GIFT OF MICHAEL REESE *;J^5E UBRa^ OF THE NIVERSITT i-p ij^S^J^^V'-- -^^ / A SHADOW. TRUMPS. Ik Noyd. By GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS, AUTHOR OF Tl U I "NILE NOTES OF A HOWADJI," "THE HOWADJI IN SYRIA, "the POTIPHAR PAPERS," PRUE AND I," ETC. ILLUSTRATED BY AUGUSTUS HOPPm. tJNIVERSITT CALIFORNIA: NEW YORK: HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, FEANKLIN SQUAB K. [p 7^0 C Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year one thousand eight hundred and sixty-one, by HARPER & BROTHERS, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the Southern District of New York. V- TJK CONTENTS. C Q*l9 eUAPTER I, SCHOOL BEGINS II. HOPE WAYNE . . . 12 III. AVE MARIA! 1'-^ IV. NIGHT 2i> V. PEEWEE PREACHING 30 VI. EXPERIMENTUM CRUCIS 34 VII. CASTLE DANGEROUS 36 VIII. AFTER THE BATTLE 44 IX. NEWS FROM HOME 47 X. BEGINNING TO SKETCH 52 XI. A VERDICT AND A SENTENCE 5G XII. HELP, HOl 62 XIII. SOCIETY 68 XIV. A NEW YORK MERCHANT 7G XV. A SCHOOL-BOY NO LONGER 80 XVI. PHILOSOPHY 8G XVII. OF GIRLS AND FLOWERS ^1 XVIir. OLD FRIENDS AND NEW 95 XIX. DOG-DAYS 102 XX. AUNT MARTHA 10^ XXI. THE CAMPAIGN 1^16 XXII. THE FINE ARTS 124 XXIII. BONIFACE NEWT, SON, &. CO., DRY GOODS ON COMMISSION 129 XXIV. "queen AND HUNTRESS" 138 XXV. A STATESMAN AND STATESWOMAN 142 XXVI. THE PORTRAIT AND THE MINIATURE 151 XXVII. GABRIEL AT HOME 160 XXVIII. BORN TO BE A BACHELOR 167 XXIX. MR. ABEL NEWT, GRAND STREET 1^2 XXX. CHECK 1^8 XXXI. AT DELMONICO'S 183 XXXII. MRS. THEODORE KINGFISHER AT HOME. On daUSera 189 / /rO UD vi CONTENTS. CBAPTSR PAOa XXXIII. ANOTHER TURN IN THE WALTZ 202 XXXIV. heaven's last best gift 209 XXXV. motiier-in-law and daughter-in-law 213 XXXVI. the back avindow 215 XXXVII. ABEL NEWT vlce SLIGO MOULTRIE REMOVED 221 XXXVIII. THE DAY AFTER THE WEDDING 227 XXXIX. A FIELD-DAY 233 XL. AT THE ROUND TABLE 243 XLI. A LITTLE DINNER 248 XLII. CLEARING AND CLOUDY 257 XLIII. WALKING HOME 2G3 XLIV. CHURCH GOING 2G7 XLV. IN CHURCH 271 XLVI. IN ANOTHER CHURCH 275 XLVII. DEATH 279 XLVIII. THE HEIRESS 284 XLIX. A SELECT PARTY 294 L. WINE AND TRUTH 303 LI. A WARNING 309 Lll. BREAKFAST 316 LIII. SLIGO MOULTRIE VlCe ABEL NEWT 321 LIV. CLOUDS AND DARKNESS 323 LV. ARTHUR MERLIN'S GREAT PICTURE 329 LVI. REDIVIVUS 334 LVII. DINING AVITH LAAVRENCE NEWT 339 LA'III. THE HEALTH OF THE JUNIOR PARTNER 342 LIX. MRS. ALFRED DINKS 345 3r LX. POLITICS 350 LXI. GONE TO PROTEST 356 LXII. THE CRASH, UP TOAVN 359 LXIII. ENDYMION 366 LXIV. DIANA 371 *V LXV. THE AVILL OF THE PEOPLE 374 '■■ LXA'I. MENTOR AND TELEMACIIUS 382 LXVII. AVIRES '384 LXVIir. THE INDUSTRIOUS APPRENTICE 389 LXIX. IN AND OUT •' 391 LXX. THE REPRESENTATIVE OF THE PEOPLE 395 LXXI. RICHES HAA'E WINGS 400 LXXII. GOOD-BY 406 LXXIII. THE BELCH PLATFORM 413 LXX IV. MIDNIGHT 418 CONTENTS. Tii CHAPTER V°rt LXXV. REMINISCENCE 422 LXXVI. A SOCIAL GLASS 434 LXXVII. FACE TO FACE 440 LXXVIII. FINISHING PICTURES 444 LXXIX. THE LAST THROW 447 LXXX. CLOUDS BREAKING 451 LXXXI. MRS. ALFRED DINKS AT HOME 455 LXXXIL THE LOST IS FOUND 462 LXXXIII. MRS. DELILAH JONES 467 LXXXIV. PROSPECTS OF HAPPINESS 473 LXXXV. GETTING READY 476 LXXXVI. IN THE CITY 480 LXXXVII. A LONG JOURNEY 486 LXXXVIII. AVAITING 491 LXXXIX. DUST TO DUST 493 XC. UNDER THE MISLETOE 499 TRUMPS. CHAPTER I. SCHOOL BEGINS. Forty years ago Mr. Savory Gray was a prosperous mer chant. No gentleman on 'Change wore more spotless Imen 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 chui-ch on his way down town, and had so puri- fied 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 re- sort 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. Mr. Gray prospered in business, and nobody was sorry. He enjoyed his practical joke and his glass of Madeira, Avhich had made at least three voyages round the Cape. His tem^^era- ment, hke his person, was just unctuous enough to enable him to slip comfortably through life. Happily for his own comfort, he had but a speaking ac- quaintance with politics. He was not a blue Federalist, and he never d'd the Democrats. With unconscious skill he sho^ the angry rapids of discussion, and swept, by a sure instinct, toward the quiet water on which he liked to ride. In the A2 10 TRUMPS. counting-room or llie meeting of directors, when his neighbors waxed furious upon raking over some outrage of that old French infidel, Tom Jelferson, 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. 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 founda- tions 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. " My dear Jowlson, you must not give way in tliis 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, s})ringing up, "I am a ruined man!" So he was. Every thing was gone. Those pretty riches that chirped and sang to him as he fed them ; they had all si^read their bright plumage, like a troop of singing birds — have Ave not always been taught that they might, Mr. Jowl- son ? — and had flown away. To undertake business anew was out of the question. Ilis friends said, " Poor Gray ! what shall be done ?" The friendly merchants pondered and pondered. Tlie wor- thy 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, })]aniiiiig. Mv. 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 dol- TRUMPS. 11 lars, or a sore throat, or a broken tlminb, in the hands of a man who has not fitted himself carefully for the responsibility. He conld 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 could be done ? No- body 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 connnercial invalids were not yet invented. "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 par- lor, and Avere 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 !" "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. 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 im- porting 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 correspond- ents in other parts of the world, not entn-ely satisfied with the Asian and East Indian systems of education, shipped their Bons 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 1 2 T K U M P S. plenty of good beef, and Mr. Gray played practical jokes upon them ; and on Sundays they all went to hear Dr. Pecwee preach. CHAPTER II. HOPE W A Y N E. When there was a report that Mr. Savory Gray was com- ing 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 ori)han grand-daugh- ter, 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 go- ing up and down in the earth seeking whom it may marry. If incessant care, and invention, and management could secure it, she should arrive ^^afely where Grandpa Burt was determined she should arrive ultimately, at the head of her husband's din- ner-table, Mrs. Simcoe, ma'am. Mrs. Simcoe was Mr. Buit's housekeeper. So far as any body could say, Mrs. Burt died at a ])eriod of which the mem- ory of man runneth not to the contrary. There were tradi- tions of other housekeepers. But since the death of Hope's mother Mrs. Simcoe was the only incumbent. Slie 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. Ilouse- kee])er 7iascitur non ft. She was so silent and shadowy that the whole house sympathized with her, until it became ex- tremely uncomfortable to the servants, who constantly went TRUMTS. 13 away; and a story that the liouse was haunted became im- mensely popular and credible the moment it was told. There had been no visiting at Pinewood for a long time, be- cause 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 ->r"\>^ the visits Mrs. Simcoe accompanied her in the carriage, and sat there while Miss Wayne performed the parlor ceremony. Tlien they drove home. Mr. Burt dined at two, and Miss Hope sat opposite her grand- father at table ; Hiram waited. Mrs. Simcoe dined alone in her room. There, too, she sat alone in the long sum- mer afternoons, when the work of the house was over for the day. Slie held a book by the open window, or gazed for a very long time out upon the landscape. There Avere pine-trees near lier window ; but be- yond she could see green meadows, and blue hills, and a glit- tei'ing river, and rounded reaches of woods. She watched the clouds, or, at Jeast, 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 MRS. SIMCOE, MA AM. 14 TRUMPS. 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. Sometimes on these still, warm afternoons her lips parted, as if she were singing. But it was a very grave, quiet per- formance. There was none of the gush and warmth of song, although the words she uttered were alvrays those of the hynms of Charles Wesley — those passionate, religious songs of the New Jerusalem. For Mrs. Simcoe was a Methodist, and with Methodist hynms 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 hear- ing, though with different words, the strains that her nurse had whispered over her crib in the hymns of Wesley. It is to be presumed that at some period Mis. Simcoe, whom Mr. Burt always addressed in the same m:mner as " Mrs. Sim- coe, ma'am," had received a general system of instruction to the efiect that ^' My grand-daughter, Miss Wayne — Mrs. Sim- coe, 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." What on earth is a girl sent into this world for but to make a pi'oper match, and not disgrace her husband — to keep his house, either directly or by a deputy — to take care of his chil- dren, to see that his shppers 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 sa- ci-ed 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. " Hope may marry a foreign minister, Mrs. Simcoe, ma'am. Who knows? She may marry a large merchant in town or a large })lanter at the South, wlio will be obliged to entertain a great deal, and from all parts of the world. I intend that she TRUMPS. 15 shall be fit for the situation, that she shall preside at her hus- band's table in a superior manner." So Hope, as a child, had played with little girls, who were invited to Pinewood — select little girls, who came in the pret- tiest frocks and behaved in the prettiest way, superintended by nurses and ladies' maids. They tended their dolls peace- ably 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 libi-ary 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 calm- est kisses at parting. 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 En- glish 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, Avho 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 instruc- tion which was impai"ted by any Mentor under sixty. 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. Listinctively 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 16 TRUMPS. unconsciously and inevitably in a dream world, for she had no knowledge of any other, nor contact with it. Proud and shy, her heart w\is restless, her imagination morbid, and she be- lieved in heroes. When Dr. Peewee had told Mr. Bm-t all that he knew about the project of the school, Mr. Burt rang the bell violently. " Send Miss Hope to me." 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. " Did you want me, grandfather ?" " 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." "Yes — yes, my dear," said Dr. Peewee; "hate the boys? Yes ; we must hate the boys." Hope Wayne looked at the two old gentlemen, and an- swered, " I don't think you need have warned me, grandfather ; Pm not so apt to fall in love with boys." "No, no, Hope; I know. Ever since you have lived with me — how long is it, my dear, since your mother died '?" " I don't know, grandfather ; I never saw her," replied Hope, gravely. " Yes, yes ; well, ever since then you have been a good, quiet little girl with grandpaj^a. Here, Cossy, come and give grandpa a kiss. And mind the boys ! No speaking, no look- ing — we are never to know them. You understand ? Now go, dear." As she closed the door. Dr. Peewee also rose to take leave. " Doctoi*," said Mr. Burt, as the other pushed back his chair, " it is a veiy warm day. Let me ndvise you to guard against any sudden debility or effect of the heat by a little cordial." TRUMPS. 17 As he sjDoke he led tlie 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 rae 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 in- telligence. " I like to preserve my friendly relations with my old com- mercial friends," continued Mr. Burt, speaking very pompous- ly, and slowly ^Douring from a half-empty decanter into a tum- bler. " I rarely drink any thing myself — " " H'm, ha !" grunted the Doctor. " — except a glass of port at dinner. Yet, not to be impo- lite. 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." And Mr. Burt drained the glass, quite miobservant of the fact that the Rev. Dr. Peewee was standing beside him with- out glass or old Jamaica. In truth Mr. Burt had previous- ly been alarmed about the efiect of the bottle of port — which he metaphorically called a glass — that he had drunk at din- ner, 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. " Bless my soul, Doctor, you haven't filled your glass ! Per- mit me." And the old gentleman poured into the one glass and then into the other. " And now, Sir," he added, " now, Sir, let us drink to the health of Mr. Gray, but not of the boys — ha! ha!" " No, no, not of the boys ? No, not of the boys. Thank you. Sir — thank you. Tliat 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 !" 18 TRUMPS. As Hope left her grandfather, Mrs. Simcoc 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 land- scape 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. As Hope stood with folded hands looking toward the sun- set, 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 : "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." At the same moment Mrs. Simcoe was closing her window high over Hope's head. Her face was turned toward the sun- set with the usual calm impassive look, and as she gazed at the darkening landscape she was singing, in her murmuring way, " I rest upon thy word ; Thy promise is for me : My succor and salvation. Lord, Shall surely come from thcc. But let me still abide, Nor from my hope remove. Till thou my patient spirit guide Into thy perfect love." TRUMPS. 19 CHAPTER III. AVE MARIA ! Mr. Gray's boys sat in several pews, which he could com- mand Avith his eye from his own seat in the broad aisle. Ev- ery Sunday morning at the first stroke of the bell the boys be- gan 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 scuffling and treading, and old Christoi^her 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. The boys looked in admiration u]3on so much respectability, powder, age, and gold cane united in one person. But all the boys were in love with the golden-haired grand- daughter. They w^ent home to talk about hf3r. 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 Juhet. Tliey 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. Hope Wayne Avas not unconscious of the adoration she ex- cited. If a swarm of school-boys can not enter a country church without turning all their eyes tow\ard 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 20 TRUMrS. SUNDAY MOKNING. sure tliat 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 sup- posable that she thinks, for a wayward instant, of other eyes that will presently scan that figure and face, and feels, with a lialf-flush, that they will not be shocked nor disappointed? Tliere was not a boy in Mr. Gray's school who would have dared to dream th;il Hope Wayne ever had such a thought. TRUMPS. 21 When she appeared behind Grandfather Burt and tlie gold- headed cane she had no more antecedents m their imaginations than a rose or a rainbow. They no more tliouglit of Httle hu- man weaknesses and mundane influences in regard to her than they thought of cold vapor when they looked at sunset clouds. 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. Per- haps, 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 as- sembled was no more displeased with the innocent reveries and fancies which floated through that young heart thali with the soft air and sweet song of birds that played through the open windows of the church on some warm June Sunday morning. 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 invol- 'uitary 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 endlessl^f da capo — and the hymns that he heard as he looked at her he never forgot. 22 TRUMPS. But there were other eyes than Gabriel Beunet's that watch- ed Hope Wayne, and for many months had watched her — the Hasliing black eyes of Abel Newt. ILindsonie, strong, grace- ful, he was one of the oldest boys, and a leader at Mr. Gray's school. Like every handsome, bold boy or young* man, for lie 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 pun- ished. 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. 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 permis- sion 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 satis- fied 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 re- gard. 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 be- tray 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 grand- father into the carriage. When Gabriel Bennet came to Mr. Gray's, Abel did not like him. He laughed at him. He made the other boys laugh at liim whenever he could. He bullied him in the play-gi'ound. He proposed to introduce fagging at Mr. Gray's. IIc) praised TKUMrs. ^25 it as a splendid institution of the British schools, simply be- cause he wanted Gabriel as his fag. He wanted to fling his boots at Gabriel's head that he might black them. He w^anted to send him down stairs in his shirt on winter niirhts. 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 triunijjhal progress through school-life. He wanted to debase and degrade him altogether. " What is it," Abel exclaimed one day to the large boys as- sembled 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 in- solent 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 w^ere, 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 !" j^erorated Abel, meaning that he should like to be the holy ofiice, and to have Gabriel Bennet immediately delivered up to him for discipline. Once Gabriel overheard this kind of couA^ersation in the play-ground, as Abel Newt and some of the other boys w^ere resting after a game at ball. There were no personal allusions in what Abel had said, but Gabriel took him up a little curtly: " Pooh ! Abel, how w^ould you like to have Gyles Blanding shy his boots at your head ?" Abel looked at him a moment, sarcast ically . Then he replied : r' 22 1' R U M P S. %.. l"^^ S'%5 ,^ ^'O <-'^ ■-,•- -j> >ir .\ \\ -^ ~-:v^ THE FAGGING QUKSTION. " My young friend, I should like to see liini try it. But flag- ging concerns small boys, not large ones." " Yes !" retorted Gabriel, his eyes flashing, as he kept toss- ing tlie ball nervously, and catcliing it ; " yes, that's the mean- ness of it: the little boy can't help himself" " By golly, I'd kick !" put in Little IMalacca. " Then you'd be licked till you dropped, my small Sir," said Abel, sneeringly. TRUMPS. 25 " Yes, Abel," replied Gabriel, " but it's a mean thing for an American boy to Avant fagging." " Not at all," he answered ; " there are some young Ameri- can gentlemen I know who would be greatly benefited by be- ing 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 hapjjen to 'em. By George, I should like to have the kicking and licking begin now !" 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 notliing per- sonal said. It was only a warm general discussion. Gabriel merely asked, wdien the other stopped, " What good does the fagging do the fellow that flings the boots and bullies the little one ?" " Good ?" answered Abel — " what good does it do ? Why, he has been through it all himself, and he's just paying it oif." Abel smiled grimly as he looked round upon the boys, who did not seem at all enthusiastic for his suggestion. "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 fagghig;" 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 NcAvt was up to now. CHAPTER IV. NIGHT. It was already dusk, but the summer evening is the best time for play. The sport in the 2>lay-ground at Mr. Gray's was at its height, and the hot, eager, panting boys were shont- B 26 \ TRUMPS. ing aiu\ scampering in every direction, when a man ran in fi-oni the roadiind cried out, breathless, v '. "Wlier^Mr. Gray?" " In liis study," answered twenty voices at once. The man darted towardSthe house and went in ; tlie next moment he reappeared wither. Gray, botli of tliem running. " Get out the D\^at !" cried Mr. Gray, " and call the big boys. There's a maiWlrowning in the pond!" The game was oi^pNm^nce, and each young heart thrilled with vague horror. 4^be^sNcwt, Muddock, Blanding, Tom Gait, Jim Greenidge, and the rest*'<§i4iheolder boys, came rush- ing out of the school-room, and ran toA^ aid ilitJ bain, 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 Avith the friction and began to smoke. " Carefully ! steadily !" cried the boys all together. They slackened speed a little, bat, happily, the pond was but a short distance fi'om the school. It was a circular sheet of water, perhaps a mile in width. " Boys, he is nearly on the other side," said Mr. Gray, as the crowd reached the shore. In an instant the boat was afloat. Mr. Gray, the stranger, and the six stoutest boys in the school, stepped hito it. Tlie boys lifted their oars. "Let fall! give way!" cried Mr. Gray, and the boat moved off, glimmering away into the darkness. 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 o])posite 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 surllice was all they thought of. They shuddered TRUMPS. 27 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 chistered closely together, listening intent- ly. Nothing was audible but the hum of the evening insects and the rearular 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. 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. " Isn't it dreadful ?" whispered the latter. " Yes," said Gabriel, " it's dreadful to be young when a man's drowning, for you can't do any thing. Hist !" There was not a movement, as they heard a dull, distant sound. " I guess that's Jim Greenidge," whispered Little Malacca, under his breath ; "he's the best diver." Nobody answered. The slow minutes passed. Some of the boys peered timidly into the dark, and clung closer to their neighbors. "There they come!" said Gabriel suddenly, in a low voice, and in a few moments the beat of the oars was heard a2:ain. Still nobody spoke. Most of the boys were afraid that Avhen 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. 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. " Forward !" said Mr. Gray. Something lay across the seats covered with a large cloak. 28 TliUMrS. The boys did not look behind, but they all knew what they were dragging. The homely lunernl-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. " Tlie little boys may go," said Mr. Gray. They dropped the roj^e 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. " 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 no- thing. The second time he touched him" — the boys shud- dered — " and he actually brought him up to the surface. But he was quit««' dead. Then we took him into the boat and covered him over. Tliat's all." 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. *' He sleeps in Number Seven. Why ?" " Oh ! I only wanted to know." 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. "Who's there?" cried a voice within. " It's only me." "Who's me?" " Gabriel Bennet '' " Come in, then," TRUMPS. 29 It was Abel Newt who spoke ; and as Gabriel stepped in, Newt asked, abruptly, " What do you want ?" " I want to S2:)eak to Jim Greenidge." " Well, there he is," replied Newt, pointing to another bed. "Jim! Jim!" Greenidge roused himself. "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 ?" 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, " Shall I black your boots for you ?" " Black my boots ! Why, Gabriel, what on earth do you mean ? No, of course you shall not." And the strong youth looked pleasantly on the boy who stood by his bedside, and then put out his hand to him. " Can't I brush your clothes then, or do any thing for you?" persisted Gabriel, softly. " Certainly not. Why do you want to ?" replied Green- idge. " 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." He closed the door gently as he went out. Jim Green- idge 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 no- thing of it, and, tired with the excitement of the previous evening, he lay down again for a morning nap. 30 TRUMPS. CHAPTER V. PEEWEE PREACHING. 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. During the long prayer before the sermon a violent thun- der-gust swej^t from the west and dashed against the old wooden church. As the Doctor poured forth his petitions lie 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 w^as 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 w^indows, during thunder-storms, than the Doctor; nobady knew better than he that the light- ning-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 vil- lage 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 cir- cumstances, and Death will have no terrors." The Rev. Amos Peewee had been settled in the village of Delaficld 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 TRUMPS. ai 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. 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 blend- ed 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. 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 dis- courses. 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 disapj^eared before the lightning of his wrath. They are all children of the Devil, with different complexions, said Dr. Peewee. 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 olergyman, but I hope I am also 32 TRUMPS. a man of common sense — n practical man, Mr. Gray. Tlic gen- eral 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." " Clearly," said Mr. Gray. " For instance," reasoned the Doctor, as he slowly stirred Jiis toddy, and gesticulated with one skinny forefinger, occa- sionally 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 uj^on 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 emo- tions, even to actual profanity ? Is not a Christian congrega- tion, was not every early Christian community, a society of brothers ? Of course they Avere ; of course we must be. Lit- tle 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 enormi- ty of burning widows upon the funeral pyres of their hus- bands." 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 — " What shocking ])eople 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 ! — TRUMPS. 33 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. Dea~ con ?" 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?" "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. "What is it, Gyles?" asked Mr. Gray. " Why, Sii-," replied he, " it's nothing. We w^ere talking about a ribbon. Sir." " What ribbon ?" "A ribbon we saw at church. Sir." " Well, whose was it ?" asked Mr. Gray. " I believe it was Miss Hope W^ayne's." " You believe, Gyles ? Why don't you speak out ?" " Well, Sir, the fact is that Abel Newt says she had a pur- ple ribbon on her bonnet — " " She hadn't," said Gabriel, breaking in, impetuously. " She had a beautiful blue ribbon, and lilies of the valley in- side, and a white lace vail, and — " Gabriel stopped and turned very red, for he caught Abel Newt's eyes fixed sharply upon him. " Oh ho ! the text was there, was it ?" asked Mr. Gray, smiling. But Abel Newt only said, quietly : " Oh well ! I guess it was a blue ribbon after all." B2 34 TRUMPS. CHAPTER VI. EXPERIMENTUM CRUCIS. "The truth is, Gyles," said Abel to Blancling, 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." The two boys went in to tea. 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, "Mr. Gray," said Abel to Uncle Savory, who was sitting talking with Mrs. Gray, Avhose hands, which were never idle, were now busily knitting. " Well, Abel." " Suppose we have some game." *' Certainly. Boys, what shall we do? Let us see. There's the Grand Mufti, and the Elements, and My ship's come load- ed with — and — well, what shall it be ?" "Mr. Gray, it's a good while since we've tried all calling out together. We haven't done it shice Gabriel Bennet came." "No, we haven't," answered Mr. Gray, as his small eyes twinkled at the prospect of a little fun ; " no, Ave haven't. Now, boys, of course a good many of you have played the game before. But you, new boys, attend ! the tiling is this. When I say three — o??e, tico^ three! — 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 handker^ chief" Gabriel, full of expectation of the fun, ran out of the room. TRUMPS. 35 Tlie moment ho closed the door Mr. Gray lifted his finger and said, " Now, boys ! every body remain perfectly quiet when I say three." It was needless to explain why, for every body saw the in- tended joke, and Gabriel returned instantly from the study saying that the handkerchief was not there. " No matter," said Mr. Gray. " Are you all ready, boys. Now, then — owe, two^ three 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, " Hope Wayne !" — It was cruel. That name alone broke the silence, ringing out in enthusiastic nmsic. 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. 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 Avas 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." When the laugh ^vas over, Gabriel's had been loudest of all. 30 T li U M P S. CHAPTER VII. CASTLE DANGEROUS. 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 bai-s which guarded the en- trance 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. After leaning and musing and vaguely whistling, he turned up the hill again and continued his walk. At length he reached the entrance of Pinewood — a liigh iron gate, between huge stone posts, on the tops of which were urns overflowing with vines, that hung down and partly tap- estried 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 M'hich skirted and concealed the lawn. The fence upon the road was a high, solid stone wall, along Avhose top clus- tered 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 i)leasant rural j^ros- pect of fields, woods, and hills, without being seen from the road. The house itself was a stately, formal mansion. Its light color contrasted well Avith the lofty pine-trees around it. But they, in turn, invested it with an air of secrecy and gloom, unrelieved l)y flowei's or blossoming shrubs, of which there were no traces near the house, although in the rear there was TRUMPS. 37 a garden so formally regular that it looked like a penitentiary for flowers. 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 tliought 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 moonUght, and listening. Abel Newt opened the gate and passed in. He walked along the avenue, from Avhich the lawn was still hidden by the skirting hedge, went up the steps, and rang the bell. " Is Mr. Burt at home ?" he asked, quietly. "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." Abel Xewt was shown into a large drawing-room. The furniture was draped for the season in cool-colored chintz. Tliere was a straw matting upon the floor. The chandeliers and candelabras Avere 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 stift', stately, and uncom- fortable air. The fire-place was covered by a heavy painted fire-board. The polished brass andirons, Avhich seemed to feel the whole weight of responsibility in supporting the family dignity, stood across the hearth, belligerently bright, and tliere were sprays of asparagus in a china vase in front of them. A few pictures hung upon the wall — fiimily 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, 38 TRUMPS. 