Trumps

CHAPTER IV. — NIGHT.

It was already dusk, but the summer evening is the best time for play. The sport in the play-ground at Mr. Gray’s was at its height, and the hot, eager, panting boys were shouting and scampering in every direction, when a man ran in from the road and cried out, breathless,

“Where’s Mr. Gray?”

“In his study,” answered twenty voices at once. The man darted toward the house and went in; the next moment he reappeared with Mr. Gray, both of them running.

“Get out the boat!” cried Mr. Gray, “and call the big boys. There’s a man drowning in the pond!”

The game was over at once, and each young heart thrilled with vague horror. Abel Newt, Muddock, Blanding, Tom Gait, Jim Greenidge, and the rest of the older boys, came rushing out of the school-room, and ran toward the barn, in which the boat was kept upon a truck. In a moment the door was open, the truck run out, and all the boys took hold of the rope. Mr. Gray and the stranger led the way. The throng swept out of the gate, and as they hastened silently along, the axles of the truck kindled with the friction and began to smoke.

“Carefully! steadily!” cried the boys all together.

They slackened speed a little, but, happily, the pond was but a short distance from the school. It was a circular sheet of water, perhaps a mile in width.

“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 into it. The 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 opposite shore, but none of the pretty villas that stood in graceful groves upon the banks—none of the little lawns that sloped, with a feeling of human sympathy, to the water. The treachery of that glassy surface was all they thought of. They shuddered to remember that they had so often bathed in the pond, and recoiled as if they had been friends of a murderer. None of them spoke. They clustered closely together, listening intently. Nothing was audible but the hum of the evening insects and the regular muffled beat of the oars over the water. The boys strained their ears and held their breath as the sound suddenly stopped. But they listened in vain. The lazy tree-toads sang, the monotonous hum of the night went on.

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 again. Still nobody spoke. Most of the boys were afraid that when the boat appeared they should see a dead body, and they dreaded it. Some felt homesick, and began to cry. The throb of oars came nearer and nearer. The boat glimmered out of the darkness, and almost at the same moment slid up the shore. The solemn undertone in which the rowers spoke told all. Death was in the boat.

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. The boys did not look behind, but they all knew what they were dragging. The homely funeral-car rolled slowly along under the stars. The crickets chirped; the multitudinous voice of the summer night murmured on every side, mingling with the hollow rumble of the truck. In a few moments the procession turned into the grounds, and the boat was drawn to the platform.

“The little boys may go,” said Mr. Gray.

They dropped the rope and turned away. They did not even try to see what was done with the body; but when Blanding came out of the house afterward, they asked him who found the drowned man.

“Jim Greenidge,” said he. “He stripped as soon as we were well out on the pond, and asked the stranger gentleman to show him about where his friend sank. The moment the place was pointed out he dove. The first time he found nothing. The second time he touched him”—the boys shuddered—“and he actually brought him up to the surface. But he was quite dead. Then we took him into the boat and covered him over. That’s all.”

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.”

It was Abel Newt who spoke; and as Gabriel stepped in, Newt asked, abruptly,

“What do you want?”

“I want to speak 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 Greenidge.

“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 Greenidge lay for some time resting upon his elbow, wondering why a boy who had scarcely ever spoken a word to him before should suddenly want to be his servant. He could make nothing of it, and, tired with the excitement of the previous evening, he lay down again for a morning nap.

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 thunder-gust swept from the west and dashed against the old wooden church. As the Doctor poured forth his petitions he made the most extraordinary movements with his right hand. He waved it up and down rapidly. He opened his eyes for an instant as if to find somebody. He seemed to be closing imaginary windows—and so he was. It leaked out the next day at Mr. Gray’s that Dr. Peewee was telegraphing the sexton at random—for he did not know where to look for him—to close the windows. Nobody better understood the danger of draughts from windows, during thunder-storms, than the Doctor; nobody knew better than he that the lightning-rod upon the spire was no protection at all, but that the iron staples with which it was clamped to the building would serve, in case of a bolt’s striking the church, to drive its whole force into the building. As a loud crash burst over the village in the midst of his sermon, and showed how frightfully near the storm was, his voice broke into a shrill quaver, as he faltered out, “Yes, my brethren, let us be calm under all circumstances, and Death will have no terrors.”

