and handed the note to + the book-keeper. + </p> + <p> + It was very short and simple, as Abel found when he read it: + </p> + <p> + “MY DEAR SIR,—I have just heard of your misfortunes. Don’t + be dismayed. In the shindy of life every body must have his head broken + two or three times, and in our country ‘tis a man’s duty to + fall on his feet. Such men as Abel Newt are not made to fail. I want to + see you immediately. + </p> + <p> + “Yours very truly, + </p> + <h3> + “ARCULARIUS BELCH.” + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0062" id="link2HCH0062"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LXII. — THE CRASH, UP TOWN. + </h2> + <p> + The moment Mrs. Dagon heard the dismal news of Boniface Newt’s + failure she came running round to see his wife. The house was as solemnly + still as the store and office down town. Mrs. Dagon looked in at the + parlor, which was darkened by closed blinds and shades drawn over the + windows, and in which all the furniture was set as for a funeral, except + that the chilly chintz covers were not removed. + </p> + <p> + She found Mrs. Nancy Newt in her chamber with May. + </p> + <p> + “Well, well! What does this mean? It’s all nothing. Don’t + you be alarmed. What’s failing? It doesn’t mean any thing; and + I really hope, now that he has actually failed and done with it, Boniface + will be a little more cheerful and liberal. Those parlor curtains are + positively too bad! Boniface ought to have plenty of time to himself; and + I hope he will give more of those little dinners, and cheer himself up! + How is he?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Newt was dissolved in tears. She shook her head weakly, and rubbed + her hands. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! Aunt Dagon, it’s dreadful to see him. He don’t seem + himself. He does nothing but sit at the table and drum with his fingers; + and in the night he lies awake, thinking. And, oh dear!” she said, + giving way to a sudden burst of grief, “he doesn’t scold at + any thing.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Dagon listened and reflected. + </p> + <p> + “My dear,” she asked, “has he settled any thing upon + you?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing,” replied Mrs. Newt. + </p> + <p> + “Aunt Dagon,” said May, who sat by, looking at the old lady, + “we are now poor people. We shall sell this house, and go and live + in a small way out of sight.” + </p> + <p> + “Fiddle, diddle! my dear,” returned Mrs. Dagon, warmly; + “you’ll do no such thing. Poor people, indeed! Why, May, you + know nothing about these things. Failing, failing; why, my dear, that’s + nothing. A New York merchant expects to fail, just as an English lord + expects to have the gout. It isn’t exactly a pleasant thing, but it’s + extremely respectable. Every body fails. It’s understood.” + </p> + <p> + “What’s understood?” asked May. + </p> + <p> + “Why, that business is a kind of game, and that every body runs for + luck. Oh, I know all about it, my dear! It’s all a string of cards—as + Colonel Burr used to say; and I think if any body knew the world he did—it’s + all a string of blocks. B trusts A, C trusts B, D trusts C, and so on. A + tumbles over, and down go B, and C, and D. That’s the whole of it, + my dear. Colonel Burr used to say that his rule was to keep himself just + out of reach of any other block. If they knock me over, my dear Miss + Bunley, he once said to me—ah! May, what a voice he said it in, what + an eye!—if they knock me over, I shall be so busy picking myself up + that I shall be forced to be selfish, and can’t help them, so I had + better keep away, and then I can be of some service. That was Colonel Burr’s + principle. He declared it was the only way in which you could be sure of + helping others. People talk about Colonel Burr. My dear, Colonel Burr was + a man who minded his own business.” + </p> + <p> + May Newt held her tongue. She felt instinctively that a woman of + sixty-five, who had been trained by Colonel Burr, was not very likely to + accept the opinions of a girl of her years. Mrs. Newt was feebly rocking + herself during the conversation between her daughter and aunt; and when + they had finished said, despairingly, + </p> + <p> + “Dear me! what will people say? Oh! I can’t go and live poor. + I’m not used to it. I don’t know how.” + </p> + <p> + “Live poor!” sniffed Mrs. Dagon; “of course you won’t + live poor. I’ve heard Boniface say often enough that it was too bad, + but it was a world of good-for-nothing people; and you don’t think + he’s going to let good-for-nothing people drive him from a becoming + style of living? Fiddle! I’d like to see him undertake to live poor.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think people will come to see us?” gasped Mrs. Newt. + </p> + <p> + “Come? Of course they will. They’ll all rush, the first thing, + to see how you take it. Why, such a thing as this is a godsend to ‘em. + They’ll have something to talk about for a week. And they’ll + all try to discover if you mean to sell out at auction. Oh, they will be + <i>so</i> sorry!” said the old lady, imitating imaginary callers; + “‘and, my dear Mrs. Newt, what <i>are</i> you going to do? And + to think of your being obliged to leave this lovely house!’ Come?—did + you ever know the vultures not to come to a carcass?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Nancy Newt looked appalled; and so energetic was Mrs. Dagon in her + allusion to vultures and carcass, that her niece unconsciously put to her + nose the smelling-bottle she held in her hand. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, it’s dreadful!” she sighed, rocking and smelling, + and with the tears oozing from her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Fiddle! I won’t hear of it. ‘Tain’t dreadful. It’s + nothing at all. You must go out with me and make calls this very morning. + It’s none of your business. If your husband chooses to fail, let him + fail. He can’t expect you to take to making shirts, and to give up + society. I shall call at twelve in the carriage; and, mind, don’t + you look red and mopy. Remember. So, good-morning! And, May, I want to + speak to you.” + </p> + <p> + They left Mrs. Newt rocking and weeping, with the smelling-bottle at her + nose, and descended to the solemn parlor. + </p> + <p> + “What brought this about?” asked Mrs. Dagon, as she closed the + door. “Your mother is in such a state that it does no good to talk + to her. Where’s Abel?” + </p> + <p> + “Aunt Dagon, I have my own opinion, but I know nothing. I suppose + Abel is down town.” + </p> + <p> + “What’s your opinion?” + </p> + <p> + May paused for a moment, and then said: + </p> + <p> + “From what I have heard drop from father during the last few years + since Abel has been in the business, I don’t believe that Abel has + helped him—” + </p> + <p> + “Exactly,” interrupted Mrs. Dagon, as if soliloquizing; + “and why on earth didn’t the fellow marry Hope Wayne, or that + Southern girl, Grace Plumer?” + </p> + <p> + “Abel marry Hope Wayne?” asked May, with an air and tone of + such utter amazement and incredulity that Aunt Dagon immediately recovered + from her abstraction, and half smiled. + </p> + <p> + “Why, why not?” said she, with equal simplicity. + </p> + <p> + May Newt knew Hope Wayne personally, and she had also heard of her from + Gabriel Bennet. Indeed, Gabriel had no secrets from May. The whole school + story of his love had been told to her, and she shared the young man’s + feeling for the woman who, as a girl, had so utterly enthralled his + imagination. But Gabriel’s story of school life also included her + brother Abel, and what she heard of the boy agreed with what she knew and + felt of the man. + </p> + <p> + “I presume,” said May Newt, loftily, “that Hope Wayne + would be as likely to marry Aaron Burr as Abel Newt.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Dagon looked at her kindly, and with amused admiration. + </p> + <p> + “Well, May, at any rate I congratulate Gabriel Bennet.” + </p> + <p> + May’s lofty look drooped. + </p> + <p> + “And if”—continued Mrs. Dagon—“if it was so + wonderfully impossible that Abel should marry Hope Wayne, why might he not + have married Grace Plumer, or some other rich girl? I’m sure I don’t + care who. It was evidently the only thing for <i>him</i>, whatever it may + be for other people. When you are of my age, May, you will rate things + differently. Well-bred men and women in society ought to be able to marry + any body. Society isn’t heaven, and it’s silly to behave as if + it were. Your romance is very pretty, dear; we all have it when we are + young, as we have the measles and the whooping-cough. But we get robust + constitutions, my dear,” said the old lady, smiling kindly, “when + we have been through all that business. When you and Gabriel have half a + dozen children, and your girls grow up to be married, you’ll + understand all about it. I suppose you know about Mellish Whitloe and + Laura Magot, don’t you, dear?” + </p> + <p> + May shook her head negatively. + </p> + <p> + “Well, they are people who were wise early. Just after they were + married he said to her, ‘Laura, I see that you are fond of this new + dance which is coming in; you like to waltz.’ ‘Yes, I do,’ + said she. ‘Well, I don’t like it, and I don’t want you + to waltz.’ She pouted and cried, and called him a tyrant. He hummed + Yankee Doodle. ‘I <i>will</i> waltz,’ said she at length. + ‘Very well, my dear,’ he answered. ‘I’ll make a + bargain with you. If you waltz, I’ll get drunk.’ You see it + works perfectly. They respect each other, and each does as the other + wishes. I hope you’ll be as wise with Gabriel, my dear.” + </p> + <p> + “Aunt, I hope I shall never be as old as you are,” said May, + quietly. “I’d rather die.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Dagon laughed her laugh. “That’s right, dear, stand by + your colors. You’re all safe. Gabriel is Lawrence’s partner. + You can afford to be romantic, dear.” + </p> + <p> + As she spoke the door opened, and Abel entered. His dress was disordered, + his face was flushed, and his manner excited. He ran up to May and kissed + her. She recoiled from the unaccustomed caress, and both she and Mrs. + Dagon perceived in his appearance and manner, as well as in the odor which + presently filled the room, that Abel was intoxicated. + </p> + <p> + “May, darling,” he began in a maudlin tone, “how’s + our dear mother?” + </p> + <p> + “She’s pretty well,” replied May, “but you had + better not go up and see her.” + </p> + <p> + “No, darling, I won’t go if you say not.” + </p> + <p> + His eyes then fell uncertainly upon Mrs. Dagon, and he added, thickly, + </p> + <p> + “That’s only Aunt Dagon. How do, Aunt Dagon?” + </p> + <p> + He smiled at her and at May, and continued, + </p> + <p> + “I don’t mind Aunt Dagon. Do you mind her, May?” + </p> + <p> + “What do you want, Abel?” asked May, with the old expression + sliding into her eyes that used to be there when she sat alone—a + fairy princess in her tower, and thought of many things. + </p> + <p> + Abel had seated himself upon the sofa, with his hat still on his head. + There was perhaps something in May’s tone that alarmed him, for he + began to shed tears. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! May, don’t you love your poor Abel?” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him without speaking. At length she said, “Where have + you been?” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve been to General Belch’s,” he sobbed, in + reply; “and I don’t mind Aunt Dagon, if you don’t.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean by that, you silly fool?” asked Mrs. Dagon, + sharply. + </p> + <p> + Abel stopped and looked half angry, for a moment, but immediately fell + into the old strain. + </p> + <p> + “I mean I’d just as lieve say it before her.” + </p> + <p> + “Then say it,” said May. + </p> + <p> + “Well, May, darling, couldn’t you now just coax Gabriel—good + fellow, Gabriel—used to know him and love him at school—couldn’t + you coax him to get Uncle Lawrence to do something?” + </p> + <p> + May shook her head. Abel began to snivel. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t mean for the house. D——n it, that’s + gone to smash. I mean for myself. May, for your poor brother Abel. You + might just try.” + </p> + <p> + He lay back and looked at her ruefully. + </p> + <p> + “Aunt Dagon,” she said, quietly, “we had better go out + of the room. Abel, don’t you come up stairs while you are in this + state. I know all that Uncle Lawrence has done for father and you, and he + will do nothing more. Do you expect him to pay your gambling debts?” + she asked, indignantly. + </p> + <p> + Abel raised himself fiercely, while the bad blackness filled his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “D——d old hunks!” he shouted. + </p> + <p> + But nobody heard. Mrs. Dagon and May Newt had closed the door, and Abel + was left alone. + </p> + <p> + “It’s no use,” he said, moodily and aloud, but still + thickly. “I can’t help it. I shall have to do just as Belch + wishes. But he must help me. If he expects me to serve him, he must serve + me. He says he can—buy off—Bodley—and then—why, + then—devil take it!” he said, vacantly, with heavy eyes, + “then—then—oh yes!” He smiled a maudlin smile. + “Oh yes! I shall be a great—a great—great—man—I’ll + be—rep—rep—sentive—ofs—ofs—dear pe—pe.” + </p> + <p> + His head fell like a lump upon the cushion of the sofa, and he breathed + heavily, until the solemn, dark, formal parlor smelled like a bar-room. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0063" id="link2HCH0063"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LXIII. — ENDYMION. + </h2> + <p> + Lawrence Newt had told Aunt Martha that he preferred to hear from a young + woman’s own lips that she loved him. Was he suspicious of the truth + of Aunt Martha’s assertion? + </p> + <p> + When the Burt will was read, and Fanny Dinks had hissed her envy and + chagrin, she had done more than she would willingly have done: she had + said that all the world knew he was in love with Hope Wayne. If all the + world knew it, then surely Amy Waring did; “and if she did, was it + so strange,” he thought, “that she should have said what she + did to me?” + </p> + <p> + He thought often of these things. But one of the days when he sat in his + office, and the junior partner was engaged in writing the letters which + formerly Lawrence wrote, the question slid into his mind as brightly, but + as softly and benignantly, as daylight into the sky. + </p> + <p> + “Does it follow that she does not love me? If she did love me, but + thought that I loved Hope Wayne, would she not hide it from me in every + way—not only to save her own pride, but in order not to give me + pain?” + </p> + <p> + So secret and reticent was he, that as he thought this he was nervously + anxious lest the junior partner should happen to look up and read it all + in his eyes. + </p> + <p> + Lawrence Newt rose and stood at the window, with his back to Gabriel, for + his thoughts grew many and strange. + </p> + <p> + As he came down that morning he had stopped at Hope Wayne’s, and + they had talked for a long time. Gabriel had told his partner of his visit + to Mrs. Fanny Dinks, and Lawrence had mentioned it to Hope Wayne. The + young woman listened intently. + </p> + <p> + “You don’t think I ought to increase the allowance?” she + asked. + </p> + <p> + “Why should you?” he replied. “Alfred’s father + still allows him the six hundred, and Alfred has promised solemnly that he + will never mention to his wife the thousand you allow him. I don’t + think he will, because he is afraid she would stop it in some way. As it + is, she knows nothing more than that six hundred dollars seems to go a + very great way. Your income is large; but I think a thousand dollars for + the support of two utterly useless people is quite as much as you are + called upon to pay, although one of them is your cousin, and the other my + niece.” + </p> + <p> + They went on to talk of many things. In all she showed the same calm + candor and tenderness. In all he showed the same humorous quaintness and + good sense. Lawrence Newt observed that these interviews were becoming + longer and longer, although the affairs to arrange really became fewer. He + could not discover that there was any particular reason for it; and yet he + became uncomfortable in the degree that he was conscious of it. + </p> + <p> + When the Round Table met, it was evident from the conversation between + Hope Wayne and Lawrence Newt that he was very often at her house; and + sometimes, whenever they all appeared to be conscious that each one was + thinking of that fact, the cloud of constraint settled more heavily, but + just as impalpably as before, over the little circle. It was not removed + by the conviction which Amy Waring and Arthur Merlin entertained, that at + all such times Hope Wayne was trying not to show that she was peculiarly + excited by this consciousness. + </p> + <p> + And she was excited by it. She knew that the interviews were longer and + longer, and that there was less reason than ever for any interviews + whatsoever. But when Lawrence Newt was talking to her—when he was + looking at her—when he was moving about the room—she was + happier than she had ever been—happier than she had supposed she + could ever be. When he went, that day was done. Nor did another dawn until + he came again. + </p> + <p> + Perhaps Hope Wayne understood the meaning of that mysterious constraint + which now so often enveloped the Round Table. + </p> + <p> + As for Arthur Merlin, the poor fellow did what all poor fellows do. So + long as it was uncertain whether she loved him or not, he was willing to + say nothing. But when he was perfectly sure that there was no hope for + him, he resolved to speak. + </p> + <p> + In vain his Aunt Winnifred had tried to cheer him. Ever since the morning + when he had told her in his studio the lovely legend of Latmos he could + not persuade himself that he had not unwittingly told his own story. Aunt + Winnifred showered the choicest tracts about his room. She said with a + sigh that she was sure he had experienced no change of heart; and Arthur + replied, with a melancholy smile, “Not the slightest.” + </p> + <p> + The kind old lady was sorely puzzled. It did not occur to her that her + Arthur could be the victim of an unfortunate attachment, like the + love-lorn heroes of whom she had read in the evil days when she read + novels. It did not occur to her, because she could as easily have supposed + a rose-tree to resist June as any woman her splendid Arthur. + </p> + <p> + If some gossip to whom she sighed and shook her head, and wondered what + could possibly ail Arthur—who still ate his dinner heartily, and had + as many orders for portraits as he cared to fulfill—suggested that + there was a woman in the case, good Aunt Winnifred smiled bland + incredulity. + </p> + <p> + “Dear Mrs. Toxer, I should like to see that woman!” + </p> + <p> + Then she plied her knitting-needles nimbly, sighed, scratched her head + with a needle, counted her stitches, and said, + </p> + <p> + “Sometimes I can’t but hope that it is concern of mind, + without his knowing it.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Toxer also knitted, and scratched, and counted. + </p> + <p> + “No, ma’am; much more likely concern of heart with a full + consciousness of it. One, two, three—bless my soul! I’m always + dropping a stitch.” + </p> + <p> + Aunt Winnifred, who never dropped stitches, smiled pleasantly, and + answered, + </p> + <p> + “Yes, indeed, and this time you have dropped a very great one.” + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile Arthur’s great picture advanced rapidly. Diana, who had + looked only like a portrait of Hope Wayne looking out of a cloud, was now + more fully completed. She was still bending from the clouds indeed, but + there was more and more human softness in the face every time he touched + it. And lo! he had found at last Endymion. He lay upon a grassy knoll. + Long whispering tufts sighed around his head, which rested upon the very + summit of the mountain. There were no trees, no rocks. There was nothing + but the sleeping figure with the shepherd’s crook by his side upon + the mountain top, all lying bare to the sky and to the eyes that looked + from the cloud, and from which all the moonlight of the picture fell. + </p> + <p> + When Lawrence Newt came into the studio one morning, Arthur, who worked in + secret upon his picture and never showed it, asked him if he would like to + look at it. The merchant said yes, and seated himself comfortably in a + large chair, while the artist brought the canvas from an inner room and + placed it before him. As he did so, Arthur stepped a little aside, and + watched him closely. + </p> + <p> + Lawrence Newt gazed for a long time and silently at the picture. As he did + so, his face rapidly donned its armor of inscrutability, and Arthur’s + eyes attacked it in vain. Diana was clearly Hope Wayne. That he had seen + from the beginning. But Endymion was as clearly Lawrence Newt! He looked + steadily without turning his eyes, and after many minutes he said, + quietly, + </p> + <p> + “It is beautiful. It is triumphant. Endymion is a trifle too old, + perhaps. But Diana’s face is so noble, and her glance so tenderly + earnest, that it would surely rouse him if he were not dead.” + </p> + <p> + “Dead!” returned Arthur; “why you know he is only + sleeping.” + </p> + <p> + “No, no,” said Lawrence, gently, “dead; utterly dead—to + her. If he were not, it would be simply impossible not to awake and love + her. Who’s that old gentleman on the wall over there?” + </p> + <p> + Lawrence Newt asked the same question of all the portraits so persistently + that Arthur could not return to his Diana. When he had satisfied his + curiosity—a curiosity which he had never shown before—the + merchant rose and said good-by. + </p> + <p> + “Stop, stop!” + </p> + <p> + Lawrence Newt turned, with his hand upon the door. + </p> + <p> + “You like my picture—” + </p> + <p> + “Immensely. But if she looks forever she’ll never waken him. + Poor Endymion! he’s dead to all that heavenly splendor.” + </p> + <p> + He was about closing the door. + </p> + <p> + “Hallo!” cried Arthur. + </p> + <p> + Lawrence Newt put his head into the room. + </p> + <p> + “It’s fortunate that he’s dead!” said the painter. + </p> + <p> + “Why so?” + </p> + <p> + “Because goddesses never marry.” + </p> + <p> + Lawrence Newt’s head disappeared. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0064" id="link2HCH0064"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LXIV. — DIANA. + </h2> + <p> + “Good-morning, Miss Hope.” + </p> + <p> + “Good-morning, Mr. Merlin.” + </p> + <p> + He bowed and seated himself, and the conversation seemed to have + terminated. Hope Wayne was embroidering. The moment she perceived that + there was silence she found it very hard to break it. + </p> + <p> + “Are you busy now?” said she. + </p> + <p> + “Very busy.” + </p> + <p> + “As long as men and women are vain, so long your profession will + flourish, I suppose,” she replied, lifting her eyes and smiling. + </p> + <p> + “I like it because it tells the truth,” replied Arthur, + crushing his hat. + </p> + <p> + “It omitted Alexander’s wry neck,” said Hope. + </p> + <p> + “It put in Cromwell’s pimple,” answered Arthur. + </p> + <p> + They both smiled. + </p> + <p> + “However, that is not the kind of truth I mean—I mean poetic + truth. Michael Angelo’s Last Judgment shows the whole Catholic + Church.” + </p> + <p> + Hope Wayne felt relieved, and looked interested. She did not feel so much + afraid of the silence, now that Arthur seemed entering upon a + disquisition. But he stopped and said, + </p> + <p> + “I’ve painted a picture.” + </p> + <p> + “Full of poetic truth, I suppose,” rejoined Hope, still + smiling. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve come to ask you to go and see that for yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “Now?” + </p> + <p> + “Now.” + </p> + <p> + She laid aside her embroidery, and in a little while they had reached his + studio. As Hope Wayne entered she was impressed by the spaciousness of the + room, the chastened light, and the coruscations of rich color hanging upon + the walls. + </p> + <p> + “It’s like the garden of the Hesperides,” she said, + gayly—“such mellow shadows, and such gorgeous colors, like + those of celestial fruits. I don’t wonder you paint poetic truth.” + </p> + <p> + Arthur Merlin smiled. + </p> + <p> + “Now you shall judge,” said he. + </p> + <p> + Hope Wayne seated herself in the chair where Lawrence Newt had been + sitting not two hours before, and settled herself to enjoy the spectacle + she anticipated; for she had a secret faith in Arthur’s genius, and + she meant to purchase this great work of poetic truth at her own + valuation. Arthur placed the picture upon the easel and drew the curtain + from it, stepping aside as before to watch her face. + </p> + <p> + The airy smile upon Hope Wayne’s face faded instantly. The blood + rushed to her hair. But she did not turn her eyes, nor say a word. The + moment she felt she could trust her voice, she asked, gravely, without + looking at Arthur, + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” + </p> + <p> + “It is Diana and Endymion,” replied the painter. + </p> + <p> + She looked at it for a long time, half-closing her eyes, which clung to + the face of Endymion. + </p> + <p> + “I have not made Diana tender enough,” thought Arthur, + mournfully, as he watched her. + </p> + <p> + “How soundly he sleeps!” said Hope Wayne, at length, as if she + had been really trying to wake him. + </p> + <p> + “You think he merely sleeps?” asked Arthur. + </p> + <p> + “Certainly; why not?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! I thought so too. But Lawrence Newt, who sat two hours ago just + where you are sitting, said, as he looked at the picture, that Endymion + was dead.” + </p> + <p> + Hope Wayne put her finger to her lip, and looked inquiringly at her + companion. + </p> + <p> + “Dead! Did he say dead?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Dead,” repeated Arthur Merlin. + </p> + <p> + “I thought Endymion only slept,” continued Hope Wayne; “but + Mr. Newt is a judge of pictures—he knows.” + </p> + <p> + “He certainly spoke as if he knew,” persisted the painter, + recklessly, as he saw and felt the usual calmness return to his companion. + “He said that if Endymion were not dead he couldn’t resist + such splendor of beauty.” + </p> + <p> + As Arthur Merlin spoke he looked directly into Hope Wayne’s face, as + if he were speaking of her. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Newt’s judgment seems to be better than his memory,” + said she, pleasantly. + </p> + <p> + “How?” + </p> + <p> + “He forgets that Endymion <i>did</i> awake. He has not allowed time + enough for the effect of Diana’s eyes. Now I am sure,” she + said, shaking her finger at the picture, “I am sure that that silly + shepherd will not sleep there forever. Never fear, he will wake up. Diana + never looks or loves for nothing.” + </p> + <p> + “It will do no good if he does,” insisted Arthur, ruefully, as + if he were sure that Hope Wayne understood that he was speaking in + parables. + </p> + <p> + “Why?” she asked, as she rose, still looking at the picture. + </p> + <p> + “Because goddesses never marry.” + </p> + <p> + He looked into her eyes with so much meaning, and the “do they?” + which he did not utter, was so perfectly expressed by his tone, that Hope + Wayne, as she moved slowly toward the door, looking at the pictures on the + wall as she passed, said, with her eyes upon the pictures, and not upon + the painter, + </p> + <p> + “Do you know the moral of that remark of yours?” + </p> + <p> + “Moral? Heaven forbid! I don’t make moral remarks,” + replied Arthur. + </p> + <p> + “This time you have done it,” she said, smiling; “you + have made a remark with a moral. I’m going, and I leave it with you + as a legacy. The moral is, If goddesses never marry, don’t fall in + love with a goddess.” + </p> + <p> + She put out her hand to him as she spoke. He involuntarily took it, and + they shook hands warmly. + </p> + <p> + “Good-morning, Mr. Merlin,” she said. “Remember the + Round Table to-morrow evening.” + </p> + <p> + She was gone, and Arthur Merlin sank into the chair she had just left. + </p> + <p> + “Oh Heavens!” said he, “did she understand or not?” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0065" id="link2HCH0065"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LXV. — THE WILL OF THE PEOPLE. + </h2> + <p> + General Belch’s office was in the lower part of Nassau Street. At + the outer door there was a modest slip of a tin sign, “Arcularius + Belch, Attorney and Counselor.” The room itself was dingy and + forlorn. There was no carpet on the floor; the windows were very dirty, + and slats were broken out of the blinds—the chairs did not match—there + was a wooden book-case, with a few fat law-books lounging upon the + shelves; the table was a chaos of pamphlets, printed forms, newspapers, + and files of letters, with a huge inkstand, inky pens, and a great wooden + sand-box. Upon each side of the chimney, the grate in which was piled with + crushed pieces of waste paper, and the bars of which were discolored with + tobacco juice, stood two large spittoons, the only unsoiled articles in + the office. + </p> + <p> + This was the place in which General Belch did business. It had the + atmosphere of Law. But, above all, it was the spot where, with one leg + swinging over the edge of the table and one hand waving in earnest + gesticulation, General Belch could say to every body who came, and + especially to his poorer fellow-citizens, “I ask no office; I am + content with my moderate practice. It is enough for me, in this glorious + country, to be a friend of the people.” + </p> + <p> + As he said this—or only implied it in saying something else—the + broken slats, the dirty windows, the uncarpeted floor, the universal + untidiness, whispered in the mind of the hearer, “Amen!” + </p> + <p> + His residence, however, somewhat atoned for the discomfort of his office. + Not unfrequently he entertained his friends sumptuously; and whenever any + of the representatives of his party, who acted in Congress as his private + agents, had succeeded—as on one occasion, already commemorated, the + Hon. Mr. Ele had—in putting a finer edge upon a favorite axe, + General Belch entertained a select circle who agreed with him in his + political philosophy, and were particular friends of the people and of the + popular institutions of their country. + </p> + <p> + Abel Newt, in response to the General’s note, had already called at + that gentleman’s office, and had received overtures from him, who + offered him Mr. Bodley’s seat in Congress, upon condition that he + was able to see things from particular points of view. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Watkins Bodley, it seems,” said General Belch, “and + I regret to say it, is in straitened pecuniary circumstances. I understand + he will feel that he owes it to his family to resign before the next + session. There will be a vacancy; and I am glad to say that the party is + just now in a happy state of harmony, and that my influence will secure + your nomination. But come up to-night and talk it over. I have asked Ele + and Slugby, and a few others—friends of course—and I hope Mr. + Bat will drop in. You know Aquila Bat?” + </p> + <p> + “By reputation,” replied Abel. + </p> + <p> + “He is a very quiet man, but very shrewd. He gives great dignity and + weight to the party. A tremendous lawyer Bat is. I suppose he is at the + very head of the profession in this country. You’ll come?” + </p> + <p> + Abel was most happy to accept. He was happy to go any where for + distraction. For the rooms in Grand Street had become inconceivably + gloomy. There were no more little parties there: the last one was given in + honor of Mrs. Sligo Moultrie—before her marriage. The elegant youth + of the town gradually fell off from frequenting Abel’s rooms, for he + always proposed cards, and the stakes were enormous; which was a + depressing circumstance to young gentlemen who mainly depended upon the + paternal purse. Such young gentlemen as Zephyr Wetherley, who was for a + long time devoted to young Mrs. Mellish Whitloe, and sent her the + loveliest fans, and buttons, and little trinkets, which he selected at + Marquand’s. But when the year came round the bill was inclosed to + Mr. Wetherley, senior, who, after a short and warm interview with his son + Zephyr, inclosed it in turn to Whitloe himself; who smiled, and paid it, + and advised his wife to buy her own jewelry in future. + </p> + <p> + It was not pleasant for young Wetherley, and his friends in a similar + situation, to sit down to a night at cards with such a desperate player as + Abel Newt. Besides, his rooms had lost that air of voluptuous elegance + which was formerly so unique. The furniture was worn out, and not + replaced. The decanters and bottles were no longer kept in a pretty + side-board, but stood boldly out, ready for instant service; and whenever + one of the old set of men happened in, he was very likely to find a + gentleman—whose toilet was suspiciously fine, whose gold looked like + gilt—who made himself entirely at home with Abel and his rooms, and + whose conversation indicated that his familiar haunts were race-courses, + bar-rooms, and gambling-houses. + </p> + <p> + It was unanimously decreed that Abel Newt had lost tone. His dress was + gradually becoming flashy. Younger sisters, who had heard their elders—who + were married now—speak of the fascinating Mr. Newt, perceived that + the fascinating Mr. Newt was a little too familiar when he flirted, and + that his breath was offensive with spirituous fumes. He was noisy in the + gentlemen’s dressing-room. The stories he told there were of such a + character, and he told them so loudly, that more than once some husband, + whose wife was in the neighboring room, had remonstrated with him. Sligo + Moultrie, during one of the winters that he passed in the city after his + marriage, had a fierce quarrel with Abel for that very reason. They would + have come to blows but that their friends parted them. Mr. Moultrie sent a + friend with a note the following morning, and Mr. Newt acknowledged that + he had been rude. + </p> + <p> + In the evening, at General Belch’s, Abel was presented to all the + guests. Mr. Ele was happy to remember a previous occasion upon which he + had had the honor, etc. Mr. Enos Slugby (Chairman of our Ward Committee, + whispered Belch, audibly, as he introduced him) was very glad to know a + gentleman who bore so distinguished a name. Every body had a little + compliment, to which Abel bowed and smiled politely, while he observed + that the residence was much more comfortable than the office of General + Belch. + </p> + <p> + They went into the dining-room and sat down to what Mr. Slugby called + “a Champagne supper.” They ate birds and oysters, and drank + wine. Then they ate jellies, blanc mange, and ice-cream. Then they ate + nuts and fruit, and drank coffee. Then every thing was removed, and fresh + decanters, fresh glasses, and a box of cigars were placed upon the table, + and the servants were told that they need not come until summoned. + </p> + <p> + At this point a dry, grave, thin, little old man opened the door. General + Belch rose and rushed forward. + </p> + <p> + “My dear Mr. Bat, I am very happy. Sit here, Sir. Gentlemen, you all + know Mr. Bat.” + </p> + <p> + The company was silent for a moment, and bowed. Abel looked up and saw a + man who seemed to be made of parchment, and his complexion, of the hue of + dried apples, suggested that he was usually kept in a warm green satchel. + </p> + <p> + After a little more murmuring of talk around the table, General Belch + said, in a louder voice, + </p> + <p> + “Gentlemen, we have a new friend among us, and a little business to + settle to-night. Suppose we talk it over.” + </p> + <p> + There was a general filling of glasses and a hum of assent. + </p> + <p> + “I learn,” said the General, whiffing the smoke from his + mouth, “that our worthy friend and able representative, Watkins + Bodley, is about resigning, in consequence of private embarrassments. Of + course he must have a successor.” + </p> + <p> + Every body poured out smoke and looked at the speaker, except Mr. Bat, who + seemed to be undergoing a little more drying up, and looked at a picture + of General Jackson, which hung upon the wall. + </p> + <p> + “That successor, I need not say, of course,” continued General + Belch, “must be a good man and a faithful adherent of the party. He + must be the consistent enemy of a purse-proud aristocracy.” + </p> + <p> + “He must, indeed,” said Mr. Enos Slugby, whisking a little of + the ash from his cigar off an embroidered shirt-bosom, in doing which the + flash from a diamond ring upon his finger dazzled Abel, who had turned as + he spoke. + </p> + <p> + “He must espouse the immortal cause of popular rights, and be + willing to spend and be spent for the people.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s it,” said Mr. William Condor, whose sinecure + under government was not worth less than twenty thousand a year. + </p> + <p> + “He must always uphold the honor of the glorious flag of our + country.” + </p> + <p> + “Excuse me, General Belch, but I can not control my feelings; I must + propose three cheers,” interrupted Alderman MacDennis O’Rourke; + and the three cheers were heartily given. + </p> + <p> + “And this candidate must be equally the foe of class legislation and + the friend of State rights.” + </p> + <p> + Here Mr. Bat moved his head, as if he were assenting to a remark of his + friend General Jackson. + </p> + <p> + “And I surely need not add that it would be the first and most + sacred point of honor with this candidate to serve his party in every + thing, to be the unswerving advocate of all its measures, and implicitly + obedient to all its behests,” said General Belch. + </p> + <p> + “Which behests are to be learned by him from the authorized leaders + of the party,” said Mr. Enos Slugby. + </p> + <p> + “Certainly,” said half of the gentlemen. + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” said the other half. + </p> + <p> + During the remarks that General Belch had been making his eyes were fixed + upon Abel Newt, who understood that this was a political examination, in + which the questions asked included the answers that were to be given. When + the General had ended, the company sat intently smoking for some time, and + filling and emptying their glasses. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Bat,” said General Belch, “what is your view?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Bat removed his eyes from General Jackson’s portrait, and + cleared his throat. + </p> + <p> + “I think,” he said, closing his eyes, and rubbing his fingers + along his eyebrows, “that the party holding to the only + constitutional policy is to be supported at all hazards, and I think the + great party to which we belong is that party. Our principles are all true, + and our measures are all just. Speculative persons and dreamers talk about + independent political action. But politics always beget parties. + Governments are always managed by parties, and parties are always managed + by—” + </p> + <p> + The dried-apple complexion at this point assumed an ashy hue, as if + something very indiscreet had been almost uttered. Mr. Bat’s eyes + opened and saw Abel’s fixed upon him with a peculiar intelligence. + The whole party looked a little alarmed at Mr. Bat, and apprehensively at + the new-comer. Mr. Ele frowned at General Belch, + </p> + <p> + “What does he mean?” + </p> + <p> + But Abel relieved the embarrassment by quietly completing Mr. Bat’s + sentence— + </p> + <p> + —“by the managers.” + </p> + <p> + His black eyes glittered around the table, and Mr. Ele remembered a remark + of General Belch’s about Mr. Newt’s riding upon the shoulders + of his fellow-laborers. + </p> + <p> + “Exactly, by the managers,” said every body. + </p> + <p> + “And now,” said General Belch, cheerfully, “whom had we + better propose to our fellow-citizens as a proper candidate for their + suffrages to succeed the Honorable Mr. Bodley?” + </p> + <p> + He leaned back and puffed. Mr. Ele, who had had a little previous + conversation with the host, here rose and said, that, if he might venture, + he would say, although it was an entirely unpremeditated thing, which had, + in fact, only struck him while he had been sitting at that hospitable + board, but had impressed him so forcibly that he could not resist speaking—if + he might venture, he would say that he knew a most able and highly + accomplished gentleman—in fact, it had occurred to him that there + was then present a gentleman who would be precisely the man whom they + might present to the people as a candidate suitable in every way. + </p> + <p> + General Belch looked at Abel, and said, “Mr. Ele, whom do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “I refer to Mr. Abel Newt,” responded the Honorable Mr. Ele. + </p> + <p> + The company looked as companies which have been prepared for a surprise + always look when the surprise comes. + </p> + <p> + “Is Mr. Newt sound in the faith?” asked Mr. William Condor, + smiling. + </p> + <p> + “I answer for him,” replied Mr. Ele. + </p> + <p> + “For instance, Mr. Newt,” said Mr. Enos Slugby, who was + interested in General Belch’s little plans, “you have no doubt + that Congress ought to pass the grant to purchase the land for Fort + Arnold, which has been offered to it by the company of which our friend + General Belch is counsel?” + </p> + <p> + “None at all,” replied Abel. “I should work for it as + hard as I could.” + </p> + <p> + This was not unnatural, because General Belch had promised him an interest + in the sale. + </p> + <p> + “Really, then,” said Mr. William Condor, who was also a + proprietor, “I do not see that a better candidate could possibly be + offered to our fellow-citizens. The General Committee meet to-morrow + night. They will call the primaries, and the Convention will meet next + week. I think we all understand each other. We know the best men in our + districts to go to the Convention. The thing seems to me to be very plain.” + </p> + <p> + “Very,” said the others, smoking. + </p> + <p> + “Shall it be Abel Newt?” said Mr. Condor. + </p> + <p> + “Ay!” answered the chorus. + </p> + <p> + “I propose the health of the Honorable Abel Newt, whom I cordially + welcome as a colleague,” said Mr. Ele. + </p> + <p> + Bumpers were drained. It was past midnight, and the gentlemen rose. They + came to Abel and shook his hand; then they swarmed into the hall and put + on their hats and coats. + </p> + <p> + “Stay, Newt,” whispered Belch, and Abel lingered. + </p> + <p> + The Honorable B.J. Ele also lingered, as if he would like to be the last + out of the house; for although this distinguished statesman did not care + to do otherwise than as General Belch commanded, he was anxious to be the + General’s chief butler, while the remark about riding on his + companions’ shoulders and the personal impression Abel had made upon + him, had seriously alarmed him. + </p> + <p> + While he was busily looking at the portrait of General Jackson, General + Belch stepped up to him and put out his hand. + </p> + <p> + “Good-night, my dear Ele! Thank you! thank you! These things will + not be forgotten. Good-night! good-night!” And he backed the + Honorable B. Jawley Ele out of the room into the hall. + </p> + <p> + “This is your coat, I think,” said he, taking up a garment and + helping Mr. Ele to get it on. “Ah, you luxurious dog! you’re a + pretty friend of the people, with such a splendid coat as this. + Good-night! good-night!” he added, helping his guest toward the + door. + </p> + <p> + “Hallo, Condor!” he shouted up the street. “Here’s + Ele—don’t leave him behind; wait for him!” + </p> + <p> + He put him put of the door. “There, my dear fellow, Condor’s + waiting for you! Good-night! Ten thousand thanks! A pretty friend of the + people, hey? Oh, you cunning dog! Good-night!” + </p> + <p> + General Belch closed the door and returned to the drawing-room. Abel Newt + was sitting with one leg over the back of the chair, and a tumbler of + brandy before him, smoking. + </p> + <p> + “God!” said Abel, laughing, as the General returned, “I + wouldn’t treat a dog as you do that man.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear Mr. Representative,” returned Belch, “you, as a + legislator and public man, ought to know that Order is Heaven’s + first law.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0066" id="link2HCH0066"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LXVI. — MENTOR AND TELEMACHUS. + </h2> + <p> + Drawing his chair near to Abel’s, General Belch lighted a cigar, and + said: + </p> + <p> + “You see it’s not so very hard.” + </p> + <p> + Abel looked inquiringly. + </p> + <p> + “To go to Congress,” answered Belch. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but I’m not elected yet, thank you.” + </p> + <p> + General Arcularius Belch blew a long, slow cloud, and gazed at his + companion with a kind of fond superiority. + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean by looking so?” asked Abel. + </p> + <p> + “My dear Newt, I was not aware that you had such a soft spot. No, + positively, I did not know that you had so much to learn. It is + inconceivable.” + </p> + <p> + The General smiled, and smoked, and looked blandly at his companion. + </p> + <p> + “You’re not elected yet, hey?” asked the General, with + an amused laugh. + </p> + <p> + “Not that I am aware of,” said Abel. + </p> + <p> + “Why, my dear fellow, who on earth do you suppose does the electing?” + </p> + <p> + “I thought the people were the source of power,” replied Abel, + gravely. + </p> + <p> + The General looked for a moment doubtfully at his companion. + </p> + <p> + “Hallo! I see you’re gumming. However, there’s one + thing. You know you’ll have to speak after the election. Did you + ever speak?” + </p> + <p> + “Not since school,” replied Abel. + </p> + <p> + “Well, you know the cue. I gave it to you to-night. The next thing + is, how strong can you come down?” + </p> + <p> + “You know I’ve failed.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course you have. That’s the reason the boys will expect + you to be very liberal.” + </p> + <p> + “How much?” inquired Abel. + </p> + <p> + “Let me see. There’ll be the printing, halls, lights, ballots, + advertisements—Well, I should say a thousand dollars, and a thousand + more for extras. Say two thousand for the election, and a thousand for the + committee.” + </p> + <p> + “Devil! that’s rather strong!” replied Abel. + </p> + <p> + “Not at all,” said General Belch. “Your going to + Washington secures the grant, and the grant nets you at least three + thousand dollars upon every share. It’s a good thing, and very + liberal at that price. By-the-by, don’t forget that you’re a + party man of another sort. You do the dancing business, and flirting—” + </p> + <p> + “Pish!” cried Abel; “milk for babes!” + </p> + <p> + “Exactly. And you’re going to a place that swarms with babes. + So give ‘em milk. Work the men through their wives, and mistresses, + and daughters. It isn’t much understood yet; but it is a great idea.” + </p> + <p> + “Why don’t you go to Congress?” asked Abel, suddenly. + </p> + <p> + “It isn’t for my interest,” answered the General. + “I make more by staying out.” + </p> + <p> + “How many members are there for Belch?” continued Abel. + </p> + <p> + The General did not quite like the question, nor the tone in which it was + asked. His fat nose glistened for a moment, while his mouth twisted into a + smile, and he answered, + </p> + <p> + “They’re only for Belch as far as Belch is for them—” + </p> + <p> + “Or as far as Belch makes them think he is,” answered Abel, + smiling. + </p> + <p> + The General smiled too, for he found the game going against him. + </p> + <p> + “We were speaking of your speech,” said he. “Now, Newt, + the thing’s in your own hands. You’ve a future before you. + With the drill of the party, and with your talents, you ought to do any + thing.” + </p> + <p> + “Too many rivals,” said Abel, curtly. + </p> + <p> + “My dear fellow, what are the odds? They can’t do any thing + outside the party, or without the drill. Make it their interest not to be + ambitious, and they’re quiet enough. Here’s William Condor—lovely, + lovely William. He loves the people so dearly that he does nothing for + them at twenty thousand dollars a year. Tell him that you will secure him + his place, and he’s your humble servant. Of course he is. Now I am + more familiar with the details of these things, and I’m always at + your service. Before you go, there will be a caucus of the friends of the + grant, which you must attend, and make a speech.” + </p> + <p> + “Another speech?” said Abel. + </p> + <p> + “My dear fellow, you are now a speech-maker by profession. Now that + you are in Congress, you will never be free from the oratorical liability. + Wherever two or three are gathered together, and you are one of them, you’ll + have to return thanks, and wave the glorious flag of our country. And you’ll + have to begin very soon.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0067" id="link2HCH0067"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LXVII. — WIRES. + </h2> + <p> + General Belch was right. Abel had to begin very soon. The committee met + and called the meetings. The members of the committee, each in his own + district, consulted with various people, whom they found generally at + corner groceries. They were large, coarse-featured, hulking men, and were + all named Jim, or Tom, or Ned. + </p> + <p> + “What’ll you have, Jim?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, Sir, it’s so early in the day, that I can’t go + any thing stronger than brandy.” + </p> + <p> + “Two cocktails—stiff,” was the word of the gentleman to + the bar-keeper. + </p> + <p> + The companions took their glasses, and sat down behind a heavy screen. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Sir, what’s the word? I see there’s going to be + more meetin’s.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Jim. Bodley has resigned.” + </p> + <p> + “Who’s the man, Mr. Slugby?” asked Jim, as if to bring + matters to a point. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Abel Newt has been mentioned,” replied the gentleman with + the diamond ring, which he had slipped into his waistcoat pocket before + the interview. + </p> + <p> + Jim cocked his eye at his glass, which was nearly empty. + </p> + <p> + “Here! another cocktail,” cried Mr. Slugby to the bar-tender. + </p> + <p> + “Son of old Newt that bust t’other day?” + </p> + <p> + “The same.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I s’pose it’s all right,” said Jim, as he + began his second tumbler. + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes; he’s all right. He understands things, and he’s + coming down rather strong. By-the-by, I’ve never paid you that ten + dollars.” + </p> + <p> + And Mr. Slugby pulled out a bill of that amount and handed it to Jim, who + received it as if he were pleased, but did not precisely recall any such + amount as owing to him. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose the boys will be thirsty,” said Mr. Enos Slugby. + </p> + <p> + “There never’s nothin’ to make a man thirsty ekal to a + ‘lection,” answered Jim, with his huge features grinning. + </p> + <p> + “Well, the fellows work well, and deserve it. Here, you needn’t + go out of your district, you know, and this will be enough.” He + handed more money to his companion. “Have ‘em up in time, and + don’t let them get high until after the election of delegates. It + was thought that perhaps Mr. Musher and I had better go to the Convention. + It’s just possible, Jim, that some of Bodley’s friends may + make trouble.” + </p> + <p> + “No fear, Mr. Slugby, we’ll take care of that. Who do you want + for chairman of the meeting?” answered Jim. + </p> + <p> + “Edward Gasserly is the best chairman. He understands things.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well, Sir, all right,” said Jim. + </p> + <p> + “Remember, Jim, Wednesday night, seven o’clock. You’ll + want thirty men to make every thing short and sure. Gasserly, chairman; + Musher and Slugby, delegates. And you needn’t say any thing about + Abel Newt, because that will all be settled in the Convention; and the + delegates of the people will express their will there as they choose. I’ll + write the names of the delegates on this.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Slugby tore off a piece of paper from a letter in his pocket, and + wrote the names. He handed the list, and, taking out his watch, said, + </p> + <p> + “Bless my soul, I’m engaged at eleven, and ‘tis quarter + past. Good-by, Jim, and if any thing goes wrong let me know.” + </p> + <p> + “Sartin, Sir,” replied Jim, and Mr. Slugby departed. + </p> + <p> + Mr. William Condor had a similar interview with Tom, and Mr. Ele took a + friendly glass with Ned. And other Mr. Slugbys, and Condors, and Eles, had + little interviews with other red-faced, trip-hammer-fisted Jims, Toms, and + Neds. These healths being duly drunk, the placards were posted. They were + headed with the inspiring words “Liberty and Equality,” with + cuts of symbolic temples and ships and lifted arms with hammers, and + summoned the legal voters to assemble in primary meetings and elect + delegates to a convention to nominate a representative. The Hon. Mr. + Bodley’s letter of resignation was subjoined: + </p> + <p> + “FELLOW-CITIZENS,—Deeply grateful for the honorable trust you + have so long confided to me, nothing but the imperative duty of attending + to my private affairs, seriously injured by my public occupations, would + induce me to resign it into your hands. But while his country may demand + much of every patriot, there is a point, which every honest man feels, at + which he may retire. I should be deeply grieved to take this step did I + not know how many abler representatives you can find in the ranks of that + constituency of which any man may be proud. I leave the halls of + legislation at a moment when our party is consolidated, when its promise + for the future was never more brilliant, and when peace and prosperity + seem to have taken up their permanent abode in our happy country, whose + triumphant experiment of popular institutions makes every despot shake + upon his throne. Gentlemen, in bidding you farewell I can only say that, + should the torch of the political incendiary ever be applied to the + sublime fabric of our system, and those institutions which were laid in + our father’s struggles and cemented with their blood, should totter + and crumble, I, for one, will be found going down with the ship, and + waving the glorious flag of our country above the smouldering ruins of + that moral night. + </p> + <p> + “I am, fellow-citizens, your obliged, faithful, and humble servant, + WATKINS BODLEY.” + </p> + <p> + In pursuance of the call the meetings were held. Jim, Tom, and Ned were + early on the ground in their respective districts, with about thirty + chosen friends. In Jim’s district Mr. Gasserly was elected chairman, + and Messrs. Musher and Slugby delegates to the Convention. Mr. Slugby, who + was present when the result was announced, said that it was extremely + inconvenient for him to go, but that he held it to be the duty of every + man to march at the call of the party. His private affairs would + undoubtedly suffer, but he held that every man’s private interest + must give way to the good of his party. He could say the same thing for + his friend, Mr. Musher, who was not present. But he should say to Musher—Musher, + the people want us to go, and go we must. With the most respectful + gratitude he accepted the appointment for himself and Musher. + </p> + <p> + This brisk little off-hand speech was received with great favor. + Immediately upon its conclusion Jim moved an adjournment, which was + unanimously carried, and Jim led the way to a neighboring corner, where he + expended a reasonable proportion of the money which Slugby had given him. + </p> + <p> + A few evenings afterward the Convention met. Mr. Slugby was appointed + President, and Mr. William Condor Secretary. The Honorable B.J. Ele + presented a series of resolutions, which were eloquently advocated by + General Arcularius Belch. At the conclusion of his speech the Honorable A. + Bat made a speech, which the daily <i>Flag of the Country</i> the next + morning called “a dry disquisition about things in general,” + but which the <i>Evening Banner of the Union</i> declared to be “one + of his most statesmanlike efforts.” + </p> + <p> + After these speeches the Convention proceeded to the ballot, when it was + found that nine-tenths of all the votes cast were for Abel Newt, Esquire. + </p> + <p> + General Belch rose, and in an enthusiastic manner moved that the + nomination be declared unanimous. It was carried with acclamation. Mr. + Musher proposed an adjournment, to meet at the polls. The vote was + unanimous. Mr. Enos Slugby rose, and called for three cheers for “the + Honorable Abel Newt, our next talented and able representative in + Congress.” The Convention rose and roared. + </p> + <p> + “Members of the Convention who wish to call upon the candidate will + fall into line!” shouted Mr. Condor; then leading the way, and + followed by the members, he went down stairs into the street. A band of + music was at hand, by some thoughtful care, and, following the beat of + drums and clangor of brass, the Convention marched toward Grand Street. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0068" id="link2HCH0068"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LXVIII. — THE INDUSTRIOUS APPRENTICE. + </h2> + <p> + Good news fly fast. On the wings of the newspapers the nomination of Abel + Newt reached Delafield, where Mr. Savory Gray still moulded the youthful + mind. He and his boys sat at dinner. + </p> + <p> + “Fish! fish! I like fish,” said Mr. Gray. “Don’t + you like fish, Farthingale?” + </p> + <p> + Farthingale was a new boy, who blushed, and said, promptly, + </p> + <p> + “Oh! yes, Sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you like fish, Mark Blanding? Your brother Gyles used + to,” asked Mr. Gray. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Sir,” replied that youth, slowly, and with a certain + expression in his eye, “I suppose I do.” + </p> + <p> + “All boys who are in favor of having fish dinner on Fridays will + hold up their right hands,” said Mr. Gray. He looked eagerly round + the table. “Come, come! up, up, up!” said he, good-naturedly. + </p> + <p> + “That’s it. Mrs. Gray, fish on Fridays.” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Gray,” said Mark Blanding. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Mark?” + </p> + <p> + “Ain’t fish cheaper than meat?” + </p> + <p> + “Mark, I am ashamed of you. Go to bed this instant.” + </p> + <p> + Mark was unjust, for Uncle Savory had no thought of indulging his purse, + but only his palate. + </p> + <p> + When the criminal was gone Mr. Gray drew a paper from his pocket, and + said, + </p> + <p> + “Boys, attend! In this paper, which is a New York paper, there is an + account of the nomination of a member of Congress—a member of + Congress, boys,” he repeated, slowly, dwelling upon the words to + impress their due importance. “What do you think his name is? Who do + you suppose it is who is nominated for Congress?” + </p> + <p> + He waited a moment, but the boys, not having the least idea, were silent. + </p> + <p> + “Well, it is Abel Newt, who used to sit at this very table. Abel + Newt, one of Mr. Gray’s boys.” + </p> + <p> + He waited another moment, to allow the overwhelming announcement to have + its due effect, while the scholars all looked at him, holding their knives + and forks. + </p> + <p> + “And there is not one of you, who, if he be a good boy, may not + arrive at the same eminence. Think, boys, any one of you, if you are good, + may one day get nominated to Congress, as the Honorable Mr. Newt is, who + was once a scholar here, just like you. Hurrah for Mr. Gray’s boys! + Now eat your dinners.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0069" id="link2HCH0069"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LXIX. — IN AND OUT. + </h2> + <p> + “And Boniface Newt has failed,” said Mr. Bennet to his wife, + in a low voice. + </p> + <p> + He was shading his eyes with his hand, and his wife was peacefully sewing + beside him. + </p> + <p> + She made no reply, but her face became serious, then changed to an + expression in which, from under his hands, for her husband’s eyes + were not weak, her husband saw the faintest glimmering of triumph. But + Mrs. Bennet did not raise her eyes from her work. + </p> + <p> + “Lucia!” He spoke so earnestly that his wife involuntarily + started. + </p> + <p> + “My dear,” she replied, looking at him with a tear in her eye, + “it is only natural.” + </p> + <p> + Her husband said nothing, but shook his slippered foot, and his neck sunk + a little lower in his limp, white cravat. They were alone in the little + parlor, with only the portrait on the wall for company, and only the roses + in the glass upon the table, that were never wanting, and always showed a + certain elegance of taste in arrangement and care which made the daughter + of the house seem to be present though she might be away. + </p> + <p> + “What a beautiful night!” said Mr. Bennet at last, as his eyes + lingered upon the window through which he saw the soft illumination of the + full moonlight. + </p> + <p> + His wife looked for a moment with him, and answered, “Beautiful!” + </p> + <p> + “How lovely those roses are, and how sweet they smell!” he + said, after another interval of silence, and as if there were a change in + the pleasant dreams he was dreaming. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she replied, and looked at him and smiled, and, + smiling, sewed on. + </p> + <p> + “Where is Ellen to-night?” he asked, after a little pause. + </p> + <p> + “She is walking in this beautiful moonlight.” + </p> + <p> + “All alone?” he inquired, with a smile. + </p> + <p> + “No! with Edward.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! with Edward.” And there was evidently another turn in the + pleasant dream. + </p> + <p> + “And Gabriel—where is Gabriel?” asked he, still shaking + the slippered foot. + </p> + <p> + His wife smoothed her work, and said, with an air of tranquil happiness, + </p> + <p> + “I suppose he is walking too.” + </p> + <p> + “All alone?” + </p> + <p> + “No, with May.” + </p> + <p> + Involuntarily, as she said it, she laid her work in her lap, as if her + mind would follow undisturbed the happy figures of her children. She + looked abstractedly at the window, as if she saw them both, the manly + candor of her Gabriel, and the calm sweetness of May Newt—the loyal + heart of her blue-eyed Ellen clinging to Edward Wynne. Down the windings + of her reverie they went, roses in their cheeks and faith in their hearts. + Down and down, farther and farther, closer and closer, while the springing + step grew staid, and the rose bloom slowly faded. Farther and farther down + her dream, and gray glistened in the brown hair and the black and gold, + but the roses bloomed around them in younger cheeks, and the brown hair + and the black and gold were as glossy and abundant upon those younger + heads, and still their arms were twined and their eyes were linked, as if + their hearts had grown together, each pair into one. Farther and farther—still + with clustering younger faces—still with ever softer light in the + air falling upon the older forms, grown reverend, until—until—had + they faded in that light, or was she only blinded by her tears? + </p> + <p> + For there were tears in her eyes—eyes that glistened with happiness—and + there was a hand in hers, and as she looked at her husband she knew that + their hands had clasped each other because they saw the same sweet vision. + </p> + <p> + He looked at his wife, and said, + </p> + <p> + “Could I have been the rich man I one day hoped to be—the + great merchant I longed to be, when I asked you to marry me—I could + have owned nothing—no diamond—so dear to me as that very tear + in your eye. I wanted to be rich—I felt as if I had cheated you, in + being so poor and unsuccessful—you, who were bred so differently. + For your sake I wanted to be rich.” He spoke with a stronger, fuller + voice. “Yes, and when Laura Magot broke my engagement with her + because of my first failure, I resolved that she should see me one of the + merchant princes she idolized, and that my wife should be envied by her as + being the wife of a richer man than Boniface Newt. Darling, you know how I + struggled for it—you did not know the secret spur—and how I + failed. And I know who it was that made my failure my success, and who + taught a man who wanted to be rich how to be happy.” + </p> + <p> + While he spoke his wife’s arm had stolen tenderly around him. As he + finished, she said, gently, + </p> + <p> + “I am not such a saint, Gerald.” + </p> + <p> + “If you are not, I don’t believe in saints,” replied her + husband. + </p> + <p> + “No, I will prove it to you.” + </p> + <p> + “I defy you,” said Gerald, smiling. + </p> + <p> + “Listen! Why did you say Lucia in such a tone, a little while ago?” + asked his wife. + </p> + <p> + Gerald Bennet smiled with arch kindness. + </p> + <p> + “Shall I answer truly?” + </p> + <p> + “Under pain of displeasure.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” he began, slowly, “when I heard that Laura Magot’s + husband had failed, as I knew that Lucia Darro’s husband had once + been jilted by Laura Magot because he failed, I could not help wondering—now, + Lucia dear, how could I help wondering?