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!" 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 hos- pitable nor by any means inspiring. 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 gen- tleman entered, and stood with his cap in his hand and his head slightly bent. Old Burt came into the room, and said, a little fiercely, as h^saw the visitor, '' Well, Sir !" Abel bowed. " Well, Sir !" he repeated, more blandly, apparently molliiied by something in the appearance of the youth. " 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 valu- able 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." "Did you come here to compliment me. Sir?" asked Mr. Burt. " You've got some kind of subscription paper, I sup- pose." 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 So- ciety, or Tract Society, or Bible Society, some damnable doing- good society, that bleeds the entire community, has sent you TRUMPS. 39 up liere, Sir, to suck money out of me with your smooth face. They're always at it. They're always seiidhig boys, aud min- isters 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 peo- ple ! 1 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 fore- head. 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 : " No, Sir ; it is not a subscription paper — " "Not a subscription paper!" interrupted the old gentleman, lifting his head and staring at him. " Why, what the deuce is it, then ?" " Why, Sir, as I was just saying," calmly returned Abel, " it is a personal matter altogether." " Eh ! eh ! what ?" cried Mr. Burt, on the edge of another paroxysm, "what the deuce does that moan? Who are you, Sir ?" " I am one of Mr. Gray's b.oys, Sir," replied Abel. " What ! what !" thundered Grandpa Burt, sj^ringing 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 !" "Yes, Sir," answered the man, as he came across the hall. " Show this young man out." " He may have some message. Sir," said Hiram, who had heard the preceding conversation. "Have you got any message:" asked Mr. Burt. "No, Sir; but I—" " Then why, in Heaven's name, don't you go ?" 40 T RUMP S. " Mr. Burt," said Abel, with placid persistence, " being one of Mr. Gray's boys, I go of course to Dr. Feewee's Church, and there I have so often seen — " " 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 ?" " 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 fiimily, and so on, Sii', I was interested — it was only natural, Sir — in all that belongs to you." "Eh! eh! what?" said Mr. Burt, quickly. "Particularly, Mr. Burt, in your — " " By Jove ! young man, you'd better go if you don't Avant 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 !" But Abel continued : " In your beautiful — " " Don't dare to say it. Sir !" cried the old man, shaking his finger. " Place," said Abel, quietly. The old gentleman glared at him with a look of mixed sur* prise and suspicion. But the boy wore the same look of can- dor. 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. "What do you mean. Sir?" said Christopher Burt, in great perplexity, as he seated himself again, and drew a long breath. " Simply, Sir, that I am very fond of sketching. My teach- er 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 5 ?5 TRUMPS. 41 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 Mr. Burt listened to this speech with a pacified air. He was perhaps a little ashamed of his furious onslaughts and in- terruptions, and therefore the more graciously inclined toward the request of the young man. So the old man said, witli tolerable grace, " Well, Sir, I am willing you should draw my house. Will you do it this afternoon ?" " 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 al- low me to come at any time. Sir, I should be very deeply obliged. I am devoted to my art. Sir." " Oh ! you mean to be an artist ?" " Perhaps, Sir." " Phit ! phit ! Don't do any such silly thing. Sir. An art- ist ! Why how much does an artist make in a year?" " Well, Sir, the money I don't know about, but the fame !" " Oh ! the fame ! The liddle. Sir ! You are capable of bet- ter things." " For instance, Mr. Burt — " " 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 !" Abel thought old men sometimes minced grammar a little, 42 TRUMPS. but he did not say so. He only looked resj^ectful, and said, '' Yes, Sir." "About drawing the house, come when you choose," said Mr. Burt, rising. "It may take more than one, or even three or four after- noons. Sir, to do it pi-operly." "Well, well. If I'm not at home ask for Mrs. Simcoe, d'ye hear? Mrs. Simcoe. She will attend to you." Abel bowed very respectfully and as if he were controlling a strong desire to kneel and kiss the foot of his Holiness, Chris- tojjher Burt, but he mastered himself, and Hiram opened the front door. " Good-by, Hiram," said Abel, putting a piece of money into his hand. " Oh no. Sir," said Hiram, pocketing the coin. 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 ap- pear. But as Hiram still stood watching him, he moved away. 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 IVIalacca as he did so. The collision was rude, and the three boys stopped. "You'd better look where you're going," said Gabriel, sharply, his cheeks reddening and swelling. Abel's first impulse was to strike ; but he restrained himself, and in the most contemptuous way said merely, " Ah, the Keverend Gabriel Bennet !" 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 liis strong arms began to tell. He was confident of vie- TRUMPS. 43 THE BATTLE. tory, and calmer than his antagonist ; bnt it was like fighting a flame, so fierce and rapid were Gabriel's strokes. 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 liim !" For Abel was now fully aroused. He was seriously hurt by Gabriel's blows. "Don't! there's somebody coming!" cried Little Malacca, 44 TRUMPS. with the tears in his eyes, as the sound of a carriage was heard driving down the hill. The combatants said notliing. The faces of both of them Avere bruised, and the blood was flowing. Gabriel was clear- ly flagging ; and Abel's face was furious as he struck his heavy blows, under which the smaller boy staggered, but did not yet succumb. " Oh, please ! please !" cried Little Malacca, imploringly, the tears streaming down his face. 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. "You've killed him! You've killed him!" sobbed Little Malacca, piteously, kneeling down and bending over Gabriel. Abel Newt stood bareheaded, frowning under Iiis heavy hair, his hands clenched, his face bruised and bleeding, his mouth sternly set as he looked down upon his opponent. Sud- denly he heard a sound close by him — a half-smotiiered cry. He looked up. It w\as the Burt carriage, and Hope \Yayne was gazing in terror from the window^ CHAPTER VHL AFTER THE BATTLE. 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 AYest Indies — rushed to his mind as he rushed to the door. He opened it in hot haste. There stood Hope AYayne, 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. THUMPS. 45 " Here, Hiram, lielp James to bring in this poor boy." "Yes, miss," replied the man, as he ran down the steps. The door was opened, and the coachman and Hiram lifted out GabrieL They carried him, still unconscious, up stairs and laid him on a couch. Old Burt could not refuse an act of mere human- ity, but he said in a loud voice, " 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 Ma- lacca, who quivered under his wrath. " Wliat 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. But Hope Wayne and Mrs. Simcoe remained with the pa- tient. 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, wdiile Mrs. Simcoe sat quietly by him. " We must put you. to bed," she said, gently, " and to-mor- row' you may go. But Avhy do you fight ?" Gabriel turned toward her with a piteous look. " 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. The man entered, and Mrs. Simcoe left the room after hav- ing 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 beliind him, and left Gabriel alone. He was now entirely conscious, but very weak. His face was turned toward the window, which w\as open, and he watched the pine-trees that rustled gently in the afternoon breeze. It Avas profoundly still out of doors and in the house; 46 TRUMPS. 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. When he opened his eyes again it was twilight, and he Avas lying on his back looking uj) 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. 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. " I must go," he murmured, as if he too were~a phantom. The liijs of Calypso moved. " Are you better ?" Gabriel wa^^ awake in a moment. It was Hope Wayne Avlio spoke to him. 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. Gabriel's face was turn-ed toward the door, so tliat 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. She stood motionless lest she might wake liim. He did not stir, and she heard his low, regular breathing, and knew that ail was well. Then she turned as noiselessly as she had en- tered, and went out, leaving him to peaceful sleep — to dreams — to the sighing of the pines. Hope Wayne went quietly to her room, which was next to TRUMPS. 47 the one in which Gabriel lay. Her kind heart had sent her to see that he wanted nothing. She thouglit 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 try- ing somehow to help Abel by doing all she could to alleviate the harm he had done ? Hope Wayne asked herself no questions. She was con- scious 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 lielpcd to lay Gabriel in the CHAPTER IX. NEWS FROM HOME. Abel found a letter waiting for hira when he returned to the school. He tore it open and read it : "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 ^ad known and respected Mr. Gray in former years, left you, as you know, a sum sufficient for your education, upon condi- tion 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 thmk of college ; and as you will undoubtedly be a business man, I see 48 T K U M r S. 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, " Boniface Newt. *•■ P.S. — Your mother wishes to add a line." " 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 im^irove the mind. I hope you attend to religion. It Avill help you if you keej) a record of Dr. Peewee's texts, and write abstracts of his ser- mons. Grammar, too, and general manners. I hear that you are very self-possessed, which is really good news. My friend Mrs. Beacon Avas here last week, and she says you boio beauti- fully ! 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 fool- ish for any body to set themselves uj) 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 disthir/ue 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 sj)inning on in- visible 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 oj)inion of the dowdiness of Boston girls. It seems she is a great heiress, TRUMPS. 49 and very beautiful ; and it is said here (but you know how idle such gossip is) that she is going to marry her cousin, Al- fred Dinks. He does not deny it. He merely laughs and shakes his head — the truth is, he hasn't much to say for him- self. Bless me ! I've got to take another sheet. "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 work- ing 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 ? " 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. AYhitloe 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 Httle taller— about Fanny's height ; and as I Avas look- ing at Fanny the other day, I thought how sorry I was for Mr. Whitloe that Laura was not just a little prettier. She has such a nose ; and then her complexion ! However, my dear Abel of course cares nothing about such things, and, I have no doubt, is Avickedly 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 Sara- toga in a few days — I think Fanny ought to drink the waters. C 60 TRUMPS. I told Di*. Lush I was perfectly sure of it ; so he told your fa- ther, and he has consented. " Do you remember Mrs. Plumer, the large, handsome wo- man 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 Springs 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 at school in town. She is only fourteen, I believe. What an heiress she will be! The Moultries, from South Carolina, will be tliere too, I suppose. By-tlie-by, how 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, tliat 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 tliey preach mere mo- rality, and read essays instead of sermons. I hoj^e you go reg- ularly to church ; and from what I have heard of Dr. Peewee, I respect him very highly. Perhaps you had better make ab- stracts of his sermons, and I can look over them some time when you come home. " 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, Avhat 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 cliurch, you kno'w, we all put our heads down in front of the pew, or in our hands, for TRUMPS. 51 a little while, and Dr. Maundy spreads his handkerchief on tlie desk and puts his face into it for quite a long time. What do yoic 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 thouglit 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 wliat people M'ere 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 thins: — I ijet throuojh 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. " Your afi*ectionate mother, " Naxcy Newt." Abel read the letters, and stood looking at the floor, mus- ingly. 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. 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 «'as the figure of Hope Wayne. Just as he thought he could reach her, was he to be torn away ? And who was Mr. Alfred Dinks ? 62 TRUMPS. CHAPTER X. BEGINNING TO SKETCH. The next morning when Gabriel declared that he was jjer- fectly well and had better return, nobody opposed his depart- ure. 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 Avhat she wanted to forget. The poor boy drove dismally away, thinking what a dread- ful thing it is to be young. After he had gone Hope Wayne sat upon the lawn reading. Suddenly a shadow fell across the l^age, 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. Rising from the law^n and bowing gravely, she turned to- W'ard the house. " Miss AYayne," said Abel, in a voice w^hich w^as Very mu- sical and very low — she stopped — " I hope you have not al- ready convicted and sentenced me." He smiled a little as he spoke, not familiarly, not presump- tuously, but with an air which indicated liis entire ability to justify himself. Hoj^e said : " I have no wish to be unjust." *' May I then plead my own cause ?" " I must go into the house — I will call my grandf^itl.er, whom I suppose you Avish to see." "I am here by his permission, and T hope you will not re- gard me as an intruder." TRUMPS. 53 "Certainly not, if he knows you are here;" and Hope lin- gered to hear if he had any thing more to say. "" It was a very sudden affair. We were both hot and an- gry ; 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" " Yes — to be sure — in that case," said Hope, still lingering, and remarkino; the music of his voice. Abel continued — while the girl's eyes saw how well he looked upon tliat lawn — the clustering black hair — the rich eyes — the dark complexion — the light of intelligence playing upon his face — his dress care- ful but graceful — and the port-folio which showed this inter- view to be no design or expectation, but a mere chance — "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." Hope Wayne lingered, looking on the ground. "I think, indeed," continued Abel, "that you owe me an opportunity of making a better in pression." " Hope! Hope !" came floating the sound of a distant voice calling in the garden. Hope Wayne turned her head toward the voice, but her eyes looked upon the ground, and her feet still lingered. " I have known you so long, and yet have never spoken to you," said tlie musical voice at her side ; " I have seen you so constantly in church, and I have even tried sometimes — I con- fess it — to catch a glance from you as you came out. But I am not sorry, for now — " "Hope! Hoj^e!" called the voice from the garden. Hope looked dreamily in that direction, not as if she heard it, but as if she were listening to something in her mind. "Now I meet you here on this lovely lawn in your own beautiful home. Do you know that your grandfather ])ermits me to sketch the place ?" "Do you draw, Mr. !N"ewt?" asked Hope Wayne, hi a tone which seemed to Abel to trickle along his nerves, so exquisite 64 T K U M r S- and prolonged was the pleasure it gave him to hear her call him by name. IIow did she know it ? thought he. "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." " IIo])e ! Hope !" came the voice again from the garden. Abel heard it — perhaps Hope did not. He was busily open, ing his port-folio and turning over the drawings, and stepped closer to her, as he said : "There! now, what is that ?" and he handed her a sketch. Hope looked at it and smiled. " That is the farther shore of the pond with the spire ; how very pretty it is !" "And this?" " 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." " Do you draw. Miss Wayne ?" "I've had plenty of lessons," replied Hope, smiling; "but I can't draw from nature very well." " What do you sketch, then ?" " Well, scenes and figures out of books." "How very pleasant that must be! That's a better style than mine." " Why so ?" - "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." " What is that ?" asked Hope, looking at her companion. "Well," he answered, smiling, "because life in books is al- ways so much better than real life !" " Is it so ?" said Hope, musingly. " Yes, certainly. People are always brave, and beautiful, and good, in books. An author may make them do and say TRUMPS. 55 just what he and all the world want them to, and it all seems right. And then they do such splendidly impossible things !" "How do they?" "Why, now, if you and I were in a book at this moment, insteaf^ of standing on this lawn, I might be a knight slay- ing a great dragon that was just coming to destroy you, and you — " "Hope, Hope!" rang the voice from the garden, nearer and more imperiously. "And I — might be saved by another knight dashing in upon you, like that voice upon your sentence," said Hope, smiling. "No, no," answered Abel, laughing, "that shouldn't be in the book. I should slay the great dragon Avho 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." He looked across the lawn under the pine-trees as if he were thinking of some story that he had been actually reading. Hojje smiled no longer, but said, quietly, " Mr. Newt, I am wanted. I must go in. Good-morning 1" And she moved away. " Perhaj^s your cousin Alfred Dinks has arrived," said Abel, carelessly, as he closed his port-folio. Hope Wayne stopped, and, standing very erect, turned and looked at him. " Do you know my cousin, Mr. Dinks ?" "Not at all." " How did you know that I had such a cousin ?" "1 heard it somewhere," answered Abel, gently and re- spectfully, 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." 56 TRUMPS. Hope Wayne looked serious for a moment ; then she said, with a lialf smile, " I suppose it is no secret that Alfred Dinks is ray cousin ;" and, bowing to Abel, she Avent swiftly over the lawn toward the house. CHAPTER XI. A VERDICT AND A SENTENCE. Hope Wayne did not agree witli 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. "Aunty, did you call me?" " Yes, ilope." "I was on the lawn. Aunty." " I know it, Hope." The young lady did not ask her why she had not sought her there, but she asked, " What do you want. Aunty ?" The older woman looked quietly out of the w^indow. Nei- ther spoke for a long time. "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. " He had to defend himself," said Hope, rapidly. " Couldn't a young man protect himself against a l)oy with- out stunning him? He might easily have killed him," said Mrs. Simcoe, in the same dry tone. " It was very unfortunate, and ]\Ir. Newt says so ; but I don't think he is to bear every thing." "What did the other do?" " He insulted him." TRUMPS. 57 " Indeed !" 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 " in- deed !" as Mrs. Simcoe pronounced it, that Hope was really angry with her. " I don't see why you should treat Mr. Newt in that man- ner," said she, haughtily. "In what manner, Hope?" asked the other, cahnly, fixing her eyes upon her companion. "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." Hope was almost sobbing. "Has he once said he was sorry?" asked Mrs. Simcoe. " Has he told you so this morning ?" " Of course he is sorry, Aunty. How could he help it ? Do you suppose he is a brute ? Do you suppose he hasn't ordi' nary human feeling ? Why do you treat him so ?" Hope asked the question almost fiercely. 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. 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 under- stand what it was, nor Avhy. A little while before, upon the lawn, she had been so happy. Now it seemed as if her heart G2 68 TRUMPS. wei*e breaking. "When she grew calmer, Mrs. Sinicoe, holding the fair face between her hands, and tenderly kissing it once more, said, slowly, " Hope, my child, we must all walk the path alone. But you, too, will learn that our human aiiections are but tents of a ni<2:ht." " Aunty, Aunty, what do you mean ?" asked Hope, who had risen as the other was speaking, and now stood beside her, pale and proud. " I moan, Hope, that you are in love with Abel Newt." Hope's hands dropped by her side. She stepped back a lit- tle. A feeling of inexpressible solitude fell upon her — of alien- ation 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. " Aunty, is it wrong to love him ?" 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. " 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. "I suppose I was very foolish and furious," said he. "Abel ran against me, and I got very angry and struck him. It Avas wrong ; I know it was, and I am very sorry. But, ma'am, I hope you won't — ch — ch — I mean, won't — " That unlucky "ma'am" had choked all his other words. Hope Avas so lofty and splendid in his eyes as she stood be- fore him that he Avas 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, TRUMPS. 59 " I blame nobody." But poor Gabriel's speech Avas gone. His mouth was piirched 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. " There, Miss Wayne !" suddenly said a voice at the door. 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. "There, that will do for a beginning, will it not'?" 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. " That tree comes a little nearer that window," said she. " How do you know it does ?" he replied. " You, who only draw from books ?" "I think I ought to know the tree that I see every day at my own window !" " Oh ! that is your window !" Gabriel was confounded at this sudden incursion and ap- parent 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 run- ning up the avenue, and therefore happened in to ask Miss Wayne's opinion of his drawing. He chatted merrily on : " 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 jirevious visit in that parlor. " What a funny little old fellow ! Let me see. Gra- cious ! 'twas before the Revolution. Ah ! now^, if he could only speak and tell us just Avhat he saw in the room where they were painting him — what he had for breakfast, for in- stance — what those dear little ridiculous Avaistcoats, with all their flowery embroidery, cost a yard, say — yes, yes, and wliat book that is — and who gave him the hoop — " GO TRUMPS. lie rattled on. Never in Hope's lifetime had such sounds of gay speech been heard in that well-arranged and well-be- haved parlor. They seemed to light it np. The ra])id talk bubbled like music. " 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, uncon- sciously 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?" What a contrast to Gabriel's awkward silence of the mo- ment before ! Such a handsome face ! such a musical voice ! Ill the midst of it all Hiram was heard remonstrating out side : "Don't, Sir, don't ! You'll — you'll — something will hap- pen. Sir." There was a moment's scuffling and trampling, and Chris- topher Burt, restrained by Hiram, burst into the room. The old man was Avhite with wrath. He had his cane in one hand, and Hiram held the other hand and arm. 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 nad 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 tliat 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 tem- per to be as furious with himself as with other peoi)le? He burst into the room. 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 ])ortrait ; Gabriel, at a little distance, confounded and abashed by an acquaintance be- tween Hope and Abel of which he had no i»revious suspicion. TRUMPS. 61 The poor boy! forgotten by Hope, and purposely trampled down by the eager talk of Abel. " Hope, go lip stairs !" shouted the old gentleman. " And what are you doing in my house, you scamps ?" He lifted his cane as he came toward tliem. "I knew all this fighting business yesterday was a conspii-acy — a swin- lling cheat to get into this house ! I've a mind to break your impudent bones !" " Why, Sir," said Abel, " you gave me leave to come here and sketch." "Did I give you leave to come into my parlor and bring boys with you. Sir, and take up the time of my grand-daugh- ter? Hope, I say, go ujd stairs!" " I only thought. Sir — " began Abel. " 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 per- mission. Go, both of you ! and never let me see your faces again !" The old man stood pointing with his cane toward the door. " Go, both of you !" repeated he, fiercely. It was impossi- ble to resist ; and Abel and Gabriel moved slowly toward the door. The former w^as furious at finding himself doomed in company with Gabriel. But he betrayed nothing. He was preternaturally calm. Hope, dismayed and pale, stood look- ing on, but saying nothing. Gabriel went quietly out of the room. Abel turned to the door, and bowed gravely to Hope. "Remember, Sir," cried the old man, "I take back my per- mission !" " I understand. Sir," replied Abel, bowling to him also. He closed the door ; and as he did so it seemed to Hope Wayne as if the sunshine were extinguished. 62 . TRUMPS. CHAPTER XII. HELr, no! Abel Newt was fully aware that his time was short. His father's letter had a])prisecl him of his presently leaving school. To leave school — was it not to quit Delafield ? Might it not be to lose Iloj^e Wayne ? He was banished from Pine wood. There were flaming swords of suspicion waving over that flowery gate. The days were passing. The summer is end- ing, thought he, and I am by no means saved. 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 liad been not only a companion but a wit- ness. 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 Avas thinking only of Hope Wayne, and laughing at himself for thinking of her. The boys were strolling in different parts of the village. Abel, into whose mind had stolen that thought of the possible laugliter ni Gabriel's sleeve, pulled out his handkerchief sud- denly, and waved it with an indignant movement in the air. At the same moment a carria^ije had overtaken him and was passing. The horses, startled by the shock of the waving liandkerchief, shied and broke into a run. The coachman trie'l ill vain to control them. They sprang forward and had their heads in a moment. Abel looked np, and saw that it was the Burt carriage dash- ing down the road. He Hew after, and every boy followed. The horses, maddened by the cries of the <2oachman and pass- TRUMPS. ,63 ers-by, by the rattling of the carriage, and their own excite- ment and speed, phinged 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. " 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. The whole village was in motion. Every body knew Hope Wayne — every body loved her. Both she and Mrs. Simcoe sat quietly in the carriage. They knew it was madness to leap — that their only chance lay in re- maining 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 fiimiliar houses — the trees — the signs — the fences — as they swept by ! How peaceful and se- cure 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 be- side her, cahnly holding one of Hope's hands, but neither of them spoke. 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, " 'Chi'ist shall bless thy going out, Shall bless thy coming in ; Kindly compass thee about, Till thou art saved from sin. " "That corner! that corner!" shouted the throng, as the horses neared a sudden turn into a side-road, toward which 64 TRUMPS. they seemed to be making, frightened by the persons who c^me running toward them on the main street. Among these was Gabriel, who, liearing the confused murmur that rang down tlie road, turned and recognized the carriage that was whirled alonir at the mercv of wild liorses. He seemed to his com- panions to fly as he went — to himself he seemed to be stand- ing still. " Carefully, carefully !" cried the others, as they saw his im- petuosity. "Don't be trampled!" 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 — He came near as the horses were about turning. The street toward which they were heading was narrow, and on the oth- er corner from him there was a wall. They were running to- ward Gabriel down the main road; but just as he came up with them lie flung himself with all his might toward the ani- mals' 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. The door was opened, and the ladies stepped out. Mrs. Simcoe Avas 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. " Dear child !" she said to Hope, when they both knew that the crisis was over, and her lips moved in silent prayer and thanksgiving. 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 slie did not see his face. She felt a secret dis- appointment. " Here is your preserver, ma'am," said one of the villagers, pushing Gabriel forward. Mrs. Simcoe actually smiled. She put out lier liand to him kindly ; and Hope, with grave sweet- TRUMPS. 66 ness, told him how great was their obligation. The boy bowed and looked at her earnestly. " Are you hurt ?" " Oh ! no, not at all," replied Hope, smiling, and not with- out some effort, because she fancied that Gabriel looked at her as if she showed some sign of pain — or disappointment — or what? " We are perfectly well, thanks to you." " What started the horses ?" asked Gabriel. "I'm sure I don't know," replied Hope. " Abel Newt started them," said Mrs. Simcoe. Hope reddened and looked at her companion. " What do you mean. Aunty ?" asked she, haughtily. 