The Rev. Amos Peewee had been settled in the village of Delafield since a long period before the Revolution, according to the boys. But the parish register carried the date only to the beginning of this century. He wore a silken gown in summer, and a woolen gown in winter, and black worsted gloves, always with the middle finger of the right-hand glove slit, that he might more conveniently turn the leaves of the Bible, and the hymn-book, and his own sermons.

The pews of the old meeting-house were high, and many of them square. The heads of the people of consideration in the congregation were mostly bald, as beseems respectable age, and as the smooth, shiny line of pates appeared above the wooden line of the pews they somehow sympathetically blended into one gleaming surface of worn wood and skull, until it seemed as if the Doctor’s theological battles were all fought upon the heads of his people.

But the Doctor was by no means altogether polemical. After defeating and utterly confounding the fathers who fired their last shot a thousand years ago, and who had not a word to say against his remaining master of the field, he was wont to unbend his mind and recreate his fancy by practical discourses. His sermons upon lying were celebrated all through the village. He gave the insidious vice no quarter. He charged upon it from all sides at once. Lying couldn’t stand for a moment. White lies, black lies, blue lies, and green lies, lies of ceremony, of charity, and of good intention disappeared before the lightning of his wrath. They are all children of the Devil, with different complexions, said Dr. Peewee.

But if lying be a vice, surely, said he, discretion is a virtue. “My dear Mr. Gray,” said Dr. Peewee to that gentleman when he was about establishing his school in the village, and was consulting with the Doctor about bringing his boys to church—“my dear Mr. Gray,” said the Doctor, putting down his cigar and stirring his toddy (he was of an earlier day), “above all things a clergyman should be discreet. In fact, Christianity is discretion. A man must preach at sins, not sinners. Where would society be if the sins of individuals were to be rudely assaulted?—one more lump, if you please. A man’s sins are like his corns. Neither the shoe nor the sermon must fit too snugly. I am a clergyman, but I hope I am also a man of common sense—a practical man, Mr. Gray. The general moral law and the means of grace, those are the proper themes of the preacher. And the pastor ought to understand the individual characters and pursuits of his parishioners, that he may avoid all personality in applying the truth.”

“Clearly,” said Mr. Gray.

“For instance,” reasoned the Doctor, as he slowly stirred his toddy, and gesticulated with one skinny forefinger, occasionally sipping as he went on, “if I have a deacon in my church who is a notorious miser, is it not plain that, if I preach a strong sermon upon covetousness, every body in the church will think of my deacon—will, in fact, apply the sermon to him? The deacon, of course, will be the first to do it. And then, why, good gracious! he might even take his hat and cane and stalk heavily down the broad aisle, under my very nose, before my very eyes, and slam the church door after him in my very face! Here at once is difficulty in the church; hard feeling; perhaps even swearing. Am I, as a Christian clergyman, to give occasion to uncharitable emotions, even to actual profanity? Is not a Christian congregation, was not every early Christian community, a society of brothers? Of course they were; of course we must be. Little children, love one another. Let us dwell together, my brethren, in amity,” said the Doctor, putting down his glass, and forgetting that he was in Mr. Gray’s study; “and please give me your ears while I show you this morning the enormity of burning widows upon the funeral pyres of their husbands.”

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 people the Hindoos are! They actually burn widows! My dear, how grateful we ought to be that we live in a Christian country where wives are not burned!—Abraham! if you put another stick of wood into that stove I’ll skin you alive, Sir. Go to bed this instant, you wicked boy!—It must be bad enough to be a widow, my dear, let alone the burning. Shall we have evening prayers, Mrs. Deacon?”

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, Sir,” replied he, “it’s nothing. We were 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 Wayne’s.”

“You believe, Gyles? Why don’t you speak out?”