—I wondered how Lucia Darro + would feel. Because—because—” + </p> + <p> + He made a full stop, and smiled. + </p> + <p> + “Because what?” asked his wife. + </p> + <p> + He lingered, and smiled. + </p> + <p> + “Because what?” persisted his wife, with mock gravity. + </p> + <p> + “Because Lucia Darro was a woman, and—well! I’ll make a + clean breast of it—and because, although a man and woman love each + other as long and dearly as Lucia Darro and her husband have and do, there + is still something in the woman that the man can not quite understand, and + upon which he is forever experimenting. So I was curious to hear, or + rather to see and feel, what your thoughts were; and, at the moment I + spoke, I thought I saw them, and I was surprised.” + </p> + <p> + “Exactly, Sir; and that surprise ought to have shown you that I was + no saint. Listen again, Sir. Lucia Darro’s husband was never jilted + by Laura Magot, for the impetuous and ambitious young man who was engaged + to that lady is an entirely different person from my husband. Do you hear, + Sir?” + </p> + <p> + “Precisely; and who made him so entirely different?” + </p> + <p> + “Hush, Sir! I’ve no time to hear such folly. I, too, am going + to make a clean breast of it, and confess that there was the least little + sense of—of—of—well, justice, in my mind, when I thought + that Laura Magot who jilted you, who were so unfortunate, and with whom + she might have been so happy—” + </p> + <p> + Gerald Bennet dissented, with smiles and shaking head. + </p> + <p> + “Hush, Sir! Any woman might have been. That she should have led such + a life with Boniface Newt, and have seen him ruined after all. Poor soul! + poor soul!” + </p> + <p> + “Which?” asked her husband. + </p> + <p> + “Both—both, Sir. I pity them both from my heart.” + </p> + <p> + “Thou womanest of women!” retorted her husband. “Art + thou, therefore, no saint because thou pitiest them?” + </p> + <p> + “No, no; but because it was not an unmixed pity.” + </p> + <p> + “At any rate, it is an unmixed goodness,” said her husband. + </p> + <p> + The restless glance, the glimmering uncertainty, had faded from his eyes. + He sat quietly on the sofa, swinging his foot, and with his head bent a + little to one side over the limp cravat. + </p> + <p> + “Gerald,” said his wife, “let us go out, and walk in the + moonlight too.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0070" id="link2HCH0070"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LXX. — THE REPRESENTATIVE OF THE PEOPLE. + </h2> + <p> + In a few moments they were sauntering along the street. It was full and + murmurous. The lights were bright in the shop windows, and the scuffling + of footsteps, more audible than during the day, when it is drowned by the + roar of carriage-wheels upon the pavement, had a friendly, social sound. + </p> + <p> + “Broadway is never so pleasant as in the early evening,” said + Mr. Bennet; “for then the rush of the day is over, and people move + with a leisurely air, as if they were enjoying themselves. What is that?” + </p> + <p> + They were going down the street, and saw lights, and heard music and a + crowd approaching. They came nearer; and Mr. Bennet and his wife turned + aside, and stood upon the steps of a dwelling-house. A band of music came + first, playing “Hail Columbia!” It was surrounded by a swarm + of men and boys, in the street and on the sidewalk, who shouted, and sang, + and ran; and it was followed by a file of gentlemen, marching in pairs. + Several of them carried torches, and occasionally, as they passed under a + house, they all looked up at the windows, and gave three cheers. + Sometimes, also, an individual in the throng shouted something which was + received with loud hi-hi’s and laughter. + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” asked Mrs. Bennet. + </p> + <p> + “This is a political procession, my dear. Look! they will not come + by us at all; they are turning into Grand Street, close by. I suppose they + are going to call upon some candidate. I never see any crowd of this kind + without thinking how simple and beautiful our institutions are. Do you + ever think of it, Lucia? What a majestic thing the popular will is!” + </p> + <p> + “Let’s hurry, and we may see something,” said his wife. + </p> + <p> + The throng had left Broadway, and had stopped in Grand Street under a + balcony in a handsome house. The music had stopped also, and all faces + were turned toward the balcony. Mr. Bennet and his wife stood at the + corner of Broadway. Suddenly a gentleman took off his hat and waved it + violently in the air, and a superb diamond-ring flashed in the torch-light + as he did so, while he shouted, + </p> + <p> + “Three cheers for Newt!” + </p> + <p> + There was a burst of huzzas from the crowd—the drums rolled—the + boys shrieked and snarled in the tone of various animals—the torches + waved—one excited man cried, “One more!”—there was + another stentorian yell, and roll, and wave—after which the band + played a short air. But the windows did not open. + </p> + <p> + “Newt! Newt! Newt!” shouted the crowd. The young gentleman + with the diamond-ring disappeared into the house, with several others. + </p> + <p> + “Why, Slugby, where the devil is he?” said one of them to + another, in a whisper, as they ran up the stairs. + </p> + <p> + “I’m sure I don’t know. Musher promised to have him + ready.” + </p> + <p> + “And I sent Ele up to get here before we did,” replied his + friend, in the same hurried whisper, his fat nose glistening in the + hall-light. + </p> + <p> + When they reached Mr. Newt’s room they found him lying upon a sofa, + while Musher and the Honorable B.J. Ele were trying to get him up. + </p> + <p> + “D——n it! stand up, can’t you?” cried Mr. + Ele. + </p> + <p> + “No, I can’t,” replied Abel, with a half-humorous + maudlin smile. + </p> + <p> + At the same moment the impetuous roar of the crowd in the street stole in + through the closed windows. + </p> + <p> + “Newt! Newt! Newt!” + </p> + <p> + “What in —— shall we do?” gasped Mr. Enos Slugby, + walking rapidly up and down the room. + </p> + <p> + “Who let him get drunk?” demanded General Belch, angrily. + </p> + <p> + Nobody answered. + </p> + <p> + “Newt! Newt! Newt!” surged in from the street. + </p> + <p> + “Thunder and devils, there’s nothing for it but to prop him up + on the balcony!” said General Belch. “Come now, heave to, + every body, and stick him on his pins.” + </p> + <p> + Abel looked sleepily round, with his eyes half closed and his under lip + hanging. + </p> + <p> + “‘Tain’t no use,” said he, thickly; “‘tain’t + no use.” + </p> + <p> + And he leered and laughed. + </p> + <p> + The perspiring and indignant politicians grasped him—Slugby and + William Condor under the arms, Belch on one side, and Ele ready to help + any where. They raised their friend to his feet, while his head rolled + slowly round from one side to the other, with a maudlin grin. + </p> + <p> + “‘Tain’t no use,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Indeed, when they had him fairly on his feet nothing further seemed to be + possible. They were all holding him and looking very angry, while they + heard the loud and imperative—“Newt! Newt! Newt!” + accompanied with unequivocal signs of impatience in an occasional stone or + chip that rattled against the blinds. + </p> + <p> + In the midst of it all the form of the drunken man slipped back upon the + sofa, and sitting there leaning on his hands, which rested on his knees, + and with his head heavily hanging forward, he lifted his forehead, and, + seeing the utterly discomfited group standing perplexed before him, he + said, with a foolish smile, + </p> + <p> + “Let’s all sit down.” + </p> + <p> + There was a moment of hopeless and helpless inaction. Then suddenly + General Belch laid his hands upon the sofa on which Abel was lying, and + moved it toward the window. + </p> + <p> + “Now,” cried he to the others, “open the blinds, and we’ll + make an end of it.” + </p> + <p> + Enos Slugby raised the window and obeyed. The crowd below, seeing the + opening blinds and the lights, shouted lustily. + </p> + <p> + “Now then,” cried the General, “boost him up a moment + and hold him forward. Heave ho! all together.” + </p> + <p> + They raised the inert body, and half-lifted, half-slid it forward upon the + narrow balcony. + </p> + <p> + “Here, Slugby, you prop him behind; and you, Ele and Condor, one on + each side. There! that’s it! Now we have him. I’ll speak to + the people.” + </p> + <p> + So saying, the General removed his hat and bowed very low to the crowd in + the street. There was a great shout, “Three cheers for Newt!” + and the three cheers rang loudly out. + </p> + <p> + “‘Tain’t Newt,” cried a sharp voice: “it’s + Belch.” + </p> + <p> + “Three cheers for Belch!” roared an enthusiastic somebody. + </p> + <p> + “D—— Belch,” cried the sharp voice. + </p> + <p> + “Hi! hi!” roared the chorus; while the torches waved and the + drums rolled once more. + </p> + <p> + During all this time General Arcularius Belch had been bowing profoundly + and grimacing in dumb show to the crowd, pointing at Abel Newt, who stood, + ingeniously supported, his real state greatly concealed by the friendly + night. + </p> + <p> + “Gentlemen!” cried Belch, in a piercing voice. + </p> + <p> + “H’st! h’st! Down, down! Silence,” in the crowd. + </p> + <p> + “Gentlemen, I am very sorry to have to inform you that our + distinguished fellow-citizen, Mr. Newt, to compliment whom you have + assembled this evening, is so severely unwell (oh! gum! from the + sharp-voiced skeptic below) that he is entirely unable to address you. But + so profoundly touched is he by your kindness in coming to compliment him + by this call, that he could not refuse to appear, though but for a moment, + to look the thanks he can not speak. At the earliest possible moment he + promises himself the pleasure of addressing you. Let me, in conclusion, + propose three cheers for our representative in the next Congress, the + Honorable Abel Newt. And now—” he whispered to his friends as + the shouts began, “now lug him in again.” + </p> + <p> + The crowd cheered, the Honorable Mr. Newt was lugged in, the windows were + closed, and General Belch and his friends withdrew. + </p> + <p> + “I tell you what it is,” said he, as they passed up the street + at a convenient distance behind the crowd, “Abel Newt is a man of + very great talent, but he must take care. By Jove! he must. He must + understand times and seasons. One thing can not be too often repeated,” + said he, earnestly, “if a man expects to succeed in political life + he must understand when not to be drunk.” + </p> + <p> + The merry company laughed, and went home with Mr. William Condor to crack + a bottle of Champagne. + </p> + <p> + Mr. and Mrs. Bennet had stood at the street corner during the few minutes + occupied by these events. When they heard the shouts for Newt they had + looked inquiringly at each other. But when the scene was closed, and the + cheers for the Honorable Abel Newt, our representative in Congress, had + died away, they stood for a few moments quite stupefied. + </p> + <p> + “What does it mean, Gerald?” asked his wife. “Is Abel + Newt in Congress?” + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t know it. I suppose he is only a candidate.” + </p> + <p> + He moved rapidly away, and his wife, who was not used to speed in his + walking, smiled quietly, and, could he have seen her eye, a little + mischievously. She said presently, + </p> + <p> + “Yes, our institutions are very simple and beautiful.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Bennet said nothing. But she relentlessly continued, + </p> + <p> + “What a majestic thing the election of Abel Newt by the popular will + will be!” + </p> + <p> + “My dear,” he answered, “don’t laugh until you + know that it <i>is</i> the popular will; and when you do know it, cry.” + </p> + <p> + They walked on silently for some little distance further, and then Gerald + Bennet turned toward St. John’s Square. His wife asked: + </p> + <p> + “Where are you going?” + </p> + <p> + “Can’t you guess?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; but we have never been there before.” + </p> + <p> + “Has he ever failed before?” + </p> + <p> + “No, you dear soul! and I am very glad we are going.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0071" id="link2HCH0071"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LXXI. — RICHES HAVE WINGS. + </h2> + <p> + They rang at the door of Boniface Newt. It was quite late in the evening, + and when they entered the parlor there were several persons sitting there. + </p> + <p> + “Why! father and mother!” exclaimed Gabriel, who was sitting + in a remote dim corner, and who instantly came forward, with May Newt + following him. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Newt rose and bowed a little stiffly, and said, in an excited voice, + that really she had no idea, but she was very happy indeed, she was sure, + and so was Mr. Newt. When she had tied her sentence in an inextricable + knot, she stopped and seated herself. + </p> + <p> + Boniface Newt rose slowly and gravely. He was bent like a very old man. + His eye was hard and dull, and his dry voice said: + </p> + <p> + “How do you do? I am happy to see you.” + </p> + <p> + Then he sat down again, while Lawrence went up and shook hands with the + new-comers. Boniface drummed slowly upon his knees with the long, bony + white fingers, and rocked to and fro mechanically, as he sat. + </p> + <p> + When Lawrence had ended his greetings there was a pause. Mrs. Newt seemed + to be painfully conscious of it. So did Mr. Bennet, whose eyes wandered + about the room, resting for a few instants upon Boniface, then sliding + toward his wife. Boniface himself seemed to be entirely unconscious of any + pause, or of any person, or of any thing, except some mysterious erratic + measure that he was beating with the bony fingers. + </p> + <p> + “It is a great while since we have met, Mrs. Newt,” said Mrs. + Bennet. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” returned Mrs. Nancy Newt, rapidly; “and now that + we are to be so very nearly related, it is really high time that we became + intimate.” + </p> + <p> + She looked, however, very far off from intimacy with the person she + addressed. + </p> + <p> + “I am glad our children are so happy, Mrs. Newt,” said Gerald + Bennet, in a tremulous voice, with his eyes glimmering. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I am glad Gabriel’s prospects are so good,” + returned Mrs. Newt. “I’ve no doubt he’ll be a very rich + man very soon.” + </p> + <p> + When she had spoken, Boniface Newt, still drumming, turned his face and + looked quietly at his wife. Nobody spoke. Gabriel only winced at what May’s + mother had said; and they all looked at Boniface. The old man gazed + fixedly at his wife as if he saw nobody else, and as if he were repeating + the words to which the bony fingers beat time. He said, in a cold, dry + voice, still beating time, + </p> + <p> + “Riches have wings! Riches have wings!” + </p> + <p> + “I’m sure, Boniface, I know that, if any body does,” + said his wife, pettishly, and in a half-whimpering voice. “I think + we’ve all learned that.” + </p> + <p> + “Riches have wings! Riches have wings!” he said, beating with + the bony fingers. + </p> + <p> + “Really, Boniface,” said his wife, with an air of offended + propriety, “I see no occasion for such pointed allusions to our + misfortunes. It is certainly in very bad taste.” + </p> + <p> + “Riches have wings! Riches have wings!” persisted her husband, + still gazing at her, and still beating time with the white bony fingers. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Newt’s whimpering broadened into crying. She sat weeping and + wiping her eyes, in the way which used to draw down a storm from her + husband. There was no storm now. Only the same placid stare—only the + same measured refrain. + </p> + <p> + “Riches have wings! Riches have wings!” + </p> + <p> + Lawrence Newt laid his hand gently on his brother’s arm. + </p> + <p> + “Boniface, you did your best. We all did what we thought best and + right.” + </p> + <p> + The old man turned his eyes from his wife and went on silently drumming, + looking at the wall. + </p> + <p> + “Nancy,” said Lawrence, “as Mr. and Mrs. Bennet are + about to be a part of the family, I see no reason for not saying to them + that provision is made for your husband’s support. His affairs are + as bad as they can be; but you and he shall not suffer. Of course you will + leave this house, and—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh dear! What will people say? Nobody’ll come to see us in a + small house. What will Mrs. Orry say?” interrupted Mrs. Newt. + </p> + <p> + “Let her say what she chooses, Nancy. What will honest people say to + whom your husband owes honest debts, if you don’t try to pay them?” + </p> + <p> + “They are not my debts, and I don’t see why I should suffer + for them,” said Mrs. Newt, vehemently, and crying. “When I + married him he said I should ride in my carriage; and if he’s been a + fool, why should I be a beggar?” + </p> + <p> + There was profound silence in the room. + </p> + <p> + “I think it’s very hard,” said she, querulously. + </p> + <p> + It was useless for Lawrence to argue. He saw it, and merely remarked, + </p> + <p> + “The house will be sold, and you’ll give up the carriage and + live as plainly as you can.” + </p> + <p> + “To think of coming to this!” burst out Mrs. Newt afresh. + </p> + <p> + But a noise was heard in the hall, and the door opened to admit Mr. and + Mrs. Alfred Dinks. + </p> + <p> + It was the first time they had entered her father’s house since her + marriage. May, who had been the last person Fanny had seen in her old + home, ran forward to greet her, and said, cheerfully, + </p> + <p> + “Welcome home, Fanny.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Dinks looked defiantly about the room. Her keen black eyes saw every + body, and involuntarily every body looked at her—except her father. + He seemed quite unconscious of any new-comers. Alfred’s heavy figure + dropped into a chair, whence his small eyes, grown sullen, stared stupidly + about. Mrs. Newt merely said, hurriedly, “Why Fanny!” and + looked, from the old habit of alarm and apprehension, at her husband, then + back again to her daughter. The silence gradually became oppressive, until + Fanny broke it by saying, in a dull tone, + </p> + <p> + “Oh! Uncle Lawrence.” + </p> + <p> + He simply bowed his head, as if it had been a greeting. Mr. Bennet’s + foot twitched rather than wagged, and his wife turned toward him, from + time to time, with a tender smile. Mrs. Newt, like one at a funeral, + presently began to weep afresh. + </p> + <p> + “Pleasant family party!” broke in the voice of Fanny, clear + and hard as her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Riches have wings! Riches have wings!” repeated the gray old + man, drumming with lean white fingers upon his knees. + </p> + <p> + “Will nobody tell me any thing?” said Fanny, looking sharply + round. “What’s going to be done? Are we all beggars?” + </p> + <p> + “Riches have wings! Riches have wings!” answered the stern + voice of the old man, whose eyes were still fixed upon the wall. + </p> + <p> + Fanny turned toward him half angrily, but her black eyes quailed before + the changed figure of her father. She recalled the loud, domineering, + dogmatic man, insisting, morning and night, that as soon as he was rich + enough he would be all that he wanted to be—the self-important, + patronizing, cold, and unsympathetic head of the family. Where was he? Who + was this that sat in the parlor, in his chair, no longer pompous and + fierce, but bowed, gray, drumming on his thin knees with lean white + fingers? + </p> + <p> + “Father!” exclaimed Fanny, involuntarily, and terrified. + </p> + <p> + The old man turned his head toward her. The calm, hard eyes looked into + hers. There was no expression of surprise, or indignation, or forgiveness—nothing + but a placid abstraction and vagueness. + </p> + <p> + “Father!” Fanny repeated, rising, and half moving toward him. + </p> + <p> + His head turned back again—his eyes looked at the wall—and she + heard only the words, “Riches have wings! Riches have wings!” + </p> + <p> + As Fanny sank back into her chair, pale and appalled, May took her hand + and began to talk with her in a low, murmuring tone. The others fell into + a fragmentary conversation, constantly recurring with their eyes to Mr. + Newt. The talk went on in broken whispers, and it was quite late in the + evening when a stumbling step advanced to the door, which was burst open, + and there stood Abel Newt, with his hat crushed, his clothes soiled, his + jaw hanging, and his eyes lifted in a drunken leer. + </p> + <p> + “How do?” he said, leaning against the door-frame and nodding + his head. + </p> + <p> + His mother, who had never before seen him in such a condition, glanced at + him, and uttered a frightened cry. Lawrence Newt and Gabriel rose, and, + going toward him, took his arms and tried to lead him out. Abel had no + kindly feeling for either of them. His brow lowered, and the sullen + blackness shot into his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Hands off!” he cried, in a threatening tone. + </p> + <p> + They still urged him out of the room. + </p> + <p> + “Hands off!” he said again, looking at Lawrence Newt, and then + in a sneering tone: + </p> + <p> + “Oh! the Reverend Gabriel Bennet! Come, I licked you like—like—like + hell once, and I’ll—I’ll—I’ll—do it + again. Stand back!” he shouted, with drunken energy, and struggling + to free his arms. + </p> + <p> + But Gabriel and Lawrence Newt held fast. The others rose and stood looking + on, Mrs. Newt hysterically weeping, and May pale with terror. Alfred Dinks + laughed, foolishly, and gazed about for sympathy. Gerald Bennet drew his + wife’s arm within his own. + </p> + <p> + The old man sat quietly, only turning his head toward the noise, and + looking at the struggle without appearing to see it. + </p> + <p> + Finding himself mastered, Abel swore and struggled with drunken frenzy. + After a little while he was entirely exhausted, and sank upon the floor. + Lawrence Newt and Gabriel stood panting over him; the rest crowded into + the hall. Abel looked about stupidly, then crawled toward the staircase, + laid his head upon the lower step, and almost immediately fell into a + deep, drunken slumber. + </p> + <p> + “Come, come,” whispered Gerald Bennet to his wife. + </p> + <p> + They took Mrs. Newt’s hand and said Good-by. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, dear me! isn’t it dreadful?” she sobbed. “Please + don’t, say any thing about it. Good-night.” + </p> + <p> + They shook her hand, but as they opened the door into the still moonlight + midnight they heard the clear, hard voice in the parlor, and in their + minds they saw the beating of the bony fingers. + </p> + <p> + “Riches have wings! Riches have wings!” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0072" id="link2HCH0072"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LXXII. — GOOD-BY. + </h2> + <p> + The happy hours of Hope Wayne’s life were the visits of Lawrence + Newt. The sound of his voice in the hall, of his step on the stair, gave + her a sense of profound peace. Often, as she sat at table with Mrs. + Simcoe, in her light morning-dress, and with the dew of sleep yet fresh + upon her cheeks, she heard the sound, and her heart seemed to stop and + listen. Often, as time wore on, and the interviews were longer and more + delayed, she was conscious that the gaze of her old friend became + curiously fixed upon her whenever Lawrence Newt came. Often, in the + tranquil evenings, when they sat together in the pleasant room, Hope Wayne + cheerfully chatting, or sewing, or reading aloud, Mrs. Simcoe looked at + her so wistfully—so as if upon the point of telling some strange + story—that Hope could not help saying, brightly, “Out with it, + aunty!” But as the younger woman spoke, the resolution glimmered + away in the eyes of her companion, and was succeeded by a yearning, tender + pity. + </p> + <p> + Still Lawrence Newt came to the house, to consult, to inspect, to bring + bills that he had paid, to hear of a new utensil for the kitchen, to see + about coal, about wood, about iron, to look at a dipper, at a faucet—he + knew every thing in the house by heart, and yet he did not know how or + why. He wanted to come—he thought he came too often. What could he + do? + </p> + <p> + Hope sang as she sat in her chamber, as she read in the parlor, as she + went about the house, doing her nameless, innumerable household duties. + Her voice was rich, and full, and womanly; and the singing was not the + fragmentary, sparkling gush of good spirits, and the mere overflow of a + happy temperament—it was a deep, sweet, inward music, as if a woman’s + soul were intoning a woman’s thoughts, and as if the woman were at + peace. + </p> + <p> + But the face of Mrs. Simcoe grew sadder and sadder as Hope’s singing + was sweeter and sweeter, and significant of utter rest. The look in her + eyes of something imminent, of something that even trembled on her tongue, + grew more and more marked. Hope Wayne brightly said, “Out with it, + aunty!” and sang on. + </p> + <p> + Amy Waring came often to the house. She was older than Hope, and it was + natural that she should be a little graver. They had a hundred plans in + concert for helping a hundred people. Amy and Hope were a charitable + society. + </p> + <p> + “Fiddle diddle!” said Aunt Dagon, when she was speaking of his + two friends to her nephew Lawrence. “Does this brace of angels think + that virtue consists in making shirts for poor people?” + </p> + <p> + Lawrence looked at his aunt with the inscrutable eyes, and answered + slowly, + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know that they do, Aunt Dagon; but I suppose they don’t + think it consists in <i>not</i> making them.” + </p> + <p> + “Phew!” said Mrs. Dagon, tossing her cap-strings back + pettishly. “I suppose they expect to make a kind of rope-ladder of + all their charity garments, and climb up into heaven that way!” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps they do,” replied Lawrence, in the same tone. “They + have not made me their confidant. But I suppose that even if the ladder + doesn’t reach, it’s better to go a little way up than not to + start at all.” + </p> + <p> + “There! Lawrence, such a speech as that comes of your not going to + church. If you would just try to be a little better man, and go to hear + Dr. Maundy preach, say once a year,” said Mrs. Dagon, sarcastically, + “you would learn that it isn’t good works that are the + necessary thing.” + </p> + <p> + “I hope, Aunt Dagon,” returned Lawrence, laughing—“I + do really hope that it’s good words, then, for your sake. My dear + aunt, you ought to be satisfied with showing that you don’t believe + in good works, and let other people enjoy their own faith. If charity be a + sin, Miss Amy Waring and Miss Hope Wayne are dreadful sinners. But then, + Aunt Dagon, what a saint you must be!” + </p> + <p> + Gradually Mrs. Simcoe was persuaded that she ought to speak plainly to + Lawrence Newt upon a subject which profoundly troubled her. Having + resolved to do it, she sat one morning waiting patiently for the door of + the library—in which Lawrence Newt was sitting with Hope Wayne, + discussing the details of her household—to open. There was a placid + air of resolution in her sad and anxious face, as if she were only + awaiting the moment when she should disburden her heart of the weight it + had so long secretly carried. There was entire silence in the house. The + rich curtains, the soft carpet, the sumptuous furniture—every object + on which the eye fell, seemed made to steal the shock from noise; and the + rattle of the street—the jarring of carts—the distant shriek + of the belated milkman—the long, wavering, melancholy cry of the + chimney-sweep—came hushed and indistinct into the parlor where the + sad-eyed woman sat silently waiting. + </p> + <p> + At length the door opened and Lawrence Newt came out. He was going toward + the front door, when Mrs. Simcoe rose and went into the hall, and said, + “Stop a moment!” + </p> + <p> + He turned, half smiled, but saw her face, and his own settled into its + armor. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Simcoe beckoned him toward the parlor; and as he went in she stepped + to the library door and said, to avoid interruption, + </p> + <p> + “Hope, Mr. Newt and I are talking together in the parlor.” + </p> + <p> + Hope bowed, and made no reply. Mrs. Simcoe entered the other room and + closed the door. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Newt,” she said, in a low voice, “you can not + wonder that I am anxious.” + </p> + <p> + He looked at her, and did not answer. + </p> + <p> + “I know, perhaps, more than you know,” said she; “not, I + am sure, more than you suspect.” + </p> + <p> + Lawrence Newt was a little troubled, but it was only evident in the quiet + closing and unclosing of his hand. + </p> + <p> + They stood for a few moments without speaking. Then she opened the + miniature, and when she saw that he observed it she said, very slowly, + </p> + <p> + “Is it quite fair, Mr. Newt?” + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Simcoe,” he replied, inquiringly. + </p> + <p> + His firm, low voice reassured her. + </p> + <p> + “Why do you come here so often?” asked she. + </p> + <p> + “To help Miss Hope.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it necessary that you should come?” + </p> + <p> + “She wishes it.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + He paused a moment. Mrs. Simcoe continued: + </p> + <p> + “Lawrence Newt, at least let us be candid with each other. By the + memory of the dead—by the common sorrow we have known, there should + be no cloud between us about Hope Wayne. I use your own words. Tell me + what you feel as frankly as you feel it.” + </p> + <p> + There was simple truth in the earnest face before him. While she was + speaking she raised her hand involuntarily to her breast, and gasped as if + she were suffocating. Her words were calm, and he answered, + </p> + <p> + “I waited, for I did not know how to answer—nor do I now.” + </p> + <p> + “And yet you have had some impression—some feeling—some + conviction. Yon know whether it is necessary that you should come—whether + she wants you for an hour’s chat, as an old friend—or—or”—she + waited a moment, and added—“or as something else.” + </p> + <p> + As Lawrence Newt stood before her he remembered curiously his interview + with Aunt Martha, but he could not say to Mrs. Simcoe what he had said to + her. + </p> + <p> + “What can I say?” he asked at length, in a troubled voice. + </p> + <p> + “Lawrence Newt, say if you think she loves you, and tell me,” + she said, drawing herself erect and back from him, as in the twilight of + the old library at Pinewood, while her thin finger was pointed upward—“tell + me, as you will be judged hereafter—me, to whom her mother gave her + as she died, knowing that she loved you.” + </p> + <p> + Her voice died away, overpowered by emotion. She still looked at him, and + suspicion, incredulity, and scorn were mingled in her look, while her + uplifted finger still shook, as if appealing to Heaven. Then she asked + abruptly, and fiercely, + </p> + <p> + “To which, in the name of God, are you false—the mother or the + daughter?” + </p> + <p> + “Stop!” replied Lawrence Newt, in a tone so imperious that the + hand of his companion fell at her side, and the scorn and suspicion faded + from her eyes. “Mrs. Simcoe, there are things that even you must not + say. You have lived alone with a great sorrow; you are too swift; you are + unjust. Even if I had known what you ask about Miss Hope, I am not sure + that I should have done differently. Certainly, while I did not know—while, + at most, I could only suspect, I could do nothing else. I have feared + rather than believed—nor that, until very lately. Would it have been + kind, or wise, or right to have staid away altogether, when, as you know, + I constantly meet her at our little Club? Was I to say, ‘Miss Hope, + I see you love me, but I do not love you?’ And what right had I to + hint the same thing by my actions, at the cost of utter misapprehension + and pain to her? Mrs. Simcoe, I do love Hope Wayne too tenderly, and + respect her too truly, not to try to protect her against the sting of her + own womanly pride. And so I have not staid away. I have not avoided a + woman in whom I must always have so deep and peculiar an interest, I have + been friend and almost father, and never by a whisper even, by a look, by + a possible hint, have I implied any thing more.” + </p> + <p> + His voice trembled as he spoke. He had no right to be silent any longer, + and as he finished Mrs. Simcoe took his hand. + </p> + <p> + “Forgive me! I love her so dearly—and I too am a woman.” + </p> + <p> + She sank upon the sofa as she spoke, and covered her face for a little + while. The tears stole quietly down her cheeks. Lawrence Newt stood by her + sadly, for his mind was deeply perplexed. They both remained for some time + without speaking, until Mrs. Simcoe asked, + </p> + <p> + “What can we do?” + </p> + <p> + Lawrence Newt shook his head doubtfully. + </p> + <p> + They were silent again. At length Mrs. Simcoe said: + </p> + <p> + “I will do it.” + </p> + <p> + “What?” asked Lawrence. + </p> + <p> + “What I have been meaning to do for a long, long time,” + replied the other. “I will tell her the story.” + </p> + <p> + An indefinable expression settled upon Lawrence Newt’s face as she + spoke. + </p> + <p> + “Has she never asked?” he inquired. + </p> + <p> + “Often; but I have always avoided telling.” + </p> + <p> + “It had better be done. It is the only way. But I hoped it would + never be necessary. God bless us all!” + </p> + <p> + He moved toward the door when he had finished, but not until he had shaken + her warmly by the hand. + </p> + <p> + “You will come as before?” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Of course, there will not be the slightest change on my part. And, + Mrs. Simcoe, remember that next week, certainly, I shall meet Miss Hope at + Miss Amy Waring’s. Our first meeting had better be there, so before + then please—” + </p> + <p> + He bowed and went out. As he passed the library door he involuntarily + looked in. There sat Hope Wayne, reading; but as she heard him she raised + the head of golden hair, the dewy cheeks, the thoughtful brow, and as she + bowed to him the clear blue eyes smiled the words her tongue uttered— + </p> + <p> + “Good-by, Mr. Newt, good-by!” + </p> + <p> + The words followed him out of the door and down the street. The air rang + with them every where. The people he passed seemed to look at him as if + they were repeating them. Distant echoes caught them up and whispered + them. He heard no noise of carriages, no loud city hum; he only heard, + fainter and fainter, softer and softer, sadder and sadder, and ever + following on, “Good-by, Mr. Newt, good-by!” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0073" id="link2HCH0073"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LXXIII. — THE BELCH PLATFORM. + </h2> + <p> + “My dear Newt, as a friend who has the highest respect for you, and + the firmest faith in your future, I am sure you will allow me to say one + thing.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! certainly, my dear Belch; say two,” replied Abel, with + the utmost suavity, as he sat at table with General Belch. + </p> + <p> + “I have no peculiar ability, I know,” continued the other, + “but I have, perhaps, a little more experience than you. We old men, + you know, always plume ourselves upon experience, which we make do duty + for all the virtues and talents.” + </p> + <p> + “And it is trained for that service by being merely a synonym for a + knowledge of all the sins and rascalities,” said Abel, smiling, as + he blew rings of smoke and passed the decanter to General Belch. + </p> + <p> + “True,” replied the other; “very true. I see, my dear + Newt, that you have had your eyes and your mind open. And since we are + going to act together—since, in fact, we are interested in the same + plans—” + </p> + <p> + “And principles,” interrupted Abel, laying his head back, and + looking with half-closed eyes at the vanishing smoke. + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes, I was coming to that—in the same plans and + principles, it is well that we should understand each other perfectly.” + </p> + <p> + General Belch paused, looked at Abel, and took snuff. + </p> + <p> + “I think we do already,” replied Abel. + </p> + <p> + “Still there are one or two points to which I would call your + attention. One is, that you can not be too careful of what you say, in + regard to its bearing upon the party; and the other is, a general rule + that the Public is an ass, but you must never let it know you think so. If + there is one thing which the party has practically proved, it is that the + people have no will of their own, but are sheep in the hands of the + shepherd.” + </p> + <p> + The General took snuff again. + </p> + <p> + “The Public, then, is an ass and a sheep?” inquired Abel. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said the General, “an ass in capacity, and in + preference of a thistle diet; a sheep in gregarious and stupid following. + You say ‘Ca, ca, ca,’ when you want a cow to follow you; and + you say ‘Glorious old party,’ and ‘Intelligence of the + people,’ and ‘Preference of truth to victory,’ and so + forth, when you want the people to follow you.” + </p> + <p> + “An ass, a sheep, and a cow,” said Abel. “To what other + departments of natural history do the people belong, General?” + </p> + <p> + “Adders,” returned Belch, sententiously. + </p> + <p> + “How so?” asked Abel, amused. + </p> + <p> + “Because they are so cold and ungrateful,” said the General. + </p> + <p> + “As when, for instance,” returned Abel, “the Honorable + Watkins Bodley, having faithfully served his constituency, is turned + adrift by—by—the people.” + </p> + <p> + He looked at Belch and laughed. The fat nose of the General glistened. + </p> + <p> + “No, no,” said he, “your illustration is at fault. He + did not faithfully serve his constituency. He was not sound upon the great + Grant question.” + </p> + <p> + The two gentlemen laughed together and filled their glasses. + </p> + <p> + “No, no,” resumed the General, “never forget that the + great thing is drill—discipline. Keep the machinery well oiled, and + your hand upon the crank, and all goes well.” + </p> + <p> + “Until somebody knocks off your hand,” said Abel. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, of course—of course; but that is the very point. The + fight is never among the sheep, but only among the shepherds. Look at our + splendid system, beginning with Tom, Jim, and Ned, and culminating in the + President—the roots rather red and unsightly, but oh! such a pretty + flower, all broadcloth, kid gloves, and affability—contemplate the + superb machinery,” continued the General, warming, “the + primaries, the ward committees, the—in fact, all the rest of it—see + how gloriously it works—the great result of the working of the whole + is—” + </p> + <p> + “To establish justice, insure domestic tranquillity, promote the + general welfare, and secure the blessings of liberty to ourselves and our + posterity,” interrupted Abel, who had been scanning the + Constitution, and who delivered the words with a rhetorical pomp of + manner. + </p> + <p> + General Belch smiled approvingly. + </p> + <p> + “That’s it—that’s the very tone. You’ll do. + The great result is, who shall have his hand on the crank. And there are, + therefore, always three parties in our beloved country.” + </p> + <p> + Abel looked inquiringly. + </p> + <p> + “First, the <i>ins</i>, who are in two parties—the clique that + have, and the clique that haven’t. They fight like fury among + themselves, but when they meet t’other great party they all fight + together, because the hopes of the crank for each individual of each body + lie in the party itself, and in their obedience to its discipline. These + are two of the parties. Then there is the great party of the <i>outs</i>, + who have a marvelous unanimity, and never break up into quarrelsome bodies + until there is a fair chance of their ousting the <i>ins</i>. I say these + things not because they are not pretty obvious, but because, as a man of + fashion and society, you have probably not attended to such matters. It’s + dirty work for a gentleman. But I suppose any of us would be willing to + pick a gold eagle out of the mud, even if we did soil our fingers.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” replied Abel, in a tone that General Belch did + not entirely comprehend—“of course no gentleman knows any + thing of politics. Gentlemen are the natural governors of a country; and + where they are not erected into a hereditary governing class, self-respect + forbids them to mix with inferior men—so they keep aloof from public + affairs. Good Heavens! what gentleman would be guilty of being an alderman + in this town! Why, as you know, my dear Belch, nothing but my reduced + circumstances induces me to go to Congress. By-the-by—” + </p> + <p> + “Well, what is it?” asked the General. + </p> + <p> + “I’m dreadfully hard up,” said Abel. “I have just + the d——est luck you ever conceived, and I must raise some + money.” + </p> + <p> + The fat nose glistened again, while the General sat silently pondering. + </p> + <p> + “I can lend you a thousand,” he said, at length. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you. It will oblige me very much.” + </p> + <p> + “Upon conditions,” added the General. + </p> + <p> + “Conditions?” asked Abel, surprised. + </p> + <p> + “I mean understandings,” said the General. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! certainly,” answered Abel. + </p> + <p> + “You pledge yourself to me and our friends that you will at the + earliest moment move in the matter of the Grant; you engage to secure the + votes somehow, relying upon the pecuniary aid of our friends who are + interested; and you will repay me out of your first receipts. Ele will + stand by you through thick and thin. We keep him there for that purpose.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear Belch, I promise any thing you require. I only want the + money.” + </p> + <p> + “Give me your hand, Newt. From the bottom of my soul I do respect a + man who has no scruples.” + </p> + <p> + They shook hands heartily, and filling their glasses they drank “Success!” + The General then wrote a check and a little series of instructions, which + he gave to Abel, while Abel himself scribbled an I.O.U., which the General + laid in his pocket-book. + </p> + <p> + “You’ll have an eye on, Ele,” said the General, as he + buttoned his coat. + </p> + <p> + “Certainly—two if you want,” answered Abel, lazily, + repeating the joke. + </p> + <p> + “He’s a good fellow, Ele is,” said Belch; “but he’s + largely interested, and he’ll probably try to chouse us out of + something by affecting superior influence. You must patronize him to the + other men. Keep him well under. I have a high respect for cellar stairs, + but they mustn’t try to lead up to the roof. Good-by. Hail Newt! + Senator that shall be!” laughed the General, as he shook hands and + followed his fat nose out of the door. + </p> + <p> + Left to himself, Abel walked for some time up and down his room, with his + hands buried in his pocket and a sneering smile upon his face. He suddenly + drew one hand out, raised it, clenched it, and brought it down heavily in + the air, as he muttered, contemptuously, + </p> + <p> + “What a stupid fool! I wonder if he never thinks, as he looks in the + glass, that that fat nose of his is made to lead him by.” + </p> + <p> + For the sagacious and fat-nosed General had omitted to look at the little + paper Newt handed to him, thinking it would be hardly polite to do so + under the circumstances. But if he had looked he would have seen that the + exact sum they had spoken of had been forgotten, and a very inconsiderable + amount was specified. + </p> + <p> + It had flashed across Abel’s mind in a moment that if the General + subsequently discovered it and were disposed to make trouble, the + disclosure of the paper of instructions which he had written, and which + Abel had in his possession, would ruin his hopes of political + financiering. “And as for my election, why, I have my certificate in + my pocket.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0074" id="link2HCH0074"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LXXIV. — MIDNIGHT. + </h2> + <p> + Gradually the sneer faded from Abel’s face, and he walked up and + down the room, no longer carelessly, but fitfully; stopping sometimes—again + starting more rapidly—then leaning against the mantle, on which the + clock pointed to midnight—then throwing himself into a chair or upon + a sofa; and so, rising again, walked on. + </p> + <p> + His head bent forward—his eyes grew rounder and harder, and seemed + to be burnished with the black, bad light; his step imperceptibly grew + stealthy—he looked about him carefully—he stood erect and + breathless to listen—bit his nails, and walked on. + </p> + <p> + The clock upon the mantle pointed to half an hour after midnight. Abel + Newt went into his chamber and put on his slippers. He lighted a candle, + and looked carefully under the bed and in the closet. Then he drew the + shades over the windows and went out into the other room, closing and + locking the door behind him. + </p> + <p> + He glided noiselessly to the door that opened into the entry, and locked + that softly and bolted it carefully. Then he turned the key so that the + wards filled the keyhole, and taking out his handkerchief he hung it over + the knob of the door, so that it fell across the keyhole, and no eye could + by any chance have peered into the room. + </p> + <p> + He saw that the blinds of the windows were closed, the windows shut and + locked, and the linen shades drawn over them. He also let fall the heavy + damask curtains, so that the windows were obliterated from the room. He + stood in the centre of the room and looked to every corner where, by any + chance, a person might be concealed. + </p> + <p> + Then, moving upon tip-toe, he drew a key from his pocket and fitted it + into the lid of a secretary. As he turned it in the lock the snap of the + bolt made him start. He was haggard, even ghastly, as he stood, letting + the lid back slowly, lest it should creak or jar. With another key he + opened a little drawer, and involuntarily looking behind him as he did so, + he took out a small piece of paper, which he concealed in his hand. + </p> + <p> + Seating himself at the secretary, he put the candle before him, and + remained for a moment with his face slightly strained forward with a + startling intentness of listening. There was no sound but the regular + ticking of the clock upon the mantle. He had not observed it before, but + now he could hear nothing else. + </p> + <p> + Tick, tick—tick, tick. It had a persistent, relentless, remorseless + regularity. Tick, tick—tick, tick. Every moment it appeared to be + louder and louder. His brow wrinkled and his head bent forward more + deeply, while his eyes were set straight before him. Tick, tick—tick, + tick. The solemn beat became human as he listened. He could not raise his + head—he could not turn his eyes. He felt as if some awful shape + stood over him with destroying eyes and inflexible tongue. But struggling, + without moving, as a dreamer wrestles with the nightmare, he presently + sprang bolt upright—his eyes wide and wild—the sweat oozing + upon his ghastly forehead—his whole frame weak and quivering. With + the same suddenness he turned defiantly, clenching his fists, in act to + spring. + </p> + <p> + There was nothing there. He saw only the clock—the gilt pendulum + regularly swinging—he heard only the regular tick, tick—tick, + tick. + </p> + <p> + A sickly smile glimmered on his face as he stepped toward the mantle, + still clutching the paper in his hand, but crouching as he came, and + leering, as if to leap upon an enemy unawares. Suddenly he started as if + struck—a stifled shriek of horror burst from his lips—he + staggered back—his hand opened—the paper fell fluttering to + the floor. Abel Newt had unexpectedly seen the reflection of his own face + in the mirror that covered the chimney behind the clock. + </p> + <p> + He recovered himself, swore bitterly, and stooped to pick up the paper. + Then with sullen bravado, still staring at his reflection in the glass, he + took off the glass shade of the clock, touched the pendulum and stopped + it; then turning his back, crept to his chair, and sat down again. + </p> + <p> + The silence was profound, not a sound was audible but the creaking of his + clothes as he leaned heavily against the edge of the desk and drew his + agitated breath. He raised the candle and bent his gloomy face over the + paper which he held before him. It was a note of his late firm indorsed by + Lawrence Newt & Co. He gazed at his uncle’s signature intently, + studying every line, every dot—so intently that it seemed as if his + eyes would burn it. Then putting down the candle and spreading the name + before him, he drew a sheet of tissue paper from a drawer and placed it + over it. The writing was perfectly legible—the finest stroke showed + through the thin tissue. He filled a pen and carefully drew the lines of + the signature upon the tissue paper—then raised it—the + fac-simile was perfect. + </p> + <p> + Taking a thicker piece of paper, he laid the note before him, and slowly, + carefully, copied the signature. The result was a resemblance, but nothing + more. He held the paper in the flame of the candle until it was consumed. + He tried again. He tried many times. Each trial was a greater success. + </p> + <p> + Tearing a check from his book he filled the blanks and wrote below the + name of Lawrence Newt & Co., and found, upon comparison with the + indorsement, that it was very like. Abel Newt grinned; his lips moved: he + was muttering “Dear Uncle Lawrence.” + </p> + <p> + He stopped writing, and carefully burned, as before, the check and all the + paper. Then covering his face with his hands as he sat, he said to + himself, as the hot, hurried thoughts flickered through his mind, + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes, Mrs. Lawrence Newt, I shall not be master of Pinewood, + but I shall be of your husband, and he will be master of your property. + Practice makes perfect. Dear Uncle Lawrence shall be my banker.” + </p> + <p> + His brain reeled and whirled as he sat. He remembered the words of his + friend the General: “Abel Newt was not born to fail.” + </p> + <p> + “No, by God!” he shouted, springing up, and clenching his + hands. + </p> + <p> + He staggered. The walls of the room, the floor, the ceiling, the furniture + heaved and rolled before his eyes. In the wild tumult that overwhelmed his + brain as if he were sinking in gurgling whirlpools—the peaceful lawn + of Pinewood—the fight with Gabriel—the running horses—the + “Farewell forever, Miss Wayne”—the shifting chances of + his subsequent life—Grace Plumer blazing with diamonds—the + figure of his father drumming with white fingers upon his office-desk—Lawrence + and Gabriel pushing him out—they all swept before his consciousness + in the moment during which he threw out his hands wildly, clutched at the + air, and plunged headlong upon the floor, senseless. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0075" id="link2HCH0075"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LXXV. — REMINISCENCE. + </h2> + <p> + On the very evening that General Belch and Abel Newt were sitting + together, smoking, taking snuff, sipping wine, and discussing the great + principles that should control the action of American legislators and + statesmen, Hope Wayne and Mrs. Simcoe sat together in their pleasant + drawing-room talking of old times. The fire crackled upon the hearth, and + the bright flames flickering through the room brought out every object + with fitful distinctness. The lamp was turned almost out—for they + found it more agreeable to sit in a twilight as they spoke of the days + which seemed to both of them to be full of subdued and melancholy light. + They sat side by side; Hope leaning her cheek upon her hand, and gazing + thoughtfully into the fire; Mrs. Simcoe turned partly toward her, and + occasionally studying her face, as if peculiarly anxious to observe its + expression. + </p> + <p> + It might have happened in many ways that they were speaking of the old + times. The older woman may have intentionally led the conversation in that + direction for some ulterior purpose she had in view. Or what is more + likely than that the young woman should constantly draw her friend and + guardian to speak of days and people connected with her own life, but + passed before her memory had retained them? + </p> + <p> + After a long interval, as if, when she had once broken her reserve about + her life, she must pour out all her experience, Mrs. Simcoe began: + </p> + <p> + “When I was twenty years old, living with my father, a poor farmer + in the country, there came to pass the summer in the village a gentleman, + a good deal older than I. He was handsome, graceful, elegant, fascinating. + I saw him at church, but he did not see me. Then I met him sometimes upon + the road, idly sauntering along, swinging a little cane, and looking as if + village life were fatiguing. He seemed at length to observe me. One day he + bowed. I said nothing, but hurried on. When I was a little beyond him I + turned my head. He also was turning and looking at me. + </p> + <p> + “I was old enough to know why I turned. Yes, and so was he. How well + I remember the peaceful western light that fell along the fields and + touched the trees so kindly! Every thing was still. The birds dropped + hurrying homeward notes, and the cows were coming in from the pasture. I + was going after our cow, but I leaned a long time on the bars and looked + at the new moon timidly showing herself in the west. Then I looked at my + clumsy gown, and thick shoes, and large hands, and thought of the + graceful, elegant man, who had not bowed to me insolently. I imagined that + a gentleman used to city life must find our country ways tiresome. I + pitied him, but what could I do? + </p> + <p> + “Once in the meadows I was following up the brook to find cardinal + flowers. The brook wound through a little wood; and as I was passing, + looking closely among the flags and pickerel-wood, I suddenly heard a + voice close to me—‘The lobelia blossoms are further on, Miss + Jane.’ I knew instantly who it was, and I was conscious of being + more scarlet than the flowers I was seeking. + </p> + <p> + “Well, dear,” said Mrs. Simcoe, after pausing for a few + moments, “I can not repeat every detail. The time came when I was + not afraid to speak to him—when I cared to speak to no one else—when + I thought of him all day and dreamed of him all night—when I wore + the ribbons he praised, and the colors he loved, and the flowers he gave + me; when he told me of the great life beyond the village, of lofty and + beautiful women he had known, of wise men he had seen, of the foreign + countries he had visited—when he twined my hair around his finger + and said, ‘Jane, I love you!’” + </p> + <p> + Her eyes were excited, and her voice was hurried, but inexpressibly sad. + Hope sat by, and the tears flowed from her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “A long, long time. Yet it was only a few months—it was only a + summer. He came in May, and was gone again in November. But between his + coming and going the roses in our garden blossomed and withered. So you + see there was time enough. Time enough! Time enough! I was heavenly happy. + </p> + <p> + “One day he said that he must go. There was some frightful trouble + in his eye. ‘Will you come back?’ I asked. I tremble to + remember how sternly I asked it, and how cold and bloodless I felt. + ‘So help me God!’ he answered, and left me. Left me! ‘So + help me God!’ he murmured, as his tears fell upon my cheek and he + kissed me. ‘So help me God!’—and he left me. Not a word, + not a look, not a sign had he given me to suppose that he would not + return; not a thought, not a wish had he breathed to me that you might not + hear. His miniature hung in a locket around my neck, even as my whole + heart and soul hung upon his love. ‘So help me God!’ he + whispered, and left me. + </p> + <p> + “He did not come back. I thought my heart was frozen. My mother + sighed as she went on with her hard, incessant work. My father tried to be + cheerful. ‘Cry, girl, cry,’ my mother said; ‘only cry, + and you’ll be better.’ I could not cry; I could not smile. I + could do nothing but help her silently in the long, hard work, day after + day, summer and winter. I read the books he had given me. I thought of the + things he had said. I sat in my chamber when the floor was scrubbed, and + the bread baked, and the dishes washed, and the flies buzzed in the hot, + still kitchen. I can hear them now. And there I sat, looking out of my + window, straining my eyes toward the horizon—sometimes sure that I + heard him coming, clicking the gate, hurrying up the gravel, with his + eager, handsome, melancholy face. I started up. My heart stood still. I + was ready to fall upon his breast and say, ‘I believe ‘twas + all right.’ He did not come. ‘So help me God!’ he said, + and did not come. + </p> + <p> + “My father brought me to New York to change the scene. But God had + brought me here to change my heart. I heard one Sunday good old Bishop + Asbury, and he began the work that Summerfield sealed. My parents + presently died. They left nothing, and I was the only child. I did what I + could, and at last I became your grandfather’s housekeeper.” + </p> + <p> + As her story proceeded Mrs. Simcoe looked more and more anxiously at Hope, + whose eyes were fixed upon her incessantly. The older woman paused at this + point, and, taking Hope’s face between her hands, smoothed her hair, + and kissed her. + </p> + <p> + “Your grandfather had a daughter Mary.” + </p> + <p> + “My mother,” said Hope, earnestly. + </p> + <p> + “Your mother, darling. She was as beautiful but as delicate as a + flower. The doctors said a long salt voyage would strengthen her. So your + grandfather sent her in the ship of one of his friends to India. In India + she staid several weeks, and met a young man of her own age, clerk in a + house there. Of course they were soon engaged. But he was young, not yet + in business, and she knew the severity of your grandfather and his + ambition for her. At length the ship returned, and your mother returned in + it. Scarcely was she at home a month than your grandfather told me that he + had a connection in view for his daughter, and wanted me to prepare her to + receive the addresses of a gentleman a good deal older than she, but of + the best family, and in every way a desirable husband. He was himself + getting old, he said, and it was necessary that his daughter should marry. + Your mother loved me dearly, as I did her. Gentle soul, with her soft, + dark, appealing eyes, with her flower-like fragility and womanly + dependence. Ah me! it was hard that your grandfather should have been her + parent. + </p> + <p> + “She was stunned when I told her. I thought her grief was only + natural, and I was surprised at the sudden change in her. She faded before + our eyes. We could not cheer her. But she made no effort to resist. She + did not refuse to see her suitor; she did not say that she loved any one + else. I think she had a mortal fear of her father, and, dear soul! she + could not do any thing that required resolution. + </p> + <p> + “One day your grandfather said at dinner, ‘To-morrow, Miss + Mary, your new friend will be here.’ + </p> + <p> + “All night she lay awake, trembling and tearful; and at morning she + rose like a spectre. The stranger arrived. Mary kept her room until + dinner-time. Then we both went down to see the new-comer. He was in the + library with your grandfather, and was engaged in telling him some very + amusing story when we came in, for your grandfather was laughing heartily. + They both rose upon seeing us. + </p> + <p> + “‘Colonel Wayne, my daughter,’ said your grandfather, + waving his hand toward her. He bowed—she sank, spectre-like, into a + chair. + </p> + <p> + “‘Mrs. Simcoe, Colonel Wayne.’ + </p> + <p> + “Our eyes met. It was my lover. He was too much amazed to bow. But + in a moment he recovered himself, smiled courteously, and seated himself; + for he saw at once what place I filled in the household. I said nothing. I + remember that I sank into a chair and looked at him. He was older, but the + same charm still hovered about his person. His voice had the same secret + music, and his movement that careless grace which seemed to spring from + the consciousness of power. I was conscious of only two things—that + I loved him, and that he was unworthy the love of any woman. + </p> + <p> + “During dinner he made two or three observations to me. But I bowed + and said nothing. I think I was morally stunned, and the whole scene + seemed to me to be unreal. After a few days he made a formal offer of his + hand to Mary Burt. Poor child! Poor child! She trembled, hesitated, + fluttered, delayed. ‘You must; you shall!’ were the terrible + words she heard from her parent. She dreaded to tell the truth, lest he + should force a summary marriage. Hope, my child, you could have resisted—so + could I; she could not. ‘Only, dear father,’ she said, ‘I + am so young. Let me not be married for a year.’ Her father laughed + and assented, and I think she instantly wrote to her lover in India. + </p> + <p> + “People came driving out to congratulate. ‘Such a reasonable + connection!’ every body said; ‘a military man of fine old + family. It is really delightful to have a union sometimes take place in + which all the conditions are satisfactory.’ + </p> + <p> + “All the time his miniature hung round my neck. Why? Because, in the + bottom of my soul, I still believed him. I had heard him say, So help me + God!’ + </p> + <p> + “He went away, and sometimes returned for a week. I was comforted by + seeing that he did not love your mother, and by the confidence I had that + she would not marry him. I was sure that something would happen to + prevent. + </p> + <p> + “The year was coming round. One night your mother appeared in my + room in her night-dress; her face was radiant, and she held a note in her + hand. It was from her lover. He had thrown himself upon a ship when her + letter reached him, and here he was close at hand. Full of generous ardor, + he proposed to marry her privately at once; there was no other way, he was + sure. + </p> + <p> + “‘Will you help us?’ she said, after she had told me + every thing. + </p> + <p> + “‘But you are two such children,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + “‘Then you will not help. You will make me marry Colonel + Wayne.’ + </p> + <p> + “I tried to see the matter calmly. I sought the succor of God. I do + not say that I did just what I should have done, but I helped them. The + heart is weak, and perhaps I was the more willing to help, because the + fulfillment of her plan would prevent her becoming the wife of Colonel + Wayne. The time was arranged when she was to go away. I was to accompany + her, and she was to be married. + </p> + <p> + “The lover came. It was a June night; the moon was full. We went + quietly along the avenue. The gate was opened. We were just passing + through when your grandfather and Colonel Wayne suddenly stepped from the + shadow of the wall and the trees. + </p> + <p> + “Your mother and her lover stood perfectly still. She gave a little + cry. Your grandfather was furious. + </p> + <p> + “‘Go, Sir!’ he shrieked at the young man. + </p> + <p> + “‘If your daughter commands it,’ he replied. + </p> + <p> + “Your grandfather seized him involuntarily. + </p> + <p> + “‘Sir, my daughter is the betrothed wife of Colonel Wayne.’ + </p> + <p> + “The young man looked with an incredulous smile at your mother, who + had sunk senseless into my arms, and said, in a low voice, + </p> + <p> + “‘She was mine before she ever saw him.’ + </p> + <p> + “Your grandfather actually hissed at him with contempt. + </p> + <p> + “‘Go—before I strike you!’ + </p> + <p> + “The young man hesitated for a few moments, saw that it was useless + to remain longer at that time, and went. + </p> + <p> + “The next day Mr. Burt sent for Dr. Peewee. + </p> + <p> + “The moment I knew what he intended to do I ran to your grandfather + and told him that Colonel Wayne was not a fit husband for his daughter. + But when I told him that the Colonel had deserted me, Mr. Burt laughed + scornfully. + </p> + <p> + “‘You, Mrs. Simcoe? Why, you have lost your wits. Remember, + Colonel Wayne is a gentleman of the oldest family, and you are—you + were—’ + </p> + <p> + “‘I was a poor country girl,’ said I, ‘and Colonel + Wayne loved me, and I loved him, and here is the pledge and proof of it.’ + </p> + <p> + “I drew out his miniature as I spoke, and held it before your + grandfather’s eyes. He fairly staggered, and rang the bell + violently. + </p> + <p> + “‘Call Colonel Wayne,’ he said, hastily, to the servant. + </p> + <p> + “In a moment the Colonel came in. I saw his color change as his eye + fell upon me, holding the locket in my hand, and upon your grandfather’s + flushed face. + </p> + <p> + “‘Colonel Wayne, have you ever seen Mrs. Simcoe before?’ + </p> + <p> + “He was very pale, and there were sallow circles under his eyes as + he spoke; but he said, calmly, + </p> + <p> + “‘Not to my knowledge.’ + </p> + <p> + “Scorn made me icily calm. + </p> + <p> + “‘Who gave me that, Sir?’ said I, thrusting the + miniature almost into his face. + </p> + <p> + “He took it in his hand and looked at it. I saw his lip work and his + throat quiver with an involuntary spasm. + </p> + <p> + “‘I am sure I do not know.’ + </p> + <p> + “I was speechless. Your grandfather was confounded. Colonel Wayne + looked white, but resolute. + </p> + <p> + “‘God only is my witness,’ said I, slowly, as if the + words came gasping from my heart. ‘So help me God, I loved him, and + he loved me.’ + </p> + <p> + “A quiver ran through his frame as I spoke, but he preserved the + same placidity of face. + </p> + <p> + “‘There is some mistake, Mrs. Simcoe,’ said your + grandfather, not unkindly, to me. ‘Go to your room.’ + </p> + <p> + “I obeyed, for my duty was done.