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 irom her cheeks. He eagerly asked how it happened, and was confounded by hearing that he was the cause. " 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 w^ith 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 !" Pleased, still weak and trembling, pale and flushed by turns, Hope listened to him. " Where can I see you ?" he continued ; " certainly your grandfather was unkind — " Hope shook her head slowly. Abel watched every move- ment — every look — every fluctuating change of manner and color, as if he knew its most hidden meaning. " I can see you nowhere but at home," she answered. He did not reply. She stood silent. She wished he would speak. The silence was dreadful. She could not bear it. "I am very sorry," said she, in a whisper, her eyes fas- 66 TRUMPS. tened upon the ground, her hands playing with her handker- chief. " I hope you are," he said, quietly, Avith a tone of sadness, not of reproach. There was another painful pause. "I hope so, because I am going away," said Abel. *' Where are you going ?" "Home." "When?" " In a few weeks." " Where is your home?" " In New^ York." It was very much to the point. Yet botli of them wanted to say so much more ; and neither of them dared ! " Miss Hope !" whispered Abel. Hope heard the musical whisper. She perceived the audac- ity of the familiarity, but she did not wish it were otherwise. She bent her head a little lower, as if listening more intently. " May I see you before I go ?" Hope was silent. Dr. Livingstone relates that w^hen 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. " Hope," said Mrs. Simcoe, " the horses will be brought up. We had better walk home. Here, my dear !" " I can only see you at home," Hope said, in a low voice, as she rose. " Then we part here forever," he replied. " I am sorry." Still there was no reproach ; it was only a deep sadness which softened that musical voice. "Forever!" he repeated slowly, with low, remorseless mu- sic. Hope Wayne trembled, but he did not see it. "I am sorry, too," she said, in a hurried whisper, as she moved slowly toward Mrs. Simcoe. Abel Newt was disap- pointed. " Good-by forever, Miss Wayne !" he said. He could not TRUMPS. Q1 " GOOD-BY !" see Hope's paler face as she heard the more formal address, and knew by it that he was offended. " Good-by '-" was all he caught as Hope Wayne took Mrs. Simcoe's arm and walked away. 08 TRUMPS. CHAPTER XIII. SOCIETY. Traditiox declares that the family of Newt has been uni- formly respectable but honest — so respectable, indeed, that Mr. Boniface Newt, the father of Abel, a celebrated New York merchant and a Tammany Sacheju, 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 seal- ring. 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. Mrs. Newt's femily had a crest also. She was a Magot — an- other 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. Their friends did, of course ; but there were a great many people from the country who gaz.ed at it, in passing, with the same emotion with which they w^ould have contemplated a private carriage ; Avhich was highly gratifying to the feelings of the Magots. Their friends knew it, but friends never remark upon such things. There was old Mrs. Beriah Dacron — dowai^er Mrs. Dagon, she was called — aunt of Mr. Newt, who never said, " I see the Magots have hired a hackney-coach from Jobbers TRUMPS. 69 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." By-and-by her nephew Boniface married Medora's sister, Nancy. It was Mrs. Dagon who sat with Mrs. Newt in her parlor, and said to her, " 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 Or- son, 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. W^inslow^ Orry peering about at the Shrimps. I really believe she counted the spoons. W^hat 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'U be taking advantage of him. Gracious me ! how hot it is !" 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 ex- haustion. " Yes, w^e 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, peo- ple must regard their time of life, and take care of their health. There's old Mrs. Octoyne says she shall never give uji. She 70 TRUMPS. hopes to bring out her great-grand-danghtcr next winter, and says she lias no life but in society. I suppose you know Her- bert Octoync 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 gld 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 nujney. What a pretty shawl ! Did you hear that Mellish Whitloe has given Laura a diamond pin which cost live hundred dollars? Extravagant fellow ! Yet I like to have young men do these things hand- somely. I do think it's such a pity about Laura's nose — " " She can smell with it, I suppose, mother ; and what else do you want of a nose ?" It was Miss Fanny Newt w^ho spoke, and who had entered the room during the conversation. She was a tall young wo- man 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. " Gracious, Famiy, 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." "I suppose you want it to turn up at some people," replied Miss Fanny, smoothing her dress, and looking in the glass. " Well, Aimt Dagon, who've you been lunching on ?" Aunt Dagon looked a little appalled. " ]\Iy dear, what do you mean ?" she said, fimnmg herself violently. " I hope I never say any thing that isn't true about j)eople. 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 w^ould swear to it; well, Kitty Kite, my dear, does do and say the most abominable things about people. At the Shrimps' ball, when yon were waltzing with Mr. Dinks, I heard her say TRUMPS. 71 to Mrs. Orry, 'Do look at Fanny Newt hug that man!' It was dreadful to hear her say such tilings, my dear ; and then to see the whole room stare at you ! It was cruel — it was really unfeeling." Fanny did not wince. She merely said, " How old is Mrs. Kite, Aunt Dagon ?" " Well, let me see ; she's about my age, I suppose." " Oh ! Avell, 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 peo- ple who are young enough to enjoy life with all their senses," replied Miss Fanny, carelessly arranging a stray lock of hair. " Indeed, Miss, you would like to shove all the married peo- ple into the wall, or into their graves," retorted Mrs. Dagon, warmly. " Oh no, dear Aunt, only into their beds — and that not un- til they are superannuated, which, you know, old people never find out for themselves," answered Fanny, smiling sweetly and calmly upon Mrs. Dagon. " What a country it is. Aunt !" said Mrs. Xewt, 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 !" Miss Newt made no observation, but took up a gayly-bound book from the table and looked carelessly into it. Mrs. Da- gon rose to go. She had somewhat recovered her composure. "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." "How kind it was of you, dear Aunt Dagon !" said Fanny, as she rose to salute her departing relative, " and how gener- ous people were not to believe it ! But I couldn't persuade them that that beautiful lace-edging on your dress was real OP THE '72 TRUMPS. Mechlin, although I tried very hard. They said it was nat- ural in nic 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 liavc 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 !" "Fanny dear," said her mother, as the door closed upon Mrs. Dagon, Avho 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?" " How should I know, mother ?" " Why, my dear, you have been so intimate with him." " My dear mother, how can any body be intimate with Al- fred Dinks? You might as well talk of breathing in a vac- uum." " But, Fanny, he is a very good sort of young man — so re- spectable, and M'ith such good manners, and he has a very pretty fortune — " Mrs. Newt w^as interrupted by the servant, who announced Mr. Wetherley. Poor Mr. Zephyr Wetherley ! He was one of the rank and file of society — one of the privates, so to speak, who are men- tioned 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. Wether- ]ey, although she had seen plainly enough the indications of his feeling for her. This morning he was Avell 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 TRUMPS. 73 in Europe, and was quoted when waistcoats were in debate. He liad been very attentive to Mr. Alfred Dinks and Mr. Bowdoin Beacon, the two Boston youtlis who had been charm- ing society during the season that was now over. He was even a little jealous of Mr. Dinks. 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 ennui. " Have you read this ?" said she to Mr. Wetherley. "No, I suppose not; eh! what is it?" replied Zephyr, who was not a reading man. " It is John NeaPs ' Rachel Dyer.' " "Oh, indeed! No, indeed. I have not read it!" " What have you read, Mr. Wetherley ?" inquired Fanny, glancing through the book which she held in her hand. " 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 ?" Miss Fanny looked at him with a perfectly unruffled face. " Why not at this moment, Mr. Wetherley ?" " 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 de- clare — " " 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 — " " Oh, Miss Newt," interrupted Zephyr, " how can you say such things ? Hear me but one word. I assure you that } most deeply, tenderly, truly — " " 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. D 74 T K U M P S. You must be aware that I have never in the slightest way given you occasion to believe that I — " " I must speak !" burst in the impetuous Zephyr. " My feel- ings 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 — " " 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 — " " But you haven't heard me declare it," replied Zephyr, vehe- mently. " It's the very thing I am trying to do, and you won't let me. You kee]) cutting me off just as I am saying how I — " "You need go no further. Sir," said Miss Newt, coldly, ris- ing and standing by the table ; while Zephyr AVetherley, 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 — " " Just what I don't want to hear ! Oh dear me ! Please, please. Miss Newt !" entreated Zephyr Wetherley. "Mr. Wetherley," interrupted the other, imperiously, "you wish to ask me to marry you. I desire to spare you the i)ain of my answer to that question by preventing your asking it." 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 — " stam- mered he. " Well — but — why — but — haven't you somehow answered the question?" inquired he, with gleams of doubtful intelligence shooting across his face. Fanny Newt smiled icily. " As you please," said she. Poor Zephyr Avas bewildered. "It is very confusing, somehow. Miss Newt, isn't it?" said lie, wiping his face. "Yes, Mr. Wetherley; one should always look before he leaps." TRUMPS. 76 "Yes, yes; oh, indeed, yes. A man had better look out, or—" " Or he'll catch a Tartar !" said a clear, strange voice. 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. " Abel !" said his sister, running toward him, and pulling him forward. " Mr. Wetherley, this is my brother, Mr. Abel Newt." The young men bowed. " Oh, indeed !" said Zephyr. " Ilow'd he come here hsten- ing ?" " 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 — " " Oh, indeed ! Really, I must go. Good-morning, Miss Newt. Good-morning, Sir." And Mr. Zephyr Wetherley de- parted. The brother and sister laughed. " Sensible fellow," said Abel ; " he flies the grandpas." " How did you come here, you wretch !" asked Fanny, " list- ening to my secrets ?" " 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." Miss Newt made a demure courtesy. " 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 at- tend me next Avinter. And there's to be the handsome Bos- ton bride here, you know, next season." " Who is she ?" said Abel, laughing, sinking into a chair. " Mother wrote me you said that all Boston girls are dowdy* Who is the dow^dy of next winter ?" 76 TRUMPS. " Mrs. AH Ved Dinks," replied Fanny, carelessly, but looking with her keenest glance at Abel. He sprang u}) and began to say something ; but his sister's eye arrested him. " Oh yes," said he, hurriedly — " Dinks, I've heard about Al- fred Dinks. What a devil of a name!" " Come, dear, you'd better go up stairs and see mamma," said Fanny ; " and I'm so sorry you missed Aunt Dagon. She Avas here this morning, lovely as ever. But I think the velvet is wearing off her claws." Fanny Newt laughed a cold little laugh. Abel went out of the room. " Master Abel, then, does know Miss Hope Wayne," said she to herself. "He mor^ than knows her — he loves her — or thinks he does. AVouldn't he have known if she had been engaged to her cousin ?" She pondered a little while. " I don't believe," thought Miss Fanny, " that she is en- gaged to him." Miss Fanny was pleased Avith 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. CHAPTER XIV. A NEW YORK MERCHANT. Mr. Lawrence Newt, the brother of Bonifiicc, sat in his office. It was u})on South Street, and the windows looked out upon the sliipi)ing in the East Biver — upon the ferry-boats incessantly crossing — uj)on the lofty city of Brooklyn oppo- site, with its s])ires. 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 TRUMPS. 77 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 enouofh for them to manasie themselves in. 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, wer^ 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. Then the ship moved slowly, almost imjierceptibly, 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 otlier vessels. While he looked it vanished — the ship was gone. Often enough Mr. Lawrence Newt stood leaning his head against the window-frame of his office after the ship had dis- appeared, 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 lean- ing against his office-window in South Street, was really sit- ting under palm-trees, or dandling in a palanquhi, or chatting in a strange tongue, or gazing in awe upon snowier summits than the villagers of Chamouni have ever seen. 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? There were clerks busily wn-iting in the outer office. It was 78 TRUMPS. dark in that office when Mr. Newt first occupied the rooms, and Tiiomas Tray, the book-keeper, who had the lightest place, said tliat 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 dol- lars a year. *' Eyes giving out in my service, Thomas Tray ! I am ashamed of myself." And Lawrence Newt hired the adjohiing 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. 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. Aj^ple-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 Avas 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 Ma- got's daughter, and the Doolittle money would go to the Ma- gots after all ! And old Jacob Van Boozenberg had actually left oflT knee-breeches and white cravats, and none of his direct- ors knew him when he came into the Bank in modern cos- tume. 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. Mr. Lawrence Newt's talk ceased with that about business. When the scandal set in, his mind seemed to set out. He stirred tlie fire if it were winter. He stepped into the outer office. He had a word for Venables. Had Miss Venables seen tlie new novel by Mr. Bulwer? It is called *' Pelham," TRUMPS. . 79 and will be amusing to read aloud in the family. Will Mr. Yenables 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 mio-ht have heard merchants, worth two or three hundred thousand dollars apiece, talking about Mrs. Dagon's cotton lace. 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 rovv^ 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. 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. The lad remained silent for so long a time, as if his pro- found respect for the industry he saw before him would not allow him to speak, that Thomas Tray looked up at last, and said, "AVell, Sir?" " May I see Mr. Newt, Sir ?" " In the other room," said Mr. Tray, with his goose-quill in his mouth, nodding his head toward the inner office, and turn- ing 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. 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." 80 T R U M r S. " I want a place, Sir." " What kind of a place ?" " In a store, Sir." " I'm sorry I'm all full. But sit down while I finish these letters ; then we'll talk about it." CHAPTER XV. A SCHOOL-BOY NO LONGEE. A SCIIOOL-IJOY NO LONGEU. The lad seated him- self by the window. Scratch — scratch — scratch. The sun spar- kled 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 of- fice. " I don't believe it would hurt my health to work here," thought he. Mr. Lawrence Newt rang a little bell. Yen- ables entered quietly. TRUMPS. 81 " Most ready out there ?" asked Mr. Newt. " Most ready, Sir." " Brisk's the word this morning, you know. Please to copy these letters." Yenables said nothing, took the letters, and went out. " Now, young man," said the merchant, " tell me what you want." The lad's heart turned toward him like a fallow-field to the May sun. " My father's been unfortunate, Sir, and I want to do some- thing for myself. He advised me to come to you." u Why ?" " Because he said you would give me good advice if you couldn't give me employment." " Well, Sir, you seem a strong, likely lad. Have you ever been in a store ?" " No, Sir. I left school last week." Mr. Newt looked out of the window. " Your father's been unfortunate ?" " Yes, Sir." " 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. " Oh no. Sir," replied the boy, surprised. " He's lost his money." " 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? Hon- or bright, my boy. If you think there is, say so !" The youth smiled. D2 82 TRUMPS. " Well, Sir, I suppose worse things could happen to us than poverty," said he. Mr. Lawrence Newt interrupted him by remarks which were belied by his beaming face. " Worse things than poverty ! Why, my boy, what are you thinking of? Do you not know that it is w^ritten in the larg- est efforts upon the hearts of all Americans, ' Kesist poverty, and it will flee from you ?' If you do not begin by consid- ering poverty the root of all evil, where on earth do you ex- pect 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 af- fectionate family, generous and reflned tastes, pleasant rela- tions Avith 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 aj^ple-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, mider a dripping wreck of an umbrella when it rains, under the sky when it shines — warm- ing 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, wdio 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 lierself. She told me yes- terday that she was a most fortunate woman. What does the word mean ? I give it up." The lad looked around the syjacious office, on every table and desk and chair of Avhich 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, whicli dissipated such a suggestion as rapidly as it rose, the youth would have said aloud what was in his heart. TRUMPS. 83 *' How easy 'tis for a rich man to smile at poverty !" 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 sweet- ness as Lawrence Newt said, " 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." He said it in the same tone as before. " If you wanted a rose and got only a butter-cup, should you think yourself fortunate ?" asked Mr. Newt. "Why, yes. Sir. A man can't expect to have every thing precisely as he wants it," replied the boy. " My young friend, you are of opinion that a half loaf is bet- ter than no bread. True — so am I. But never make the mis- take of suj^posing 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, ab- ruptly. " Gabriel Bennet," rej^lied the boy. " Bennet — Bennet — what Bennet ?" " I don't know. Sir." Lawrence Newt was apparently satisfied with this answer. He only said : " 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 ?" 84 THUMPS. Gabriel laughed, with a ])loasa]it feeling of confidence in his companion. " Have you been at school in the city ?" asked the mer- chant. Gabriel told him that he had been at Mr. Gray's. " Oh ho ! tlien you know my nephew Abel ?" " Yes, Sir," replied Gabriel, coloring. " Abel is a smart boy," said Mr. Newt. Gabriel made no reply. "Do you like Abel?" Gabriel paused a moment ; then said, "No, Sir." Tlie merchant looked at the boy for a few moments. "Who did you like at school?" " Oh, I liked Jim Greenidge and Little Malacca best," re- plied Gabriel, as if the whole world must be familiar with those names. At the mention of the latter Lawrence Newt looked inter- ested, and, after talking a little more, said, " Gabriel, I take you into my office." He called Mr. Tray. " 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." That young man appeared immediately. " Mr. Venables, you are promoted. You have seven hun- dred dollars a year, and are no longer youngest clerk. Ga- briel Bennet, this is Frank Venables. Be friends. Now go to work." There was a general bowing, and Thomas Tray and the two young men retired. As they went out Mr. Newt opened a letter which Iiad been brought in from the Post during the interview. " Dear Sir, — I trust you will pardon this intrusion. It is a long time since I have liad the honor of writing to you ; but I TRUMPS. 37 thought yon would wish to know that Miss Wayne wk Sir — ■ New York, for the first time, within a day or two after receive this letter. She is with her aunt, Mrs. Dinks, wfnt will stay at Bunker's. " Respectfully yours, "Jane Simcoe." Lawrence Newt's head drooped as he sat. Presently he arose and walked up and down the office. 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. 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 Avas busy — that play in this life had ended and work be- gun. The thought tasted to him much more like smelts than cake. And while he was wisely left by Thomas Tray to fa- miliarize himself with the entire novelty of the situation his mind flashed back to Delafield with an aching longmg, 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, " Gabriel, I want you to copy this invoice." And Gabriel was a school-boy no longer. g4 TRUMPS. conv CHAPTER XVI. nilLOSOPIIY. Abel Newt believed in liis lucky star. He had managed Uncle Savory — couldn't he manage the world ? " 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 con- siderate, and all that. But they are not. They are selfish. You must take them as you find them. You^ 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 j^lainly to you, but I do it for your good. If we Avere all angels, things would be different. If this Avere 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 arc dishonest, Avhy should you starve ? You see, Abel ?" It was in Mr. Boniface Newt's countino^-room that he preached this gospel. A boy entered and announced that Mr. Hadley was outside looking at some cases of dry goods. " Now, Abel," said his flUher, " I'll return in a moment." He stepped out, smiling and rubbing his liands. Mr. Had- ley was stooping over a case of calicoes; Blackstonc, Hadley, & Merrimack — no safer purchasers in the Avorld. The counte- nance of Boniface Newt beamed upon the customer as if he saw good notes at six months exuding from every part of his person. TRUMPS. 87 "Good-morning, Mr. Hadley. Charming morning, Sir — beautiful day. Sir. What's the word this morning, Sir ?" " 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." "Oh, that's a yard," replied Mr. Newt; "certainly a full yard." He looked around inquiringly, as if for a yard-stick. "Where is the yard-stick?" asked Mr. Hadley. "Timothy!" said Mr. Newt to the boy, with a peculiar look. The boy disappeared and reappeared with a yard-stick, while Mr. Newt's face underwent a series of expressions of subdued anger and disgust. " Now, then," said Mr. Hadley, laying the yard-stick upon the calicoes ; " yes, as I thought, seven-eighths ; too narrow- sorry." There were thirty cases of those goods in the loft. Boni- face Newt 2:roaned in soul. The unconscious small boy, who had not understood the peculiar look, and had brought the yard-stick, stood by. " Mr. Newt," said Hadley, stopping at another case, " that is very handsome." "Very, very; and that is the last case." " You have no other cases ?" "No." " Oh ! well, send it round at once ; for I am sure — " " 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." " 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. 88 TRUMPS. " Good-niorning, Mr. Newt ; sorry that I sec nothing far- tlujr," said Mr. ILulley, and he went out. Mr. Newt turned fiercely to the unconscious boy. "What do you mean, Sir, by saying and doing such things?" asked he, sharply. " What things. Sir ?" demanded the appalled boy. "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." " W^hy, Sir, because it wasn't the last," said the boy. "For business purjjoses it %cas the last. Sir," replied Mr. New^t. "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." 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 lan- guidly curling from his lips, Mr. Boniface Newt felt profound- ly, but vaguely, uncomfortable, as if he had some slight pre- science of a future of indolence for the hope of the house of Newt. As his father entered, Mr. Abel dropped by his side the hand still holding the new^spaper, and, without removing the cigar, said, through the cloud of smoke he blew, "Father, you were imparting your philosophy of life." The older gentleman, somewhat discom})osed, answered, " Yes, I was saying w^hat a pity it is that men are such d — d rascals, because they force every body else to be so too- TRUMPS. 89 THE GOSPEL OF MAMMON. 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 90 TKUMTS. not liere to look out for other men, I'm liere to take care of myself — for nobody else will. It's very sad, I know ; it's very sad, indeed. It's absolutely melanclioly. 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 sup- pose 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 corpora- tion 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? Tliat if, \\\wn examination, the lawyer finds the retaining party to be in the right, he will undertake the case ? Fiddle ! no ! but that he Avill 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." Mr. Bonifixce 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. TRUMPS. 91 CHAPTER XVII. OF GIRLS AND FLOWERS. Mr. Abel Newt was not a philosopher ; he was a man of action. He told his mother that he could not accompany her to the Springs, because he must prepare himself to enter the count- ing-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 so- ciety, simultaneously, by taking leave of Madame de Feuille and making her courtesy at Mrs. Boniface Newt's. 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 million- aire. 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 con- fined himself to Christian wedlock with one wife, or even the son of an English duke — so perfect was the polish, so liberal the education. Mrs. Newt's party was select. Mrs. Plumer, Miss Grace Plumer and the Magots, Avith 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, strawber- ries and ice-cream. 02 TRUMPS. 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. " Who is that?" asked Mrs. Whet wood Tully, who had re- cently returned with her daughter, one of Madame de Feu- ille's finest successes, from a foreign tour. *' That is my brother Abel," repUed Miss Fanny. "Your brother Abel? how charming! How very like he is to Viscount Tattersalls. You've not been in England, I be- lieve, Miss Newt ?" Fanny bowed negatively. " Ah ! then you have never seen Lord Tattersalls. He is a very superior young man. We were very intimate with him indeed. Dolly, dear!" " Yes, ma." " You remember our particular friend Lord Viscount Tat- tersalls ?" " Was he a bishop ?" asked Miss Fanny Newt. " Lavv^ ! no, my dear. He was a — he was a — why, he was a Viscount, you know — a Viscount." " Oh ! a Viscount ?" " Yes, a Viscount." " Ah ! a Viscount." " Well, Dolly dear, do you see how much Mr. Abel Newt resembles Lord Tattersalls ?" "Yes, ma." " It's very striking, isn't it ?" "Yes, ma." " Or now I look, I think he is even more like the Marquis of Crockford. Don't you think so ?" "Yes, ma?" "Very like indeed." "Yes, ma." " Dolly, dear, don't you think liis nose is like the Duke of TRUMPS. 93 Wellington's? You remember the Wellington nose, my child?" "Yes, ma." *' Or is it Lord Brougham's that I mean ?" "Yes, ma." "Yes, dear." " May I present my brother Abel, Miss Tully ?" asked Fan- ny Newt. " Yes, I'm sure," said Miss Tully. Fanny Newt turned just as a song began in the other room, out of which opened the conservatory. " Last May a braw wooer cam down the lang glen, And sail* 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." 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. Abel leaned upon the jjiano, with his eyes fixed upon the singer. He was fully conscious of the surprise he had be- trayed 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? As Miss Plumer finished the song Abel saw his sister com- ing tow^ard him through the little crowd, although his eyes seemed to be constantly fixed upon the singer. " How beautiful !" said he, ardently, in a low voice, looking Grace Plumer directly in the eyes. " Yes, it is a pretty song." " Oh ! you mean the song ?" said Abel. The singer blushed, and took up a bunch of roses that she had laid upon the piano and began to play with them. 94 TRUMPS. "How very warm it is!" said she. " Yes," said Abel. " Let us take a turn in the conserva' tory — it is botli darker and cooler; and I think your eyes will Gfive liu:ht and warmth enouGfh to our conversation." " 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 four- teen ! She was seventeen in May.) " No, no," said Abel, " we shall find the tropics in that con- servatory." "Then look out for storms!" replied Miss Plumer, laughing. Abel oifered his arm, and the young couple moved through the humming room. Tlie arch eyes were cast down. The voice of the youth was very low. He felt a touch, and turned. He knew very well Avho it w^as. It was his sister. " Abel, I want to present you to Miss Whetwood Tully." " 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." Grace Plumer blushed again. He was certainly a charming young man. 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, Avhither he and his companion slowly passed. It was prettily illuminated with a few candles, but was left purposely dim. "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. "Arc you fond of flowers, Mr. Newt?" . "Yes; but I j)refer them living." "Living flowers — what a poetic idea! But what do you mean?" asked Grace Plumer, hanging her head. TRUMPS. 95 Abel saw somebody on the cane sofa under the great orange- tree, almost hidden in the shade. Dear Fanny ! thought he. " 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. 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. lie 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. CHAPTER XVIH. OLD FRIENDS AND NEW. Lawrence Newt had called at Bunker's, and found Mrs. Dinks and Miss Hope Wayne. They were sitting at the win- dow upon Broadway watching the promcnaders along that fa- \ mous thoroughfare ; for thirty years ago the fisliionable walk 1 was between the Park and the Battery, and Bunker's was close to Morris Street, a Uttle above the Bowling Green. When Mr. Newt was announced Hope Wayne felt as if she were suffocating. She knew but one j^erson 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 pleasant- ly, and said, " Ladies, my name is Lawrence Newt." There Avas a touch of quaintness in his manner, as in his dress. " You Avill find the city quite deserted," said he. " But I have called with an invitation from my sister, Mrs. Boniface 96 T K U M r S. Newt, for this evening to a small party. She incloses her card, and begs you to waive the formality of a call." That was the way that Lawrence Newt and Hope Wayne came to be sitting on the cane sofa mider the great orange- tree in Boniface Newt's conservatory. 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 foiled to see them. 