“Well, Sir, the fact is that Abel Newt says she had a purple ribbon on her bonnet—”

“She hadn’t,” said Gabriel, breaking in, impetuously. “She had a beautiful blue ribbon, and lilies of the valley inside, and a white lace vail, and—”

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.”

CHAPTER VI. — EXPERIMENTUM CRUCIS.

“The truth is, Gyles;” said Abel to Blanding, his chum, “Gabriel Bennet’s mother ought to come and take him home for the summer to play with the other calves in the country. People shouldn’t leave their spoons about.”

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, whose 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 loaded 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 since Gabriel Bennet came.”

“No, we haven’t,” answered Mr. Gray, as his small eyes twinkled at the prospect of a little fun; “no, we haven’t. Now, boys, of course a good many of you have played the game before. But you, new boys, attend! the thing is this. When I say three—one, two, 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 handkerchief.”

Gabriel, full of expectation of the fun, ran out of the room. The moment he closed the door Mr. Gray lifted his finger and said,

“Now, boys! every body remain perfectly quiet when I say three.”

It was needless to explain why, for every body saw the intended joke, and Gabriel returned instantly from the study saying that the handkerchief was not there.

“No matter,” said Mr. Gray. “Are you all ready, boys. Now, then—one, two, three!”

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 music.

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 was about to yield, and drop the tell-tale tear of a sensitive, mortified boy, he caught the eye of Abel Newt. It was calmly studying him as a Roman surgeon may have watched the gladiator in the arena, while his life-blood ebbed away. Gabriel remembered Abel’s words in the play-ground—“There’s more than one kind of fagging.”

When the laugh was over, Gabriel’s had been loudest of all.

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 bars which guarded the entrance of one of Mr. Burt’s pastures. He gazed for some time down into the rich green field that sloped away from the road toward a little bowery stream, but still whistled, as if he were looking into his mind rather than at the landscape.

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 high iron gate, between huge stone posts, on the tops of which were urns overflowing with vines, that hung down and partly tapestried the columns. Immediately upon entering the grounds the carriage avenue wound away from the gate, so that the passer-by could see nothing as he looked through but the hedge which skirted and concealed the lawn. The fence upon the road was a high, solid stone wall, along whose top clustered a dense shrubbery, so that, although the land rose from the road toward the house, the lawn was entirely sequestered; and you might sit upon it and enjoy the pleasant rural prospect of fields, woods, and hills, without being seen from the road. The house itself was a stately, formal mansion. Its light color contrasted well with the lofty pine-trees around it. But they, in turn, invested it with an air of secrecy and gloom, unrelieved by flowers or blossoming shrubs, of which there were no traces near the house, although in the rear there was a garden so formally regular that it looked like a penitentiary for flowers.

These were the pine-trees that Hope Wayne had heard sing all her life—but sing like the ocean, not like birds or human voices. In the black autumn midnights they struggled with the north winds that smote them fiercely and filled the night with uproar, while the child cowering in her bed thought of wrecks on pitiless shores—of drowning mothers and hapless children. Through the summer nights they sighed. But it was not a lullaby—it was not a serenade. It was the croning of a Norland enchantress, and young Hope sat at her open window, looking out into the moonlight, and listening.

Abel Newt opened the gate and passed in. He walked along the avenue, from which the lawn was still hidden by the skirting hedge, went up the steps, and rang the bell.

“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 Newt was shown into a large drawing-room. The furniture was draped for the season in cool-colored chintz. There was a straw matting upon the floor. The chandeliers and candelabras were covered with muslin, and heavy muslin curtains hung over the windows. The tables and chairs were of a clumsy old-fashioned pattern, with feet in the form of claws clasping balls, and a generally stiff, stately, and uncomfortable air. The fire-place was covered by a heavy painted fire-board. The polished brass andirons, which seemed to feel the whole weight of responsibility in supporting the family dignity, stood across the hearth, belligerently bright, and there were sprays of asparagus in a china vase in front of them. A few pictures hung upon the wall—family portraits, Abel thought; at least old Christopher was there, painted at the age of ten, standing, in very clean attire, holding a book in one hand and a hoop in the other. The picture was amusing, and looked to Abel symbolical, representing the model boy, equally devoted to study and play. That singular sneering smile flitted over his face as he muttered, “The Reverend Gabriel Bennet!”