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Simcoe paused, and rocked silently to and fro. Hope took her hand and + kissed it reverently. Presently the narration was quietly resumed: + </p> + <p> + “I told your mother my story. But she was stunned by her own grief, + and I do not think she comprehended me. Dr. Peewee came, and she was + married. Your mother did not say yes—for she could not utter a word—but + the ceremony proceeded. I heard the words, ‘Whom God hath joined + together,’ and I laughed aloud, and fell fainting. + </p> + <p> + “It was a few days after the marriage, when Colonel Wayne and his + wife were absent, that your grandfather said to me, + </p> + <p> + “‘Mrs. Simcoe, your story seems to be true. But think a + moment. A man like Colonel Wayne must have had many experiences. We all + do. He has been rash, and foolish, and thoughtless, I have no doubt. He + may even have trifled with your feelings. I am very sorry. If he has done + so, I think he ought to have acknowledged it the other day. But I hope + sincerely that we shall all let by-gones be by-gones, and live happily + together. Ah! I see dinner is ready. Good-day, Mrs. Simcoe. Dr. Peewee, + will you ask a blessing?’” + </p> + <p> + It was already midnight, and the two women sat before the fire. It was the + moment when Abel Newt was stealing through his rooms, fastening doors and + windows. Hope Wayne was pale and cold like a statue as she listened to the + voice of Mrs. Simcoe, which had a wailing tone pitiful to hear. After a + long silence she began again: + </p> + <p> + “What ought I to have done? Should I have gone away? That was the + easiest course. But, Hope, the way of duty is not often the easiest way. I + wrote a long letter to the good old Bishop Asbury, who seemed to me like a + father, and after a while his answer came. He told me that I should seek + the Lord’s leading, and if that bade me stay—if that told me + that it would be for my soul’s blessing that my heart should break + daily—then I had better remain, seeing that the end is not here—that + here we have no continuing city, and that our proud hearts must be bruised + by grief, even as our Saviour’s lowly forehead was pierced with + thorns. + </p> + <p> + “So I staid. It was partly pity for your mother, who began to droop + at once. It was partly that I might keep my wound bleeding for my soul’s + salvation; and partly—I see it now, but I could not then—because + I believed, as before God I do now believe, that in his secret heart I was + the woman your father loved, and I could not give him up. + </p> + <p> + “Your mother’s lover wrote to me at once, I discovered + afterward, but his letters were intercepted, for your grandfather was a + shrewd, resolute man. Then he came to Pinewood, but he was not allowed to + see your mother. The poor boy was frantic; but before he could effect any + thing your mother was the wife of Colonel Wayne. Then, in the same ship in + which he had come from India, he returned; and after he was gone all his + letters were given to me. I wrote to him at once. I told him every thing + about your mother, but there was not much to tell. She never mentioned his + name after her marriage. There were gay parties given in honor of the + wedding, and her delicate, drooping, phantom-like figure hung upon the arm + of her handsome, elegant husband. People said that her maidenly shyness + was beautiful to behold, and that she clung to her husband like the waving + ivy to the oak. + </p> + <p> + “She did not cling long. She was just nineteen when she was married—she + was not twenty when you were born—she was just twenty when they + buried her. Oh! I did not think of myself only, but of her, when I heard + the saintly youth breathe that plaintive prayer, ‘Draw them to thee, + for they wearily labor: they are heavily laden, gracious Father! oh, give + them rest!’ + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“‘No chilling winds or pois’nous breath + Can reach that healthful shore: + Sickness and sorrow, pain and death, + Are felt and fear’d no more.’” + </pre> + <p> + “And my father?” asked Hope, in a low voice. + </p> + <p> + “He went abroad for many years. Then he returned, and came sometimes + to Pinewood. His life was irregular. I think he gambled, for he and your + grandfather often had high words in the library about the money that he + wanted. But your grandfather never allowed you to leave the place. He + rarely spoke of your mother; but I think he often thought of her, and he + gradually fell into the habit you remember. Yet he had the same ambition + for you that he had had for your mother. He treated me always with stately + politeness; but I know that it was a dreary home for a young girl. Hope,” + said Mrs. Simcoe, after a short pause, “that is all—the end + you yourself remember.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” replied Hope, in the same low, appalled tone, “my + father went out upon the pond, one evening, with a friend to bathe, and + was drowned. Mr. Gray’s boys found him. My grandfather would not let + me wear mourning for him. I wore a blue ribbon the day Dr. Peewee preached + his funeral sermon; and I did not care to wear black. Aunty, I had seen + him too little to love him like a father, you know.” + </p> + <p> + She said it almost as if apologizing to Mrs. Simcoe, who merely bowed her + head. + </p> + <p> + It was past midnight. It was the very moment when Abel Newt was starting + with horror as he saw his own reflection in the glass. + </p> + <p> + Something yet remained to be said between those two women. Each knew it—neither + dared to begin. + </p> + <p> + Hope Wayne closed her eyes with an inward prayer, and then said, calmly, + but in a low voice, + </p> + <p> + “And, aunty, the young man?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Simcoe took Hope’s face between her caressing hands. She + smoothed the glistening golden hair, and kissed her upon the forehead. + </p> + <p> + “Aunty, the young man?” said Hope, in the same tone. + </p> + <p> + “Was Lawrence Newt,” answered Mrs. Simcoe. + </p> + <p> + —It was the moment when Abel sat at his desk writing the name that + Mrs. Simcoe had pronounced. + </p> + <p> + Hope Wayne was perfectly sure it was coming, and yet the word shot out + upon her like a tongue of lightning. At first she felt every nerve in her + frame relaxed—a mist clouded her eyes—she had a weary sense of + happiness, for she thought she was dying. The mist passed. She felt her + cheeks glowing, and was preternaturally calm. Mrs. Simcoe sat beside her, + weeping silently. + </p> + <p> + “Good-night, dearest aunty!” said Hope, as she rose and bent + down to kiss her. + </p> + <p> + “My child!” said the older woman, in tones that trembled out + of an aching heart. + </p> + <p> + Hope took her candle, and moved toward the door. As she went she heard + Mrs. Simcoe repeating, in the old murmuring sunset strain, + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“Convince us first of unbelief, + And freely then release; + Fill every soul with sacred grief, + And then with sacred peace.” + </pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0076" id="link2HCH0076"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LXXVI. — A SOCIAL GLASS. + </h2> + <p> + The Honorable Abel Newt was elected to Congress in place of the Honorable + Watkins Bodley, who withdrew on account of the embarrassment of his + private affairs. At a special meeting of the General Committee, Mr. Enos + Slugby, Chairman of the Ward Committee, introduced a long and eloquent + resolution, deploring the loss sustained by the city and by the whole + country in the resignation of the Honorable Watkins Bodley—sympathizing + with him in the perplexity of his private affairs—but rejoicing that + the word “close up!” was always faithfully obeyed—that + there was always a fresh soldier to fill the place of the retiring—and + that the Party never summoned her sons in vain. + </p> + <p> + General Belch then rose and offered a resolution: + </p> + <p> + “<i>Resolved—</i>That in the Honorable Abel Newt, our + representative, just elected by a triumphant majority of the votes of the + enlightened and independent voters of the district—a constituency of + whose favor the most experienced and illustrious statesmen might be proud—we + recognize a worthy exemplar of the purest republican virtues, a consistent + enemy of a purse-proud aristocracy, the equally unflinching friend of the + people; a man who dedicates with enthusiasm the rare powers of his youth, + and his profoundest and sincerest convictions, to the great cause of + popular rights of which the Party is the exponent. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Resolved</i>—That the Honorable Abel Newt be requested, at + the earliest possible moment, to unfold to his fellow-citizens his views + upon State and National political affairs.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. William Condor spoke feelingly in support of the resolutions: + </p> + <p> + “Fellow-citizens!” he said, eloquently, in conclusion, “if + there is one thing nobler than another, it is an upright, downright, + disinterested, honest man. Such I am proud and happy to declare my friend, + your friend, the friend of all honest men, to be; and I call for three + cheers for Honest Abel Newt!” + </p> + <p> + They were given with ardor; and then General Belch was called out for a + few remarks, “which he delivered,” said the <i>Evening Banner + of the Union</i>, “with his accustomed humor, keeping the audience + in a roar of laughter, and sending every body happy to bed.” + </p> + <p> + The Committee-meeting was over, and the spectators retired to the + neighboring bar-rooms. Mr. Slugby, Mr. Condor, and General Belch tarried + behind, with two or three more. + </p> + <p> + “Shall we go to Newt’s?” asked the General. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I told him we should be round after the meeting,” + replied Mr. Condor; and the party were presently at his rooms. + </p> + <p> + The Honorable Abel had placed several full decanters upon the table, with + a box of cigars. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Newt,” said Enos Slugby, after they had been smoking and + drinking for some time. + </p> + <p> + Abel turned his head. + </p> + <p> + “You have an uncle, have you not?” + </p> + <p> + Abel nodded. + </p> + <p> + “A very eminent merchant, I believe. His name is very well known, + and he commands great respect. Ahem!” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Slugby cleared his throat; then continued: + </p> + <p> + “He will naturally be very much interested in the career and success + of his nephew.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, immensely!” replied Abel, in a thick voice, and with a + look and tone which suggested to his friends that he was rapidly priming + himself. “Immensely, enormously!” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, yes,” said Mr. Slugby, with an air of curious meditation. + “I do not remember to have heard the character of his political + proclivities mentioned. But, of course, as the brother of Boniface Newt + and the uncle of the Honorable Abel Newt”—here Mr. Slugby + bowed to that gentleman, who winked at him over the rim of his glass—“he + is naturally a friend of the people.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” returned Abel. + </p> + <p> + “I think you said he was very fond of you?” added Mr. Slugby, + while his friends looked expectantly on. + </p> + <p> + “Fond? It’s a clear case of apple of the eye,” answered + Abel, chuckling. + </p> + <p> + “Very good,” said William Condor; “very good, indeed! + Capital!” laughed Belch; and whispered to his neighbor Condor, + “In vino veritas.” + </p> + <p> + As they whispered, and smiled, and nodded together, Abel Newt glanced + around the circle with sullen, fiery eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Uncle Lawrence is worth a million of dollars,” said he, + carelessly. + </p> + <p> + The group of political gentlemen shook their heads in silent admiration. + They seemed to themselves to have struck a golden vein, and General Belch + could not help inwardly complimenting himself upon his profound sagacity + in having put forward a candidate who had a bachelor uncle who doated upon + him, and who was worth a million. He perceived at once his own increased + importance in the Party. To have displaced Watkins Bodley—who was + not only an uncertain party implement, but poor—by an unhesitating + young man of great ability and of enormous prospects, he knew was to have + secured for himself whatever he chose to ask. The fat nose reddened and + glistened as if it would burst with triumph and joy. General Arcularius + Belch was satisfied. + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” said William Condor, “a man of Mr. Lawrence + Newt’s experience and knowledge of the world is aware that there are + certain necessary expenses attendant upon elections—such as + printing, rent, lighting, warming, posting, etc.—” + </p> + <p> + “In fact, sundries,” said Abel, smiling with the black eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, precisely; sundries,” answered Mr. Condor, “which + sometimes swell to quite an inordinate figure. Your uncle, I presume, Mr. + Newt, would not be unwilling to contribute a certain share of the expense + of your election; and indeed, now that you are so conspicuous a leader, he + would probably expect to contribute handsomely to the current expenses of + the Party. Isn’t it so?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” said General Belch. + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” said Enos Slugby. + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” echoed the two or three other gentlemen who sat + silently, assiduously smoking and drinking. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, clearly, of course,” answered Abel, still thickly, and in + a tone by no means agreeable to his companions. “What should you + consider to be his fair share?” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” began Condor, “I should think, in ordinary + times, a thousand a year; and then, as particular occasion demands.” + </p> + <p> + At this distinct little speech the whole company lifted their glasses that + they might more conveniently watch Abel. + </p> + <p> + With a half-maudlin grin he looked along the line. + </p> + <p> + “By-the-by, Condor, how much do you give a year?” asked he. + </p> + <p> + There was a moment’s silence. + </p> + <p> + “Hit, by G——!” energetically said one of the + silent men. + </p> + <p> + “Good for Newt!” cried General Belch, thumping the table. + </p> + <p> + There was another little burst of laughter, with the least possible + merriment in it. William Condor joined with an entirely unruffled face. + </p> + <p> + “As for Belch,” continued Abel, with what would be called in + animals an ugly expression—“Belch is the clown, and they left + him off easy. The Party is like the old kings, it keeps a good many fools + to make it laugh.” + </p> + <p> + His tone was threatening, and nobody laughed. General Belch looked as if + he were restraining himself from knocking his friend down. But they all + saw that their host was mastered by his own liquor. + </p> + <p> + “Squeeze Lawrence Newt, will you? Why, Lord, gentlemen, what do you + suppose he thinks of you—I mean, of fellows like you?” asked + Abel. + </p> + <p> + He paused, and glared around him. William Condor daintily knocked off the + ash of his cigar faith the tip of his little finger, and said, calmly, + </p> + <p> + “I am sure I don’t know.” + </p> + <p> + “Nor care,” said General Belch. + </p> + <p> + “He thinks you’re all a set of white-livered sneaks!” + shouted Abel, in a voice harsh and hoarse with liquor. + </p> + <p> + The gentlemen were silent. The leaders wagged their feet nervously; the + others looked rather amused. + </p> + <p> + “No offense,” resumed Abel. “I don’t mean he + despises you in particular, but all bar-room bobtails.” + </p> + <p> + His voice thickened rapidly. + </p> + <p> + “Of all mean, mis-mis-rabble hounds, he thinks you are the dirt-est.” + </p> + <p> + Still no reply was made. The honorable gentleman looked at his guests + leeringly, but found no responsive glance. + </p> + <p> + “In vino veritas,” whispered Condor to his neighbor Belch. + William Condor was always clean in linen and calm in manner. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t be ‘larmed, fel-fel-f’-low cit-zens! + Lawrence Newt’s no friend of mine. I guess his G—— d—— + pride ‘ll get a tumble some day; by G—— I do!” + Abel added, with a fierce hiss. + </p> + <p> + The guests looked alarmed as they heard the last words. Abel ceased, and + passed the decanter, which they did not decline; for they all felt as if + the Honorable Abel Newt would probably throw it at the head of any man who + said or did what he did not approve. There was a low anxious murmur of + conversation among them until Abel was evidently very intoxicated, and his + head sank upon his breast. + </p> + <p> + “I’m terribly afraid we’ve burned our fingers,” + said Mr. Enos Slugby, looking a little ruefully at the honorable + representative. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I hope not,” said General Belch; “but there may be + some breakers ahead. If we lose the Grant it won’t be the first + cause or man that has been betrayed by the bottle. Condor, let me fill + your glass. It is clear that if our dear friend Newt has a weakness it is + the bottle; and if our enemies at Washington, who want to head off this + Grant, have a strength, it is finding out an adversary’s soft spot. + We may find in this case that it’s dangerous playing with edged + tools. But I’ve great faith in his want of principle. We can show + him so clearly that his interest, his advance, his career depend so + entirely upon his conduct, that I think we can keep him straight. And, for + my part, if we can only work this Grant through, I shall retire upon my + share of the proceeds, and leave politics to those who love ‘em. But + I don’t mean to have worked for nothing—hey, Condor?” + </p> + <p> + “Amen,” replied William, placidly. + </p> + <p> + “By-the-by, Condor,” said Mr. Enos Slugby. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Condor turned toward him inquiringly. + </p> + <p> + “I heard Jim say t’other day—” + </p> + <p> + “Who’s Jim?” asked Condor. + </p> + <p> + “Jim!” returned Slugby, “Jim—why, Jim’s the + party in my district.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes—yes; I beg pardon,” said Condor; “the name + had escaped me.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I heard Jim say t’other day that Mr. William Condor was + getting too d——d stuck up, and that he’d yank him out of + his office if he didn’t mind his eye. That’s you, Condor; so I + advise you to look out. It’s easy enough to manage Jim, if you take + care. He’ll go as gently as a well-broke filly; but if he once takes + a lurch—if he thinks you’re too 'proud’ or ‘big,’ + it’s all up with you. So mind how you treat Jim.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, well,” said Belch, impatiently; “we’ve + other business on hand now.” + </p> + <p> + “Exactly,” said Condor; “we are the Honorable Abel’s + Jim. Turn about is fair play. Jim makes us go; we make Abel go. It’s + a lovely series of checks and balances.” + </p> + <p> + He said it so quietly and airily that they all laughed. Then the General + continued: + </p> + <p> + “We’re going to send Newt to look after Ele, and I rather + think we shall have to send somebody to look after Newt. However, we’ll + see. Let’s leave this hog to snore by himself.” + </p> + <p> + They rose as he spoke. + </p> + <p> + “What were the words of your resolution, Belch?” asked William + Condor, with his eyes twinkling. “I don’t quite remember. Did + you say,” he added, looking at Abel, who lay huddled, dead drunk, in + his chair, “that he dedicated to his country his profoundest and + sincerest, or sincerest and profoundest convictions?” + </p> + <p> + “And you, Condor,” said Enos Slugby, smiling, as he lighted a + fresh cigar, “did you say that you were proud and happy, or happy + and proud, to call him your friend?” + </p> + <p> + “Lord! Lord! what an old hum it is—isn’t it?” said + General Belch, cheerfully, as he smoothed his hat with his coat-sleeve, + and put it on. + </p> + <p> + They went down stairs laughing and chatting; and the Honorable Abel Newt, + the worthy exemplar of the purest republican virtues—as the + resolution stated when it appeared in the next morning’s papers—was + left snoring amidst his constituency of empty decanters and drained + glasses. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0077" id="link2HCH0077"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LXXVII. — FACE TO FACE. + </h2> + <p> + “Signore Pittore! what brings a bird into the barn-yard?” said + Lawrence Newt, as Arthur Merlin entered his office. + </p> + <p> + “The hope of some crumb of comfort.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you dip from your empyrean to the cold earth—from the + studio to a counting-room—to find comfort?” asked Lawrence + Newt, cheerfully. + </p> + <p> + Arthur Merlin looked only half sympathetic with his friend’s gayety. + There was a wan air on his face, a piteous look in his eyes, which touched + Lawrence. + </p> + <p> + “Why, Arthur, what is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Do you remember what Diana said?” replied the painter. + “She said, ‘I am sure that that silly shepherd will not sleep + there forever. Never fear, he will wake up. Diana never looks or loves for + nothing.’” + </p> + <p> + Lawrence Newt gazed at him without speaking. + </p> + <p> + “Come,” said Arthur, with a feeble effort at fun, “you + have correspondence all over the world. What is the news from Latmos? Has + the silly shepherd waked up?” + </p> + <p> + “My dear Arthur,” said Mr. Newt, gravely, “I told you + long ago that he was dead to all that heavenly splendor.” + </p> + <p> + The two men gazed steadfastly at each other without speaking. At length + Arthur said, in a low voice, + </p> + <p> + “Dead?” + </p> + <p> + “Dead.” + </p> + <p> + As Lawrence Newt spoke the word the air far off and near seemed to him to + ring again with that pervasive murmur, sad, soft, infinitely tender, + “Good-by, Mr. Newt, good-by!” + </p> + <p> + But his eye was calm and his face cheerful. + </p> + <p> + “Arthur, sit down.” + </p> + <p> + The young man seated himself, and the older one drawing a chair to the + window, they sat with their backs to the outer office and looked upon the + ships. + </p> + <p> + “I am older than you, Arthur, and I am your friend. What I am going + to say to you I have no right to say, except in your entire friendship.” + </p> + <p> + The young man’s eyes glistened. + </p> + <p> + “Go on,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “When I first knew you I knew that you loved Hope Wayne.” + </p> + <p> + A flush deepened upon Arthur’s face, and his fingers played idly + upon the arm of the chair. + </p> + <p> + “I hoped that Hope Wayne would love you. I was sure that she would. + It never occurred to me that she could—could—” + </p> + <p> + Arthur turned and looked at him. + </p> + <p> + “Could love any body else,” said Lawrence Newt, as his eyes + wandered dreamily among the vessels, as if the canvas were the wings of + his memory sailing far away. + </p> + <p> + “Suddenly, without the least suspicion on my part, I discovered that + she did love somebody else.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Arthur, “so did I.” + </p> + <p> + “What could I do?” said the other, still abstractedly gazing; + “for I loved her.” + </p> + <p> + “You loved her?” cried Arthur Merlin, so suddenly and loud + that Thomas Tray looked up from his great red Russia book and turned his + head toward the inner office. + </p> + <p> + “Certainly I loved her,” replied Lawrence Newt, calmly, and + with tender sweetness; “and I had a right to, for I loved her + mother. Could I have had my way Hope Wayne’s mother would have been + my wife.” + </p> + <p> + Arthur Merlin stole a glance at the face of his companion. + </p> + <p> + “I was a child and she was a child—a boy and a girl. It was + not to be. She married another man and died; but her memory is forever + sacred to me, and so is her daughter.” + </p> + <p> + To this astonishing revelation Arthur Merlin said nothing. His fingers + still played idly on the chair, and his eyes, like the eyes of Lawrence, + looked out upon the river. Every thing in Lawrence Newt’s conduct + was at once explained; and the poor artist was ready to curse his absurd + folly in making his friend involuntarily sit for Endymion. Lawrence Newt + knew his friend’s thoughts. + </p> + <p> + “Arthur,” he said, in a low voice, “did I not say that, + if Endymion were not dead, it would be impossible not to awake and love + her? Do you not see that I was dead to her?” + </p> + <p> + “But does she know it?” asked the painter. + </p> + <p> + “I believe she does now,” was the slow answer. “But she + has not known it long.” + </p> + <p> + “Does Amy Waring know it?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” replied Lawrence Newt, quietly, “but she will + to-night.” + </p> + <p> + The two men sat silently together for some time. The junior partner came + in, spoke to Arthur, wrote a little, and went out again. Thomas Tray + glanced up occasionally from his great volume, and the melancholy eyes of + Little Malacca scarcely turned from the two figures which he watched from + his desk through the office windows. Venables was promoted to be second to + Thomas Tray on the very day that Gabriel was admitted a junior partner. + They were all aware that the head of the house was engaged in some deeply + interesting conversation, and they learned from Little Malacca who the + stranger was. + </p> + <p> + The two men sat silently together, Lawrence Newt evidently tranquilly + waiting, Arthur Merlin vainly trying to say something further. + </p> + <p> + “I wonder—” he began, at length, and stopped. A painful + expression of doubt clouded his face; but Lawrence turned to him + cheerfully, and said, in a frank, assuring tone, + </p> + <p> + “Arthur, speak out.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said the artist, with almost a girl’s shyness in + his whole manner, “before you, at least, I can speak, and am not + ashamed. I want to know whether—you—think—” + </p> + <p> + He spoke very slowly, and stopped again. Before he resumed he saw Lawrence + Newt shake his head negatively. + </p> + <p> + “Why, what?” asked Arthur, quickly. + </p> + <p> + “I do not believe she ever will,” replied the other, as if the + artist had asked a question with his eyes. He spoke in a very low, serious + tone. + </p> + <p> + “Will what?” asked Arthur, his face burning with a bright + crimson flush. + </p> + <p> + Lawrence Newt waited a moment to give his friend time to recover, before + he said, + </p> + <p> + “Shall I say what?” + </p> + <p> + Arthur also waited for a little while; then he said, sadly, + </p> + <p> + “No, it’s no matter.” + </p> + <p> + He seemed to have grown older as he sat looking from the window. His hands + idly played no longer, but rested quietly upon the chair. He shook his + head slowly, and repeated, in a tone that touched his friend to the heart, + </p> + <p> + “No—no—it’s no matter.” + </p> + <p> + “But, Arthur, it’s only my opinion,” said the other, + kindly. + </p> + <p> + “And mine too,” replied the artist, with an inexpressible + sadness. + </p> + <p> + Lawrence Newt was silent. After a few moments Arthur Merlin rose and shook + his hand. + </p> + <p> + “Good-by!” he said. “We shall meet to-night.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0078" id="link2HCH0078"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LXXVIII. — FINISHING PICTURES. + </h2> + <p> + Arthur Merlin returned to his studio and carefully locked the door. Then + he opened a huge port-folio, which was full of sketches—and they + were all of the same subject, treated in a hundred ways—they were + all Hope Wayne. + </p> + <p> + Sometimes it was a lady leaning from an oriel window in a medieval tower, + listening in the moonlight, with love in her eyes and attitude, to the + music of a guitar, touched by a gallant knight below, who looked as Arthur + Merlin would have looked had Arthur Merlin been a gallant medieval knight. + </p> + <p> + Then it was Juliet, pale and unconscious in the tomb; superb in snow-white + drapery; pure as an angel, lovely as a woman; but it was Hope Wayne still—and + Romeo stole frightened in, but Romeo was Arthur. + </p> + <p> + Or it was Beatrice moving in a radiant heaven; while far below, kneeling, + and with clasped hands, gazing upward, the melancholy Dante watched the + vision. + </p> + <p> + Or the fair phantom of Goethe’s ballad looked out with humid, + passionate glances between the clustering reeds she pushed aside, and + lured the fisherman with love. + </p> + <p> + There were scores of such sketches, from romance, and history, and fancy, + and in each the beauty was Hope Wayne’s; and it was strange to see + that in each, however different from all the others, there was still a + charm characteristic of the woman he loved; so that it seemed a vivid + record of all the impressions she had made upon him, and as if all + heroines of poetry or history were only ladies in waiting upon her. In all + of them, too, there was a separation between them. She was remote in + sphere or in space; there was the feeling of inaccessibility between them + in all. + </p> + <p> + As he turned them slowly over, and gazed at them as earnestly as if his + glance could make that beauty live, he suddenly perceived, what he had + never before felt, that the instinct which had unconsciously given the + same character of hopelessness to the incident of the sketches was the + same that had made him so readily acquiesce in what Lawrence Newt had + hinted. He paused at a drawing of Pygmalion and his statue. The same + instinct had selected the moment before the sculptor’s prayer was + granted; when he looks at the immovable beauty of his statue with the + yearning love that made the marble live. But the statue of Arthur’s + Pygmalion would never live. It was a statue only, and forever. He asked + himself why he had not selected the moment when she falls breathing and + blushing into the sculptor’s arms. + </p> + <p> + Alone in his studio the artist blushed, as if the very thought were wrong; + and he felt that he had never really dared to hope, however he had longed, + and wished, and flattered his fancy. + </p> + <p> + He looked at each one of the drawings carefully and long, then kissed it + and turned it upon its face. When he had seen them all he sat for a + moment; then quietly tore them into long strips, then into small pieces; + and, lifting the window, scattered them upon the air. The wind whirled + them over the street. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, what a pretty snow-storm!” said the little street + children, looking up. + </p> + <p> + Then Arthur Merlin turned to his great easel, upon which stood the canvas + of the picture of Diana and Endymion. Through the parted clouds the face + of the Queen and huntress—the face of Hope Wayne—looked + tenderly upon the sleeping figure of the shepherd on the bare top of the + grassy hill—the face and figure of Lawrence Newt. + </p> + <p> + The painter took his brushes and his pallet, and his maulstick. He paused + for some time again, as he stood before the easel, then he went quietly to + work. He touched it here and there. He stepped back to mark the effect—rubbed + with his finger—sighed—stepped back—and still worked on. + The hours glided away, and daylight began to fade, but not until he had + finished his work. + </p> + <p> + Then he scraped his pallet and washed his brushes, and seated himself upon + the sofa opposite the easel. There was no picture, of Diana or of Endymion + any longer. In the place of Diana there was a full summer moon shining + calmly in a cloudless heaven. Its benignant light fell upon a solitary + grave upon a hill-top, which filled the spot where Endymion had lain. + </p> + <p> + Arthur Merlin sat in the corner of the sofa with folded arms, looking at + the picture, until the darkness entirely hid it from view. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0079" id="link2HCH0079"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LXXIX. — THE LAST THROW. + </h2> + <p> + While Arthur and Lawrence were conversing in the office of the latter, + Abel Newt, hat in hand, stood in Hope Wayne’s parlor. His hair was + thinner and grizzled; his face bloated, and his eyes dull. His hands had + that dead, chalky color in which appetite openly paints its excesses. The + hand trembled as it held the hat; and as the man stood before the mirror, + he was straining his eyes at his own reflection, and by some secret magic + he saw, as if dimly traced beside it, the figure of the boy that stood in + the parlor of Pinewood—how many thousand years ago? + </p> + <p> + He heard a step, and turned. + </p> + <p> + Hope Wayne stopped, leaving the door open, bowed, and looked inquiringly + at him. She was dressed simply in a morning dress, and her golden hair + clustered and curled around the fresh beauty of her face—the rose of + health. + </p> + <p> + “Did you wish to say something to me?” she asked, observing + that Abel merely stared at her stupidly. + </p> + <p> + He bowed his head in assent. + </p> + <p> + “What do you wish to say?” + </p> + <p> + Her voice was as cold and remote as if she were a spirit. + </p> + <p> + Abel Newt was evidently abashed by the reception. But he moved toward her, + and began in a tone of doubtful familiarity. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Hope, I—” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Newt, you have no right to address me in that way.” + </p> + <p> + “Miss Wayne, I have come to—to—” + </p> + <p> + He stopped, embarrassed, rubbing his fingers upon the palms of his hands. + She looked at him steadily. He waited a few moments, then began again in a + hurried tone: + </p> + <p> + “Miss Wayne, we are both older than we once were; and once, I think, + we were not altogether indifferent to each other. Time has taught us many + things. I find that my heart, after foolish wanderings, is still true to + its first devotion. We can both view things more calmly, not less truly, + however, than we once did. I am upon the eve of a public career. I have + outgrown morbid emotions, and I come to ask you if you would take time to + reflect whether I might not renew my addresses; for indeed I love, and can + love, no other woman.” + </p> + <p> + Hope Wayne stood pale, incredulous, and confounded while Abel Newt, with + some of the old fire in the eye and the old sweetness in the voice, poured + out these rapid words, and advanced toward her. + </p> + <p> + “Stop, Sir,” she said, as soon as she could command herself. + “Is this all you have to say?” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t drive me to despair,” he said, suddenly, in + reply, and so fiercely that Hope Wayne started. “Listen.” He + spoke with stern command. + </p> + <p> + “I am utterly ruined. I have no friends. I have bad habits. You can + save me—will you do it?” + </p> + <p> + Hope stood before him silent. His hard black eye was fixed upon her with a + kind of defying appeal for help. Her state of mind for some days, since + she had heard Mrs. Simcoe’s story, had been one of curious mental + tension. She was inspired by a sense of renunciation—of + self-sacrifice. It seemed to her that some great work to do, something + which should occupy every moment, and all her powers and thoughts, was her + only hope of contentment. What it might be, what it ought to be, she had + not conceived. Was it not offered now? Horrible, repulsive, degrading—yes, + but was it not so much the worthier? Here stood the man she had loved in + all the prime and power of his youth, full of hope, and beauty, and vigor—the + hero that satisfied the girl’s longing—and he was bent, gray, + wan, shaking, utterly lost, except for her. Should she restore him to that + lost manhood? Could she forgive herself if she suffered her own feelings, + tastes, pride, to prevent? + </p> + <p> + While the thought whirled through her excited brain: + </p> + <p> + “Remember,” he said, solemnly—“remember it is the + salvation of a human soul upon which you are deciding.” + </p> + <p> + There was perfect silence for some minutes. The low, quick ticking of the + clock upon the mantle was all they heard. + </p> + <p> + “I have decided,” she said, at last. + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” he asked, under his breath. + </p> + <p> + “What you knew it would be,” she answered. + </p> + <p> + “Then you refuse?” he said, in a half-threatening tone. + </p> + <p> + “I refuse!” + </p> + <p> + “Then the damnation of a soul rest upon your head forever,” he + said, in a loud coarse voice, crushing his hat, and his black eyes + glaring. + </p> + <p> + “Have you done?” she asked, pale and calm. + </p> + <p> + “No, Hope Wayne, I have not done; I am not deceived by your smooth + face and your quiet eyes. I have known long enough that you meant to marry + my Uncle Lawrence, although he is old enough to be your father. The whole + world has known it and seen it. And I came to give you a chance of saving + your name by showing to the world that my uncle came here familiarly + because you were to marry his nephew. You refuse the chance. There was a + time when you would have flown into my arms, and now you reject me ... And + I shall have my revenge! I warn you to beware, Mrs. Lawrence Newt! I warn + you that my saintly uncle is not beyond misfortune, nor his milksop + partner, the Reverend Gabriel Bennet. I am a man at bay; and it is you who + put me there; you who might save me and won’t. You who will one day + remember and suffer.” + </p> + <p> + He threw up his arms in uncontrollable rage and excitement. His thick + hoarse voice, his burning, bad, black eyes, his quivering hands, his + bloated body, made him a terrible spectacle. + </p> + <p> + “Have you done?” asked Hope Wayne, with saintly dignity. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I have done for this time,” he hissed; “but I + shall cross you many a time. You and yours,” he sneered, “but + never so that you can harm me. You shall feel, but never see me. You have + left me nothing but despair. And the doom of my soul be upon yours!” + </p> + <p> + He rushed from the room, and Hope Wayne stood speechless. Attracted by the + loud tone of his voice, Mrs. Simcoe had come down stairs, and the moment + he was gone she was by Hope’s side. They seated themselves together + upon the sofa, and Hope leaned her head upon her aunty’s shoulder + and wept with utter surprise, grief, indignation, and weariness. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0080" id="link2HCH0080"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LXXX. — CLOUDS BREAKING. + </h2> + <p> + The next morning Amy Waring came to Hope Wayne radiant with the prospect + of her Aunt Martha’s restoration to the world. Hope shook her hand + warmly, and looked into her friend’s illuminated face. + </p> + <p> + “She is engaged to Lawrence Newt,” said Hope, in her heart, as + she kissed Amy’s lips. + </p> + <p> + “God bless you, Amy!” she added, with so much earnestness that + Amy looked surprised. + </p> + <p> + “I am very glad,” said Hope, frankly. + </p> + <p> + “Why, what do you know about it?” asked Amy. + </p> + <p> + “Do you think I am blind?” said Hope. + </p> + <p> + “No; but no eyes could see it, it was so hidden.” + </p> + <p> + “It can’t be hidden,” said Hope, earnestly. + </p> + <p> + Amy stopped, looked inquiringly at her friend, and blushed—wondering + what she meant. + </p> + <p> + “Come, Hope, at least we are hiding from each other. I came to ask + you to a family festival.” + </p> + <p> + “I am ready,” answered Hope, with an air of quiet knowledge, + and not at all surprised. Amy Waring was confused, she hardly knew why. + </p> + <p> + “Why, Hope, I mean only that Lawrence Newt—” + </p> + <p> + Hope Wayne smiled so tenderly and calmly, and with such tranquil + consciousness that she knew every thing Amy was about to say, that Amy + stopped again. + </p> + <p> + “Go on,” said Hope, placidly; “I want to hear it from + your own lips.” + </p> + <p> + Amy Waring was in doubt no longer. She knew that Hope expected to hear + that she was engaged. And not with less placidity than Hope’s, she + said: + </p> + <p> + “Lawrence Newt wants us all to come and dine with him, because my + Aunt Martha is found, and he wishes to bring Aunt Bennet and her together.” + </p> + <p> + That was all. Hope looked as confusedly at the calm Amy as Amy, a moment + since, had looked at her. Then they both smiled, for they had, perhaps, + some vague idea of what each had been thinking. + </p> + <p> + The same evening the Round Table met. Arthur Merlin came early—so + did Hope Wayne. They sat together talking rapidly, but Hope did not escape + observing the unusual sadness of the artist—a sadness of manner + rather than of expression. In a thousand ways there was a deference in his + treatment of her which was unusual and touching. She had been very sure + that he had understood what she meant when she spoke to him with an air of + badinage about his picture. And certainly it was plain enough. It was + clear enough; only he would not see what was before his eyes, nor hear + what was in his ears, and so had to grope a little further until Lawrence + Newt suddenly struck a light and showed him where he was. + </p> + <p> + While they were yet talking Lawrence Newt came in. He spoke to Amy Waring, + and then went straight up to Hope Wayne and put out his hand with the old + frank smile breaking over his face. She rose and answered his smile, and + laid her hand in his. They looked in each other’s eyes; and Lawrence + Newt saw in Hope Wayne’s the beauty of a girl that long ago, as a + boy, he had loved; and in his own, Hope felt that tenderness which had + made her mother’s happiness. + </p> + <p> + It was but a moment. It was but a word. For the first time he said, + </p> + <p> + “Hope.” + </p> + <p> + And for the first time she answered, + </p> + <p> + “Lawrence.” + </p> + <p> + Amy Waring heard them. The two words seemed sharp: they pierced her heart, + and she felt faint. The room swam, but she bit her lip till the blood + came, and her stout heart preserved her from falling. + </p> + <p> + “It is what I knew: they are engaged.” + </p> + <p> + But how was it that the manner of Lawrence Newt toward herself was never + before more loyal and devoted? How was it that the quiet hilarity of the + morning was not gone, but stole into his conversation with her so + pointedly that she could not help feeling that it magnetized her, and + that, against her will, she was more than ever cheerful? How was it that + she knew it was herself who helped make that hilarity—that it was + not only her friend Hope who inspired it? + </p> + <p> + They are secrets not to be told. But as they all sat around the table, and + Arthur Merlin for the first time insisted upon reading from Byron, and in + his rich melancholy voice recited + </p> + <p> + “Though the day of my destiny’s over,” + </p> + <p> + It was clear that the cloud had lifted—that the spell of constraint + was removed; and yet none of them precisely understood why. + </p> + <p> + “To-morrow, then,” said Lawrence Newt as they parted. + </p> + <p> + “To-morrow,” echoed Amy Waring and Hope Wayne. + </p> + <p> + Arthur Merlin pulled his cap over his eyes and sauntered slowly homeward, + whistling musingly, and murmuring, + </p> + <p> + “A bird in the wilderness singing, That speaks to my spirit of thee.” + </p> + <p> + His Aunt Winnifred heard him as he came in. The good old lady had placed a + fresh tract where he would be sure to see it when he entered his room. She + heard his cautious step stealing up stairs, for the painter was careful to + make no noise; and as she listened she drew pictures upon her fancy of the + scenes in which her boy had been mingling. It was Aunt Winnifred’s + firm conviction that society—that is, the great world of which she + knew nothing—languished for the smile and presence of her nephew, + Arthur. That very evening her gossip, Mrs. Toxer, had been in, and Aunt + Winnifred had discussed her favorite theme until Mrs. Toxer went home with + a vague idea that all the young and beautiful unmarried women in the city + were secretly pining away for love of Arthur Merlin. + </p> + <p> + “Mercy me, now!” said Aunt Winnifred as she lay listening to + the creaking step of her nephew. “I wonder what poor girl’s + heart that wicked boy has been breaking to-night;” and she turned + over and fell asleep again. + </p> + <p> + That young man reached his room, and struck a light. It flashed upon a + paper. He took it up eagerly, then smiled as he saw that it was a tract, + and read, “A word to the Unhappy.” + </p> + <p> + “Dear Aunt Winnifred!” said he to himself; “does she + think a man’s griefs are like a child’s bumps and bruises, to + be cured by applying a piece of paper?” + </p> + <p> + He smiled sadly, with the profound conviction that no man had ever before + really known what unhappiness was, and so tumbled into bed and fell + asleep. And as he dreamed, Hope Wayne came to him and smiled, as Diana + smiled in his picture upon Endymion. + </p> + <p> + “See!” she said, “I love you; look here!” + </p> + <p> + And in his dream he looked and saw a full moon in a summer sky shining + upon a fresh grave upon a hill-top. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0081" id="link2HCH0081"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LXXXI. — MRS. ALFRED DINKS AT HOME. + </h2> + <p> + A new element had forced itself into the life of Hope Wayne, and that was + the fate of Abel Newt. There was something startling in the direct, + passionate, personal appeal he had made to her. She put on her bonnet and + furs, for it was Christmas time, and passed the Bowery into the small, + narrow street where the smell of the sewer was the chief odor and the few + miserable trees cooped up in perforated boxes had at last been released + from suffering, and were placidly, rigidly dead. + </p> + <p> + The sloppy servant girl was standing upon the area steps with her apron + over her head, and blowing her huge red fingers, staring at every thing, + and apparently stunned when Hope Wayne stopped and went up the steps. Hope + rang, entered the little parlor and seated herself upon the haircloth + sofa. Her heart ached with the dreariness of the house; but while she was + resolving that she would certainly raise her secret allowance to her + Cousin Alfred, whether her good friend Lawrence Newt approved of it or + not, she saw that the dreariness was not in the small room or the hair + sofa, nor in the two lamps with glass drops upon the mantle, but in the + lack of that indescribable touch of feminine taste, and tact, and + tenderness, which create comfort and grace wherever they fall, and make + the most desolate chambers to blossom with cheerfulness. Hope felt as she + glanced around her that money could not buy what was wanting. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Alfred Dinks presently entered. Hope Wayne had rarely met her since + the season at Saratoga when Fanny had captured her prize. She saw that the + black-eyed, clever, resolute girl of those days had grown larger and more + pulpy, and was wrapped in a dingy morning wrapper. Her hair was not + smooth, her hands were not especially clean; she had that dull + carelessness, or unconsciousness of personal appearance, which seemed to + Hope only the parlor aspect of the dowdiness that had run entirely to seed + in the sloppy servant girl upon the area steps. + </p> + <p> + Hope Wayne put out her hand, which Fanny listlessly took. There was + nothing very hard, or ferocious, or defiant in her manner, as Hope had + expected—there was only a weariness and indifference, as if she had + been worsted in some kind of struggle. She did not even seem to be excited + by seeing Hope Wayne in her house, but merely said, “Good-morning,” + and then sank quietly upon the sofa, as if she had said every thing she + had to say. + </p> + <p> + “I came to ask you if you know any thing about Abel?” said + Hope. + </p> + <p> + “No; nothing in particular,” replied Fanny; “I believe + he’s going to Congress; but I never see him or hear of him.” + </p> + <p> + “Doesn’t Alfred see him?” + </p> + <p> + “He used to meet him at Thiel’s; but Alfred doesn’t go + there much now. It’s too fine for poor gentlemen. I remember some + time ago I saw he had a black eye, and he said that he and my ‘d—— + brother Abel,’ as he elegantly expressed it, had met somewhere the + night before, and Abel was drunk and gave him the lie, and they fought it + out. I think, by-the-way, that’s the last I’ve heard of + brother Abel.” + </p> + <p> + There was a slight touch of the old manner in the tone with which Fanny + ended her remark; after which she relapsed into the previous + half-apathetic condition. + </p> + <p> + “Fanny, I wish I could do something for Abel.” + </p> + <p> + Fanny Dinks looked at Hope Wayne with an incredulous smile, and said, + </p> + <p> + “I thought once you would marry him; and so did he, I fancy.” + </p> + <p> + “What does he do? and how can I reach him?” asked Hope, + entirely disregarding Fanny’s remark. + </p> + <p> + “He lives at the old place in Grand Street, I believe; the Lord + knows how; I’m sure I don’t. I suppose he gambles when he isn’t + drunk.” + </p> + <p> + “But about Congress?” inquired Hope. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know any thing about that. Abel and father used to + say that no gentleman would ever have any thing to do with politics; so I + never heard any thing, and I’m sure I don’t know what he’s + going to do.” + </p> + <p> + Fanny apparently supposed her last remark would end the conversation. Not + that she wished to end it—not that she was sorry to see Hope Wayne + again and to talk with her—not that she wanted or cared for any + thing in particular, no, not even for her lord and master, who burst into + the room with an oath, as usual, and with his small, swinish eyes heavy + with drowsiness. + </p> + <p> + The master of the house was evidently just down. He wore a dirty + morning-gown, and slippers down at the heel, displaying his dirty + stockings. He came in yawning and squeezing his eves together. + </p> + <p> + “Why the h—— don’t that slut of a waiter have my + coffee ready?” he said to his wife, who paid no more attention to + him than to the lamp on the mantle, but, on the contrary, appeared to Hope + to be a little more indifferent than before. + </p> + <p> + “I say, why the h——” Mr. Dinks began again, and + had advanced so far when he suddenly saw his cousin. + </p> + <p> + “Hallo! what are you doing here?” he said to her abruptly, and + in the half-sycophantic, half-bullying tone that indicates the feeling of + such a man toward a person to whom he is under immense obligation. Alfred + Dinks’s real feeling was that Hope Wayne ought to give him a much + larger allowance. + </p> + <p> + Hope was inexpressibly disgusted; but she found an excitement in + encountering this boorishness, which served to stimulate her in the + struggle going on in her own soul. And she very soon understood how the + sharp, sparkling, audacious Fanny Newt had become the inert, indifferent + woman before her. A clever villain might have developed her, through + admiration and sympathy, into villainy; but a dull, heavy brute merely + crushed her. There is a spur in the prick of a rapier; only stupidity + follows the blow of a club. + </p> + <p> + After sitting silently for some minutes, during which Alfred Dinks + sprawled in a chair, and yawned, and whistled insolently to himself, while + Fanny sat without looking at him, as if she were deaf and dumb, Hope Wayne + said to the husband and wife: + </p> + <p> + “Abel Newt is ruining himself, and he may harm other people. If + there is any thing that can be done to save him we ought to do it. Fanny, + he is your own flesh and blood.” + </p> + <p> + She spoke with a kind of despairing earnestness, for Hope herself felt how + useless every thing would probably be. But when she had ended Alfred broke + out into uproarious laughter, + </p> + <p> + “Ho! ho! ho! Ho! ho! ho!” + </p> + <p> + He made such a noise that even his wife looked at him with almost a glance + of contempt. + </p> + <p> + “Save Abel Newt!” cried he. “Convert the Devil! Yes, + yes; let’s send him some tracts! Ho! ho! ho!” + </p> + <p> + And he roared again until the water oozed from his eyes. + </p> + <p> + Hope Wayne scarcely looked at him. She rose to go; but it seemed to her + pitiful to leave Fanny Newt in such utter desolation of soul and body, in + which she seemed to her to be gradually sinking into idiocy. She went to + Fanny and took her hand. Fanny listlessly rose, and when Hope had done + shaking hands Fanny crossed them before her inanely, but in an + unconsciously appealing attitude, which Hope saw and felt. Alfred still + sprawled in his chair; laughing at intervals; and Hope left the room, + followed by Fanny, who shuffled after her, her slippers, evidently down at + the heel, pattering on the worn oil-cloth in the entry as she shambled + toward the front door. Hope opened it. The morning was pleasant, though + cool, and the air refreshing after the odor of mingled grease and stale + tobacco-smoke which filled the house. + </p> + <p> + As they passed out, Fanny quietly sat down upon the step, leaned her chin + upon one hand, and looked up and down the street, which, it seemed to + Hope, offered a prospect that would hardly enliven her mind. There was + something more touching to Hope in this dull apathy than in the most + positive grief. + </p> + <p> + “Fanny Newt!” she said to her, suddenly. + </p> + <p> + Fanny lifted her lazy eyes. + </p> + <p> + “If I can do nothing for your brother, can I do nothing for you? You + will rust out, Fanny, if you don’t take care.” + </p> + <p> + Fanny smiled languidly. + </p> + <p> + “What if I do?” she answered. + </p> + <p> + Thereupon Hope sat down by her, and told her just what she meant, and what + she hoped, and what she would do if she would let her. And the eager young + woman drew such pleasant pictures of what was yet possible to Fanny, + although she was the wife of Alfred Dinks, that, as if the + long-accumulating dust and ashes were blown away from her soul, and it + began to kindle again in a friendly breath, Fanny felt herself moved and + interested. She smiled, looked grave, and finally laid her head upon Hope’s + shoulder and cried good, honest tears of utter weariness and regret. + </p> + <p> + “And now,” said Hope, “will you help me about Abel?” + </p> + <p> + “I really don’t see that you can do any thing,” said + Fanny, “nor any body else. Perhaps he’ll get a new start in + Congress, though I don’t know any thing about it.” + </p> + <p> + Hope Wayne shook her head thoughtfully. + </p> + <p> + “No,” she said, “I see no way. I can only be ready to + befriend him if the chance offers.” + </p> + <p> + They said no more of him then, but Hope persuaded Fanny to come to + Lawrence Newt’s Christmas dinner, to which they had all been bidden. + “And I will make him understand about it,” she said, as she + went down the steps. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Dinks sat upon the door-step for some time. There was nobody to see + her whom she knew, and if there had been she would not have cared. She did + not know how long she had been sitting there, for she was thinking of + other things, but she was roused by hearing her husband’s voice: + </p> + <p> + “Well, by G——! that’s a G—— d—— + pretty business—squatting on a door-step like a servant girl! Come + in, I tell you, and shut the door.” + </p> + <p> + From long habit Fanny did not pay the least attention to this order. But + after some time she rose and closed the door, and clattered along the + entry and up stairs, upon the worn and ragged carpet. Mr. Alfred Dinks + returned to the parlor, pulled the bell violently, and when the sloppy + servant girl appeared, glaring at him with the staring eyes, he + immediately damned them, and wanted to know why in h—— he was + kept waiting for his boots. The staring eyes vanished, and Mr. Dinks + reclined upon the sofa, picking his teeth. Presently there was the slop—slop—slop + of the girl along the entry. She opened the door, dropped the boots, and + fled. Mr. Dinks immediately pulled the bell violently, walking across the + room a greater distance than to his boots. Slop—slop again. The door + opened. + </p> + <p> + “Look here! If you don’t bring me my boots, I’ll come + and pull the hair out of your head!” roared the master of the house. + </p> + <p> + The cowering little creature dashed at the boots with a wobegone look, and + brought them to the sofa. Mr. Dinks took them in his hand, and turned them + round contemptuously. + </p> + <p> + “G——! You call those boots blacked?” + </p> + <p> + He scratched his head a moment, enjoying the undisguised terror of the + puny girl. + </p> + <p> + “If you don’t black ‘em better—if you don’t + put a brighter shine on to 'em, I’ll—I’ll—I’ll + put a shine on your face, you slut!” + </p> + <p> + The girl seemed to be all terrified eye as she looked at him, and then + fled again, while he laughed. + </p> + <p> + “Ho! ho! ho! I’ll teach ‘em how—insolent curs! G—— + d—— Paddies! What business have they coming over here? Ho! ho! + ho!” + </p> + <p> + Leaving his slippers upon the parlor floor, Mr. Dinks mounted to his room + and changed his coat. He tried the door of his wife’s room as he + passed out, and found it locked. He kicked it violently, and bawled, + </p> + <p> + “Good-morning, Mrs. Dinks! If Miss Wayne calls, tell her I’ve + gone to tell Mr. Abel Newt that she repents, and wants to marry him; and I + shall add that, having been through the wood, she picks up a crooked stick + at last. Ho! ho! ho! (Kick.) Good-morning, Mrs. Dinks!” + </p> + <p> + He went heavily down stairs and slammed the front door, and was gone for + the day. + </p> + <p> + When they were first married, after the bitter conviction that there was + really no hope of old Burt’s wealth, Fanny Dinks had carried matters + with a high hand, domineering by her superior cleverness, and with a + superiority that stung and exasperated her husband at every turn. Her + bitter temper had gradually entirely eaten away the superficial, stupid + good-humor of his younger days; and her fury of disappointment, carried + into the detail of life, had gradually confirmed him in all his worst + habits and obliterated the possibility of better. But the sour, superior + nature was, as usual, unequal to the struggle. At last it spent itself in + vain against the massive brutishness of opposition it had itself + developed, and the reaction came, and now daily stunned her into hopeless + apathy and abject indifference. Having lost the power of vexing, and + beyond being really vexed by a being she so utterly despised as her + husband, there was nothing left but pure passivity and inanition, into + which she was rapidly declining. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Dinks kicked loudly and roared at the door, but Mrs. Dinks did not + heed him. She was sitting in her dingy wrapper, rocking, and pondering + upon the conversation of the morning—mechanically rocking, and + thinking of the Christinas dinner at Uncle Lawrence’s. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0082" id="link2HCH0082"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LXXXII. — THE LOST IS FOUND. + </h2> + <p> + It was a whim of Lawrence’s to give dinners; to have them good, and + to ask only the people he wanted, and who he thought would enjoy + themselves together. + </p> + <p> + “How much,” he said, quietly, as he conversed with Mrs. + Bennet, while his guests were assembling, “Edward Wynne looks like + your sister Martha!” + </p> + <p> + It was the first time Mrs. Bennet had heard her sister’s name + mentioned by any stranger for years. But Lawrence spoke as calmly and + naturally as if Martha Darro had been the subject of their conversation. + </p> + <p> + “Poor Martha!” said Mrs. Bennet, sadly; “how mysterious + it was!” + </p> + <p> + Her husband saw her as she spoke, and he was so struck by the mournfulness + of her face that he came quietly over. + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” he said, gently. + </p> + <p> + “For my son who was dead is alive again. He was lost and is found,” + said Lawrence Newt, solemnly. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Bennet looked troubled, startled, almost frightened. The words were + full of significance, the tone was not to be mistaken. She looked at + Lawrence Newt with incredulous eagerness. He shook his head assentingly. + </p> + <p> + “Alive?” she gasped rather than asked. + </p> + <p> + “And well,” he continued. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Bennet closed her eyes in a silent prayer. A light so sweet stole + over her matronly face that Lawrence Newt did not fear to say, + </p> + <p> + “And near you; come with me!” + </p> + <p> + They left the room together; and Amy Waring, who knew why they went, + followed her aunt and Lawrence from the room. + </p> + <p> + The three stopped at the door of Lawrence Newt’s study. + </p> + <p> + “Your sister is here,” said he; and Amy and he remained + outside while Mrs. Bennet entered the room. + </p> + <p> + It was more than twenty years since the sisters had met, and they clasped + each other silently and wept for a long time. + </p> + <p> + “Martha!” + </p> + <p> + “Lucia!” + </p> + <p> + It was all they said; and wept again quietly. + </p> + <p> + Aunt Martha was dressed in sober black. Her face was very comely; for the + hardness that came with a morbid and mistaken zeal was mellowed, and the + sadness of experience softened it. + </p> + <p> + “I have lived not far from you, Lucia, all these long years.” + </p> + <p> + “Martha! and you did not come to me?” + </p> + <p> + “I did not dare. Listen, Lucia. If a woman who had always gratified + her love of admiration, and gloried in the power of gratifying it—who + conquered men and loved to conquer them—who was a woman of + ungoverned will and indomitable pride, should encounter—as how often + they do?—a man who utterly conquered her, and betrayed her through + the very weakness that springs from pride, do you not see that such a + woman would go near to insanity—as I have been—believing that + I had committed the unpardonable sin, and that no punishment could be + painful enough?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Bennet looked alarmed. + </p> + <p> + “No, no; there is no reason,” said her sister, observing it. + </p> + <p> + “The man came. I could not resist him. There was a form of marriage. + I believed that it was I who had conquered. He left me; my child was born. + I appealed to Lawrence Newt, our old friend and playmate. He promised me + faithful secrecy, and through him the child was sent where Gabriel was at + school. Then I withdrew from both. I thought it was the will of God. I + felt myself commanded to a living death—dead to every friend and + kinsman—dead to every thing but my degradation and its punishment; + and yet consciously close to you, near to all old haunts and familiar + faces—lost to them all—lost to my child—” Her + voice faltered, and the tears gushed from her eyes. “But I + persevered. The old passionate pride was changed to a kind of religious + frenzy. Lawrence Newt went and came to and from India. I was utterly lost + to the world. I knew that my child would never know me, for Lawrence had + promised that he would not betray me; and when I disappeared from his + view, Lawrence gradually came to consider me dead. Then Amy discovered me + among the poor souls she visited, and through Amy Lawrence Newt; and by + them I have been led out of the valley of the shadow of death, and see the + blessed light of love once more.” + </p> + <p> + She bowed her head in uncontrollable emotion. + </p> + <p> + “And your son?” said her sister, half-smiling through her + sympathetic tears. + </p> + <p> + “Will be yours also, Amy tells me,” said Aunt Martha. “Thank + God! thank God!” + </p> + <p> + “Martha, who gave him his name?” asked Mrs. Bennet. + </p> + <p> + Aunt Martha paused for a little while. Then she said: + </p> + <p> + “You never knew who my—my—husband was?” + </p> + <p> + “Never.” + </p> + <p> + “I remember—he never came to the house. Well, I gave my child + almost his father’s name. I called him Wynne; his father’s + name was Wayne.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Bennet clasped her hands in her lap. + </p> + <p> + “How wonderful! how wonderful!” was all she said. + </p> + <p> + Lawrence Newt knocked at the door, and Amy and he came in. There was so + sweet and strange a light upon Amy’s face that Mrs. Bennet looked at + her in surprise. Then she looked at Lawrence Newt; and he cheerfully + returned her glance with that smiling, musing expression in his eyes that + was utterly bewildering to Mrs. Bennet. She could only look at each of the + persons before her, and repeat her last words: + </p> + <p> + “How wonderful! how wonderful!” + </p> + <p> + Amy Waring, who had not heard the previous conversation between her two + aunts, blushed as she heard these words, as if Mrs. Bennet had been + alluding to something in which Amy was particularly interested. + </p> + <p> + “Amy,” said Mrs. Bennet. + </p> + <p> + Amy could scarcely raise her eyes. There was an exquisite maidenly shyness + overspreading her whole person. At length she looked the response she + could not speak. + </p> + <p> + “How could you?” asked her aunt. + </p> + <p> + Poor Amy was utterly unable to reply. + </p> + <p> + “Coming and going in my house, my dearest niece, and yet hugging + such a secret, and holding your tongue. Oh Amy, Amy!” + </p> + <p> + These were the words of reproach; but the tone, and look, and impression + were of entire love and sympathy. Lawrence Newt looked calmly on. + </p> + <p> + “Aunt Lucia, what could I do?” was all that Amy could say. + </p> + <p> + “Well, well, I do not reproach you; I blame nobody. I am too glad + and happy. It is too wonderful, wonderful!” + </p> + <p> + There was a fullness and intensity of emphasis in what she said that + apparently made Amy suspect that she had not correctly understood her aunt’s + intention. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you mean about Aunt Martha!” said Amy, with an air of + relief and surprise. + </p> + <p> + Lawrence Newt smiled. Mrs. Bennet turned to Amy with a fresh look of + inquiry. + </p> + <p> + “About Aunt Martha? Of course about Aunt Martha. Why, Amy, what on + earth did you suppose it was about?” + </p> + <p> + Again the overwhelming impossibility to reply. Mrs. Bennet was very + curious. She looked at her sister Martha, who was smiling intelligently. + Then at Lawrence Newt, who did not cease smiling, as if he were in no + perplexity whatsoever. Then at Amy, who sat smiling at her through the + tears that had gathered in the thoughtful womanly brown eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Let me speak,” said Lawrence Newt, quietly. “Why should + we not all be glad and happy with you? You have found a sister, Aunt + Martha has found herself and a son, I have found a wife, and Amy a + husband.” + </p> + <p> + They returned to the room where they had left the guests, and the story + was quietly told to Hope Wayne and the others. + </p> + <p> + Hope and Edward looked at each other. + </p> + <p> + “Little Malacca!” she said, in a low tone, putting out her + hand. + </p> + <p> + “Sister Hope,” said the young man, blushing, and his large + eyes filling with tenderness. + </p> + <p> + “And my sister, too,” whispered Ellen Bennet, as she took Hope’s + other hand. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0083" id="link2HCH0083"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LXXXIII. — MRS. DELILAH JONES. + </h2> + <p> + Mr. Newt’s political friends in New York were naturally anxious when + he went to Washington. They had constant communication with the Honorable + Mr. Ele in regard to his colleague; for although they were entirely sure + of Mr. Ele, they could not quite confide in Mr. Newt, nor help feeling + that, in some eccentric moment, even his interest might fail to control + him. + </p> + <p> + “The truth is, I begin to be sick of it,” said General Belch + to the calm William Condor. + </p> + <p> + That placid gentleman replied that he saw no reason for apprehension. + </p> + <p> + “But he may let things out, you know,” said Belch. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but is not our word as good as his,” was the assuring + reply. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps, perhaps,” said General Belch, dolefully. + </p> + <p> + But Belch and Condor were forgotten by the representative they had sent to + Congress when he once snuffed the air of Washington. There was something + grateful to Abel Newt in the wide sphere and complicated relations of the + political capital, of which the atmosphere was one of intrigue, and which + was built over the mines and countermines of selfishness. He hoodwinked + all Belch’s spies, so that the Honorable Mr. Ele could never + ascertain any thing about his colleague, until once when he discovered + that the report upon the Grant was to be brought in within a day or two by + the Committee, and that it would be recommended, upon which he hastened to + Abel’s lodging. He found him smoking as usual, with a decanter at + hand. It was past midnight, and the room was in the disorder of a bachelor’s + sanctum. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Ele seated himself carelessly, so carelessly that Abel saw at once + that he had come for some very particular purpose. He offered his friend a + tumbler and a cigar, and they talked nimbly of a thousand things. Who had + come, who had gone, and how superb Mrs. Delilah Jones was, who had + suddenly appeared upon the scene, invested with mystery, and bringing a + note to each of the colleagues from General Belch. + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Delilah Jones,” said that gentleman, in a private note + to Ele, “is our old friend, Kitty Dunham. She appears in Washington + as the widow of a captain in the navy, who died a few years since upon the + Brazil station. She can be of the greatest service to us; and you must + have no secrets from each other about our dear friend, who shall be + nameless.” + </p> + <p> + To Abel Newt, General Belch wrote: “My dear Newt, the lady to whom I + have given a letter to you is daughter of an old friend of my family. She + married Captain Jones of the navy, whom she lost some years since upon the + Brazil station. She has seen the world; has money; and comes to Washington + to taste life, to enjoy herself—to doff the sables, perhaps, who + knows? Be kind to her, and take care of your heart. Don’t forget the + Grant in the arms of Delilah! Yours, Belch.” + </p> + <p> + Abel Newt, when he received this letter, looked over his books of reports + and statistics. + </p> + <p> + “Captain Jones—Brazil station,” he said, skeptically, to + himself. But he found no such name or event in the obituaries; and he was + only the more amused by his friend Belch’s futile efforts at + circumvention and control. + </p> + <p> + “My dear Belch,” he replied, after he had made his + investigations, “I have your private note, but I have not yet + encountered the superb Delilah; nor have I forgotten what you said to me + about working ‘em through their wives, and sisters, etc. I shall not + begin to forget it now, and I hope to make the Delilah useful in the + campaign; for there are goslings here, more than you would believe. Thank + you for such an ally. <i>You</i>, at least, were not born to fail. Yours, + A. Newt.” + </p> + <p> + “Goslings, are there? I believe you,” said Belch to himself, + inwardly chuckling as he read and folded Abel’s letter. + </p> + <p> + “Ally, hey? Well, that <i>is</i> good,” he continued, the + chuckle rising into a laugh. “Well, well, I thought Abel Newt was + smart; but he doesn’t even suspect, and I have played a deeper game + than was needed.” + </p> + <p> + “I guess that will fix him,” said Abel, as he looked over his + letter, laughed, folded it, and sent it off. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Ele by many a devious path at length approached the object of his + visit, and hoped that Mr. Newt would flesh his maiden sword in the coming + fray. Abel said, without removing his cigar, “I think I shall speak.” + </p> + <p> + He said no more. Mr. Ele shook his foot with inward triumph. + </p> + <p> + “The Widow Jones will do a smashing business this winter, I suppose,” + he said, at length. + </p> + <p> + “Likely,” replied Newt. + </p> + <p> + “Know her well?” + </p> + <p> + “Pretty well.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Ele retired, for he had learned all that his friend meant he should + know. + </p> + <p> + “Do I know Delilah?” laughed Abel Newt to himself, as he said + “Good-night, Ele.” + </p> + <p> + Yes he did. He had followed up his note to General Belch by calling upon + the superb Mrs. Delilah Jones. But neither the skillful wig, nor the + freshened cheeks, nor the general repairs which her personal appearance + had undergone, could hide from Abel the face of Kitty Dunham, whom he had + sometimes met in other days when suppers were eaten in Grand Street and + wagons were driven to Cato’s. He betrayed nothing, however; and she + wrote to General Belch that she had disguised herself so that he did not + recall her in the least. + </p> + <p> + Abel was intensely amused by the espionage of the Honorable Mr. Ele and + the superb Jones. He told his colleague how greatly he had been impressed + by the widow—that she was really a fascinating woman, and, by Jove! + though she was a widow, and no longer twenty, still there were a good many + worse things a man might do than fall in love with her. ‘Pon honor, + he did not feel altogether sure of himself, though he thought he was + hardened if any body was. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Ele smiled, and said, in a serious way, that she was a splendid woman, + and if Abel persisted he must look out for a rival. + </p> + <p> + “For I thought it best to lead him on,” he wrote to his friend + Belch. + </p> + <p> + As for the lady herself, Abel was so dexterous that she really began to + believe that she might do rather more for herself than her employers. He + brought to bear upon her the whole force of the fascination which had once + been so irresistible; and, like a blowpipe, it melted out the whole + conspiracy against him without her knowing that she had betrayed it. The + point of her instructions from Belch was that she was to persuade him to + be constant to the Grant at any price. + </p> + <p> + “To-morrow, then, Mr. Newt,” she said to him, as they stood + together in the crush of a levee at the White House—“<i>our</i> + bill is to be reported, and favorably.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Delilah Jones was a pretty woman, and shrewd. She had large eyes; + languishing at will—at will, also, bright and piercing. Her face was + a smiling, mobile face; the features rather coarse, the expression almost + vulgar, but the vulgarity well concealed. She was dressed in the extreme + of the mode, and drew Mr. Newt’s arm very close to her as she spoke. + She observed that Mr. Newt was more than usually disposed to chat. The + honorable representative had dined. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Our</i> bill, Lady Delilah? Thank you for that,” said + Abel, in a low voice, and almost pressing the hand that lay upon his + close-held arm. + </p> + <p> + The reply was a slow turn of the head, and a half languishment in the eyes + as they sought his with the air of saying, “Would you deceive a + woman who trusts in you utterly?” + </p> + <p> + They moved out of the throng a little, and stood by the window. + </p> + <p> + “I wish I dared to ask you one thing as a pure favor,” said + the superb Mrs. Delilah Jones, and this time the eyes were firm and + bright. + </p> + <p> + “I hoped, by this time, that you dared every thing,” replied + Abel, with a vague reproach in his tone. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Jones looked at him for a moment with a look of honest inquiry in her + eyes. His own did not falter. Their expression combined confidence and + respect. + </p> + <p> + “May I then ask,” she said, earnestly, and raising her other + hand as if to lay it imploringly upon his shoulder, but somehow it fell + into his hand, which was raised simultaneously, and which did not let it + go—. + </p> + <p> + “For my sake, will you speak in favor of it?” she asked, + casting her eyes down. + </p> + <p> + “For your sake, Delilah,” he said, in a musical whisper, and + under the rouge her cheeks tingled—“for your sake I will make + a speech—my maiden speech.” + </p> + <p> + There was more conversation between them. The Honorable Mr. Ele stood + guard, so to speak, and by incessant chatter warded off the company from + pressing upon them unawares. The guests, smiled as they looked on; and + after the levee the newspapers circulated rumors (it was before the days + of “Personal”) that were read with profound interest + throughout the country, that the young and talented representative from + the commercial emporium had not forfeited his reputation as a squire of + dames, and gossip already declared that the charming and superb Mrs. + D-li-h J-nes would ere long exchange that honored name for one not less + esteemed. + </p> + <p> + When Abel returned from the levee he threw himself into his chair, and + said, aloud, + </p> + <p> + “Isn’t a man lucky who is well paid for doing just what he + meant to do?” + </p> + <p> + For Abel Newt intended to get all he could from the Grant, and to enjoy + himself as fully as possible while getting it; but he had his own work to + do, and to that his power was devoted. To make a telling speech upon the + winning side was one of his plans, and accordingly he made it. + </p> + <p> + When the bill was reported as it had been drafted by his friends in New + York, it had been arranged that Mr. Newt should catch the speaker’s + eye. His figure and face attracted attention, and his career in Washington + had already made him somewhat known. During the time he had been there his + constant employment had been a study of the House and of its individual + members, as well as of the general character and influence of the + speeches. His shrewdness showed him the shallows, the currents, and the + reefs. Day after day he saw a great many promising plans, like full-sailed + ships, ground upon the flats of dullness, strike rocks of prejudice, or + whirl in the currents of crudity, until they broke up and went down out of + sight. + </p> + <p> + He rose, and his first words arrested attention. He treated the House with + consummate art, as he might have treated a woman whom he wished to + persuade. The House was favorably inclined before. It was resolved when he + sat down. For he had shown so clearly that it was one of the cases in + which patriotism and generosity—the finer feelings and only a + moderate expense—were all one, that the majority, who were + determined to pass the Grant in any case, were charmed to have the action + so imposingly stated; and the minority, who knew that it was useless to + oppose it, enjoyed the rhetoric of the speech, and, as it was brief, and + did not encroach upon dinner-time, smiled approval, and joined in the + congratulation to Mr. Newt upon his very eloquent and admirable oration. + </p> + <p> + In the midst of the congratulations Abel raised his eyes to Mrs. Delilah + Jones, who sat conspicuous in the gallery. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0084" id="link2HCH0084"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LXXXIV. — PROSPECTS OF HAPPINESS. + </h2> + <p> + The Honorable Abel Newt was the lion of the hour. Days of dinner + invitations and evening parties suddenly returned. He did not fail to use + the rising tide. It helped to float him more securely to the fulfillment + of his great work. Meanwhile he saw Mrs. Jones every day. She no longer + tried to play a game. + </p> + <p> + The report of his speech was scattered abroad in the papers. General Belch + rubbed his hands and expectorated with an energy that showed the warmth of + his feeling. Far away in quiet Delafield, when the news arrived, Mr. + Savory Gray lost no time in improving the pregnant text. The great moral + was duly impressed upon the scholars that Mr. Newt was a great man because + he had been one of Mr. Gray’s boys. The Washington world soon knew + his story, the one conspicuous fact being that he was the favorite nephew + of the rich merchant, Lawrence Newt. All the doors flew open. The dinner + invitations, the evening notes, fell upon his table more profusely than + ever. + </p> + <p> + He sneered at his triumph. Ambition, political success, social prestige + had no fascination for a man who was half imbruted, and utterly + disappointed and worn out. One thing only Abel really wanted. He wanted + money—money, which could buy the only pleasures of which he was now + capable. + </p> + <p> + “Look here, Delilah—I like that name better than Kitty, it + means something—you know Belch. So do I. Do you suppose a man would + work with him or for him except for more advantage than he can insure? Or + do you think <i>I</i> want to slave for the public—<i>I</i> work for + the public? God! would I be every man’s drudge? No, Mrs. Delilah + Jones, emphatically not. I will be my own master, and yours, and my + revered uncle will foot the bills.” + </p> + <p> + The woman looked at him inquiringly. She was a willing captive. She + accepted him as master. + </p> + <p> + “It isn’t for you to know how he will pay,” said Abel, + “but to enjoy the fruits.” + </p> + <p> + The woman, in whose face there were yet the ruins of a coarse beauty, + which pleased Abel now as the most fiery liquor gratified his palate, + looked at him, and said, + </p> + <p> + “Abel, what are we to do?” + </p> + <p> + “To be happy,” he answered, with the old hard, black light in + his eyes. + </p> + <p> + She almost shuddered as she heard the tone and saw the look, and yet she + did not feel as if she could escape the spell of his power. + </p> + <p> + “To be happy!” she repeated. “To be happy!” + </p> + <p> + Her voice fell as she spoke the words; Her life had not been a long one. + She had laughed a great deal, but she had never been happy. She knew Abel + from old days. She saw him now, sodden, bloated—but he fascinated + her still. Was he the magician to conjure happiness for her? + </p> + <p> + “What is your plan?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “I have two passages taken in a brig for the Mediterranean. We go to + New York a day or two before she sails. That’s all.” + </p> + <p> + “And then?” asked his companion, with wonder and doubt in her + voice. + </p> + <p> + “And then a blissful climate and happiness.” + </p> + <p> + “And then?” she persisted, in a low, doubtful voice. + </p> + <p> + “Then Hell—if you are anxious for it,” said Abel, in a + sharp, sudden voice. + </p> + <p> + The poor woman cowered as she sat. Men had often enough sworn at her; but + she recoiled from the roughness of this lover as if it hurt her. Her eyes + were not languishing now, but startled—then slowly they grew dim and + soft with tears. + </p> + <p> + Abel Newt looked at her, surprised and pleased. + </p> + <p> + “Kitty, you’re a woman still, and I like it. It’s so + much the better. I don’t want a dragon or a machine. Come, girl, are + you afraid?” + </p> + <p> + “Of what?” + </p> + <p> + “Of me—of the future—of any thing?” + </p> + <p> + The tone of his voice had a lingering music of the same kind as the + lingering beauty in her face. It was a sensual, seductive sound. + </p> + <p> + “No, I am not afraid,” she answered, turning to him. “But, + oh! my God! my God! if we were only both young again!” + </p> + <p> + She spoke with passionate hopelessness, and the tears dried in her eyes. + </p> + <p> + Later in the evening Mrs. Delilah Jones appeared at the French minister’s + ball. + </p> + <p> + “Upon the whole,” said Mr. Ele to his partner, “I have + never seen Mrs. Jones so superb as she is to-night.” + </p> + <p> + She stood by the mantle, queen-like—so the representatives from + several States remarked—and all the evening fresh comers offered + homage. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Ma foi!</i>” said the old Brazilian ambassador, as he + gazed at her through his eye-glass, and smacked his lips. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Tiens!</i>” responded the sexagenarian representative from + Chili, half-closing one eye. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0085" id="link2HCH0085"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LXXXV. — GETTING READY. + </h2> + <p> + Hope Wayne had not forgotten the threat which Abel had vaguely thrown out; + but she supposed it was only an expression of disappointment and + indignation. Could she have seen him a few evenings after the ball and his + conversation with Mrs. Delilah Jones, she might have thought differently. + </p> + <p> + He sat with the same woman in her room. + </p> + <p> + “To-morrow, then?” she said, looking at him, hesitatingly. + </p> + <p> + “To-morrow,” he answered, grimly. + </p> + <p> + “I hope all will go well.” + </p> + <p> + “All what?” he asked, roughly. + </p> + <p> + “All our plans.” + </p> + <p> + “Abel Newt was not born to fail,” he replied; “or at + least General Belch said so.” + </p> + <p> + His companion had no knowledge of what Abel really meant to do. She only + knew that he was capable of every thing, and as for herself, her little + mask had fallen, and she did not even wish to pick it up again. + </p> + <p> + They sat together silently for a long time. He poured freely and drank + deeply, and whiffed cigar after cigar nervously away. The few bells of the + city tolled the hours. Ele had come during the evening and knocked at the + door, but Abel did not let him in. He and his companion sat silently, and + heard the few bells strike. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Kitty,” he said at last, thickly, and with glazing eye. + “Well, my Princess of the Mediterranean. We shall be happy, hey? You’re + not afraid even now, hey?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, we shall be very happy,” she replied, in a low, wild + tone, as if it were the night wind that moaned, and not a woman’s + voice. + </p> + <p> + He looked at her for a few moments. He saw how entirely she was enthralled + by him. + </p> + <p> + “I wonder if I care any thing about you?” he said at length, + leering at her through the cigar-smoke. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think you do,” she answered, meekly. + </p> + <p> + “But my—my—dear Mrs. Jones—the su-superb Mrs. + Delilah Jo-Jones ought to be sure that I do. Here, bring me a light: that + dam—dam—cigar’s gone out.” + </p> + <p> + She rose quietly and carried the candle to Abel. There was an + inexpressible weariness and pathos in all her movements: a kind of womanly + tranquillity that was touchingly at variance with the impression of her + half-coarse appearance. As Abel watched her he remembered the women whom + he had tried to marry. His memory scoured through his whole career. He + thought of them all variously happy. + </p> + <p> + “I swear! to think I should come to you!” he said at length, + looking at his companion, with an indescribable bitterness of sneering. + </p> + <p> + Kitty Dunham sat at a little distance from him on the end of a sofa. She + was bowed as if deeply thinking; and when she heard these words her head + only sank a little more, as if a palpable weight had been laid upon her. + She understood perfectly what he meant. + </p> + <p> + “I know I am not worth loving,” she said, in the same low + voice, “but my love will do you no harm. Perhaps I can help you in + some way. If you are ill some day, I can nurse you. I shall be poor + company on the long journey, but I will try.” + </p> + <p> + “What long journey?” asked Abel, suddenly and angrily. + </p> + <p> + “Where we are going,” she replied, gently. + </p> + <p> + “D—— it, then, don’t use such am-am-big-’us + phrases. A man would think we were go-going to die.” + </p> + <p> + She said no more, but sat, half-crouching, upon the sofa, looking into the + fire. Abel glanced at her, from time to time, with maudlin grins and + sneers. + </p> + <p> + “Go to bed,” he said at length; “I’ve something to + do. Sleep all you can; you’ll need it. I shall stay here ‘till + I’m ready to go, and come for you in the morning.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you,” she answered, and rose quietly. “Good-night!” + she said. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! good-night, Mrs. De-de-liah—superb Jo-Jones!” + </p> + <p> + He laughed as she went—sat ogling the fire for a little while, and + then unsteadily, but not unconsciously, drew a pocket-book from his pocket + and took out a small package. It contained several notes, amounting to not + less than a hundred thousand dollars signed by himself, and indorsed by + Lawrence Newt & Co.—at least the name was there, and it was a + shrewd eye that could detect the difference between the signature and that + which was every day seen and honored in the street. + </p> + <p> + Abel looked at them carefully, and leered and glared upon them as if they + had been windows through which he saw something—sunny isles, and + luxury, and a handsome slave who loved him to minister to every whim. + </p> + <p> + “‘Tis a pretty game,” he said, half aloud; “a + droll turnabout is life. Uncle Lawrence plays against other people, and + wins. I play against Uncle Lawrence, and win. But what’s un-dred—sousand—to—him?” + </p> + <p> + He said it drowsily, and his hands unconsciously fell. He was asleep in + his chair. + </p> + <p> + He sat there sleeping until the gray of morning. Kitty Dunham, coming into + the room ready-dressed for a journey, found him there. She was frightened; + for he looked as if he were dead. Going up to him she shook him, and he + awoke heavily. + </p> + <p> + “What the h——‘s the matter?” said he, as he + opened his sleepy eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Why, it’s time to go.” + </p> + <p> + “To go where?” + </p> + <p> + “To be happy,” she said, standing passively and looking in his + face. + </p> + <p> + He roused himself, and said: + </p> + <p> + “Well, I’m all ready. I’ve only to stop at my room for + my trunk.” + </p> + <p> + His hair was tangled, his eyes were bloodshot, his clothes tumbled and + soiled. + </p> + <p> + “Wouldn’t you like to dress yourself?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Why, no; ain’t I dressed enough for you? No gentleman dresses + when he’s going to travel.” + </p> + <p> + She said no more. The carriage came as Abel had ordered, a private + conveyance to take them quite through to New York. All the time before it + came Kitty Dunham moved solemnly about the room, seeing that nothing was + left. The solemnity fretted Abel. + </p> + <p> + “What are you so sober about?” he asked impatiently. + </p> + <p> + “Because I am getting ready for a long journey,” she answered, + tranquilly. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps not so long,” he said, sharply—“not if I + choose to leave you behind.” + </p> + <p> + “But you won’t.” + </p> + <p> + “How do you know?” + </p> + <p> + “Because you will want somebody, and I’m the only person in + the world left to you.” + </p> + <p> + She spoke in the same sober way. Abel knew perfectly well that she spoke + the truth, but he had never thought of it before. Was he then going so + long a journey without a friend, unless she went with him? Was she the + only one left of all the world? + </p> + <p> + As his mind pondered the question his eye fell upon a newspaper of the day + before, in which he saw his name. He took it up mechanically, and read a + paragraph praising him and his speech; foretelling “honor and troops + of friends” for a young man who began his public career so + brilliantly. + </p> + <p> + “There; hear this!” said he, as he read it aloud and looked at + his companion. “Troops of friends, do you see? and yet you talk of + being my only dependence in the world! Fie! fie! Mrs. Delilah Jones.” + </p> + <p> + It was melancholy merriment. He did not smile, and the woman’s face + was quietly sober. + </p> + <p> + “For the present, then, Mr. Speaker and fellow-citizens,” said + Abel Newt, waving his hand as he saw that every thing was ready, and that + the carriage waited only for him and his companion, “I bid these + scenes adieu! For the present I terminate my brief engagement. And you, my + fellow-members, patterns of purity and pillars of truth, farewell! + Disinterested patriots, I leave you my blessing! Pardon me that I prefer + the climate of the Mediterranean to that of the District, and the smiles + of my Kitty to the intelligent praises of my country. Friends of my soul, + farewell! I kiss my finger tips! Boo—hoo!” + </p> + <p> + He made a mock bow, and smiled upon an imaginary audience. Then offering + his arm with grave ceremony to his companion as if a crowd had been + looking on, he went down stairs. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0086" id="link2HCH0086"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LXXXVI. — IN THE CITY. + </h2> + <p> + It was a long journey. They stopped at Baltimore, at Philadelphia, and + pushed on toward New York. While they were still upon the way Hope Wayne + saw what she had been long expecting to see—and saw it without a + solitary regret. Amy Waring was Amy Waring no longer; and Hope Wayne was + the first who kissed Mrs. Lawrence Newt. Even Mrs. Simcoe looked + benignantly upon the bride; and Aunt Martha wept over her as over her own + child. + </p> + <p> + The very day of the wedding Abel Newt and his companion arrived at Jersey + City. Leaving Kitty in a hotel, he crossed the river, and ascertained that + the vessel on which he had taken two berths under a false name was full + and ready, and would sail upon her day. He showed himself in Wall Street, + carefully dressed, carefully sober—evidently mindful, people said, + of his new position; and they thought his coming home showed that he was + on good terms with his family, and that he was really resolved to behave + himself. + </p> + <p> + For a day or two he appeared in the business streets and offices, and + talked gravely of public measures. General Belch was confounded by the + cool sobriety, and superiority, and ceremony of the Honorable Mr. Newt. + When he made a joke, Abel laughed with such patronizing politeness that + the General was frightened, and tried no more. When he treated Abel + familiarly, and told him what a jolly lift his speech had given to their + common cause—the Grant—the Honorable Mr. Newt replied, with a + cold bow, that he was glad if he had done his duty and satisfied his + constituents; bowing so coldly that the General was confounded. He spat + into his fire, and said, “The Devil!” + </p> + <p> + When Abel had gone, General Belch was profoundly conscious that King Log + was better than King Stork, and thought regretfully of the Honorable + Watkins Bodley. + </p> + <p> + After a day or two the Honorable Mr. Newt went to his Uncle Lawrence’s + office. Abel had not often been there. He had never felt himself to be + very welcome there; and as he came into the inner room where Lawrence and + Gabriel sat, they were quite as curious to know why he had come as he was + to know what his reception would be. Abel bowed politely, and said he + could not help congratulating his uncle upon the news he had heard, but + would not conceal his surprise. What his surprise was he did not explain; + but Lawrence very well knew. Abel had the good sense not to mention, the + name of Hope Wayne, and not to dwell upon any subject that involved + feeling. He said that he hoped by-gones would be by-gones; that he had + been a wild boy, but that a career now opened upon him of which he hoped + to prove worthy. + </p> + <p> + “There was a time, Uncle Lawrence,” he said, “when I + despised your warning; now I thank you for it.” + </p> + <p> + Lawrence held out his hand to his nephew: + </p> + <p> + “Honesty is the best policy, at least, if nothing more,” he + said, smiling. “You have a chance; I hope, with all my heart, you + will use it well.” + </p> + <p> + There was little more to say, and of that little Gabriel said nothing. + Abel spoke of public affairs; and after a short time he took leave. + </p> + <p> + “Can the leopard change his spots?” said Gabriel, looking at + the senior partner. + </p> + <p> + “A bad man may become better,” was all the answer; and the two + merchants were busy again. + </p> + <p> + Returning to Wall Street, the Honorable Abel Newt met Mr. President Van + Boozenberg. They shook hands, and the old gentleman said, warmly, + </p> + <p> + “I see ye goin’ into your Uncle Lawrence’s a while ago, + as I was comin’ along South Street. Mr. Abel, Sir, I congratilate + ee, Sir. I’ve read your speech, and I sez to ma, sez I, I’d no + idee of it; none at all. Ma, sez she, Law, pa! I allers knowed Mr. Abel + Newt would turn up trumps. You allers did have the women, Mr. Newt; and so + I told ma.” + </p> + <p> + “I am very glad, Sir, that I have at last done something to deserve + your approbation. I trust I shall not forfeit it. I have led rather a gay + life, and careless; and my poor father and I have met with misfortunes. + But they open a man’s eyes, Sir; they are angels in disguise, as the + poet says. I don’t doubt they have been good for me. At least I’m + resolved now to be steady and industrious; and I certainly should be a + great fool if I were not.” + </p> + <p> + “Sartin, Sir, with your chances and prospects, yes, and your + talents, coz, I allers said to ma, sez I, he’s got talent if he hain’t + nothin’ else. I suppose your Uncle Lawrence won’t be so shy of + you now, hey? No, of course not. A man who has a smart nevy in Congress + has a tap in a good barrel.” + </p> + <p> + And Mr. Van Boozenberg laughed loudly at his own humor. + </p> + <p> + “Why, yes. Sir. I think I may say that the pleasantest part of my + new life—if you will allow me to use the expression—is my + return to the friends best worth having. I think I have learned, Sir, that + steady-going business, with no nonsense about it, is the permanent thing. + It isn’t flopdoddle, Sir, but it’s solid food.” + </p> + <p> + “Tonguey,” thought old Jacob Van Boozenberg, “but vastly + improved. Has come to terms with Uncle Lawrence. Sensible fellow!” + </p> + <p> + “I think he takes it,” said Abel to himself, with the feeling + of an angler, as he watched the other. + </p> + <p> + Just before they parted Abel took out his pocket-book and told Mr. Van + Boozenberg that he should like to negotiate a little piece of paper which + was not altogether worthless, he believed. + </p> + <p> + Smiling as he spoke, he handed a note for twenty-five thousand dollars, + with his uncle’s indorsement, to the President. The old gentleman + looked at it carefully, smiled knowingly, “Yes, yes, I see. Sly dog, + that Uncle Lawrence. I allers sez so. This ere’s for the public + service, I suppose, eh! Mr. Newt?” and the President chuckled over + his confirmed conviction that Lawrence Newt was “jes’ like + other folks.” + </p> + <p> + He asked Abel to walk with him to the bank. They chatted as they passed + along, nodded to those they knew, while some bowed politely to the young + member whom they saw in such good company. + </p> + <p> + “Well, well,” said Mr. Zephyr Wetherley as he skimmed up Wall + Street from the bank, where he had been getting dividends, “I didn’t + think to see the day when Abel Newt would be a solid, sensible man.” + </p> + <p> + And Mr. Wetherley wondered, in a sighing way, what was the secret of Abel’s + success. + </p> + <p> + The honorable member came out of the bank with the money in his pocket. + When the clock struck three he had the amount of all the notes in the form + of several bills of foreign exchange. + </p> + <p> + He went hastily to the river side and crossed to Jersey City. + </p> + <p> + “They have sent to say that the ship sails at nine in the morning, + and that we must be on board early,” said Kitty Dunham, as he + entered the room. + </p> + <p> + “I am all ready,” he replied, in a clear, cold, alert voice. + “Now sit down.” + </p> + <p> + His tone was not to be resisted. The woman seated herself quietly and + waited. + </p> + <p> + “My affectionate Uncle Lawrence has given me a large sum of money, + and recommends travelling for my health. The money is in bills on London + and Paris. To-morrow morning we sail. We post to London—get the + money; same day to Paris—get the money; straight on to Marseilles, + and sail for Sicily. There we can take breath.” + </p> + <p> + He spoke rapidly, but calmly. She heard and understood every word. + </p> + <p> + “I wish we could sail to-night,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Plenty of time—plenty of time,” answered Abel. “And + why be so anxious for so long a journey?” + </p> + <p> + “It seems long to you, too?