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 manr.er, nor could she resist it. He spoke of her home with an accuracy of detail that surprised her. " 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 m them when he leaned against his office Avindow and watched the slnps — while his mind sailed swifter and farther than they. " They can not touch the waving outline of the hills that you see from the lawn, nor the pine-trees tliat shade the win- dows. Does the little brook still flow in the meadow below? And do you understand the pine-trees ? Do they tell any tales ?" 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." The murmurs of the singing came floating out to them as they sat. Hope was happy and trustful. She Avas 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, perliaps 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. TRUMPS. 97 " 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 w^as like the dawning sum- mer lieaven, she suddenly heard Abel New^t's w^ords, 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 w^hole impression, Hope Wayne in- stinctively felt treachery. "Yes, let us go in!" she said to Lawrence Newt, as she rose calmly. Abel had passed. He could no more have stopj^ed and shaken liands with Hope Wayne than he could have sung like a niglitingale. He could not even raise his head erect as he went by — something very stern and very strong seemed to hold it down. Miss Plumer's head was also bent ; she was w^aiting to hear the end of that sentence. She thought society opened beauti- fully. Such a handsome fellow in such a romantic spot, begin- ning 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 Avith Grace Plumer into grateful gloom, and her ears, exquisitely apprehensive, caught from his lips not a Avord further. Lawrence NcAvt rose as Hope requested, and they moved away. She found her aunt, and stood by her side. The young men Avere brought up and presented, and submitted their obserA^ations upon the Aveather, asked her hoAV she liked NcAV York — Avere delighted to hear that she Avould pass the next Avinter in the city — Avould shoAV her then that Ncav York liad some claim to attention even from a Bostonian — Avere charmed, really, Avith Mr. BoAvdoin Beacon and — and — Mr. Alfred Dinks ; at mention of Avhich 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 saAV only an uncon- scious abstraction in her own thoughts, mingled Avith an air of attention to Avhat they Avere saying. E 98 TRUMPS. "Miss Hope," said Lawrence Newt, who api)roached her with a young woman by his side, " 1 want you to know my friend Amy Waring." The two girls looked at each other and bowed. Then they shook hands with a curious cordiality. Amy Waring had dark eyes — not round and liard and black — not ebony eyes, but soft, sympathetic eyes, in which you ex- })ect 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 tlie 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. The two girls — they were Avomen, 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 Avas prostrated by the unexpected vision of Abel, as a strong man is unnerved by sudden physical pain. She felt the over- whelming grief of a child, and longed to give way to it ut- terly. " I am glad to know you, Miss Wayne !" said Amy Waring, in a cordial, cheerful voice, with a pleasant smile. Hope bowed, and thanked her. " I find that Mr. Newt's friends always prove to be mine," continued Amy. " 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 ?" She found conversation a great relief, and longed to give way to a kind of proud, indignant volubility. "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. " Is he married ?" asked Hope. TRUMPS. 99 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 se- cluded trees in the very inmost covert of the wood may some- times feel a breath, and stir with resj^onsive music before they are aware. Amy Waring replied, pleasantly, that he was not married. Hope Wayne said, " What a pity !" Amy smiled, and asked, "Why a pity?" " Because such a man would be so hap})y if he were mar- ried, and would make others so happy ! He has been in love, you may be sure." " Yes," replied Amy ; " I have no doubt of that. We don't see men of forty, or so, who have not been touched — " " By what ?" asked Lawrence Newt, who had come up si- lently, and now stood beside her. "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 tliat 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, see- ing Hope and Amy together, she had been hovering about them for a long time, anxious to overhear or to join in. " Really," said Amy, looking up with a smile, " I was mak- ing a very innocent remark." " Perfectly innocent, I'm sure !" replied Fanny, in her sweet- est manner. It was sucli a different sweetness from Amy Waring's, that Hope turned and looked very curiously at Miss Fanny. 100 TRUMPS. "Thero are few men of forty who have not been in love," said Amy, cahnly. " Tliat is what I was saying." As there was only one man of forty, or near that age, in the little group, the appeal was e\idently 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 sunhght — which also, like that smile, is w^arm, and not treacherous. They could not see beyond the words, nor hope to. " Miss Amy is right, as usual," said he. '^Why, Uncle Lawrence, tell us all about it!" said Fanny, with a hard, black smile in her eyes. Uncle Lawrence was not in the slightest degree abashed. "Fanny," said he, "I will speak to you in a parable. Re- member, to you. There w^as 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 fear- ful rapidity. The go'ssips 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 re- ceived private bribes to tell ; and all the great newspapers an- nounced that, at an enormous expense, they had secured the exclusive intelligence, and the exclusive intelligence was al- ways w^-ong. The country was in commotion, dear Fanny, about'a simple tower that a man w\as building upon his land. But the wonder of wonders, and the exasperation of exaspera- tions, Avas, that the farmer Avhose 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 TRUMPS. 101 could not stand that. It was insulting to the public, which manifested so profound an interest in the tower, that the im- mediate neighbor should preserve so strict a silence, and such a perfectly tranquil mind. There are but two theories possi- ble in regard to that man, said the self-respecting Public Sen- timent : he is either a fool or a knave — probably a little of each. In any case he must be dealt with. So Public Senti- ment 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 — " Lawrence Newt looked at his auditors. "Are you listen- ing, dear Fanny ?" " Yes, Uncle Lawrence." " — because it's none of my business." Lawrence Newt smiled; so did all the rest, including Fan- ny, who remarked that he might have told her in fewer words that she was impertinent. " 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." 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. • The general restless distraction that precedes the breaking 102 TRUMPS. up of a party had now set in. People were moving, and rus- tling, and breaking off the ends of conversation. They began to go. A few said good-evening, and had had such a charm- ing time ! The rest gradually followed, until there was a uni- versal departure. Grace Plumer was leaning upon Sligo Moul- trie's arm. But where was Abel ? Hope ^yayne's eyes looked every where. But her only glimpse of him during the evening had been that glhnmering, 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 Avild whirl of thoughts. " What a fool I am !" thought Abel, bitterly. He was steadily asking himself, "Have — I — lost — Hope Wayne — be- fore — I — had — won — her ?" CHAPTER XIX. DOG-DAYS. The great city roared, and steamed, and smoked. Along the hot, glaring streets by the river a few panting people hur- ried, 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 thinkhig, a little turn of the pen, and a little tracing in ink, men were magically warding off imi)ending disaster, or adding thousands to the thousands accunuilated already — men, too, were writ- ing without thinking, mechanically copying or posting, scrib- bling letters of form, with heads clear or heads aching, with hearts burning or cold ; full of ambition and hope, or vaguely remembering country liill-sides and sunnner rambles — a day's fishimx — a niixht's frolic — Sundav-school — sino-jncr-school, and the girl with the chip hat garlanded with sweet-brier; hearts longing and loving, regretting, hoping, and remembering, and TRUMPS. 103 all the while the faces above them calm and smooth, and the hands below them busily doing their part of the great w^ork of the world. In Wall Street there was restless running about. Men in \\hite 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 np 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. Within doors there were cool bank parlors and insurance offices, with long rows of comely clerks writing in those Rus- sia 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 perma- nent 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 ru- mors, 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. They talked politics, these banking and insurance gentle- \^ men, 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?" They talked about Morgan who had been found in Lake Ontario ; and the younger clerks took their turn at it, and 104 TRUMPS. furiously denied among themselves that Washington was a Mason. The yomiger clerks held every Mason responsible for the reported nuu'der. Then they turned i)ale lest their neigh- bors were Masons, and might cause them to be found drowned off the Battery. The older men shook their heads. Murders — did you speak of murders, Mr. Van Boozenberg ? Why, this is a dreadful business in Salem ! Old Mr. White murdered in his bed ! Tlie most awful thing on record. Ter- rible stories are told. Sir, about respectable people ! It's get- ting to be dangerous to be rich. What are we coming to ? What can you expect. Sir, Avith Fanny Wright disseminating her infidel sentiments, and the work-people buying The Friend of Equal Human Rights f Equal human fiddle-sticks, Mr. Van Boozenberg ! 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. And in all the streets of the great city, in all the lofty work- shops and yards and ilictories, huge hammers smote and clashed, and men, naked to the waist, reeking in dingy inte- riors, 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 Avove 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 TRUMPS. 105 future ; while in higher rooms sat solitary girls in hard wood- en chairs, a pile of straw covered witli 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 dreamino- a horrid dream until the resurrection. 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. 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 be- hind the counter said nothing, but took the money and filled the bottles, Avhich were hidden under the tattered shawl again, and the sjieechless phantoms glided out, guarding that little travesty of modesty even in that wild ruin. In shops beyond, yards of tape, and papers of pins, and boots and shoes and bread, and all the multitudinous things that are E 2 / 106 TRUMPS. 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 spa- cious and narrow streets, there were women cooking, washing, sweej^ing, scouring, rubbing, lifting, carrying, sewing, reading, sleeping — tens and twenties and fifties and hundreds and thou- sands of men, women, and children. More than two hundred thousand of them were toiling, suffering, struggling, enjoying, dreaming, desi:)airing 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. 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. "Came in this morning — off to-night — droll it looks — no- body in town — " And the tumultuous throng bore them apart. In the evening the Park Theatre is jammed to hear Mr. Forrest, Avho made his first appearance in Philadelphia nine or ten years ago, and is already a New York favorite. Con- toit's garden flutters w^ith 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 glit- *tering cafe 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. More than two hundred thousand men, Avomen, and children go to their beds and wake up to the morrow, but there is no- body 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, be- cause a few leaves have whirled away. Nobody in town, be- cause Mrs. Boniface Newt tt Co. liave gone to Saratoga, and are doing tlicir part <»!' the woi-ld's \\'()rk there. THUMPS. . 107 Mr. Alfred Dinks, Mr. Zephyr Wetherley, and Mr. Bowdoiif Beacon, were slowly sauntering down Broadway, when they were overtaken and joassed by a young woman walking rapid- ly for so warm a mornino;. There was an immense explosion of adjectives expressing surprise when the three young gentlemen discovered that the young lady who v/as passing them was Miss Amy Waring. "Why, Miss Waring!" cried they, simultaneously. She bowed and smiled. They lifted their hats. " You in town !" said Mr. Beacon. " In town ?" echoed Mr. Dinks. "Town?" murmured Mr. Wetherley. " Town," said Miss Waring, with her eyes sparkling. " Where did you come from ? I thought you were all at Saratoga," she continued. " It's stupid there," said Mr. Beacon. " Quite stupid," echoed Mr. Dinks. " Stupid," murmured Mr. Wetherley. " Stupid ?" asked the lady, this time making the interroga- tion in the antistrophe of the chant. " We wanted a little fun." "A little fun." "Fun," replied the gentlemen. " Well, I'm going about my business," said she. " Good- morning." " About your business ?" " Your business ?" "Business?" murmured the youths, in order. Zephyr con- cludino;. "Business!" said Miss Amy, bursting into a little laugh, in wdiich the listless, perfectly good-humored youths cheerfully joined. " It's dreadful hot," said Mr. Beacon. "Oh! horrid!" said Mr. Dinks. "Very," said Zephyr. And the gentlemen wiped their foreheads. 108 ^ THUMPS. "Coming to Saratog^a, Miss Waring?" they asked. " Hardly, I think, but possibly," said she, and moved away, with lier Uttle 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 arm- chair, with the white duck legs reposing in another — except- ing 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 un- til dhmer. Amy Waring ^valked quite as rapidly as the heat would per- mit. She crossed the Park, and, striking into Fulton Street, continued toward the river, but turned into Water Street. The old peach-w^omen at the corners, sitting under huge cot- ton umbrellas, and parching in the heat, saw the lovely face going by, and marked the peculiarly earnest step, wdiich 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 esj^ecial errand. Clerks looked idly at her from open shop doors, and from v»'indows 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 sul- lenly ask why youth, and beauty, and cleanly modesty should insult with sweet contrast that sordid gloom. The heat only made it worse. Half-naked children played J in the foul gutters with the pigs, wdiich roamed freely at large, and comfortably at home in the purlieus of the docks and the quarter of poverty. Carts jostled by w^ith 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 sidew^alks. There was TRUMPS. 109 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 witli drink, that listlessly looked down upon her from the windows of lodging-houses. 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 Avas immediately unlocked. CHAPTER XX. AUNT MARTHA. 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 i;rach- 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 occujjant of the room was evidently engaged. The whole room had an air of sever- ity and cheerlessness, yet it was clear that every thing was most carefully arranged, and continually swept and washed and dusted. The person who had opened the door was a woman of near- ly 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 110 TliUMPS. her expression that it seemed as if her face, and her heart, and her soul, mid all that slio felt, or hoped, or remembered, or im^ agiiied,were clad and steej^ed in the same mourning garments and utter gloom. " Good - morning, Amy," said she, in a hard and dry, but not unkind voice. In fact, the rigidity of her aspect, the hard- ness of her voice, and the singular black- ness of her costume, seemed to be too mo- notonously uniform and resolute not to indicate somethino; willful or unhealthy in the woman's con- dition, as if the whole had been rather su- perinduced than nat- urally developed. "Aunt Martha, I have brought you some things that I hope you will find comforting and agreeable." 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 turn- ing to Amy, said, in the same dry, liopeless manner, "Tliis 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." The solemn woman i)ut the contents of the basket into the AUNT MARTHA. TRUMPS. Ill closet ; but it seemed as if, in that gloom, the sugar must have ah-eady lost its sweetness and the tea its flavor. Amy still glanced round the room, and her eyes filled with tears. " Dear Aunt Martha, when may I tell ?" she asked, with piteous earnestness. " 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 !" She spoke with clasped hands lying before her in her lap, in the same hard tone as if the words were cut in ebony ; witli the same fixed lips— the same pale, unsmiling severity of face ; above which the abundant hair, streaked with early gi-ay, was almost entirely lost in the black handkerchief. " But surely God is good !" said Amy, tenderly and sadly. "If we sin, He only asks us to repent and be forgiven." " But Ave must pay the penalty. Amy," said the other. " There is a price set upon every sin ; and mine is so vast, so enormous — " She paused a moment, as if overwhelmed by the contempla- tion 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." She was silent again, and her soul appeared to wrap itself in denser gloom. Tlie 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 : "I shall smother!" said she; and opened the window. " Aunt Martlia, I begin to feel that this is really wicked ! If you only knew Lawrence Newt — " The older woman rais-ed one thin finger, without lifting the hand from her lap. Implacable darkness seemed to Amy to be settling upon her too. " At least, aunt, let me have you moved to some less horrid place." 112 TRUMPS. "Foulness and filth are too sweet and fair for me," said the dark woman ; " and I have been too long idle already." ISlie lifted the work and began to sew\ Amy's heart ached as she looked at hei-, with sympathy for her suffering and a sense of inability to help her. There came a violent knock at the door. " Who's there ?" asked Aunt Martha, calmly. " Come, come ; open this door, and let's see what's going on !" cried a loud, coarse voice. "Who is it?" " Who is it ? Why, it's me — Joseph !" replied the voice. Aunt Martha rose and unlocked the door. A man whose face was like his voice bustled noisily into the room, with a cicjar in his mouth and his hat on. " Come, come ; where's that work ? Time's up ! Quick, quick ! No time, no pay !" " It is not quite done, Mr. Joseph." The man stared at Aunt Martha for a moment ; then laugh- ed in a jeering way. " 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. The woman brought the basket to him, in the bottom of which were several pieces completed and carefully folded. The man turned them over raj^idly. "And why, in the devil's name, haven't you done the rest? Give 'em here !" He took the whole, finished and unfinished, and, bundling them u]>, 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 !" The sewing woman remained perfectly passive as Mr. Jo- HQ])h was passing out; but Amy s})rang forward from the win- dow : "Stop, Sir!" said slie, firmly. The man involuntarily turn- TKUMFS. 113 ^^ . Arthur Merlin was intelligent and ingenuous. His imagina- tion gave a kind of airy grace to his conversation and manner. Passionately interested in his art, he deserted its "jDursuit a little only when the observation of life around him seemed to 120 TRUMPS. liini a study as interesting. lie and Miss Wayne were some- times alone together ; but although she was conscious of a peculiar sympathy with his tastes and character, she avoided liim more than any of the other young men. Mrs. Dagon said it was a i)ity Miss Wayne was so cold and haughty to the poor painter. She thought that people might be taught their places without cruelty. Arthur Merlin constantly said to himself in a friendly way that if he had been less in love with his art, or had not per- ceived that Miss Wayne had a continual reserved thought, he mig:ht 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. He also read to her one day a poem upon a cioud, so beau- tiful that Hope Wayne's cheek flushed, and she asked, ea- gerly, " Whose is that ?" "It is one of Shelley's, a friend of Byron's." "But how different!" "Yes, they were difierent men. Listen to this." And the young man read the ode to a Sky-lark. " How joyous it is !" said Hope ; " but I feel the sadness." " Yes, I often feel that in people as well as in poems," re- plied Arthur, looking at her closely. She colored a little — said that it was warm — and rose to /r THE ARTIST IN A REVERIE. tree before him, and mechanically transferred it to the paper, he puffed and meditated. He saw that Hope Wayne was constantly with other peo- ple, and yet he felt that she was a woman who would natural- ly like her own society. He also saw that there was no per- son then at Saratoga in whom she had such an interest that she would prefer him to her own society. 128 TKUAirS. And yet «he was always seeking the distraction of other people. Pull— putt— piiir. Then there was somethino- tliat made the society of her own thoughts unpleasant — almost intolerable. Mr, Arthur Merlin vigorously rubbed out with a piece of stale bread a false line he had drawn. What is that something — or some-bod-y ? He stopped sketching, and puffed for a long time. As he returned at sunset Hope AVayne was standing upon the piazza of the hotel. " Have you been successful ?" asked she, dawning upon him. "You shall judge." He showed her his sketch of a tree-stump. " Good ; but a little careless," she said. " Do you draw. Miss Wayne ?" A curious light glimmered across her face, for she remem- bered 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 : " Yes, I draw a little. Good-evening." " Stop, please. Miss Wayne !" exclaimed Arthur, as nc 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. " I have drawn this for you. Miss Waylic." She bent and took the sketch whicli he drew from his jjort- folio. "It is Manfred in the Coliseum," said he. She glanced at it; but the smile faded entirely. Arthur stared at her in astonishment as the l)l()()d slowly ebbed from her cheeks, then streamed back again. The head of Manfred was the head of Abel Newt. Hope AVayiie looked from the sketch to the artist, searching him with her eye to discch'er if ho knew what he was doinir. Arthur was sincerely unconscious. TRUMPS. 129 Hope Wayne dropped the paper almost involuntarily. It floated into the road. " I beg your pardon, Mr. Merlin," said she, making a step to recover it. He was before her, and handed it to her again. "Thank you," said she, quietly, and went in. It was still twilight, and Arthur lighted a cigar and sat down to a meditation. The result of it was clear enough. "That head looks like somebody, and that somebody is Hope Wayne's secret." Pufi'^puff— puff. " Where did I get that head ?" He could not remembi^r. "Tutf 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." Meanwhile Hope Wayne had carefully locked the door of her room. Then she hurriedly tore the sketch into the small- est possible pieces, laid them in her hand, opened the win- dow, and whiffed thera away into the dark. CHAPTER XXIII. BONIFACE NEWT, SON, AND CO., DRY GOODS ON COMMISSION. Abel Newt smoked a great many cigars to enable him to see his position clearly. 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 Avish to complicate thera by exposing himself to the chances of Saratoga. "Business, of course, is the only career in this country, my son," said Boniface Newt. " What men M-ant, and women too, is money. What is this city of New York? A combination ' F 2 130 TRUMPS. of men and inacliines for making money. Every body respects a rich man. They may laugh at him behind liis back. Tliey may sneer at his iijnorance 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 abso- lutely 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 heaj^. 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 mar- ried his daughter for her money, he'd be d — d if he wouldn't be up Avitli 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 tliat, 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 Avho sells apples at the corner of his bank. But as it is, w^e all agree that he is a shrewd, sensible old fel- low ; 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 con- sequences, 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 M-as saying that money is the respectable thing. And mark, Abel, if this were the iNrillemiium, things would be very difierent. P>ut it isn't the INIillennium. It's give one TRUMPS. 131 and take two, if yon can get it. That's Avhat it is here ; and let him who wants to, kick against tlic pricks." Abel hung his legs over the arms of the office-chairs in the counting-room, and listened gravely. " I don't suppose, Sir, that 'tis money as money that is Avorth 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?" Upon which Mr. Abel Newt blew a prodigious cloud of smoke. Mr. Boniface Newt responded, " Oh fiddle ! that's all very fine. But my answer to that is Jacob Yun Boozenberg." " Bless my soul ! here he comes. Abel, put your legs down ! throw that cigar away !" The great man came in. His clothes were snuflTy and baggy — so was his face. "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 w^asn't in earnest. She know'd 'twasn't only a joke." Mr. Van Boozenberg drew out a large red bandana hand- kerchief, and blew his nose as if it had been a trumpet sound ing a charge. Messrs. Newt & Son smiled sympathetically. The junior partner observed, cheerfully, "Yes, Sir." The millionaire stared at the young man. " Ma's going to Saratogy," remarked Mr. Van Boozenberg. " She said she wanted to go. Werry well, sez I, ma, go." Messrs. Newt & Son smiled deferentially, and hoped Mrs. Van B. would enjoy herself. " No, I ain't no fear of tliat," replied the millionaire. " Mr. Van Boozenberg," said Boniface Newt, half-hesitating- ly, "you w^ere very kind to undertake that little favor — I— ^ I—" 132 TRUMTS. •'M''. -V: Hi :y':l'ili;. OUIl NKW PAUTNIill. "Oil ! yes, I como in to sny 1 done tliat ns you wanted. It's all riglit." "And, Mr. Van Boozenberg, I am pleased to introduce to you my son Abel, "who lias just entered the house." Abel rose and bowed. "Have you been in the store?" asked the old gentleman. " No, Sir, I've been at school." TRUMPS. 133 " What ! to school till now ? Why, you must be twenty years old !" exclaimed Mr. Van Boozenberg, in great surprise. "Yes, Sir, in my twentieth year." " Why, Mr. New'," said Mr. Van B., with tlie air of a man who is in entire perplexity, " what on earth has your boy been doing at school until now ?" " It was his grandfather's will. Sir," replied Boniface Newt. " 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 liim." Mr. Van Boozenberg talked at much greater length of his general intercourse Avith ma. Mr. Boniface New^t regarded liim more and more contemptuously. But the familiar style of the old gentleman's conversation begot a corresponding famiharity 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 countino;-room — he remarked the extreme eleorance of Abel's attire, and the inferential tailor's bills. He learned that Mrs. Newt and the family were enjoying themselves at Sara- toga. He derived fr( , . the conversation and his observation that there were very large family expenses to be met by Bon- iface Newt. 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 ri- diculous old ass for all that, thought Boniface Newt; and the said ass sitting in Boniface Newt's counting-room, and amus- ing 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 acces- sion of capital or strength by the entrance of the elegant Abel 134 TRUMPS. into a sliarc of its active management, and that some slight whispers which lie had heard remotely affecting the standing of the house must be remembered. "A werry pretty store you have here, Mr. Newt. Find Pearl Street as good as Beaver ?" " 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." " 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. " Do you have much of that sort of thing to undergo in bus- iness, father ?" asked Abel, when Jacob Van Boozenberg had gone. " 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 kno^v, and I am rather tired of a world where you are busy driving donkeys with a chance of their presently driving you." Mr. Boniface Newt shook his foot pettishly. " Father," said Abel. " Well." " Which is Uncle Lawrence — a fool, a bore, or a knave ?" Mr. Boniflice Newt's foot stopped, and, after looking at his, son for a few moments, he answered : "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 be- lieve he was rich. It was mysterious, I never could quite un- derstand it — though, of course, I believe there was some wo- TRUMPS. 135 man 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 tliat I don't often see him except when he comes to the house, and that isn't very often." " He's rich, isn't he ?" asked AbeL " Yes, he's very rich, and that's the curious part of it," an- swered his flither, " and he gives aw^ay 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 peo- ple's rents, and I try to show him tliat he is merely encoura- ging 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 is hard some- times wdth 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 'cm.' 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 knoAV. Yes, very sad ! Where w^as I ? Ah yes ! that we are all dirty scoundrels." Abel had relighted his cigar, after Mr. Van Boozenberg's departure, and filled the office Avith smoke until the atmos- phere resembled the fog in which his father seemed to be floundering. " Abel, merchants ought not to smoke cigars in their count- ing-rooms," said his father, in a half-pettish way. "No, I suppose not," replied Abel, lightly; "they ought to 136 TRUMPS. smoke other people. But tell me, father, do you know no- thing about the woman that you say was mixed up with Un- cle Lawrence's affairs?" " Nothing at all." " Not even her name ?" " Not a syllable." " Pathetic and mysterious," rejoined Abel ; " a case of un- happy love, I suppose." '' If it is so," said Mr. Newt, " your Uncle Lawrence is the happiest miserable man I ever knew." " 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." " How'd the Spartan boy do ?" asked Mr. Newt. " He covered it up, laughed, and dropped dead." " Gracious !" said jMr. Boniface Newt. "Or like Boccaccio's basil-pot," continued Abel, calmly; pouring forth smoke, while his befogged papa inquired, " What on earth do you mean by Boccaccio's basil-pot ?" " 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 laugh- ing herself, set flowers to blooming over it." "Goodness me, Abel, what are you talking about?" " Of Love, the canker-worm. Sir," rejjlied Aljel, imperturba- ble, and emitting smoke. It Avas evidently not the busy season in the Dry-goods Com- mission House of Boniface Newt & Son. When Mr. Van Boozenberg went home to dinner, he said: " 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 wer- ry 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, .