There were a few books upon the centre-table, carefully placed and balanced as if they had been porcelain ornaments. The bindings and the edges of the leaves had a fresh, unworn look. The outer window-blinds were closed, and the whole room had a chilly formality and dimness which was not hospitable nor by any means inspiring.

Abel seated himself in an easy-chair, and was still smiling at the portrait of Master Christopher Burt at the age of ten, when that gentleman, at the age of seventy-three, was heard in the hall. Hiram had left the door open, so that Abel had full notice of his approach, and rose just before the old gentleman entered, and stood with his cap in his hand and his head slightly bent.

Old Burt came into the room, and said, a little fiercely, as he saw the visitor,

“Well, Sir!”

Abel bowed.

“Well, Sir!” he repeated, more blandly, apparently mollified 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 valuable time and the many important cares which must occupy the attention of a gentleman so universally known, honored, and loved in the community as you are, Sir.”

“Did you come here to compliment me, Sir?” asked Mr. Burt. “You’ve got some kind of subscription paper, I suppose.” The old gentleman began to warm up as he thought of it. “But I can’t give any thing. I never do—I never will. It’s an infernal swindle. Some deuced Missionary Society, or Tract Society, or Bible Society, some damnable doing-good society, that bleeds the entire community, has sent you up here, Sir, to suck money out of me with your smooth face. They’re always at it. They’re always sending boys, and ministers in the milk, by Jove! and women that talk in a way to turn the milk sour in the cellar, Sir, and who have already turned themselves sour in the face, Sir, and whom a man can’t turn out of doors, Sir, to swindle money out of innocent people! I tell you, young man, ‘twon’t work! I’ll, be whipped if I give you a solitary red cent!” And Christopher Burt, in a fine wrath, seated himself by the table, and wiped his forehead.

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 mean? Who are you. Sir?”

“I am one of Mr. Gray’s boys, Sir,” replied Abel.

“What! what!” thundered Grandpa Burt, springing up suddenly, his mind opening upon a fresh scent. “One of Mr. Gray’s boys? How dare you, Sir, come into my house? Who sent you here, Sir? What right have you to intrude into this place, Sir? Hiram! Hiram!”

“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?”

“Mr. Burt,” said Abel, with placid persistence, “being one of Mr. Gray’s boys, I go of course to Dr. Peewee’s Church, and there I have so often seen—”

“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 family, and so on, Sir, 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 want to have your head broken. D’ye come here to beard me in my own house? By George! your impudence stupefies me, Sir. I tell you go this minute!”

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 surprise and suspicion. But the boy wore the same look of candor. He held his cap in his hand. His black hair fell around his handsome face. He was entirely calm, and behaved in the most respectful manner.

“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 teacher says I draw very well, and I have had a great desire to draw your place, but I did not dare to ask permission. It is said in school, Sir, that you don’t like Mr. Gray’s boys, and I knew nobody who could introduce me. But to-day, as I came by, every thing looked so beautifully, and I was so sure that I could make a pretty picture if I could only get leave to come inside the grounds, that almost unconsciously I found myself coming up the avenue and ringing the bell. That’s all, Sir; and I’m sure I beg your pardon for troubling you so much.”

Mr. Burt listened to this speech with a pacified air. He was perhaps a little ashamed of his furious onslaughts and interruptions, and therefore the more graciously inclined toward the request of the young man.

So the old man said, with 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 allow 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 artist! 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 fiddle, Sir! You are capable of better 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, but he did not say so. He only looked respectful, 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 afternoons, Sir, to do it properly.”

“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, Christopher 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 appear. 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 Malacca 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 Reverend 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 his strong arms began to tell. He was confident of victory, and calmer than his antagonist; but it was like fighting a flame, so fierce and rapid were Gabriel’s strokes.