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, yes; it will be long. Yes, I am going on a long journey.” + </p> + <p> + He smiled with the hard black eyes a hard black smile. Kitty did not + smile; but she took his hand gently. + </p> + <p> + Abel shook his head, mockingly. + </p> + <p> + “My dear Mrs. Delilah Jones, you overcome me with your + sentimentality. I don’t believe in love. That’s what I believe + in,” said he, as he opened his pocket-book and showed her the bills. + </p> + <p> + The woman looked at them unmoved. + </p> + <p> + “Those are the delicate little keys of the Future,” chuckled + Abel, as he gloated over the paper. + </p> + <p> + The woman raised her eyes and looked into his. They were busy with the + bills. Then with the same low tone, as if the wind were wailing, she + asked, + </p> + <p> + “Abel, tell me, before we go upon this long journey, don’t you + love me in the least?” + </p> + <p> + Her voice sank into an almost inaudible whisper. + </p> + <p> + Abel turned and looked at her, gayly. + </p> + <p> + “Love you? Why, woman, what is love? No, I don’t love you. I + don’t love any body. But that’s no matter; you shall go with + me as if I did. You know, as well as I do, that I can’t whine and + sing silly. I’ll be your friend, and you’ll be mine, and this + shall be the friend of both,” said he, as he raised the bills in his + hands. + </p> + <p> + She sat beside him silent, and her eyes were hot and dry, not wet with + tears. There was a look of woe in her face so touching and appealing that, + when Abel happened to see it, he said, involuntarily, + </p> + <p> + “Come, come, don’t be silly.” + </p> + <p> + The evening came, and the Honorable Mr. Newt rose and walked about the + room. + </p> + <p> + “How slowly the time passes!” he said, pettishly. “I can’t + stand it.” + </p> + <p> + It was nine o’clock. Suddenly he sprang up from beside Kitty Dunham, + who was silently working. + </p> + <p> + “No,” said he, “I really can not stand it. I’ll + run over to town, and be back by midnight. I do want to see the old place + once more before that long journey,” he added, with emphasis, as he + put on his coat and hat. He ran from the room, and was just going out of + the house when he heard a muffled voice calling to him from up stairs. + </p> + <p> + “Why, Kitty, what is it?” he asked, as he stopped. + </p> + <p> + There was no answer. Alarmed for a moment, he leaped up the stairs. She + stood waiting for him at the door of the room. + </p> + <p> + “Well!” exclaimed he, hastily. + </p> + <p> + “You forgot to kiss me, Abel,” she said. + </p> + <p> + He took her by the shoulders, and looked at her before him. In her eyes + there were pity, and gentleness, and love. + </p> + <p> + “Fool!” he said, half-pleased, half-vexed—kissed her, + and rushed out into the street. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0087" id="link2HCH0087"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LXXXVII. — A LONG JOURNEY. + </h2> + <p> + Abel Newt ran to the ferry and crossed. Then he gained Broadway, and + sauntered into one of the hells in Park Row. It was bright and full, and + he saw many an old friend. They nodded to him, and said, “Ah! back + again!” and he smiled, and said a man must not be too virtuous all + at once. + </p> + <p> + So he ventured a little, and won; ventured a little more, and lost. + Ventured a little more, and won again; and lost again. + </p> + <p> + Then came supper, and wine flowed freely. Old friends must pledge in + bumpers. + </p> + <p> + To work again, and the bells striking midnight. Win, lose; lose, win; win, + win, lose, lose, lose, lose, lose, lose. + </p> + <p> + Abel Newt smiled: his face was red, his eyes glaring. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve played enough,” he said; “the luck’s + against me!” + </p> + <p> + He passed his hands rapidly through his hair. + </p> + <p> + “Cash I can not pay,” he said; “but here is my I O U, + and a check of my Uncle Lawrence’s in the morning; for I have no + account, you know.” + </p> + <p> + His voice was rough. It was two o’clock in the morning; and the + lonely woman he had left sat waiting and wondering: stealing to the front + door and straining her eyes into the night: stealing softly back again to + press her forehead against the window: and the quiet hopelessness of her + face began to be pricked with terror. + </p> + <p> + “Good-night, gentlemen,” said Abel, huskily and savagely. + </p> + <p> + There was a laugh around the table at which he had been playing. + </p> + <p> + “Takes it hardly, now that he’s got money,” said one of + his old cronies. “He’s made up with Uncle Lawrence, I hear. + Hope he’ll come often, hey?” he said to the bank. + </p> + <p> + The bank smiled vaguely, but did not reply. + </p> + <p> + It was after two, and Abel burst into the street. He had been drinking + brandy, and the fires were lighted within him. Pulling his hat heavily + upon his head, he moved unsteadily along the street toward the ferry. The + night was starry and still. There were few passers in the street; and no + light but that which shone at some of the corners,-the bad, red eye that + lures to death. The night air struck cool upon his face and into his + lungs. His head was light.—He reeled. + </p> + <p> + “Mus ha’ some drink,” he said, thickly. + </p> + <p> + He stumbled, and staggered into the nearest shop. There was a counter, + with large yellow barrels behind it; and a high blind, behind which two or + three rough-looking men were drinking. In the window there was a sign, + “Liquors, pure as imported.” + </p> + <p> + The place was dingy and cold. The floor was sanded. The two or three + guests were huddled about a stove—one asleep upon a bench, the + others smoking short pipes; and their hard, cadaverous faces and sullen + eyes turned no welcome upon Abel when he entered, but they looked at him + quickly, as if they suspected him to be a policeman or magistrate, and as + if they had reason not to wish to see either. But in a moment they saw it + was not a sober man, whoever he was. Abel tried to stand erect, to look + dignified, to smooth himself into apparent sobriety. He vaguely hoped to + give the impression that he was a gentleman belated upon his way home, and + taking a simple glass for comfort. + </p> + <p> + “Why, Dick, don’t yer know him?” said one, in a low + voice, to his neighbor. + </p> + <p> + “No, d—— him! and don’t want to.” + </p> + <p> + “I do, though,” replied the first man, still watching the + new-comer curiously. + </p> + <p> + “Why, Jim, who in h—— is it?” asked Dick. + </p> + <p> + “That air man’s our representative. That ain’t nobody + else but Abel Newt.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” muttered Jim, sullenly, as he surveyed the general + appearance of Abel while he stood drinking a glass of brandy—“pure + as imported”—at the counter—“well, we’ve + done lots for him: what’s he going to do for us? We’ve put + that man up tremendious high; d’ye think he’s going to kick + away the ladder?” + </p> + <p> + He half grumbled to himself, half asked his neighbor Dick. They were both + a little drunk, and very surly. + </p> + <p> + “I dunno. But he’s vastly high and mighty—that I know; + and, by ——, I’ll tell him so!” said Dick, + energetically clasping his hands, bringing one of them down upon the bench + on which he sat, and clenching every word with an oath. + </p> + <p> + “Hallo, Jim! let’s make him give us somethin’ to drink!” + </p> + <p> + The two constituents approached the representative whose election they had + so ardently supported. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Newt, how air ye?” + </p> + <p> + Abel Newt was confounded at being accosted in such a place at such an + hour. He raised his heavy eyes as he leaned unsteadily against the + counter, and saw two beetle-browed, square-faced, disagreeable-looking men + looking at him with half-drunken, sullen insolence. + </p> + <p> + “Hallo, Newt! how air ye?” repeated Jim, as he confronted the + representative. + </p> + <p> + Abel looked at him with shaking head, indignant and scornful. + </p> + <p> + “Who the devil are you?” he asked, at length, blurring the + words as he spoke, and endeavoring to express supreme contempt. + </p> + <p> + “We’re the men that made yer!” retorted Dick, in a + shrill, tipsy voice. + </p> + <p> + The liquor-seller, who was leaning upon his counter, was instantly + alarmed. He knew the signs of impending danger. He hurried round, and + said, + </p> + <p> + “Come, come; I’m going to shut up! Time to go home; time to go + home!” + </p> + <p> + The three men at the counter did not move. As they stood facing each other + the brute fury kindled more and more fiercely in each one of them. + </p> + <p> + “We’re Jim and Dick, and Ned’s asleep yonder on the + bench; and we’re come to drink a glass with yer, Honorable Abel + Newt!” said Dick, in a sneering tone. “It’s we what did + your business for ye. What yer going to do for us?” + </p> + <p> + There was a menacing air in his eye as he glanced at Abel, who felt + himself quiver with impotent, blind rage. + </p> + <p> + “I dun—dun—no ye!” he said, with maudlin dignity. + </p> + <p> + The men pressed nearer. + </p> + <p> + “Time to go home! Time to go home!” quavered the + liquor-seller; and Ned opened his eyes, and slowly raised his huge frame + from the bench. + </p> + <p> + “What’s the row?” asked he of his comrades. + </p> + <p> + “The Honorable Abel Newt’s the row,” said Jim, pointing + at him. + </p> + <p> + There was something peculiarly irritating to Abel in the pointing finger. + Holding by the counter, he raised his hand and struck at it. + </p> + <p> + Ned rolled his body off the bench in a moment. + </p> + <p> + “For God’s sake!” gasped the little liquor-seller. + </p> + <p> + Jim and Dick stood hesitatingly, glaring at Abel. Jim struck his teeth + together. Ned joined them, and they surrounded Abel. + </p> + <p> + “What in —— do you mean by striking me, you drunken pig?” + growled Jim, but not yet striking. Conscious of his strength, he had the + instinctive forbearance of superiority, but it was fast mastered by the + maddening liquor. + </p> + <p> + “Time to go home! Time to go home!” cried the thin piping + voice of the liquor-seller. + </p> + <p> + “What the —— do you mean by insulting my friend?” + half hiccuped Dick, shaking his head threateningly, and stiffening his arm + and fist at his side as he edged toward Abel. + </p> + <p> + The hard black eyes of Abel Newt shot sullen fire; His rage half sobered + him. He threw his head with the old defiant air, tossing the hair back. + The old beauty flashed for an instant through the ruin that had been + wrought in his face, and, kindling into a wild, glittering look of wrath, + his eye swept them all as he struck heavily forward. + </p> + <p> + “Time to go home! Time to go home!” came the cry again, + unheeded, unheard. + </p> + <p> + There was a sudden, fierce, brutal struggle. The men’s faces were + human no longer, but livid with bestial passion. The liquor-seller rushed + into the street, and shouted aloud for help. The cry rang along the dark, + still houses, and startled the drowsy, reluctant watchmen on their rounds. + They sprang their rattles. + </p> + <p> + “Murder! murder!” was the cry, which did not disturb the + neighbors, who were heavy sleepers, and accustomed to noise and fighting. + </p> + <p> + “Murder! murder!” It rang nearer and nearer as the watchmen + hastened toward the corner. They found the little man standing at his + door, bareheaded, and shouting, + </p> + <p> + “My God! my God! they’ve killed a man—they’ve + killed a man!” + </p> + <p> + “Stop your noise, and let us in. What is it?” + </p> + <p> + The little man pointed back into his dim shop. The watchmen saw only the + great yellow round tanks of the liquor pure as imported, and pushed in + behind the blind. There was no one there; a bench was overturned, and + there were glasses upon the counter. No one there? One of the watchmen + struck something with his foot, and, stooping, touched a human body. He + started up. + </p> + <p> + “There’s a man here.” + </p> + <p> + He did not say dead, or drunk; but his tone said every thing. + </p> + <p> + One of them ran to the next doctor, and returned with him after a little + while. Meanwhile the others had raised the body. It was yet warm. They + laid it upon the bench. + </p> + <p> + “Warm still. Stunned, I reckon. I see no blood, except about the + face. Well dressed. What’s he doing here?” The doctor said so + as he felt the pulse. He carefully turned the body over, examined it every + where, looked earnestly at the face, around which the matted hair + clustered heavily: + </p> + <p> + “He has gone upon his long journey!” said the young doctor, in + a low, solemn tone, still looking at the face with an emotion of sad + sympathy, for it was a face that had been very handsome; and it was a + young man, like himself. The city bells clanged three. + </p> + <p> + “Who is it?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + Nobody knew. + </p> + <p> + “Look at his handkerchief.” + </p> + <p> + They found it, and handed it to the young doctor. He unrolled it, holding + it smooth in his hands; suddenly his face turned pale; the tears burst + into his eyes. A curious throng of recollections and emotions overpowered + him. His heart ached as he leaned over the body; and laying the matted + hair away, he looked long and earnestly into the face. In that dim moment + in the liquor-shop, by that bruised body, how much he saw! A play-ground + loud with boys—wide-branching elms—a country church—a + placid pond. He heard voices, and summer hymns, and evening echoes; and + all the images and sounds were soft, and pensive, and remote. + </p> + <p> + The doctor’s name was Greenidge—James Greenidge, and he had + known Abel Newt at school. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0088" id="link2HCH0088"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LXXXVIII. — WAITING. + </h2> + <p> + The woman Abel had left sat quivering and appalled. Every sound started + her; every moment she heard him coming. Rocking to and fro in the lonely + room, she dropped into sudden sleep—saw him—started up—cried, + “How could you stay so?” then sat broad awake, and knew that + she had dozed but for a moment, and that she was alone. + </p> + <p> + “Abel, Abel!” she moaned, in yearning agony. “But he + kissed me before he went,” she thought, wildly—“he + kissed me—he kissed me!” + </p> + <p> + Lulled for a moment by the remembrance, she sank into another brief nap—saw + him as she had seen him in his gallant days, and heard him say, I love + you. “How could you stay so?” she cried, dreaming—started—sprang + up erect, with her head turned in intense listening. There was a sound + this time; yes, across the river she heard the solemn city bells strike + three. + </p> + <p> + Wearily pacing the room—stealthily, that she might make no noise—walking + the hours away, the lonely woman waited for her lover. The winter, wind + rose and wailed about the windows and moaned in the chimney, and in long, + shrieking sobs died away. + </p> + <p> + “Abel! Abel!” she whispered, and started at the strangeness of + her voice. She opened the window softly and looked out. The night was cold + and, calm again, and the keen stars twinkled. She saw nothing—she + heard no sound. + </p> + <p> + She closed it again, and paced the room. There were no tears in her eyes; + but they were wide open, startled, despairing. For the first time in her + terrible life she had loved. + </p> + <p> + “But he kissed me before he went,” she said, pleadingly, to + herself; “he kissed me—he kissed me!” + </p> + <p> + She said it when the solemn city bells struck three. She said it when the + first dim light of dawn stole into the chamber. And when the full day + broke, and she heard the earliest footfalls in the street, her heart clung + to it as the only memory left to her of all her life: + </p> + <p> + “He kissed me! he kissed me!” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0089" id="link2HCH0089"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER LXXXIX. — DUST TO DUST. + </h2> + <p> + Scarcely had Abel left the bank, after obtaining the money, than Gabriel + came in, and, upon seeing the notes which Mr. Van Boozenberg had shown + him, in order to make every thing sure in so large a transaction, + announced that they were forged. The President was quite beside himself, + and sat down in his room, wringing his hands and crying; while the + messenger ran for a carriage, into which Gabriel stepped with Mr. Van + Boozenberg, and drove as rapidly as possible to the office of the Chief of + Police, who promised to set his men to work at once; but the search was + suddenly terminated by the bills found upon the body of Abel Newt. + </p> + <p> + The papers were full of the dreadful news. They said they were deeply + shocked to announce that a disgrace had befallen the whole city in the + crime which had mysteriously deprived his constituency and his country of + the services of the young, talented, promising representative, whose + opening career had seemed to be in every way so auspicious. By what foul + play he had been made way with was a matter for the strictest legal + investigation, and the honor of the country demanded that the perpetrators + of such an atrocious tragedy should be brought to condign punishment. + </p> + <p> + The morning papers followed next day with fuller details of the awful + event. Some of the more enterprising had diagrams of the shop, the blind, + the large yellow barrels that held the liquor pure as imported, the bench, + the counter, and the spot (marked O) where the officer had found the body. + In parlors, in banks, in groceries and liquor-shops, in lawyers’ + rooms and insurance offices, the murder was the chief topic of + conversation for a day. Then came the report of the inquest. + </p> + <p> + There was no clew to the murderers. The eager, thirsty-eyed crowd of men, + and women, and children, crushing and hanging about the shop, gradually + loosened their gaze. The jury returned that the deceased Abel Newt came to + his death by the hands of some person or persons unknown. The shop was + closed, officers were left in charge, and the body was borne away. + </p> + <p> + General Belch was in his office reading the morning paper when Mr. William + Condor entered. They shook hands. Upon the General’s fat face there + was an expression of horror and perplexity, but Mr. Condor was perfectly + calm. + </p> + <p> + “What an awful thing!” said Belch, as the other sat down + before the fire. + </p> + <p> + “Frightful,” said Mr. Condor, placidly, as he lighted a cigar, + “but not surprising.” + </p> + <p> + “Who do you suppose did it?” asked the General. + </p> + <p> + “Impossible to tell. A drunken brawl, with its natural consequences; + that’s all.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I know; but it’s awful.” + </p> + <p> + “Providential.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “Abel Newt would have made mince-meat of you and me and the rest of + us if he had lived. That’s what I mean,” replied Mr. Condor, + unruffled, and lightly whiffing the smoke. “But it’s necessary + to draw some resolutions to offer in the committee, and I’ve brought + them with me. You know there’s a special meeting called to take + notice of this deplorable event, and you must present them. Shall I read + them?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Condor drew a piece of paper from his pocket, and, holding his cigar + in one hand and whiffing at intervals, read: + </p> + <p> + “Whereas our late associate and friend, Abel Newt, has been suddenly + removed from this world, in the prime of his life and the height of his + usefulness, by the hand of an inscrutable but all-wise Providence, to + whose behests we desire always to bow in humble resignation; and + </p> + <p> + “Whereas, it is eminently proper that those to whom great public + trusts have been confided by their fellow-citizens should not pass away + without some signal expression of the profound sense of bereavement which + those fellow-citizens entertain; and + </p> + <p> + “Whereas we represent that portion of the community with whom the + lamented deceased peculiarly sympathized; therefore be it resolved by the + General Committee, + </p> + <p> + “<i>First</i>, That this melancholy event impressively teaches the + solemn truth that in the midst of life we are in death; + </p> + <p> + “<i>Second</i> That in the brilliant talents, the rare + accomplishments, the deep sagacity, the unswerving allegiance to principle + which characterized our dear departed brother and associate, we recognize + the qualities which would have rendered the progress of his career as + triumphant as its opening was auspicious; + </p> + <p> + “<i>Third,</i> That while we humble ourselves before the mysterious + will of Heaven, which works not as man works, we tender our most + respectful and profound sympathy to the afflicted relatives and friends of + the deceased, to whom we fervently pray that his memory may be as a lamp + to the feet; + </p> + <p> + “<i>Fourth,</i> That we will attend his funeral in a body; that we + will wear crape upon the left arm for thirty days; and that a copy of + these resolutions, signed by the officers of the Committee, shall be + presented to his family.” + </p> + <p> + “I think that’ll do,” said Mr. Condor, resuming his + cigar, and laying the paper upon the table. + </p> + <p> + “Just the thing,” said General Belch. “Just the thing. + You know the Grant has passed and been approved?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, so Ele wrote me,” returned Mr. Condor. + </p> + <p> + “Condor,” continued the General, “I’ve had enough + of it. I’m going to back out. I’d rather sweep the streets.” + </p> + <p> + General Belch spoke emphatically, and his friend turned toward him with a + pleasant smile. + </p> + <p> + “Can you make so much in any other way?” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps not. But I’d rather make less, and more comfortably.” + </p> + <p> + “I find it perfectly comfortable,” replied William Condor. + “You take it too hard. You ought to manage it with less friction. + The point is, to avoid friction. If you undertake to deal with men, you + ought to understand just what they are.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Condor smoked serenely, and General Belch looked at his slim, clean + figure, and his calm face, with curious admiration. + </p> + <p> + “By-the-by,” said Condor, “when you introduce the + resolutions, I shall second them with a few remarks.” + </p> + <p> + And he did so. At the meeting of the Committee he rose and enforced them + with a few impressive and pertinent words. + </p> + <p> + “Gratitude,” he said, “is instinctive in the human + breast. When a man does well, or promises well, it is natural to regard + him with interest and affection. The fidelity of our departed brother is + worthy of our most affectionate admiration and imitation. If you ask me + whether he had faults, I answer that he was a man. Who so is without sin, + let him cast the first stone.” + </p> + <p> + On the same day the Honorable B. Jawley Ele rose in his place in Congress + to announce the calamity in which the whole country shared, and to move an + adjournment in respect for the memory of his late colleague—“a + man endeared to us all by the urbanity of his deportment and his social + graces; but to me especially, by the kindness of his heart and the + readiness of his sympathy.” + </p> + <p> + Abel Newt was buried from his father’s house. There were not many + gathered at the service in the small, plain rooms. Fanny Dinks was there, + sobered and saddened—the friend now of Hope Wayne, and of Amy, her + Uncle Lawrence’s wife. Alfred was there, solemnized and frightened. + The office of Lawrence Newt & Co. was closed, and the partners and the + clerks all stood together around the coffin. Abel’s mother, shrouded + in black, sat in a dim corner of the room, nervously sobbing. Abel’s + father, sitting in his chair, his white hair hanging upon his shoulders, + looked curiously at all the people, while his bony fingers played upon his + knees, and he said nothing. + </p> + <p> + During all the solemn course of the service, from the gracious words, + “I am the resurrection and the life,” to the final Amen which + was breathed out of the depth of many a soul there, the old man’s + eyes did not turn from the clergyman. But when, after a few moments of + perfect silence, two or three men entered quietly and rapidly, and, + lifting the coffin, began to bear it softly out of the room, he looked + troubled and surprised, and glanced vaguely and inquiringly from one + person to another, until, as it was passing out of the door, his face was + covered with a piteous look of appeal: he half-rose from his chair, and + reached out toward the door, with the long white fingers clutching in the + air; but Hope Wayne took the wasted hands in hers, placed her arm behind + him gently, and tenderly pressed him back into the chair. The old man + raised his eyes to her as she stood by him, and holding one of her hands + in one of his, the spectral calmness returned into his face; while, + beating his thin knee with the other hand, he said, in the old way, as the + body of his son was borne out of his house, “Riches have wings! + Riches have wings!” But still he held Hope Wayne’s hand, and + from time to time raised his eyes to her face. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0090" id="link2HCH0090"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XC. + </h2> + <h3> + UNDER THE MISLETOE. + </h3> + <p> + The hand which held that of old Boniface Newt was never placed in that of + any, younger man, except for a moment; but the heart that warmed the hand + henceforward held all the world. + </p> + <p> + We have come to the last leaf, patient and gentle reader, and the girl we + saw sitting, long ago, upon the lawn and walking in the garden of Pinewood + is not yet married! Yes, and we shall close the book, and still she will + be Hope Wayne. + </p> + <p> + How could we help it? How could a faithful chronicler but tell his story + as it is? It is not at his will that heroes marry, and heroines are given + in marriage. He merely watches events and records results; but the + inevitable laws of human life are hidden in God’s grace beyond his + knowledge. + </p> + <p> + There is Arthur Merlin painting pictures to this day, and every year with + greater beauty and wider recognition. He wears the same velvet coat of + many buttons—or its successor in the third or fourth remove—and + still he whistles and sings at his work, still draws back from the easel + and turns his head on one side to look at his picture, and cons it + carefully through the tube of his closed hand; still lays down the pallet + and, lighting a cigar, throws himself into the huge easy-chair, hanging + one leg over the chair-arm and gazing, as he swings his foot, at something + which does not seem to be in the room. Cheerful and gay, he has always a + word of welcome for the loiterer who returns to Italy by visiting the + painters; even if the loiterer find him with the foot idly swinging and + the cigar musingly smoking itself away. + </p> + <p> + Nor is the painter conscious of any gaping, unhealed wound that + periodically bleeds. There are nights in mid-summer when, leaning from his + window, he thinks of many things, and among others, of a picture he once + painted of the legend of Latmos. He smiles to think that, at the time, he + half persuaded himself that he might be Endymion, yet the feeling with + which he smiles is of pity and wonder rather than of regret. + </p> + <p> + At Thanksgiving dinners, at Christmas parties, at New Year and Twelfth + Night festivals, no guest so gay and useful, so inventive and delightful, + as Arthur Merlin the painter. Just as Aunt Winnifred has abandoned her + theory it has become true, and all the girls do seem to love the man who + respects them as much as the younger men do with whom they nightly dance + in winter. He romps with the children, has a perfectly regulated and + triumphant sliding-scale of gifts and attentions; and only this Christmas, + although he is now—well, Aunt Winnifred has locked up the Family + Bible and begins to talk of Arthur as a young man—yet only this + Christmas, at Lawrence Newt’s family party, at which, so nimbly did + they run round, it was almost impossible to compute the actual number of + Newt, and Wynne, and Bennet children—Arthur Merlin brought in, + during the evening, with an air of profound secrecy, something covered + with a large handkerchief. Of course there could be no peace, and no + blindman’s-buff, no stage-coach, no twirling the platter, and no + snap-dragon, until the mystery was revealed; The whole crowd of short + frocks and trowsers, and bright ribbons, and eyes, and curls, swarmed + around the painter until he displayed a green branch. + </p> + <p> + A pair of tiny feet, carrying a pair of great blue eyes and a head of + golden curls, scampered across the floor to Lawrence Newt. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, papa, what is that green thing with little berries on it?” + </p> + <p> + “That’s a misletoe bough, little Hope.” + </p> + <p> + “But, papa, what’s it for?” + </p> + <p> + The painter was already telling the children what it was for; and when he + had hung it up over the folding-doors such a bubbling chorus of laughter + and merry shrieks followed, there was such a dragging of little girls in + white muslin by little boys in blue velvet, and such smacking, and + kissing, and happy confusion, that the little Hope’s curiosity was + immediately relieved. Of all the ingenious inventions of their friend the + painter, this of the misletoe was certainly the most transcendent. + </p> + <p> + But when Arthur Merlin himself joined the romp, and, chasing Hope Wayne + through the lovely crowd of shouting girls and boys, finally caught her + and led her to the middle of the room and dropped on one knee and kissed + her hand under the misletoe, then the delight burst all bounds; and as + Hope Wayne’s bright, beautiful face glanced merrily around the room—bright + and beautiful, although she is young no longer—she saw that the + elders were shouting with the children, and that Lawrence Newt and his + wife, and his niece Fanny, and papa and mamma Wynne, and Bennet, were all + clapping their hands and laughing. + </p> + <p> + She laughed too; and Arthur Merlin laughed; and when Ellen Bennet’s + oldest daughter (of whom there are certain sly reports, in which her name + is coupled with that of her cousin Edward, May Newt’s oldest son) + sat down to the piano and played a Virginia reel, it was Arthur Merlin who + handed out Hope Wayne with mock gravity, and stepped about and bowed + around so solemnly, that little Hope Newt, sitting upon her papa’s + knee and nestling her golden curls among his gray hair, laughed all the + time, and wished that Christmas came every day in the year, and that she + might always see Mr. Arthur Merlin dancing with dear Aunt Hope. + </p> + <p> + When the dance was over and the panting children were resting, Gabriel + Newt, Lawrence’s youngest boy, said to Arthur, + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Merlin, what game shall we play now? What game do you like + best?” + </p> + <p> + “The game of life, my boy,” replied Arthur. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, pooh!” said Gabriel, doubtfully, with a vague feeling + that Mr. Merlin was quizzing him. + </p> + <p> + But the painter was in earnest; and if you are of his opinion, patient and + gentle reader, it is for you to say who, among all the players we have + been watching, held Trumps. + </p> + <div style="height: 6em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TRUMPS*** + + +******* This file should be named 15498-h.htm or 15498-h.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/5/4/9/15498 + + +E-text prepared by Curtis Weyant, Mary Meehan, and the Project Gutenberg +Online Distributed Proofreading Team from page images generously made +available by the Making of America Collection of the University of +Michigan Library + +HTML file produced by David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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