«;ez he, *Tiie Boniface Newts is a going it slnp-dash up to Sar- atogy.' I laughed, and sez I, ' Why shouldn't they ? but I don't believe they be,' sez l. Sez he, ' Til bet you a new T K U M F S. 137 THE SWEET RESTORER. shawl for your wife they be,' sez he. Sez I, 'Done.' So you see ma, if so be they be, werry w^ell. A new shawl for some folks, you know ; only jes' write me all about it." Ma w^as not reluctant to depart at the earhest possible mo- ment. 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 Con- gress water. But papa had other views. " Corlaer, I wish you would make the acquaintance of young Mr. Newt. I done it to-day. He is a well-edicated young 138 TRUMPS. man ; I shall ask him to dinner next Sunday. Don't he out of the way." 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. CHAPTER XXIV. "queex and huntress. Hope Wayne leaned out of the window from which she had just scattered the fragments of the drawing Arthur Mer- lin had given her. The night was soft and calm, and trees, not far away, entirely vailed her from observation. She thought how different this window was from that ot^her 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, wiio lived alone with a si- lent, grave old nurse, and the quiet years that passed there like the shadows and sunlight over the lawn. She remember- ed the dark, handsome fice that seemed to belong to the pas- sionate 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 lier red cheek was pale. How well for that girl that the lips which made the music had never whispered love ! Because — because — Hope raised herself from lightly leaning on the window-sill TRUMPS. 139 as the tlioiight 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 !" Hope Wayne clenched her hands, and, all alone in her dim room, flashed, and then turned pale, and a kind of cold splen- dor settled on her face, so that if Arthur Merlin could have seen her he would have called her Diana. During^ the moment in which she thouc^ht these thino-s — for it was scarcely more — the little white bits of paper floated and fell beneath her. She watched them as they disappeared, con- scious of them, but not thinking of the4». They looked like rose-leaves, they were so pure ; and how silently they sank into the darkness below ! 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 ? 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. 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. 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 en- tirely dark there. All the light was above — all the light was peaceful and melancholy, from the moon. She laid her face in that moonlight upon the window-sill, 140 TRUMPS. 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 Avhat they were say- ing. They sang to her of that other girl and her wishes, and struggles and prayers. Then came the fierce, passionate, profuse weeping — the spring freshet of a woman's soul. — She heard a low knock at the door. She remained per- fectly silent. Another knock. Still she did not move. The door was tried. Hope Wayne raised her head, but said nothing. There was a louder knock, and the voice of Fanny Newt : " Miss Wayne, are you asleep ? Please let me in." It was useless to resist longer. Hope Wayne opened the door, and Fanny Newt entered. Hope sat down with her back to the window. "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 W'Ould oversleep yourself, and miss the ball." Hope replied that she had not been sleei)ing. "Not sleeping, but sitting in the moonlight, all alone?" said Fanny "How romantic!" IS lo . " Yes, of course it is ! Why, Mr. Dinks and I are ro- mantic every evening. He loill come and sit in the moon- light, and listen to the music. What an agreeable fellow he is!" And Fanny tried to see Hope's face, which was entirely hidden. "He is my cousin, you know," replied Hoj)e. "Oh yes, we all know that; and a dangerous relationship it is too," said Fanny. "How dangerous?" " Why, cousins are such privileged })eoplc'. They have all the intimacy of brothers, without the brotherly right of abus- ing us. In fact, a cousin is naturally half-way between a brother and a lover." TRUMPS. 141 " Having neither brother nor lover," said Hope, quietly, " I stop half-way with the cousin." Fanny laughed her cold little laugh. " And you mean to go on the other half, I suppose?" said she. " Why do you suppose so ?" asked Hope. " It is generally understood, I believe," said Fanny, " that Mr. Alfred Dinks will soon lead to the hymeneal altar his beau- tiful and accomplished cousin. Miss Hope Wayne. At least, for further mformation inquire of Mrs. Budlong Dinks." And Fanny laughed again. " I was not aware of the honor that awaited me," replied Hope. '' Oh no ! of course not. The family reasons, I suppose — " "My mind is as much in the dark as my body," said Hope. " I really do not see the point of the joke." " Still you don't seem very much surprised at it." " Why should I be ? Every girl is at the mercy of tattlers." " Exactly," said Fanny. "■ They've had me engaged to I don't knoAV how many people. I suppose they'll doom Alfred Dinks to me next. You won't be jealous, will you?" " No," said Hope, " I'll congratulate him." Fanny Newt could not see Hope W^ayne's face, and her voice betrayed nothing. She, in fact, knew no more than when she came in. "Good-by, dear, a ce soirf'' said she, as she sailed out of the room. Hope lingered for some time at the window. Then she rang for candles, and sat down to write a letter. 142 TKUMPS. CHAPTER XXV. A STATESMAN AND STATESWOMAN. In the same twilight Mrs. Dinks and Alfred sat together in her room. " Alfred, my dear, I see that Bowdoin Beacon drives out your Cousin Hope a good deal." Mrs. Dinks arranged her cap-ribbon as if she were at pres- ent mainly interested in that portion of her dress. " Yes, a good deal," replied Mr. Alfred, in an imcertain tone, for he always felt nncomfortably at the prospect of a conversation with his mother. " 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. " Why shouldn't he drive her out if he wants to ?" inquired Alfred. " 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?" And the languid mamma performed a very well-executed yawn. "Honor? I suppose there is. What do you mean?" re- plied Alfred. Mamma yawned again. " How drowsy one does feel liere ! I am so sleepy ! W^hat 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 stu})id ; but he lias no right to be so stupid as that. How many glasses do you drink at the spring TRUMPS. 143 in the morning, Alfred ? Not more than six at the outside, I hope. Well, I believe I'll take a little nap." She played with her cap string, somehow as if she were an angler playing a tish. 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. Alfred bit a2:ain. " I Avish you wouldn't talk in such a puzzling kind of way, mother. What do you mean about his knowing, and hearing, and inferring; ?" " 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." Another successful yawn. Sportsmen are surely the best sport in the world. "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?" " Why," exclaimed Alfred, in alarm, " do you ?" " Of course. He has eyes and ears, I suj^pose, and every body understood it." " Did they ?" asked Alfred, bewildered and wretched ; " I didn't know it." " Of course. Every body knew it must be so, and agreed that it was highly proper — in fact the only thing." "Oh, certainly. Clearly the only thing," replied Alfred, wondering whether his mother and he meant the same thing. " 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 imme- diately. The world understands it already, so it will be a mere private understanding among ourselves, much more agree- able for all parties. Perhaps this evening even — hey, Alfred ?" Mrs. Dinks adjusted herself upon the sofa in a sort of final manner, as if the affair were now satisfactorily arranged. 144 TRUiMPS. - " It's no use talking that way, mother ; it's all clone." 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. " My blessed son !" Then followed a moment of silent rapture, during which she moistened his shirt-collar with maternal tears. " Alfred," whispered she, " are you really engaged ?" " Yes'm." She squeezed him as if he were a bag of the million dollars of which she felt herself to be henceforth mistress. " You dear, good boy ! Then you are sly after all !" " Yes'm, I'm afraid I am," rejoined Alfred very uncomfort- ably, and with an extr^'uiely ridiculous and nervous impression that his mother was congratulating him upon something she knew nothing about. " Dear, dea)\ 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. 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, "It's done without the wagon. Our dear boy has justified our fondest hopes, Budlong." The statesman slipped his shoulder from under her liead. If there were one thing of which he was profoundly persundiMl 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. lie must gently, but firmly, teach her her pi-o[)er sphere. She nnist not attempt to bribe that judgment to whicli the country naturally looks in moments of difiiculty. Having restored his wife to an upright position, the honor- able gentleman looked upon her with distinguished considera- tion ; and, playing with the seals tl;;it hung at the end of his T K U M P S. 145 lO TRIDMPHE. watch-ribbon, asked lier, with the most protective kindness in tlie world, what slie was talking abont. She laid her cap-ribbons proj^erly upon her shoulder, smooth- ed her dress, and began to fan lierself in a kind of coinplaeciit triumph, as she answered, "Alfred is eufrajxed as we wished." The lionorablo gentleman beamed approval with as much G 146 TRUMPS. cortliality ns st.atcsmcn wlio are also fathers of private families, as well as of tlie public, ouglit to indulge toward their childreu. Shaking the hand of his son as if his shoulder wanted oiling, he said, " 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 in- dispensable. We can do without sentiment in this Vv^orld, for sentiment is a luxury. We can not dispense with money, be- cause money is a necessity. It gives me, therefore, great pleas- ure to hear that the choice of my son has evinced the good sense which, I may say without affectation, I hope he has in- herited, and has justified the pains and expense which I have been at in his education. My son, I congratulate you. Mrs. Pinks, I congratulate you." 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 hand- kerchief, he smiled in general, as it Avere — as if he hung out signals of amity with all mankind upon condition of good be- havior on their part. 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 re^l news to his parents: " Oh ! dear me," thouglit Alfred ; " oh ! dear me, I wonder if Fanny wouldn't do it. I guess Fd better ask her. I won- der if Hope would have had me ! Oil ! dear me. I Avonder if old Newt is rich. Ilow'd I haj)i)en to do it? Oh! dear me." He felt very much depressed indeed. " Well, mother, Fm going down," said he. TRUMPS. 147 " My dear, dear son ! Kiss me, Alfred," replied his mother. He stooped and kissed her cheek. "How happy Ave shall all be!" murmured she. " Oh, very, very happy !" answered Alfred, as he opened the door. 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, " Oh ! dear me ! Oh I — dear — me ! How'd I happen to do it?" Fanny Newt, of course, had heard from Alfred of the inter- view 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 liard, 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 divi- sion. Mr. Alfred Dinks had taken a little refreshment since the conversation with his mother, and felt at the moment quite equal to any emergency. "The fact is, Fanny dear," said he, "that mother has al- ways insisted that I should marry Hope Wayne. Now Hope Wayne is a very pretty girl, a deuced j^retty girl ; but, by George ! she's not the only girl in the world — hey, Fanny ?" At this point Mr. Dinks made free with the lips of Miss Newt. " Pah ! Alfred, my dear, you have been drinking wine," said \ she, moving gently away from him. j " Of course I have, darling ; haven't I dined ?" replied AL ! fred, renewing the endearment. j Now Fanny's costume was too careful, her hair too elabo- rately arranged, to Avithstand successfully these osculatory on- sets. " Alfred, dear, we may as Avell understand these little mat- ters at once," said she. ]48 TRUMPS. "What little matters, dnrling?" iiHjuired Mr. Dinks, witli interest. He 'was iimvonteclly animated, but, as he explained — lie had dined. *' Why, this kissinir business." "You dear!" eried Alfred, impetuously committing a fresh breach of the peace. "Stop, Alfrerl," said Fanny, imperiously. "I won't have this. I mean," said slie, in a mollified tone, remembering that she was only engaged, not married — "■ I mean that you tum- ble me dreadfully. Now, dear. Til make a little rule. Tc)u 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 nie when I am in my morning-dress, and one kiss, with hands off, when we sav o'ood-nisrht." 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 rea- sonable in the world. "It seems to me very little," said Alfred Dinks, discontent- edly; "besides, you ahvaNs look best when you are dressed." "Tiiank you, love," returned I'anny ; "just remember the morning-dress, please, for I shall; and now tell me all about your conversation with your mother." Alfred told the story. Fanny listened w\\\\ alarm. She had watched Mrs. Dinks closely during the whole summer, and she was sure — for Fanny knew herself thoroughly, and reasoned accordingly — that tlu^ lady would stop at luMhing in the pursuit of her object. "What a selfish woman it is!" thought Fanny. "Not content with Alfred's share of the inheritance, she wants to bring the a\Ih)1(' Tbn't fortune into her family. ITow insatia- ])le some ]ieopl(,' arc !" "Alfred, has youi- mother seen Hope since she talked with you ?" " I'm sure I don't know." TRUMPS. 149 " Wliy didn't you warn her not to ?" "I didn't think of it." " But why didn't you think of it ? If you'd only have put lier off, we could have got time," said Fanny, a little pettishly. " Got time for what ?" asked Alfred, blankly. " Alfred," said Fanny, coaxing herself to speak gently, " I'm afraid you will be trying, dear. I am very much afraid of it." The lover looked doubtful and alarmed. "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." 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." " Dearest, I know you will," rejoined his charmer. " But the thing is now to know whether your mother has seen Hope Wayne." " I'll go and ask her," said Alfred, rising. " 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." Mr. Dinks grinned and look bewildered. Then he assumed a very serious expression. " It doesn't seem to me to be hard to ask my mother if she has seen my cousin." "Pooh! you silly — I mean, my precious darling, your moth- er's too smart for you. She'd have every thing out of you in a twinkli-no;." " I suppose she would," said Alfred, meekly. Fanny Newt wagged her foot very rapidly, and looked fix- edly upon the floor. Alfred gazed at her admiringly — thought what a splendid Mrs. Alfred Dinks he had secured, and smack- ed his lips as if he were tasting her. He kissed his hand to her 150 TRUMPS. as he sat. He kissed the air toward lier. lie might as well have blown kisses to the brown spire of Trinity Church. " Alfred, you must solemnly promise me one thing," she said, at length. *' Sweet," said Alfred, who began to feel that he had dined very much, indeed — " sw^eet, come here !" Fanny flushed and wrinkled her brow. Mr. Dinks was frightened. " Oh no, dear — no, not at all," said he. " My love," said she, in a voice as calm but as black as her eyes, "do you promise or not? That's all." 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 w^ine, 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 forcfive a miserable feller ! And Miss Newt's betrothed sobbed, and w^ept, and half writhed on the sofa in maudlin woe. Fanny stood erect, patting the floor with her foot and look- ing at this spectacle. She thought she had counted tlie 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 Avas 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. Courage^ ma chere ! "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 ques- tion of any kind shall be asked, or the engagement may be broken. Do you understand, dear?" Fanny leaned toward him coaxingly as she asked the question. " Oh yes, I understand," r^'plied Alfred. TRUMPS. * 151 "And you'll do just as Fanny says, won't you, dear?" said she, even more caressingly. *' Yes, I will, I promise," answered Alfred. "You may kiss me, dear," said Faimy, leaning toward him, so that the operation need not disarrange her toilet. Alfred Dinks kept his word ; and his mother was perfectly willinofto do as slie was asked. She smiled with intelliofcnce whenever she saw her son and his cousin together, and re- marked that Hope \Yayne's demeanor did not in the least be- tray the engagement. And she smiled with the same intelli- gence when she remarked how devoted Alfred was to Fanny Newt. " Can it possibly be that Alfred knows so ranch ?" she asked herself, wonderino* at the lono- time durinc: Avhich her son's cun- ning had lain dormant. CHAPTER XXVI. THE PORTRAIT AND THE MINIATURE. 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 inter- vals, played backgammon with his parishioner, listened to his stories, told stories of his own, and joined him in his little ex- cursions to the West Indies. Mrs. Simcoe was entirely alone. One day Hiram brought her a letter, which she took to her own room and sat down by the window to read. " Saratoga. " Dear Aunty, — We're about going away, and we ha^ e been so gay that you would su})pose 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 152 T K U M P S. it has been nothing but bowling, walking, riding, dancing, dining at the lake, and listening to music in the m-oonlight, 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 Pine- wood 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 differ- ent 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 Pine wood 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 South- ern 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, 'Oh that I now tlie rest might know I' Do you know how often you used to sing that? Good-by. " Your affectionate Hope." Mrs. Simcoe held the letter in her hand for a long time, looking, as usual, out of the window. Presently she rose and went to a ])ureau, 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 fi'om 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 resolu- tion, but with the same inscrutable exjiression upon her lace, otill ho'ding tlio case in her hands unopened, she murmured: TRUMPS. 153 " I want a sober mind, A self-renouncing will, That tramples down and casts behind The baits of jjleasing ill." 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. 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 pe- culiar fascination. The hair was rather long and fair — the features were handsomely moulded, but wore a slightly jaded expression, wdiich often seems to a woman an air of melan- choly, 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. 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 fresli and glossy that it might have been cut off the day be- fore. 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. As Mrs. Simcoe held the miniature in both hands and looked at it, her body still rocked over it, and her lips still murmured. Then rocking and murmuring stopped together, and she seemed like one listening to music or the ringing of distant bells. And as she sat perfectly still in the golden September sun- shine, 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 rejuve- nescence somehow blossomed out upon her cheeks until all G2 154 TRUMPS. the sweetness became sadness, and heavy tears dropped from her eyes iqjou tlie picture. Tlien, with the old harshness stealing into her face again, she rose cahnly, carrying the miniature in lier hand, and went out of the room, and down the stairs into the Ubrary, whicli was opposite tlie parlor in which Abel Newt had seen the picture of old Grandpa Burt at the age of ten, holding a hoop and book. 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 care- fully closed over them and locked, as if the books were beati- fied and laid away in shrines. And the same solemn order ex- tended to the library table, wdiich was precisely in the middle of the room, with a large, solemn family Bible lu'ccisely 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, Avhich was as unsullied as might be ex- pected 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. 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. TRUMPS. 155 It was the likeness of a lovely girl, whose rich, delicate loveli- ness, 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 agamst the inevitable griefs of life. 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 por- trait; 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 Avas the look of Hope Wayne. While she thus stood, unconscious of the tinie that passed, the sun had set and the room was darkening. Suddenly she heard a sound close at her side, and started. Her hand in- stinctively closed over the miniature and concealed it. There stood a man kindly regarding her. He was not an old man, but there was a touch of quaintness in his appear- ance. He did not speak when she saw him, and for several minutes they stood silent together. Then their eyes rose si- multaneously to the picture, met again, and Mrs. Simcoe, put- ting out her hand, said, in a low voice, " Lawrence Newt !" He shook her hand warmly, and made little remarks, while she seemed to be studying into his fiice, 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. "It is more than twenty years since I saw you. Have I grown very old ?" asked he. " No, not old. I see the boy I remember ; but your face is not so clear as it used to be." 156 TRUMPS. Lawrence Newt laugbecl. " You compliment me without knowing it. My face is tlie lid of a chest full of the most precious secrets ; would you have the lid transjjarent? I am a merchant. Sujipose every body could look in through my face and see what I really think of the merchandise 1 am selling I What i)rotit do you think I should make? No, no, we want no tell-tale i'aces iu South Street." He said this in a tone that corresponded with the expres- sion which baffled Mrs. Simcoe, and i)erplexed her only the more. But it did not repel her nor beget distrust. A porcu- pine 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. " I suppose you are twenty years wiser than you were," said Mrs. Simcoe. " What is wisdom ?" asked Lawrence Newt. "To give the lieart to God," replied she. '•That I have discovered," he said. "And have you given it?" " I hope so." " Yes, but haven't you the assurance ?" asked she, earnestly. "I hope so," responded Lawrence Newt, in the same kindly tone. " But assurance is a gift," continued she. "Agift of what?" " Of Peace," replied Mrs. Simcoe. " Ah ! well, I have that," said the other, quietly, as his eyes rested upon the portrait. There Avas moisture in the eyes. "Iler daughter is very like her," he said, musingly ; and the two stood together silently for some time looking at the ])icturc. " Not entirely like her mother," replied Mrs. Simcoe, as if to assert some other resemblance. TRUMPS. 15V " Perhaps not ; but I never saw her father." 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. " And this is Colonel Wayne," said he, slowly. " This is the man who broke another man's heart and murdered a woman." A mingled expression of pain, indignation, passionate re- gret, and resignation suddenly glittered on the face of Mrs. Simcoe. "Mr. Newt, Mr. Newt," said she, hurriedly, in a thick voice, "let us at least respect the dead!" Lawrence Newt, still holding the miniature in his hand, looked surprised ^and searchingly at his companion. A lofty pity shot into his eyes. " Could I speak of her otherwise ?" The sudden change in Mrs. Simcoe's expression conveyed her thouoht to him before her words : " No, no ! not of ]m\ but — " 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. " But — " said he, mechanically, as if by repeating her last word to help her in her struggle. 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 minia- ture from Lawrence Newt, closed her hand over it convulsive- iy, and gasped in a tone that sounded like a low, wailing cry: "But of/iz;??." Lawrence Newt raised his eyes from the vehement woman to the portrait that hung above lier. 168 T li U M r s. \ " I LOVED iim." 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 fond: ness. By all that passionate lemembrance, hy a lost love, by TRUMPS. 159 the early dead, lie felt himself conjured to speak, nor suffer his silence even to seem to shield a crime. "And why not of him?" he began, calmly, and with pro- found melancholy rather than anger. "Why not of him, who did not hesitate to marry the woman whom he knew loved an- other, and whom the difference of years should rather Il-uc made his daughter -than his wife? Why not of him, Avho 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 w^ith poison in her food, oh no!" cried Lawrence Newt, warming into bitter vehe- mence, clenching his hand and shaking it in the air, "but who struck her blows on the heart — who stabbed her w^ith sharp icicles of indifference — who poisoned her soul with the taunt- ings of his mean suspicions — mean and false — and the meaner because he knew them to be false? Why not of him, who — " " Stop ! in the name of God !" she cried, fiercely, raising her hand as if she appealed to Heaven. It fell again. The hard voice sank to a tremulous, pitiful tone : " Oh ! stop, if you are a man !" They stood opposite each other in utter silence. The light had almost faded. The face in the picture was no longer visible. Bewildered and awed by the passionate grief of his com- panion, Lawrence Newt said, gently, " Why should I stop ?" 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 : " Because I am the woman he loved — because I loved him." IGO ^ TRUMPS. CHAPTER XXVII. GABRIEL AT HOME. During all tliis time Gabriel Bennet is becoming a mer- chant. Every morning he arrives at the store with the porter or before him. He helps him sweep and dust ; and it is Ga- briel -who puts Lawrence Newt's room in order, laying the papers in i)lace, and taking care of the thousand nameless de- tails 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, Orient- al odors, and talks with the porter. In the long, warm after- noons, 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. As he walks up Broadw^ay 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 smok- ing. As Gabriel passes Abel their eyes meet. Abel nods airily, and Gabriel (juietly ; the next moment they are back to back again — one is going up street, the other down. It is not one of the s])lendid houses before wliich Gabriel IKUMPS. 161 stops when he has readied 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 aftectionate son thinks he remembers to have seen in his mother's face ; and the oth- er is younger, brighter — a face of rosy cheeks, and clustering hair, and blue eyes — a beaming, loyal, loving, girlish face. They both smile welcome to Gabriel, and the younger face, disappearing from the window, reappears at the door. Ga- briel 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, Avhy so? they ask. Ga briel must tell the story of the unlading th*e ship 3Iary B.^ which has just come in — which is Lawrence Newt's fovorite ship ; but why called Marij B. not even Thomas Tray knows, who knows every thing else in the business. Then sitting on each side of him on the sof i, those w^omen wonder and guess why the ship should be called Mary B. What Mary B. ? Oh ! dear, there might be a thousand women with those ini- tials. And what has ever happened to Mr. Newt that he should wish to perpetuate a w^oman's name? Stop! remem- bers mamma, his mother's name was Mary. Mary what ? asks tlie daughter. Mamma, you remember, of course. Mannna merely replies that his mother's name was Bunley — Mary Bunley — a fomous belle of the close of the last cen- tury, when she was the most beautiful woman at President Washington's levees — Mary Bunley, to whom Aaron Burr paid his addresses in vain. " 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. "Ellen, do you remember this spring, as we were coming up Broadway, we passed an old man with a keen black eye, 102 TRUMPS. who Avas r.atlicr carelessly dressed, and who wore a cue, with thick liair of liis own, Avliite as snow, whom a good many ]>eo- ple looked at and pointed out to each other, but nobody spoke to? — who gazed at you as Ave passed so peculiarly that you pressed nearer to lue, and asked Avho it Avas, and Avhy such an old man seemed to be so lonely, and in all that great throng, Avhich evidently kncAv him, Avas as solitary as if he had been in a desert ?" " Perfectly — I remember it," replies Ellen. "That friendless old man, my dear, Avhom 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 Avith the queenly Mai-y Bunley, mother of Lawrence Newt. But that wus half a century ago. " Mamma," asks Ellen, full of interest in her mother's Avords, *'but Avhy does nobody speak to liim ? Why is he so alone ? Had he not better have died half a century ago?" "My dear, you have seen Mrs. Beriah Dagon, an aunt of Mr. Lawrence Nevvt's? She was Cecilia Bunley, sister of Mary. When she Avas younger she used to go to the theatre Avith 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, hoAV di-eadful it would have been ! Aaron Burr Avas graceful, and accom- plished, and brilliant ; he coiled about many a Avoman, fas- cinating her with his bright eyes and his sinuous manner; but if he had stung, dear?" , Ellen shakes her liead as her mother speaks, and Gabriel in- voluntarily thinks of Abel Newt. 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 Avas named for old Mrs. Newt ; people are TRUMPS. * 163 not romantic about their mothers ; and Miss Ellen agrees with him. 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 han^ 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 notliing forlorn in the aspect of the room. Roses in a glass upon the table, and the voice and manner of the moth- er and daughter, tell every thing. Presently they go in to tea, and Mr. Beimet joins them. His face is pale, and of gentle expression, and he stoops a lit- tle 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 disap- pointed. But he is not a clergyman, although his white cra- vat, 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 assent- ed 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. "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 au- tumnal, 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 Ave can select is Irving's Life of Colum- bus ; Mr. Bennet himself has read it in the previous year, but he is sure his children will be interested and delighted by it ; 104 TRUMPS. and, for himself, he likes nothing better than to read over and over a book he knows and loves. lie puts down his knife as he speaks, and plays with his tea-spoon on the edge of the cup. "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 trop- ical 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 Iiim, and with the nervous smile upon his face, he says, " Oh — ah ! — I — yes — let it be Irving's Columbus !" Toward his wdfe 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 lier. 