Little Malacca looked on in amazement and terror. “Don’t! don’t!” cried he, as he saw the faces of the fighters. “Oh, don’t! Abel, you’ll kill him!” For Abel was now fully aroused. He was seriously hurt by Gabriel’s blows.

“Don’t! there’s somebody coming!” cried Little Malacca, with the tears in his eyes, as the sound of a carriage was heard driving down the hill.

The combatants said nothing. The faces of both of them were bruised, and the blood was flowing. Gabriel was clearly flagging; and Abel’s face was furious as he struck his heavy blows, under which the smaller boy staggered, but did not yet succumb.

“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 his heavy hair, his hands clenched, his face bruised and bleeding, his mouth sternly set as he looked down upon his opponent. Suddenly he heard a sound close by him—a half-smothered cry. He looked up. It was the Burt carriage, and Hope Wayne was gazing in terror from the window.

CHAPTER VIII. — 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 West Indies—rushed to his mind as he rushed to the door. He opened it in hot haste.

There stood Hope Wayne, pale, her eyes flashing, her hand ungloved. At the foot of the steps was the carriage, and in the carriage sat Mrs. Simcoe, with a bleeding boy’s head resting upon her shoulder. The coachman stood at the carriage door.

“Here, Hiram, help 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 humanity, 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 Malacca, who quivered under his wrath. “What are you doing at my gate? Can’t Mr. Gray keep his boys at home? Hope, go up stairs!” said the old gentleman, as he reached the foot of the staircase.

But Hope Wayne and Mrs. Simcoe remained with the patient. Hope rubbed the boy’s hands, and put her own hand upon his forehead from time to time, until he sighed heavily and opened his eyes. But before he could recognize her she went out to send Hiram to him, while Mrs. Simcoe sat quietly by him.

“We must put you to bed,” she said, gently, “and to-morrow you may go. But why 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 having told him to undress the boy carefully and bathe his face and hands. Gabriel was perfectly passive, Hiram was silent, quick, and careful, and in a few moments he closed the door softly behind him, and left Gabriel alone.

He was now entirely conscious, but very weak. His face was turned toward the window, which was open, and he watched the pine-trees that rustled gently in the afternoon breeze. It was profoundly still out of doors and in the house; and as he lay exhausted, the events of the last few days and months swam through his mind in misty confusion. Half-dozing, half-sleeping, every thing glimmered before him, and the still hours stole by.

When he opened his eyes again it was twilight, and he was lying on his back looking up at the heavy tester of the great bedstead from which hung the curtains, so that he had only glimpses into the chamber. It was large and lofty, and the paper on the wall told the story of Telemachus. His eyes wandered over it dreamily.

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 lips of Calypso moved.

“Are you better?”

Gabriel was awake in a moment. It was Hope Wayne who 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 turned toward the door, so that Hope saw it as she entered. He was sleeping peacefully. At that very moment he was dreaming of her. In dreams Hope Wayne was walking with him by the sea, her hand in his: her heart his own.

She stood motionless lest she might wake him. He did not stir, and she heard his low, regular breathing, and knew that all was well. Then she turned as noiselessly as she had entered, and went out, leaving him to peaceful sleep—to dreams—to the sighing of the pines.

Hope Wayne went quietly to her room, which was next to the one in which Gabriel lay. Her kind heart had sent her to see that he wanted nothing. She thought of him only as a boy who had had the worst of a quarrel, and she pitied him. Was it then, indeed, only pity for the victim that knocked gently at his door? Was she really thinking of the conqueror when she went to comfort the conquered? Was she not trying somehow to help Abel by doing all she could to alleviate the harm he had done?

Hope Wayne asked herself no questions. She was conscious of a curious excitement, and the sighing of the pines lulled her to sleep. But all night long she dreamed of Abel Newt, with bare head and clustering black hair, gracefully bowing, and murmuring excuses; and oh! so manly, oh! so heroic he looked as he carefully helped to lay Gabriel in the carriage.