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 maimer does not disturb the uni- versal cheerfulness. " 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 liglited. "Yes," replies the father, who sits upon the sofa, with his wife by his side — " yes ; Mr. Van Boozenberg was very an- TRUMPS. 165 "how can ye BLOOJI SAE fresh and I'AIR ?" gry to-day about some error he thonght be had discovered, and he was quite short with us book-keei:>ers, and spoke rath- er sharply." A sHght 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: 166 TRUMPS. " However, liis position is trying. Fortunately there wasn't any mistake except of his own." lie is silent again. After a little while he asks, " Couldn't we have some music ? Ellen, can't you sing something ?" Ellen thinks slic can, if Gabriel will sing second ; Gabriel says he will try, Avith pleasure; but really — he is so over- whelmed — 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 — During this little banter Nellie cries, "Pooh, pooh!" mam- ma looks pleased, and papa smiles gently. Then the fresh young voices of the brother and sister mingle in "Bonnie Doon.'' 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 moth- er steals into that of the flxther, Avhich 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" toirether. 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. While tliey are still sitting in silence there is a ring at the door, and Lawrence Newt and Amy Waring enter the room. TRUMPS. 167 CHAPTER XXVIII. BORN TO BE A BACHELOR. "The truth is, Madame," began Lawrence Newt, address- ing 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 irreso- lutely by the sofa, half-leaning upon the arm. " Oh ! — ah ! I am sure," replied Mr. Bennet, with the nerv- ous smile flitting across his face and appai-ently breaking out all over him ; and there he remained speechless and bowing, while Mr. Newt hastened to seat himself, that every body else niiglit sit down also. Mrs. Bennet said that she was really glad to see the face of an old mend ai?ain whom she had not seen for so Ions;. " 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. Amy seated herself by Gabriel and Ellen, and talked very animatedly Vvdth them, while the parents and Mr. Newt sat to- gether. She praised the roses, and smelled them very often ; and whenever she did so, her eyes, having nothing in partic- ular 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, Avhose 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 tAvinkle at all? Avhicli 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 cous- ins, and pressed them close to her cheek, as if she found their 168 TRUMPS. moist, creamy coolness peculiarly delicious and refreshing — pressed tliom so close, indeed, lliat she seemed to squeeze some of ihc'ir color into her cheeks, \vhich Gabriel and Ellen both thought, and afterward declared to their mother, to be quite as beautiful as roses. Amy's couN'ersatiou with her young cousins was very lively indeed, but it had not a continuous interest. There were in- cessant little pauses, during which the eyes slipped away again across tlie room, and fell as softly as before, j)lump into the same welcome and the same little interrogation in those other eyes, twinkling with that annoying ''did you?" Amy Waring was certainly twenty-iive, although Gabriel laughed and jeered at any such statement. But mamma and the Family Bible weio too much for him. Lawrence Xewt was certainly more than forty. But the Newt Family Bible was under a lock of Avhich the key lay in Mrs. Boniface Kewt's bureau, who, in a question of age, preferred tradition, which she could judiciously guide, to Sci'ipture. When Boni- face Newt led Nancy Magot to the altar, he recorded, in a hirge business hand, both the date of his marringe 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. There was a vague impression in the Newt family — Boni- face 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 sim})ly one of those incomprehensibly pleasant, eccentric, benevolent men, whose mercantile credit was as good as Jacob \"an Boozenberg's, but who ])erversely 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 w^hom J^uniface Newt had given eight dollars for writing a tract entitled "Indiscriminate Almsgiving a C'rinie," that Law- TRUMPS. 169 rence 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 blushine: 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. " Bless my soul ! my dear young lady, surely your name is Darro !" The dear young lady smiled and colored, and rej^lied, " No, mine is not, but my mother's was." " 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 ?" And he took Amy's hand, and said, " "Whose daughter are you ?" " My name is Amy Waring." " 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." There was something so tenderly respectful in the tone that Amy, with only a graver foce, replied, " Yes, there was my Aunt Martha." " I remember all. She is gone ; my dear young lad}^, 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 liave no kinder, no better friend than this young lady." The young lady looked at him with a gentle inquiry in her eyes as who should say, "What do you know about it?" Lawrence Newt's eyes understood in a moment, and he answered : " Oh, I know it as I know that a rose smells sweet." He bowed as he said it, and took her hand. " Will you remember to ask your mother if she remembers Lawrence Newt, and if he may come and see her ?" Amy Waring said Yes, and the gentleman, bending and II 1 7-0 T R U M P S. toucliing the tips of lier fingers with liis lips, said, " Good-by, Mrs. Sinmier," and dej)arted. lie called at Mrs. Waring's within a few days afterward. lie 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 wo- men and mothers. He had parted with Corinna Darro, a black-eyed little girl in short white frock and short curling hair and red ribbons. lie met her as Mrs. Delmer Waring, a large, maternal, good-hearted woman. This had happened tw^o 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. Pie 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 'svas a great shame they should lose their time in such an utterly profitless business as being in love Avith 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. 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 acquahit- ance so cordially, and complimenting his old friend so deli- cately by thinking of ])leasing her daughter. What a i)ity ho had never married, to have had daughters of Iiis own! " But I suppose. Amy, some men are born to be bachelors." TRUMPS, 1-^71 "I suppose they are, mother," Amy replied, and fomid im- mediately after that she had left her scissors, she couldn't pos- sibly remember where ; perhaps in your room, mamma, per- haps in mine. They must be looked for, however, and, O how curious ! there they lay in her own room upon the table. In her own room, Avhere 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 Avould 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 foct it had nothing on it but that very com- monplace and familiar forni of words, " To Miss Amy Waring, from her friend Lawrence Newt." Amy wasl3ntirely 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, w^ith 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 confirm-ed. Some men are born to possess every quality of heart, and mind, and per- son that can awaken and satisfy the love of a woman. Yes, unquestionably, said Amy Waring in her mind, which w^as so cool, so imj^artial, so merely contemplating the subject as an abstract question, some men — let me see, shall I say like Law- rence 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. 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 OF THE '^ \. TT'N'TXTT. T?QT'r^rt 172 TRUMPS. thing, but only with a grace, and generosity, and dehcacy be- yond expression offers his general lioniage 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 Ga- briel and Ellen, talkhig 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 ca- ressed 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." CHAPTER XXIX. ME. ABEL NEWT, GRAND STREET. As the world returned to town and the late autumnal fes- tivities 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, w^iom she declared that she well remem- bered, 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. " 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 dis- grace yet, thougn he is. And, if you please, Miss Fanny, with all your virtuous sniffs, dear, and all your hugging of men in waltzing, darhng. Colonel Burr was not sent to Coventry be- cause Jie was naughty. He might have been naughty all the days of his lite, and jVfrs. Jacob Van Boozenberg and the rest of 'em would liave been quite as glad to have him at their houses. No, no, dears, society doesn't punish men for being TRUMPS. 173. naughty — only women. I am older than yon, and I have ob- served tliat society likes spice in character. It doesn't harm a man to have stories told about him." No ball was complete without Abel Newt. Ladies, medi- tating parties, engaged him before they issued a single invita- tion. At dinners he was sparkling and agreeable, with tact enough not to extinguish the other men, who yet felt his su- periority and did not half like it. They imitated his manner ; but what was ease or gilded assurance in him was open inso- lence, 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. 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 w^as 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 towm who did all they could to repair the misfor- \/ tune of being born Americans, by imitating the habits of for- eign life. It was presently clear to him that residence under the pa- rental roof was incompatible with the habits of a strictly fash- ionable man. "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 men- tioned every reason which made a separate residence desirable. 174 TRUMPS. So Abel Newt hired a pleasant set of rooms in Grand Street, near ]>road\vny, in llic neighborhood of other yonth of tlie right set. lie furnished them sumptuously, with the softest carpets, the most luxurious easy-chairs, the most costly cur- tains, and pretty, bizarre little tables, and bureaus, and shelves. Various engravings hung upon the walls ; a profile-head of Bul- wer, with a large lloman nose and bushy whiskers, and one of his Majesty Geoi'ge IV., in that famous cloak which Lord Ches- terfield 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 llower in some one of them often, sent by some kind dow- ager who wished to make sure of Abel at a dinner or a se- lect soiree. Pipes, of course, and boxes of choice cigars, were at hand, and in a convenient closet such a beautiful set of En- glish cut glass for the use of a gentleman ! 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 par- ties, 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. Upon other occasions these little dinners took place out of town, w^hither 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 Avitli 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 gen- tlemen returned alone, they finished the evening at Benton's, in Ann Street, where they played a game of billiards ; or at Tiiiel's retired rooms over the celebrated Stewart's, opposite the Park, where they indulged in faro. Abel Newt lost and TKUMrs. 175 won his money witli careless grace — always a little glad when he won, for somebody had to pay for all this luxurious life. Boniface Xewt remonstrated. His son was late at the of- fice in the morning. He drew large sums to meet his large expenses. Several times, instead of instantly filUng out the checks as Abel directed, the book-keeper had delayed, and said casually to Mr. N^ewt 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 Xewt replied, in a dogged way, that he supposed it was. But one day wlien the sum had been large, and the paternal temper more than usually ruffled, he addressed the junior part- ner 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. "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. ' " I mean. Sir, that you are spending a great deal too much money." "Why, how is that. Sir?" asked his son, as he called to the boy in the outer ofiice to bring him a light. "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 de- stroy 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, ru- inous ! How do you suppose I can pay, or that the business can pay, for such extravagance ?" Abel smoked calmly during this energetic discourse, and blew little rings from his mouth, which he watched with inter- est as they melted in the air. " Certain things are inevitable, father." 176 TRUMPS. Ilis parent, frowning and angry, growled at him as he made this remark, and muttered, " Well, suppose they are." " 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 live-dollar note of the Bank of New York, "here is a promise to pay five dollars — in gold or silver, of course. Do you su})pose that the Bank of New York has gold and silver enough to pay all those promises it has issued ? Of course not." 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 brov\'s. " 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 ?" Mr. Newt shook his head affirmatively. " And, in fine, if it were entirely bankrupt, it could still do a tremendous business for a very considerable time, could it not?" Mr. Newt assented. "And the managers, who knew it to be so, would have plenty of time to get off before an explosion, if they wanted to?" "Abel, what do you mean ?" inquired his fiither. The young man was still placidly blowing rings of smoke from his mouth, and answered : " Nothing terrible. Don't be alarmed. It is only an illus- tration of the practical value of credit, showing how it covers a retreat, so to speak. Do you see the moral, father ?" " No ; certainly not. I see no moral at all." "Why, supi)ose that nobody wanted to retreat, but that TRUMTtS. 177 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." " Clearly," answered Mr. Newt. "And if it extended its operations, it would acquire even more credit ?" " Yes." "Because people, believing in the solvency of the Bank, would suppose that it extended itself because it had more means ?" " Yes." "And would not feel any dust in their eyes?" " No," said Mr. Newt, following his son closely. " Well, then ; don't you see ?" "No, I don't see," replied the father; "that is, I don't see what you mean." "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 thump- ing business.' Perhaps we are — perhaps we are not. We are crossing the bridge of credit. Before people know that Avc have been living up to our incomes — quite up, father dear" — Mr. Newt frowned an entire assent — " Ave ha\c plenty of money !" "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. " By my marriage," returned Abel, quietly. " With whom ?" asked Mr. Newt, earnestly. " With an heiress." " What's her name ?" " Just what I am trying to find out," replied Abel, lightly, as he threw his cigar away. " And now I put it to you, fa- ther, as a man of the world and a sensible, sagacious, success- ful merchant, am I not more likely to meet and marry such a H2 178 TRUMPS, girl, it'l live generously in society, than if I shut myself up to DC 11 mere dig V Mr. Newt Avas not sure. Perha2)s it was so. Upon the ■whole, it probably was so. 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 be- come 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 q, regular business connection and apparent employment — and very advantageous, indeed, that that connection should be Avith a man so well known in com- mercial 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 w^ith his father, after the recent conversation, that credit was the most creditable thing going. CHAPTER XXX. CHECK. During these brilliant days of young bachelorhood Abel, by some curious chance, had not met Hope Wayne, who was pass- ing the winter in New York with her Aunt Dinks, and Avho 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. " Is she really going to marry that Dinks ? Why, the man's a donkey !" said Corlaer Van Boozenberg. " And are there no donkeys among your married friends ?" inquired Abel, Avith the air of a naturalist pursuing his re- searches. One day, indeed, as he AA'as passing Stewart's, he saw Hope alighting from a carriage. He Avas not alone ; and as he passed their eyes met. He boAved profoundly. She bent her TRUMPS. 179 SHOPPING, ET C-ETERA. I head without speaking, as one acknowledges a slight acquaint- ance. It was not a "cut," as Abel said to himself; "not at all. It was simply ranking me with the herd." " Who's that stopping to speak with her ?" asked Corlaer, as he turned back to see her. " That's Arthur Merlin. Don't you know ? He's a paint- er. I wonder how the deuce he came to know her!" ISO TRUMPS. In fact, it was tlie painter. It was tlie first time he liad met her since the summer days of Saratoga; and as he stood tulkui"" witli h'jr upon the sidewalk, and observed that her cheeks had an unusual flush, and her manner a slight excite- ment, 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 sympa- thetic woman ; because, being so utterly in love with my art, it would be impossible for me to flill in love with her! Quite impossible ! Quite out of the question ! Just as be 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." " My pardon is granted," returned the gentleman ; " but still you had better look out for yourself" " Oh ! I shall not hit any body else," said Arthur, as he bowed and was passing on. " I am not speaking of other people," replied the other, with a look which was very friendly, but very puzzling. " Whom do you mean, then ?" asked Arthur Merlin. " Yourself, of course," said the gentleman with the half- amused face. "How?" inquired Arthur. "To guard against Venus rising from the fickle sea, or Hope descending from a carringe," rejoined his companion, putting out his hand. 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. "To whom do I owe such excellent advice?" "To Lawrence Newt," answered that gentleman, putting out his liand. "I am glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. Arthur Merlin." TRUMPS. 181 The pninter 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 IsTewt observed that the eyes of his com- panion studied every carriage that passed. Pie 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 !" Arthur was a little bit annoyed, and said, suddenly, and with a fine air of surprise, " Who ?" Lawrence turned and looked him full in the face ; upon which the painter, who w^as 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. The next moment both gentlemen bowed to Hope Wayne, who passed with Mrs. Dinks in her carriage. "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. "Mr. Merlin and Mr. Lawrence Newt," replied Hope. " Oh, I did not observe." After a while she said, "Don't you lliink, Hope, you could make up your mind to go to Mrs. Kingfisher's ball next week ? You know you liaven't been out at all." "Perhaps," rei^lied Hope, doubtfully. "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." Mrs. Dinks looked at Hope tenderly and sagaciously as she said this, and smiled meaningly. Hope was entirely bewildered. Then a sudden apprehen- sion shot through her mind as she thought of what her aunt had said. She asked suddenly and a little proudly, " What do you mean by ' circumstances,' aunt ?" 182 TRUMPS. Mrs. Dinks was uneasy in her turn. But slie pushed brave- ly on, and said kindly, " 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." "Have what known, aunt?" asked Hope. " Why, dear," replied Mrs. Dinks, confused by Hope's air of innocence, " your engagement, of course." " My engagement ?" said Hope, with a look of utter amaze- ment ; " to whom, I should like to know ?" Mrs. Dinks looked at her for an instant, and asked, in a clear, dry tone : " Are you not engaged to Alfred ?" Hope Wayne's look of anxious surprise melted into an ex- pression of intense amusement. "To Alfred Dinks!" said she, in a slow, incredulous tone, and with her eyes sparkling with laughter. " Why, my dear aunt ?" Mrs. Dinks w^as overwhelmed by a sudden consciousness of bitter disappointment, mingled with an exasperating convic- tion that she had been somehow duped. The tone was thick in which she answered. " What is the meaning of this ? Hope, are you deceiving me?" She knew Hoj^e was not deceiving her as well as she knew that they were sitting together in the carriage. Hope's reply was a clear, ringing, ii'resistible laugh. Then she said, "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 ?" "Do I think my son is a liar?" rei^lied Mrs. Dinks, sardon- ically. The laugh faded from Hope's face. " Did he say so ?" asked she. " Certainly he did." "Alfred Dinks told you I was engaged to him?" "Alfred Dinks told me von were en2:n2:ed to him." TRUMPS. 183 They drove on for some time witlioiit speaking. " What does he mean by using my name in that way ?" said Hope, with the Diana look in her eyes. " Oh ! that yon must settle with him," replied the other. " I'm sure I don't know." And Field-marshal Mrs. Dinks settled herself back upon the seat and said no more. Hope Wayne sat silent and erect by her side. CHAPTER XXXI. AT DELMOXICO'S. Lawrence I^ewt 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 w^as unfolding a plan he had of reading books aloud with the ladies — and — in fact, a great many other praise- Avorthy plans which all implied a constant meeting with Miss Waring and Miss Wayne, Mr. Merlin did not delay his co-op- eration in all Mr. Newt's efforts. 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 Avas pursued at the meetings of what Lawrence Newt called the Round Table. "Why not? We have our King Arthur, and our Merlin the Enchanter," he said. " A speech from Mr. Merlin," cried Amy, gayly, Avhile Hope, looked up from her work with encouraging, queenly eyes. Arthur looked at them eagerly. "Oh, Diana! Diana!" he thought, but did not say. That was the only speech he made, and nobody heard it. 184 TRUMPS. The mcctinp:^ of the Round Table were devoted to poetry, but of a very i^ractical kind. It was pure roniuiicc, but witli- out any thing teclniically romantic. Mrs. Waring often sat with the little }»arty, and, as she worked, talked with Law- rence 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 be- came very intricate indeed, demanding her closest attention. But Hope Wayne, remembering her first evening in his soci- ety, 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 cir- cumstances he had known Pinewood. But the opportunity had not yet arrived. She did not wish to ask before the oth- ers. There are some secrets that we involuntarily respect, while we only know that they are secrets. The more Arthur Merlin saw of Hope Wayne the more de- lighted he was to think how impossible it was for him, in view of his profound devotion to his art, to think of beautiful wo men in any other light than that of picturesque subjects. "Really, Mr. Newt," Arthur said to him one evening as thev Avere dinimx too^ether at Delmonico's — which was then in William Street — "if I were to paint a picture of Diana when she loved Endymion — a |)icture, 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 su- perb, I assure you." Lawrence Newt smiled — he often smiled — as he wiped his mouth, and asked, " Who would you ask to sit for Endymion?" " Well, let me see," replied Arthur, cheerfully, and ponder- ing as if to determine who was exactly the man. It was really beautiful to see his exclusive enthusiasm for his art. " Let TRUMPS. 185 me see. How would it do to paint an ideal figure for En- dyniion ?" " No, no," said Lawrence Newt, laughing ; " art must get its ideal out of the reah I demand a good, solid, llesli-and- blood Endymion." "I can't just think of any body," replied Arthur Merlin, musingl-y, 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. "How would my young friend Hal Battlebury answer?" asked Lawrence Newt. " Oh, not at all," replied Arthur, promptly ; " he's too light, you know." " 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 lias the face for a picture." "Oh, he's not at all the person. He's much too dark, you see," answered Arthur, at once, with remarkable readiness. "There's Alfred Dinks," said Lawrence Newt, smiHng. " Pish !" said iVrthur, conclusively. " Really, I can not think of any body," returned his com- panion, with a mock gravity that Arthur probably did not perceive. The young artist was evidently very closely occu- pied with the composition of his picture. He half-closed his eyes, as if he saw the canvas distinctly, and said, "I should represent her just lighting ujDon 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 su- perior, so queenly scornful of all the world but him. Jove ! it would make a splendid picture !" Lawrence Newt looked at his friend as he imagined the condescending Diana. The artist's face Avas a little raised as he spoke, as if he saw a stately vision. It was rapt in the in-' tensity of fancy, and Lawrence knew perfectly well that he ISO TRUMPS. saw Hope Wayne's Endymion befure him. But at the same moment liis eye fell upon his nei)hew Abel sitting with a choice comi)any of gay youths at another table. There was instantly a mischievous twinkle in Lawrence Xewt's eye. "Eureka! I have Endymion." Artliur started and felt a half pang, as if Lawrence Xewt liad suddenly told him of Miss Wayne's engagement. He came instantly out of the clouds on Latmos, where he was dreaming. " What did you say ?" asked he. " Why, of course, how dull I am ! Abel will be your En- dymion, if you can get him." "Who is Abel?" inquired Arthur. " Why, my nephew, Abel Don Juan Pelham Newt, of Grand Street, and Boniface ^N'evv't, Son, & Company, Dry Goods on Commission, Esquire," replied Lawrence Newt, with perfect gravity. Arthur looked at him bewildered. "Don't you know my nephew, Abel Newt?" " No, not personally. I've heard of him, of course." " Well, he's a very handsome young man ; and though he be dark, he uiay also be Endymion. Why not ? Look at him ; there he sits. 'Tis the one just raising the glass to his lips." Lawrence Newt bent his head as he spoke toward the gay revelers, Avho 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. .\l)el was the leader, and at the moment Arthur Merlin and Law- rence Newt turned to look he was telling some anecdote to which they all listened eagerly, while they sipped the red wine of Erance, i)()ured carefully froTU a bottle reclining in a basket, and delicately coated with dust. Abel, with his glass in his liand and the glittering smile in his eye, told the story with cai-eless grace, as if he were more amused with the listeners' eagerness than Avith the anecdote itself. The extreme gayety of his life was already rubbing the boyish bloom from his face, TRUMPS. 187 A SEAKCH FOR ENDYMION. but it developed his peculiar beauty more strikingly by remov- ing that incongruous innocence which belongs to every boyish countenance. As he looked at him, Arthur ]\Ierlin was exceedino-ly im- pressed 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 o-azed at Abel. Lawrence al- 188 TRUMPS. ways saw a great deal whenever lie looked any where. Per- ]ia])s he perceived the secret dissatisfaction and feeling of sud- den alarm \\ liich, without any apparent reason, Arthur felt as he looked at Abel. But the longer Arthur Merlin looked at Abel the more curi- ously perplexed he was. The feeling which, if he had not been a painter so utterly devoted to his profession that all dis- tractions 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 un- der what circumstances, he could not possibly remember. He watched him steadily, puzzling himself to recall that face. Suddenly he clapped his hand upon the table. Lawrence Newt, who was looking at him, saw the perplexity of his ex- jiression smooth itself away ; while Arthur Merlin, with an ''oh!" of surprise, satisfaction, and alarm, exclaimed — and his color changed — •' Why, it's Manfred in the Coliseum !" 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 j^ainter, and think of them merely as subjects for })ictures? Lawrence Newt was troubled. He had seen in Arthur with delight what he supposed the unconscious beginnings of affec- tion 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 tete-a-tete 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 confidential- ly to Amy Waring, who was j^rofoundly 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 con- firmed Lawrence Newt in his conviction that Arthur Merlin really loved Hope Wayne, whether he himself knew it or not. TRUMPS. 189 And now Avas lie all wrong, after all ? Ridiculous ! How could he be ? 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 sup- pressed excitement, as if he saw what a striking picture he would make, " Manfred in the Coliseum !" Lawrence Newt drank a glass of Mine, thoughtfully. Then he smiled inwardly. " It is not the first time I have been mistaken," thought he. " I shall have to take Amy Waring's advice about it." 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. " I am all wrong," thought Lawrence Newt, ruefully, as they passed out into the street. " Abel Newt, then, is Hope "Wayne's somebody," thought Arthur Merlin, as he took his friend's arm. CHAPTER XXXII. MRS. THEODORE KIXGFISHER AT HOME. 0)1 dauseva. Society stared when it beheld Miss Hope W^ayne entering the drawing-room of Mrs. Tlieodore Kingfisher. " Really, Miss Wayne, I am delighted," said Mrs. Kingfish- er, Avith a smile that might have been made at the same shop Avith the flowers that nodded over it. Mrs. Kingfisher's friendship for Miss Wayne and her charm- ing aunt consisted in two pieces of pasteboard, on which was printed, in German text, " Mrs. Tlieodore Kingfisher, St. John's Square," which she had left during the winter ; and her pleas- 100 TKUMTS. urc at seeing lici" was genuine — not that she expected they would sohice eacli other's souls with friendly intercourse, but tjiat she knew lloi)e to be a famous beauty who had held her- self retired until now at the very end of the season, Avhen she appeared for the first time at her ball. This reflection secured an unusually ardent reception for Mrs. Dagon, who followed Mrs. Dinks's party, and who, liaA - ing made her salutation to the hostess, said to Mr. Boniface Newt, her nephew, Avho accompanied her, " XoAV 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 — inind, now, plenty of dressing." Perched like a contemplative vulture by the pier, Mrs. Da- gon declined chairs and sofas, but put her eye-glass to hei' eyes to spy out the land. She had arrived upon the scene of action early. She always did. "I want to sec every body come in. There's a great deal in watching how people speak to each other. V\e found out a great many things in that May, my dear, which Avere not suspected." Presently a glass at the other end of the room that Avas bob- bing up and down and about at everybody and thing — at the ceil- ing, and the Avail, and the carj^et — discovering the rouge upon cheeks Avhose ruddy freshness charmed less perceptive eyes — re- ducing the prettiest lace to the smallest terms in substance and price — detecting base cotton Avith one fell glance, and the part of the old dress ingeniously furbished to do duty as ucaa' — this philosophic and critical glass presently encountered Mrs. Da- gon's in mid-career. The tAVO ladies behind the glasses glared at each other for a moment, then bowed and nodded, like tAVO Chinese idols set np on end at each extremity of the room. "Good-evening, dear, good IMrs. Winslow Orry," said the smiling eyes of Airs. Dajj^on to that lady. " TToav doublv scraggy you look in that Avorn-out old sea-green satin!" said the smiling old lady to licrself. T R u M r s. 191 AUNT DAGON RAKIN'G THE ROOM. "How do, darling Mrs. Dagon?" said the responsive glance of Mrs. Orry, with the most gracious eftulgence of aspect, as she glared across the room — inwardly thinking, "What a silly old hag to lug that cotton lace cape all over town !" 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 fxns and bobbing of heads. 192 TRUMPS. One hundred gentlemen said, " How warm it is !" One hiui': dred ladies of the highest fashion answered, "Very." Fifty young men, who all wore coats, collars, and Avaistcoats that seemed to have been made in the lump, and all after the same pattern, stood sjoeechless about the rooms, wondering Avhat 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 A^henever 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 fovora- ble 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. All the Knickerbocker jewels glittered about the rooms. Mrs. Bleecker Van Kraut carried not less than thirty thou- sand dollars' worth of diamonds upon her person — at least that was Mrs. Orry's deliberate conclusion after a careful estimate. T.Irs. Dagon, when she heard what Mrs. Orry said, merely ex- claimed, "Fiddle! Anastatia Orry can tell the price of lute- string a yard because Winslow Orry failed in that business, but she knows as much of diamonds as an elephant of good manners." The Van Kraut property had been bowing about the draw- ing-rooms of New Yoi'k for a year or two, watched with pal- l^itating 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 A-ery politely, they were made to feel that two millions were in presence and unappropriated, and they fell humbly back. 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 proper- TRUMPS. 193 socip:ty. ty, in society, so that he shivered and withdrew on the dizzy veige of a declaration ; and Avhen he subsequently encountered Lucy Slumb, she was immediately invested with the family jewels. "Heaven save me from a smart woman!" prayed Bleecker Van Kraut ; and Heaven heard and kindly granted his prayer. Presently, while the hot hum went on, and laces, silks. 194 TRUMPS. satins, brocades, muslins, and broadcloth intermingled and changed places, so that Arthur JMerlin, wlioni Lawrence Newt l)ad 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 unspeak- able things — the quick eyes of Fanny Newt encountered the restless orbs of Mrs. Dinks. Alfred had left town for J3oston on the very day on which Hope Wayne had learned the story of her engagement. Nei- ther his mother nor Hope, therefore, had had an opportunity of asking an explanation. " I am glad to see Miss Wayne with you to-night," said Fanny. *'My niece is her own mistress," replied Mrs. Dinks, in a 6ub-acid tone. Fanny's eyes grew blacker and sharper in a moment. An Indian whose life depends upon concealment from his j^ursuer is not more sensitive to the softest dropping of the lightest leaf than was Fanny Newt's sagacity to the slightest indica- tion of discovery of her secret. There is trouble, she said to herself, as she heard Mrs, Dinks's reply. " Miss Wayne has been a recluse this winter," remarked Fanny, with infinite blandness. " Yes, she has had some kind of whim," replied Mrs. Dinks, shaking her shoulders as if to settle her dress. "We girls have all suspected, you know, of course, Mrs. Dinks," said Miss Newt, with a veiy successful imitation of archness and a little bend of the neck. " Have you, indeed !" retorted Mrs. Dinks, in almost a belli- cose manner. " Why, yes, dear Mrs. Dinks ; don't you remember at Sara- toga — you know ?" continued Fanny, with imperturbable com- posure. "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. TRUMPS. 195 " Dear me ! So many things happen at Saratoga," answered Fanny, bridling Hke a pert miss of seventeen. " And Avhen a girl has a handsome cousin, it's very dangerous." Fanny Newt was determined to know where she was. " Some girls are very silly and willful," tartly remarked Mrs. Dinks. " I suppose," said Fanny, wdth extraordinary coolness, con- tinuing the role 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. The remark she had made had been made a hundred times before to Mrs. Dinks. In fict, Fanny herself had used it, un- der 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 discov- ery that Hope was not engaged to Alfred, asked formally, and not without a slight sneer which arose from an impatient sus- picion that Fanny knew more than she chose to disclose — "And pray. Miss ISTewt, w^hat do people hear? Really, if other people are as unfortunate as I am, they hear a great deal of nonsense." Upon which Mrs. Budlong Dinks sniffed the air like a charger. " 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. Hitherto it had been the policy of that lady to demur and insinuate, and declare how strange it was, and how gossipy 196 TRUMPS. peoi^lc were, and finally to retreat from a direct reply under cover of a })retty shower of ohs! and alis! and indeeds ! and that policy had been uniformly successful. Everybody said, " Of course Alfred Dinks and liis 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-mar- shal Mrs. Dinks outgeneraled Everybody. But the gallant young i:»rivate. Miss Fanny Newt, was resolved to win her epaulets. 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 ever- more, 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 foirly rivaled the smoothness of the neck, and the eyes, and the arms of Mrs. Bleecker Van Kraut : ''I suppose there can be nothing very disagreeable to Miss Wayne's friends in knowing that she is engnged to Mr. Alfred Dinks ?" Alas ! Mrs. Dinks, who knew Hope, knew that the time for dexterous subterfuges and misleadings had passed. She re- solved that people, when they discovered what they inevitably soon must discover, should not suppose that she had been de- ceived. So, looking straight into Fanny Newt's eyes without flinching — and somehow it Avas not a look of j^rofound aftec- tion — she said, "I was not aware of any such engagement." " 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 pre- sume ?" The bad passions of Mv. Diid^s'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, TRUMPS. 197 " Miss Newt, you can contradict from me the report of any such engagement." 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. 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 w^as 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 for- ward deck of the Chancellor Livingston steamer, that plied between New York and Providence. Mr. Bowdoin Beacon sat by his side. " She's a real good girl, and pretty, and rich, though she is my cousin, Bowdoin. So why don't you ?" Mr. Beacon, a member of the upper sex, replied, gravely, " Well, perhaps !" They were speaking of Hope Wayne. 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, Law- rence 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 Ne^vt's entrance, and, after he saw him, turned to study the eflect produced upon Miss Wayne by seeing him. 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 198 TRUMPS. Herbert Octoyne had advised, notwithstanding that she had no flavor, as Abel himself had averred. But who eats merely for the flavor of the food ? Tjiat lady clicked smoothly as Abel, metaphorically speak- ing, 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 Wil- kottle floated about the rooms upon limp pinions for some time, wondering where to settle, and brushed Fanny Newt in flying. " Oh ! Mr. Wilkottle, you are just the man. Mr. Whitloe, Laura Magot, and I were just talking about Batrachian rep- tiles. Which are the best toads, the fattest ?" " Or does it depend upon the dressing?" asked Mr. Whitloe. "Or the quantity of jewelry in the head?" said Laura Ma- got. Mr. Wilkottle smiled, bowed, and passed on. If they had called him an ass — as they were ladies of the best position — he w^ould have bowed, smiled, and passed on. " An amiable fellow^," said Fanny, as he disappeared ; " but quite a remarkable fool." Mr. Zephyr Wetherley, still struggling with the hand prob- lem, approached Miss Fanny, and remarked that it w\as very warm. " You're cool enough in all conscience, Mr. Wetherley," said she. " My dear Miss Newt, 'pon honor," replied Zephyr, begin- ning to be very red, and wiping his moist brow. " I call any man cool who would have told St. Lawrence upon the gridiron that he was frying," interrupted Fanny. " Oh ! — ah ! — yes ! — on the gridiron ! Yes, very good". Ila ! 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?" Fanny was leveling her black eyes at him for a reply, but Mr. Wetherley, trying to regulate his liands, said, hastily, TRUMPS. 199 " Yes, quite on tlie gridiron — very /" and rapidly moved off it by moving on. " 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 dread- ful 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." And Mr. Van Boozenberg worked himself in his garments and stretched his arms to refresh himself. 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." On the other hand, Jacob Van Boozenberg had his little theory of Boniface New^t, w^hich, unlike that worthy commis- sion 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 se- cretly suspicious of the mercantile paper of all men who Avere unusually neat in their appearance, and who spoke their native language correctly. The partner of Iiis bosom was the con- stant audience of his self-glorification. A little while before, her lord had returned one day to din- ner, and said, with a tone of triumph, " Well, ma, Gerald Bennet ^L/p' 216 TRUMPS. And Fanny took her hnsband by the arm and went out, having entirely confounded her mother-in-law, who meant to liavo wislied licr children good-morning, and then have left them to their embarrassment. But victory seemed to perch upon Fanny's standards along the whole line. CHAPTER XXXVI. THE BACK AVINDOW. Laweence Newt was not unmindful of the difference of age between Amy AVaring and himself; and instinctively he did nothing which co.ild show to others that he felt more for lier 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 Xewt," to them, ^lore than one of them, in the ardor of young feel- ing, had conf ded his passion to Lawrence, wdio said to him, bravely, "My dear fellow, I do not wonder you feel so. God speed you — and so will I, all I can." And he did fo. 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 tlie kindly lights and judiciously darkened the apartment. His generosity was chivalric, but it was unavailing. Beau- tiful flowers arrived from tlie aspiring youths. They were so lovely, so fragrant ! What taste thai young Hal Battlebury has ! remarks Lawrence Newt, admiringly, as ho 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 whum 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, snrcly, toward young !n« ii who express their good TRUMPS. 217 feeling in the form of flowers. Then he dexterously leads the conversation into some other channel. He will not harm the cause of jDoor Mr. Battlebiiry by persisting in speaking of him and his bouquets, Avhen that persistence will evidently render the subject a little tedious. Poor Mr. Hal Battlebury, who, could he only survey the War- ing 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 bu- reau-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." 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. 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 ? For many a long hour Lawrence ISTewt stood at the windoAV of the loft in the rear of his ofiice, and looked up at the win- dow 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. "I'll just run round and settle this matter," said the mer- chant to himself. But he did not stir. His hands were in llis pockets. He was standing as firmly in one spot as if he had taken root. K 218 TRUMPS. "Yes — upon the whole, I'll just run round," thought Law. rence, 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 respect- ability 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 an- gel. 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. 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 work] — he was a gentle- man in his own country; and he has, of course, it's only natu- ral — how could he possibly help it? — he has fallen in love with Miss Warino-. These music-masters and Italian teachers are such silly fellows. I know all about it, thought JMr. Newt ; and now he lies there forlorn, but picturesque and very hand' some, 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 ? AVho says something about the kinship of pity ? I really think, says Lawrence Newt to liimself, that I ouuht to go over and help that unfortunate young man. ]\'rha})S he wishes to return to his native nountry. I am sure he ought to. His native air will be TRUMPS. 219 LAWUENCE NEWT SEES THE REASON WHY. balm to him. Yes, I'll ask Miss Waring about it this very evening. 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 w^indow, looking up at the old brick house, as at his front window, looking out 220 THUMPS. ovor the river and the ships, and counting the spires — at least it seemed so — in Brooklyn. For how^ could Lawrence know of the book that was kept in the bureau drawer — of the rose whose benediction lay fur- ever fragrant upon tliose united names ? "I am really sorry for Hal Battlebury," said the merchaiil 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 nge, in figure, in tastes — in sympathy altogether. Then he is so manly and modest, so simple and true. It is really very — very — " And so he mused, and asked and answered, and thought of Hal Battlebury and Amy Waring together. It seemed to him tliat if he were a younger man — about the age of Battlebury, say — full of hope, and faith, and earnest en- deavor — 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 sec her and not love her? His rejBections grew dreamy at this point. " If so lovely a girl did not return the aifection of such a young man, it Avould be — of course, what else could it be ? — it would be because she had deliberately made up her mind that, under no conceivable circumstances whatsoevei*, would she ever marry." 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 jiining upon a bed of pain, and reciting Petrarch's sonnets, in the miserable room opposite — thinking also of that strange cold- ness of virgin hearts which not the ardors of youth and love could melt. And, stopping before the Avindow, 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 TRUMPS. 221 mingled with his OAvn — again the i^ahn-trees — the rushing river — when, at the very window upon which he was uncon- sciously gazing, one afternoon a f;ice appeared, with a black silk handkerchief twisted about the head, and looking down into the court between the houses. Lawrence Newt stared at it without moving. Both win- dows 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 A'isit was explained, and a more heavenly light shone upon her character as he thought of her. " God bless you, Amy dear !" were the words that uncon- sciously stole to his lips ; and going into the office, Lawrence JSTewt told Thomas Tray that he should not return that after- noon, wished his clerks good-day, and hurried around the cor- ner into Front Street. CHAPTER XXXYII. ABET, NEWT, vice SLIGO MOULTRIE EEMOVED. 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. " You do not compliment the South very much," said Sligo Moultrie, smiling. "Oh no! The South is home, and we don't *compliment relations, you know," returned Miss Grace. " Yes, thank Heaven ! the South is 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." "Then I like trading towns, if that is it," returned Miss Grace, looking out into the bustling street. 222 TRUMPS. Mr. Moultrie smiled — a, quiet, refiuecl, intelligent, and accom- plished smile. He smiled confidently. Not ofiensively, but vritli that half- shy sense of suj^eriority which gave the high gi-ace of self-pos- session 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 val- uable allies of his intellectual accomplishments ; and when all the forces were deployed they made Sligo Moultrie very fasci- nating. He was not audacious nor brilliant. It was a pas- sive, not an active nature. He was not rich, although Mrs. Boniface Newt had a vague idea that every Soutliern youth was ex-officio a Crcesus. 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. Miss Grace Plumer, as we saw at Mrs. Boniface Newt's, had bright black eyes, profusely curling black hair, olive skin, pout- ing 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. Sligo Moultrie understood distinctly why he was sitting at the window with Grace Plumer. "The roses are in bloom at your home, I suppose, Miss Grace ?" said he. "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?" Grace said this turning her neck slightly, and looking an 9rch interrogatory at her companion. "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 arc at home ; and a man ouu^ht to be at home a good deal — he ought not to be a vagabond." TRUMPS. 223 " Thank you," said Grace, bowing mockingly. " I said ' a man,' you observe. Miss Grace." " Man includes woman, I believe, Mr. Moultrie." " In two cases — yes." " What are they ?" " When he holds her in his arms or in his heart." 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 compatriot. Yes, this would do very well. Miss Grace Plumer had scarcely mentally installed Mr. Sligo Moultrie as first flirter in her corps, when a face she remem- bered looked up at the window from the street, more danger- ous 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. The next moment he was in the room, perfectly comme il fcmt., sparkling, resistless. *' 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 Avas so old that he was rank) — I said, either I smell the grass sprout- ing 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," He tossed it airily off. It was audacious. It would have been outrageous, except that the manner made it seem persi- flage, 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. " 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 Slicro Moultrie." 224 TRUMPS. Mr. Moultrie bowed. "The first rose of tlic year blooms in Mr. Moultrie's button- hole," continued Abo), Avho galloped on, laughing, and seating himself uj^on an ottoman, so that his eyes were lower than the level of Grace Plumer's. She smiled, and joined the hunt. " He talks nothing but ' ladies' delights,' " said she. " Yes — two other things, please, Miss Grace," said Moul- trie. " What, Mr. Moultrie, two other cases ? You always have two more." " Better two more than too much," struck in Abel, who saw that Miss Plumer had put out her darling little foot from be- neath her dress, and therefore had fixed his eyes upon it, with an admiration which was not lost n23on the lady. " Heavens !" cried Moultrie, laughing and looking at them. "You are both two more and too much for me." " Good, good, good for Moultrie !" applauded Abel ; " and now. Miss Plumer, I submit that he has the floor." "Very well, Mr. Moultrie. Wliat are the two other things that you talk ?" "Pansies and rosemary," said the young man, rising and bowino' himself out. " Miss Plumer, you have been the inspiration of my friend Sligo, who was never so brilliant in his life before. How gen- erous in you to rise and shine on this wretched town ! It is Sahara. Miss Plumer descends upon it like dew. Where have you been ?" " At home, in Louisiana." "Ah! yes. Know ye the land where the cypress and myr- tle — I have never been there ; but it comes to me here when you come. Miss Plumer." Still the slight persiflage to cover the audacity. "And so, Mr. Newt, I have the honor of seeing the gentle^ man of whom T have heard most this winter." " What will not our enemies say of us, Miss Plumer?" TRUMPS. 225 " You have no enemies," replied she, " except, perhaps — no, I'll not mention tbeni." " Who ? who ? I insist," said Abel, looking at Grace Plu- nier 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. "Except, then, your own sex," said the little Louisianian, half blushing, " I do them no harm," replied Abel. " No ; but you make them jealous." " Jealous of what ?" returned the young man, in a lower tone, and more seriously. " Oh ! it's only of— of — of — of what I hear from the girls," said Grace, fluttering a little, as she remembered the conserv- atory at Mrs. Boniface Newt's, which also Abel had not for- gotten. " And what do you hear. Miss Grace ?" he asked, in pure music. Grace blushed, and laughed. " Oh ! only of your success with poor, feeble women," said she. " I have no success with women," returned Abel Newt, in a half-serious way, and in his most melodious voice. " Wo- men are naturally generous. They appreciate and acknowl- edge an honest admiration, even when it is only honest." " Only honest ! What more could it be, Mr. Newt ?" "It might be eloquent. It might be fascinating and irre- sistible. Even when a man does not really admire, his elo- quence makes him dangerous. If, when he truly admires, he were also eloquent, he would be irresistible. There is no vic- tory like that. I should envy Alexander nothing and Napo- leon nothing if I thought I could really conquer one woman's heart. My very consciousness of the worth of the prize para- lyzes my efforts. It is musty, but it is true, that fools rush in where angels fear to tread." He sat silent, gazing abstractedly at the two lovely feet of K 2 226 TRUMPS. Miss Grace Plumcr, with an air that impUed how far his mind had wandered in their conversation from any merely personal considerations. Miss Grace Pknner 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. " Women are naturally noble," he continued, in a low, rip- pling voice. " If they see that a man sincerely admires them they forgive him, although he can not say so. Yes, and a wo- man who really loves a man forgives him every thing." He was looking at her hands, Avhich lay white, and warm, and glittering in her laj). She was silent. "What a superb ruby. Miss Grace! It might be a dew- drop from a pomegranate in Paradise." She smiled at the extravagant conceit, Avhile he took her hand as he spoke, and admired the ring. The white, warm hand remained passive in his. •' Let me come nearer to Paradise," he said, half-abstracted- ly, as if he were following his own thoughts, and he pressed his lips to the lingers upon which the ruby gleamed. Miss Grace Plainer was almost frightened. This was a very different performance from Mr. Sligo Moultrie's — very differ- ent 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, vice Sligo Moultrie removed. TRUMPS. 227 CHAPTER XXXYIII. THE DAY AFTER THE WEDDING. " On the 23d instant, Alfred Dinks, Esq., of Boston, to Fan- ny, oldest daughter of Boniface Newt, Esq., of this city." Fanny wrote the notice with her own hands, and made Al- fred 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 ISTewt, Esq., sat at breakfast, he learned of his daugh- ter's marriage. His face grew purple. He looked apoplectic as he said to his wife, " Nancy, what in God's name does this mean ?" His frightened wife asked what, and he read the announce- ment aloud. He rose from table, and walked up and down the room. "Did you know any thing of this?" inquired he. "What does it mean ?" " Dear me ! I thought he was engaged to Hope Wayne," replied Mrs. Newt, crying. There was a moment's silence. Then Mr. Newt said, with a sneer, " It seems to me that a mother whose daughter gets mar- ried without her knowledge is a very curious kind of mother - — an extremely competent kind of mother." He resumed his w^alking. Mrs. Newt went on with her weeping. But Boniface Newt w^as aware of the possibilities in the case of Alfred, and therefore tried to recover himself and consider the chances. "What do you know about this fellow?" said he, petulant- ly, to his wife. " I don't know any thing in particular," she sobbed. "Do you know whether he has money, or whether his fa- ther has ?" 2f28 TRUMPS. '^^^ ''she shall lik in the hed she ilvs made,"' " No ; but old Mr. Burt is liis grandfather." ''What! his mother's fatlier?" "I believe so. I know Fanny always said he was Hope Wayne's cousin." Mr. Newt pondered for a little while. His brow con- tracted. " Why on earth have they run away ? Did Mr. Burt's TRUMPS. 229 grandson suppose he would be unwelcome to mo? Has he been m the habit of coming here, Nancy ?" " No, not much." " Have you seen them since this thing ?" "No, indeed," replied the mother, bursting into tears afresh. Her husband looked at her darkly. "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." Boniface Newt was not usually affectionate. But there Avas almost a ferocity in his address at this moment Avhich startled his wife into silence. His daughter May turned pale as she saw and lieard her father. "I thought Abel was trial enough !" said he, bitterly; " and now the girl must fill 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 un- derstand. It can't be any good reason ; and, daughter or no daughter, she shall lie in the bed she has made." 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. " Every thing comes at once," said he. " Just as I am most bothered and driven down town, this infernal business of Fan- ny'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! Tliis 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 nm away with a pauper-booby, by Heavens, it's too absurd!" Mr. Newt lausrhed mockino-lv, while the tears flowed fiist from the eyes of his wife, who said at intervals, " I vow," and " I declare," with such utter weakness of tone and move- 230 TRUMPS. ment that her husband suddenly exclaimed, in an exasperated tone, " Nancy, if you don't stop rocking your body in that inane way, and shaking your hand and your handkerchief, and say- ing those imbecile things, I shall go mad. I suppose this is the kind of sympathy a man gets from a woman in his misfor- tunes !" May Newt looked shocked and indignant. " Mother, I am sorry for poor Fanny," said she. She said it quietly and tenderly, and without the remotest reference in look, or tone, or gesture to her father. He turned toward her suddenly. " Hold your tongue. Miss !" " 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 mo- ment in amazement. " 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 !" There was a moment in which May Newt turned pale, but she said, in a very low voice, " I must go." " May, I forbid your going," said Mr. Newt, severely and loudly. " Father, you have no right to forbid me." " I forbid your going," roared her father, planting himself in front of her, and quite white with wrath. May said no more. " 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 ex- travagance, a daughter who runs away with — with" — he hes- itated to rememljcr the exact expression — " with a pauper-boo- by, and another daughter who. defies and disobeys her fiither. TRUMPS. 231 I congratulate you upon your charming family, upon your dis- tinguished success, Mrs. Newt. Is there no younger brother of your son-in-law whom you might introduce to Miss May Newt ? I beg your fardon, she is Miss Newt, now that her sister is so happily married," said Boniface Newt, bowing cer- emoniously to his daughter. Mrs. Newt clasped her hands in an utterly helpless despair, and unconsciously raised them in a beseechino' attitude before her. " The husband's duty takes him a^vay from home," contin- ued Mr. Newt. " While he is struggling for the maintenance of his family he supposes that his wife is caring for his chil- dren, 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." Boniface Newt bowed, and smiled sarcastically. "Yes, and as if it were not enough to have my w^ife 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 fi-om Yan Boozenberg's bank, and I haven't got it. He's an old driveling fool. Mrs. Ne^vt, you must curtail expenses. There's one mouth less, and one Stewart's bill less, at any rate." " Father,'' said May, as if she could not bear the cool cut- ting adrift of her sister from the family, "Fanny is not dead." " No," replied her father, sullenly. " No, the more's the — " He stopped, for he caught May's eye, and he could not fin- ish the sentence. " Mr. Newt," said his wife, at length, " perhaps Alfred Dinks is not poor." 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 Boni- face Newt w^as perfectly aware that it was generally under- stood he had no aversion to money. He knew also that he 232 TRUMTIS. was reputed rich, that his family were known to live exj^ens- ively, and he was quite shrewd enough to believe that any youth in her own set who ran off with his daughter did so be- cause he depended upon her father's money. He was satis- fied that the Newt family was not to be a gainer by the new alliance. The more he thought of it the more he was con- vinced, and the more angry he became. He was still storm- ing, when the door was thrown open and Mrs. Dagon rushed in. "What does it all mean?" asked she. Mr. Newt stopped in his walk, smiled contemptuously, and pointed to his wife, who sat with her handkerchief over her eyes. " 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." And she shook her plumage as she settled into a seat. " Mrs. Boniface Newt is unfortunately blind ; that is to say, she sees every body's affairs but her own," said Mr. "Newt, tauntingly. Mrs. Dagon, without heeding him, talked on. " 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 exjDect to have every thing. I can't see why he didn't propose reg- ularly, and behave like other people. Do you suppose he was actually engaged to his cousin Hope Wayne, and that our dar- ling Fanny has outwitted the Boston beauty, and the Boston beau too, for that matter ? It looks like it, really. I think that must be ito It's a pity a Newt should marry a fool — " "It is not the first time," interrupted her nephew, making a low bow to his wife. Mrs. Dagon looked a little surprised. She had seen little jars and rubs before in the family, but this morning she seemed to have ha})pened in upon an earthquake. She con- tinued : " But we must make the best of it. Are they in the house ?" TRUMPS. 233 " 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 bowled again to his wife. "Don't, don't," sobbed she. "You know I didn't know any thing about it. Oh ! Aunt Dagon, I nevei* knew him so unjust and wicked as lie 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. CHAPTER XXXIX. A FIELD-DAY. " Now, Nancy, tell me about this thing," said Mrs. Dagon, when the husband w^as gone. But Nancy had nothing to tell. " I don't like his running away with her — that looks bad," continued Mrs. Dagon. She pondered a few moments, and then said : " I can tell you one thing, Nancy, which it w- asn't w^orth while to mention to Boniface, wdio 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." " Oh dear me !" responded Mrs. Newt. "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. Al- fred 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 w\as some foolisli something with Hope Wayne, on the part of Al- 234 TRUMPS. fred, 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 y/ho 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." At this moment the bell rang, and Mrs. Newt, not w^ishing to be caught with red eyes, called May, who had looked on at this debate, and left the room. 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 disi)osed to criticise the other's conduct very close- ly. She saw, therefore, that if Alfred Dinks were riot rich — and it certainly was a question Avhether he were so really, or only in expectation fi'om 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 ruse 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 ? Mrs. Dagon was clever — so was Mrs. Dinks ; and it is the homage that one clever person always pays to another to be- lieve the other capable of every thing that occurs to himself. In the matter of the marriage Mrs. Bud long Dinks had been defeated, but she was not dismayed. She had lost Hope Wayne, indeed, and she could no longer hope, by the mar- riage of Alfred with his cousin, to consolidate the Burt prop- erty in her family. She had been very indignant — very deep- I TRUMPS. 235 ly disappointed. But she still loved her son, and the medita- tion of a nioht refreshed her. 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 daugh- ter 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. Bnt 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. 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. 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. " Good-morning, Mrs. Dagon !" " Good-morning, Mrs. Dinks !" replied that lady, still con- templating the other as if she were a surprising and incompre- hensible phenomenon. 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 afibrded her the profoundest satisfac- tion. But she was conscious that she could not deceive Mrs. Da- gon by an appearance of interest ; so, after a few moments, Mrs. Dinks seated herself in a large easy-chair opposite that 236 TRUMPS. - AUNT DAGON AND MRS. DINKS. lady, who was still looking at her, shook her dress, glanced into the mirror with the utmost nonchalance, and finally, slow- ly drawing out her own glasses, raised them to her eyes, and with perfect indifference surveyed the enemy. The ladies gazed at each other for a few moments in silence. "How's your daughter, Mrs. Alfred Dinks?" asked Mrs. Dagon, abruptly. TRUMPS. 237 Mrs. Dinks continued to gaze without answering. She was resolved to put down this dragon tliat laid waste society. Tlie dragon was instantly conscious that she had made a mis- take in speaking, and was angry accordingly. She said no- thing more ; she only glared. "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 ?" For Mrs. Newt was bewildered. Between her husband and Mrs. Dagon slie 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 sus- picious. 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. "Singular, indeed, Mrs. Newt!" rejoined Mrs. Dinks; "I call it extraordinary !" "I call it outrageous," interpolated Mrs. Dagon. "Poor girl ! to be run away with and married. ! What a blow for our family !" Mrs. Dinks resumed her glasses, and looked unutterably at Mrs. Dagon. But Mrs. Dinks, on her side, knowing the limit- ations 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. " 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." " Yes, oh yes!" answered Mrs. Newt. "I do declare! what do people do so for ?" 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 sav, 238 TRUMPS. " One thing, at least, is fortunate." " Indeed !" ejaculated Mrs. Dagon behind the glasses, as if she scoffed at the bare suggestion of any thing but utter mis- fortune being associated with such an affair. *'I say one thing is fortunate," continued Mrs. Dinks, in a more decided tone, and without the slightest attention to Mrs. Dagon's remark. " Dear me ! I declare I don't sec just what you mean, Mrs. Dinks," said Mrs. Newt. "I mean that they are neither of them children," answered the other. "They may not be children," commenced Mrs. Dagon, in the most implacal)le tone, "but they are both fools. I shouldn't wonder, Nancy, if they'd both outwitted each other, after all ; for whenever two peojjle, without the slightest ap- parent reason, rim away to be married, it is because one of them is poor." Tins was a truth of which the two mothers wei'e both vague- ly conscious, and which by no means increased the comfort of the situation. It led to a long pause in the conversation. Mrs. Dinks Avished Aunt Dagon on the top of Mont Blanc, and while she was meditating the best thing to say, Mrs. Da- gon, who had rallied, returned to the charge. " Of course," said she, " that is something that would hard- ly be said of the daughter of Boniface NcAVt." And Mrs. Dagon resumed the study of Mrs. Dinks. " Or of the grand-nephew of Christopher Burt," said the lat- ter, putting up her own glasses and returning the stare. " Grand-nephew ! Is Alfred Dinks not the grandson of Mr. Burt?" asked Mrs. Newt, earnestly. "No, he is his grand-nephew. I am the niece of Mr. Burt — daughter of his brother Jonathan, deceased," replied Mrs. Dinks. " Oh !" said Mrs. Newt, dolefully. "Not a very near relation," added Mrs. Dagon. " Grand- nephews don't count." TRUMPS. 230 That might be true, but it was thin consolation for Mrs. Newt, who began to take lire. "But, Mrs. Dinks, how did this affair come about?" asked she. " Exactly," chimed in Aunt Dagon ; " how did it come about ?" "My dear Mrs. Newt," replied Mrs. Dinks, entirely over- looking the existence of Mrs. Dagon, " you know my son Al- fred 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 Al- fred did it?" Mrs. Dinks's tone was resolute. Mrs. Newt was on the verge of hysterics. " Do you mean to insult my daughter to her mother's face?" exclaimed she. " Do you mean to insinuate that — " " 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 ?" Mrs. Newt opened her mouth with amazement. "I believe the husband usually supports the wife," ejacula- ted the dragon behind the glasses. " I understand you to say, then, my dear Mrs. Newt," con- tinued Mrs. Dinks, with a superb disregard of the older lady, Avho 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 he wall by-and-by inherit a fortune from his grand-uncle — " 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. Dngon to stop. "As I was saying — a fortune from his grand-uncle. Now until then provision must be made — " 240 TRUMPS. " Really," said Mrs. Dagoii, 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." "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 fiVthers' is. So I have come to ask you, in a purely friendly and private manner, what tlic chances for our dear children are?" " I am sure I know nothing," answered Mrs. Newt ; " I only know that Mr. Newt is furious." " Perfectly lunatic," added Aunt Dagon, in full view of Mrs. Dinks. *'Pity, pity!" returned Mrs. Dinks, with an air of compas- sionate 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." '' What does Mr. Dinks say ?" feebly inquired Mrs. Newt. " 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 hus- band as the only point of importance in the whole affair, that she turned pale. "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 rela- tives. " Have you been to see Famiy yet ?" " 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." TRUMPS. 241 Mrs. Dinks raised her eyebrows, and again touched her face gently with the handkerchief. Mrs. Dagon rubbed' her glass- es 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. "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 con- fidentially. How^ much will your husband probably allow Fan- ny until Alfred comes into his property ?" Mrs. Dinks leaned back and folded her shawl closely around her, and Mrs. Dagon hemmed and smiled a smile of perfect incredulity. " 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. Mrs. Dinks was confounded. That there would be some trouble in arranging the matter she had expected. But the extreme dolefuluess of Mrs. Newt had already perplexed her ; and the prompt, simple way in which she answered this ques- tion precluded the suspicion of artifice. Something was clear- ly, radically wrong. She knew that Alfred had six hundred a year from his father. She had no profound resjoect for that gentleman; but men are willful. Suppose he should take a whim to stop it? On the other side, she knew that Boni- face Newt was an obstinate man, and that fathers were some- times implacable. Sometimes, even, they did not relent in making their wills. She knew all about Miss Van Boozen- berg's marriage with Tom Witchet, for it was no secret in so- ciety. Was it possible her darling Alfred might be in actual danger of such penury — at least until he came into his j)roper- ty ? And what property was it, and what Avere the chances that old Burt would leave him a cent ? These considerations instantly occupied her mind as Mrs. L 24-2 TRUMPS. Newt spoke; and she saw more elearly llian ever the neces- sity of propitiating old Burt. At length she asked, Avith an undismayed countenance, and Avitli even a show of smiling: ''But, Mrs. Newt, Avhy do you take so cheerless a view of your Inisband's intentions in this matter ?" The words that her husband had sj^oken in liis Avrath Iiad rung in Mrs. Newt's mind ever since, and they now fell, echo- like, from her tongue. " Because he said that, daughter or no daughter, she shall lie in the bed she has made." 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. " Very well, then, Mrs. Newt," said her visitor, rising, "Mr. Newt will have the satisfaction of seeing his daughter starve." " Oh, her husband will take care of that," said the bronze statue, blandly. " My son Alfred," contuiued 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." "Oh I mercy! mercy!" exclaimed Mrs. Newt. "What shall we do ? What w^ill people say ?" " Good-morning, ladies !" said Mrs. Dinks, with a compre- hensive bow. She was troubled, but not overwhelmed ; for she believed that the rich Mr. Newt would not, of course, al- low his daughter to suffer. Mrs. Dagon was more profoundly persuaded than ever that Mrs. Dinks had managed the whole matter. " Nancy," said she, as the door closed upon Mrs. Dinks, "it is a scheming, artful woman. Tier son has no money, and I doubt if he ever will have any. Boniface will be implacublo. I know him. He is capable of seeing his daughter suffer. Fanny has made a frightful mistake. Poor Fanny! she was TRUMPS. 243 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 i^overty, but insist and enlarge upon the prospect. No Newt ought to be allowed to sufler if we can help it. Poor Fanny ! She was always pert, but not quite so smart as she thought herself!" Mrs. Dagon indulged in a low chuckle of triumph, while Mrs. Newt was overwhelmed with a vague apprehension tliat all her husband's wrath at his daughter's marriage would be visited upon her. CHAPTER XL. AT THE EOUND TABLE. 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 ficts 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 differ- ent associations for doing good to men and women. 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 in- formed Hope that she was on the point of going. Hope Wayne w^as not sorry to remain. Perhaps she also had her purposes. At Saratoga, in the previous summer, Arthur Merlin had remarked her incessant restlessness, and 244 TRUMPS. had connected it \vitli the picture and the hkeness of some- body. But when afterward, in New York, lie 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 calm- ness 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 devo- tion to art will make the eye — to his eye the calmness was still too calm, as the gayety had been too gay. 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 sj^rawling ujjon his lounge in a cotton velvet Italian coat, inimitably befogged and bebuttoned — and puffed profusel}^ following the inter- volving smoke wdth his eye — his meditations were alw^ays the same. He was always thinking of Hope Wayne, and befool- ing himself with the mask of art, actually hiding himself from himself: and not perceiving that wdien a man's sole thought by day and night is a certain w^oman, and an endless sj^ecula- tion about the quality of her feeling for another man, he is simply a lover thinking of his mistress and a rival. The infatuated painter suddenly became a great favorite in society. He could not tell why. Indeed there was no other secret than that he w^as 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 w-ord 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 cliarmiug in character, and sprightly in in telligence, and ])eautifid in ]>erson and manner, Hope Wayne was than all other young women. TRUMPS. 245 He proved that important point to his perfect satisfaction. lie 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 opin- ions. It was natural she should think it Avas Arthui- 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 mo- ment of the change. She was always friendly and generous with him. But some- how 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 coS^ounded Abel Newt ? thought he. For the conversation at the Round Table sometimes fell upon Abel. " He is certainly a handsome fellow," said Amy Waring. " I don't Avonder at his success." " It's beauty that does it, then. Miss Waring?" asked Arthur. " Does what ?" said she. " Why, that gives what you call social success." "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 ?" Lawrence Newt laughed. " You don't mean Pelham?" said he. " No, for he has sense enough to conceal the coxcomb. But 246 TRUMPS. you oiiglit to know your own nephew, Mr. Newt," answered Ainy. " Pei-liaps ; but I have a very slight acquaintance with him," said Mr. Newt. " I don't exactly like him," said Arthur Merlin, with perfect candor. " I didn't know you knew him," rei:)lied Amy, looking up. Arthur blushed, for he did not personally know him ; but he felt as if he did, so that he unwittingly spoke so. "No, no," said he, hastily; "I don't know him, I believe; but I know about him." As he said this he looked at Hope Wayne, Avho had been sitting, working, in perfect silence. At the same moment she raised her eyes to his inquiringly. "I mean," said Arthur, quite confused, "that I cTon't — somehow — that is to say, you know, there's a sort of impres- sion you get about people — " Lawrence Newt interposed — " I suppose that Arthur doesn't like Abel for the same rea- son that oil doesn't like water ; for the same reason that you, Miss Amy, and Miss Wayne, would probably not like such a man." Arthur Merlin looked fixedly at Hope Wayne. "What kind of man is Mr. Newt?" asked Hope, faintly coloring. She was trying herself. " Don't you know him?" asked Arthur, abruptly and keenly. "Yes," replied Hope, as she worked on, only a little more rapidly. "Well, what kind of man do you think him to be?" con- tinued Arthur, nervously. "That is not the question," answered Hope, calmly. 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. I I TKUMPS. 247 " Miss Hope is right, Arthur," said he. " She asks what kind of man my nephew is. He is a brilliant man — a fascma- ting man." " So Avas Colonel Burr," said Hope Wayne, without look- ing up. "Exactly, Miss Hope. You have mentioned the reason why neither you nor Amy would like my nephew." Hope and Amy understood. Arthur Merlin was bewil- dered. " I don't quite understand," said he ; " I am such a great fool." Nobody spoke. "I am sorry for that poor little Grace Plumer," Lawrence Newt gravely said. "Don't you be troubled about little Grace Plumer. She can take proper care of herself," answered Arthur, merrily. Hope Wayne's busy fingers did not stop. She remembered Miss Grace Plumer, and she did not agree with Arthur Mer- lin. Hope did not know Grace ; but she knew the voice, the manner, the magnetism to which the gay gii'l was exposed. " 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 !" 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. " 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 ?" " Why should a man complain that his sister does precisely what he is tryhig to do himself?" asked Lawrence. 248 TRUMPS. CHAPTER XLI. A LITTLE DINNER. "When Mrs. Dinks told her husband of Alfred's marrias^e, the Honorable Budlong said it was a great pity, but that it all came of the foolish fondness of the boy's mother; that no- thing was more absurd than for mothei*s to be eternally cod- dling 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 let- ter upon public affairs, in which he eloquently remarked that he had no aspirations for public life ; but that, afar from the tur- moils 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. " However," said he, " Mr. Xewt 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 sup- jDress altogether — within bounds. Try to control your nerves, and rely upon Providence." Therewith the statesman stroked his wife's chin. He con- trolled his own nerves perfectly, and went to dress for dinner Avith a select party at General Belch's, in honor of the Honor- able B. J. Ele, who, in his capacity as i-epresentative in Wash- ington, had ground an axe for his friend the General. There- fore, 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 tlie health of our distinguished, able, and high-minded repre- sentative, whose Congressional career proves that there is no office in the gift of a free and happy people to which he may TRUMPS. 249 not legitimately aspire. I liave the lionor and pleasure to pro- pose, with three times three, the Honorable B. Jawley Ele." The Honorable Biullong 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 v\^hen 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, theii the honorable gentleman who had been toasted rose, and ex- pressed 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 — the greatest human being that now lives, or ever did live, or ever can live. Mr. Ele sat down amidst a fury of applause. Major Scuji- pernong, of North Carolina, and Captain Lamb, of Pennsylva- nia, turned simultaneously to the young gentleman who sat between them, and who had been introduced to them by Gen- eral Belch as Mr. Newt, son of our old Tannnany friend Boni- face Newt, and said to him, with hysterical fervor, "By G — , Sir! that is one of the greatest men in this coun- try. He does honor, Sir, to the American name !" 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. 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, w^hen green mountains were gracefully alluded to by General Belch, was proud to say that he came — or, rather, he L 2 250 TRUMPS. might say — yes, lie %could say, hailed from the liills of Ethan Allen; and, in closing, treated tlie company to the talc of Ticondcroga. Tlic glittering mouth of the Father of Waters was a beautiful metaplior Avliich brought Colonol le Fay, of Louisiana, to his feet ; and the Colonel said that really lie did not know what to say. "Say that the Mississippi has more water in its mouth than ever you had !" roared Major Scup- pernong, with great hilarity. The company laughed, and the Colonel sat down. AVhen General Belch mentioned Plymouth Rock, the Honorable Budlong Dinks sprang upon it, and con- gratulated himself and the festive circle he saw around him upon the inestimable boon of religions 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. " Beautiful ! beautiful ! My God, Sir, what a poetic idea !" murmured, or rather gurgled. Major Scuppernong to Abel at his side. But when General Belch rose and said that eloquence was unnecessary when he mentioned one name, and that he there- fore merely requested his friends to fill and pledge, without farther introduction, " The old North State," there was a pro- longed burst of enthusiasm, during which Major Scuppernong tottered on to his feet and wavered there, blabbering in maud- lin woe, and wiping his eyes Avith a napkin ; while the company, who perceived his condition, rattled the table, and shouted, and laughed, until Sligo Moultrie, who sat opposite Abel, de- clared to him across the table that it was an abominable shame, that the whole South was insulted, and that he should say something. " 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 with- T RUMP S. 251 VvVl V. A LITTLE SPEECH. out getting drunk. Do you suj^pose that, at this time of night, any of these people have the remotest idea of the pohits of the compass ? Their sole interest at the present moment is to know Avhether the gallant Major will tumble under the table before he gets through his speech." But the gallant Major did not get tlirough his speech at all, because he never began it. The longer he stood the unstead- ier he grew, and the more profusely he wept. Once or twice 252 ' TRUMPS. be made a motion, as if straightening himself to begin. Tlie noise at table then subsided a little. The guests cried "H'st." There was a moment of silence, during which the eloquent and gallant JMajor 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 !" Abel called the waiters, and had the gallant and eloquent Major removed to a sofa. "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." 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. "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. " I believe he is. Sir," said Abel, at a venture. " Wasn't there some talk of his going on a foreign mission ? Seems to me I heard something." " Oh ! yes," replied Abel. " I've heard a good deal about it. But I am not sure that he has received his commission yet." Captain Lamb cocked his eye at Abel as if he had been a glass of wine. Abel rose, and, seating himself by Sligo Moultrie, entered into conversation. TRUMPS. 253 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, "I presume you are not often at dinners of this kind, Mr. Newt ?" " No," replied Abel ; " I usually dine on veal and spring chickens." " Oh !" said Mr. Dinks, who thought Abel meant that he generally ate that food. " I mean that men of my years usually feed Avith younger and softer people than I see around me here," explained the young man. . " Yes, of course, I understand," replied Mr. Dinks, loftily, Avho had not the least idea what Abel meant ; " young men must expect to begin at women's dinners." " 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." As he spoke the young gentleman filled a glass of wine, and looked over the rim at Mr. Dinks as he drained it. " Yes," returned the Honorable Mr. Dinks, " I don't go to women's dinners." 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. " I suppose," said he, " we ought to congratulate each other, Mr. Dinks." The honorable gentleman looked at Abel, paused a moment, then said : 254 TKUMPS. " My son marries at liis own risk, Sir. He is of years of dis- cretion, I believe, and having an income of only six hundred dollars a year, wliich I allow him, I presume he would not marry without some security upon the other side. However, Sir, as that is his aftair, and as I do not find it very interesting — no offense, Sii-, for I shall always be happy to see my daugh- ter-in-law — we had better, perhaps, find some other topic. The art of life, my young friend, is to avoid what is disagree- able. Don't you think Mr. Ele quite a remarkable man ? I regard him as an honor to your State, Sir." "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." Mr. Abel Newt bowed to Mr. Dinks as he spoke, while that gentleman listened with the stately gravity with which a Presi. dent of the United States hears the Latin oration in wdiich 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 com- bhied intellects that had been complimented. "And yet, Sir," continued Abel, "if my fither should un- happily conceive a prejudice in regard to this elopement, and decline to know any thing of the happy pair, six hundred dol- lars, in the present liberal style of life incumbent upon a man who has moved in the circles to which your son has been ac- customed, would be a very limited income for your son and daughter-in-law — very limited." Abel lighted another cigar. Mr. Dinks was a little con- founded by the sudden lurch of the conversation. "Very, very," he replied, as if he were entirely loth to lin- ger upon the subject. "The father of the lady in these cases is very apt to be ob- durate," said Abel. "I think very likely," replied ^Iv. Dinks, with the polite air TRUMPS. 255 of a man assentina: to an axiom in a science of which, unfortu- nately, he lias not tlie sHghtest knowledge. " Now, Sir," persisted Abel, " I will not conceal from you — for I know a lather's heart will wish to know to what his son is exposed — that my father is in quite a frenzy about this aftair." " Oh ! he'll get over it," interrupted Mr. Dinks, complacent- ly. " They always do ; and now, don't you think that we had better — " " Exactly," struck in the other. " But I, who know my fa- ther well, know that he will not relent. Oh, Sir, it is dread- ful 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 sny 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 Avould sustain them, I doubt not, until the grandfather died. Then all would be right." Abel blew his nose as if to command his emotion, and looked at Mr. Dinks. "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 grandfother, 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 ro- mantic young pair. Sir." " With all my heart," said Abel. 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 Avhat his father would do for him. Boniface Newt, upon coming to the store 256 THUMPS. after tlie tete-a-tcfe witli liis wife, had told Abel of his sister's marriage. Abel had comforted his parent by the representa- tion of the probable Burt inheritance. But the father was skeptical. Tiierefore, when General Arcularius Belch request- ed the pleasure of Mr. Abel Newt's company at dinner, to meet the Honorable B. Jawley Ele — an invitation which w^as dictated by General Belch's desire to stand well with Bonilace Newt, who contributed generously to the expenses of the party — tiie father and son both perceived the opportunity of discovering what they wished. " Mr. and Mrs. Alfred Dinks will have six hundred a year, as long as papa Dinks chooses to pay it," said Abel to his fa- ther the day after the dmner. Mr. Newt clenched his teeth and struck his fist upon the table. " Not a cent shall they have from me !" cried he. " What the devil does a girl mean by this kind of thing ?" Abel was not discomposed. He did not clench his teeth or strike his fist. " I tell you what they can do, father," said he. His father looked at him inquiringly. " They can take Mr. and Mrs. Tom Witchet to board." 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-re- proach that he himself was now doing what, in the banker's case, he had held up to Abel's scorn. It was only to remem- ber that the wary old man had shut down the jjortcullis of the bank vaults, and that loans were getting to be almost im230ssi- ble. His face darkened. He swore a sharp oath. "That (jjlL. hmLi(,\,\ villain!" TRUMPS. 257 CHAPTER XLlI. CLEAEING AND CLOUDY. It was summer tigain, and Aunt Martha sat sewing in the haidest of wooden chairs, erect, motionless. Yet all the bleak- ness 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, "Amy, Lawrence Newt has been here." The young woman looked almost troubled. " 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 ?' " 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. " 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. " He said he had seen you at the window one day, and he was resolved to find out what brought you into Front Street. 258 TRUMPS. But before he could make up liis mind to come, he chanced to see me at tlie same window, and tlien he waited no longer." The tone was more njitural than Amy had ever heard from Aunt Martha's li})s. She remarked that the severity of her costume was unchanged, except that a little strip of white col- lar 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 ? "Well?" said Amy again, after another pause. 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 tliere. 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 wdiich had reveal- ed his constant interest in all her comings, and goings, and do- ings ; and therefore she started when Aunt Martha, still rock- ing and sewing, said, quietly, " Why did Lawrence Newt care what brought you here ?" " I'm sure I don't know. Aunt Martha." Miss Amy looked as indifferent as she could, knowing that her companion was studying her face. And it Avas 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. Finding the theme fertile. Amy Waring, looking with ten- der eyes at her relative, continued. And yet with all the freedom with which she told the story of Lawrence Newt's large heart, there was an uiuisual 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 TRUMPS. 259 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 Siramers's — she told of all that she had heard from her cousin, Gabriel Ben net. "Indeed, Aunt Martha, I should like to have every body think of me as kindly as he thinks of every body." She had been speaking for some time. When she stoj^ped, Aunt Martha said, quietly, "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." " I suppose," replied Amy, " it was because he thought there must be somebody to relieve here." " 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?" Amy felt very warm, and replied, carelessly, that she thought it was quite likely. " I have plenty of time to think up here, my child," contin- ued Aunt Martha. " God is so good that He has spared my reason, and I have satisfied myself why Lawrence Newt want- ed to come here." Amy sat without replying, as if she were listening to dis- tant music. Her head drooped slightly forward ; her hands were clasped m her lap ; the delicate color glimmered upon her cheek, now deepening, now paling. The silence was ex- quisite, but she must break -it. " Why ?" said she, in a low voice. " Because he loves you. Amy," said the dark woman, as her busy fingers stitched without pausing. 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. "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." 2G0 TRUMPS. Aunt Martlia wont on working and rocking. Amy turned p.ili'. She bad not dared to say to lierself what another had now said to her. But suddenly she started as if stung. " If Aunt 3Iartha has seen this so plainly, why may not Lawrence Newt have seen it ?" The apprehension frightened her. 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 think- ing. They were still silent, when there was a knock at the door. "Cpnie in," said the clear, hard voice of Aunt Martha. 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. "This time. Miss Amy, I have caught you. Have I not kept your secret well ?" Amy was thinking of another secret than Aunt Martha's living in Front Street, and she merely blushed, without speak- ing. " 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 towai 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." 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 dear- est ; to know that my sister thinks of me as dead, and is glad that I am so — " " Stop, Aunt Martha, stop !" cried Amy, with the same firm tone in which, upon a previous visit, in this room, she had dis- missed the insolent shopman, " how can you say such things ?" and she stood radiant before her aunt, while Lawrence New^t looked on. ' Amy, dear, you can not understand. Sons and dau