Trumps

CHAPTER IX. — NEWS FROM HOME.

Abel found a letter waiting for him 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 had known and respected Mr. Gray in former years, left you, as you know, a sum sufficient for your education, upon condition of your being placed at Mr. Gray’s until your nineteenth birthday. That time is approaching. Upon your nineteenth birthday you will leave school. Mr. Gray gives me the best accounts of you. My plans for you are not quite settled. What are your own wishes? It is late for you to think of college; and as you will undoubtedly be a business man, I see no need of your learning Greek or writing Latin poetry. At your age I was earning my own living. Your mother and the family are well. Your affectionate father,

“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 improve the mind. I hope you attend to religion. It will help you if you keep a record of Dr. Peewee’s texts, and write abstracts of his sermons. Grammar, too, and general manners. I hear that you are very self-possessed, which is really good news. My friend Mrs. Beacon was here last week, and she says you bow beautifully! That is a great deal for her to admit, for her son Bowdoin is one of the most elegant and presentable young men I have ever seen. He is very gentlemanly indeed. He and Alfred Dinks have been here for some time. My dear son, could you not learn to waltz before you come home? It is considered very bad by some people, because you have to put your arm round the lady’s waist. But I think it is very foolish for any body to set themselves up against the customs of society. I think if it is permitted in Paris and London, we needn’t be so very particular about it in New York. Mr. Dinks and Mr. Beacon both waltz, and I assure you it is very distingué indeed. But be careful in learning. Your sister Fanny says the Boston young men stick out their elbows dreadfully when they waltz, and look like owls spinning on invisible teetotums. She declares, too, that all the Boston girls are dowdy. But she is obliged to confess that Mr. Beacon and Mr. Dinks are as well dressed and gentlemanly and dance as well as our young men here. And as for the Boston ladies, Mr. Dinks tells Fanny that he has a cousin, a Miss Wayne, who lives in Delafield, who might alter her opinion of the dowdiness of Boston girls. It seems she is a great heiress, and very beautiful; and it is said here (but you know how idle such gossip is) that she is going to marry her cousin, Alfred Dinks. He does not deny it. He merely laughs and shakes his head—the truth is, he hasn’t much to say for himself. Bless me! I’ve got to take another sheet.

“Now, Abel, my dear, do you know Miss Wayne? I have never heard you speak of her, and yet, if she lives in Delafield, you must know something about her. Your father is working hard at his business, but it is shocking how much money we have to spend to keep up our place in society properly. I know that he spends all his income every year; and if any thing should happen—I cry my eyes out to think of it. Miss Wayne, I hear, is very beautiful, and about your age. Is it true about her being an heiress?

“What is the news—let me see. Oh! your cousin, Laura Magot, is engaged, and she has made a capital match. She will be eighteen on her next birthday; and the happy man is Mellish Whitloe. It is the fine old Knickerbocker family. Fanny says she knows all about them—that she has the Whitloes all at her fingers’ ends. You see she is as bright as ever. It is a capital match. Mr. Whitloe has at least five thousand dollars a year from his business now; and his aunt, Patience Doolittle, widow of the old merchant, who has no children, is understood to prefer him to all her relations. Laura will have a little something; so there could be nothing better. We are naturally delighted. But what a pity Laura is not a little taller—about Fanny’s height; and as I was looking at Fanny the other day, I thought how sorry I was for Mr. Whitloe that Laura was not just a little prettier. She has such a nose; and then her complexion! However, my dear Abel of course cares nothing about such things, and, I have no doubt, is wickedly laughing at his mamma at this very moment for scribbling him such a long, rambling letter. What is Miss Wayne’s first name? Is she fair or brunette? Don’t forget to write me all you know. I am going to Saratoga in a few days—I think Fanny ought to drink the waters. I told Dr. Lush I was perfectly sure of it; so he told your father, and he has consented.

“Do you remember Mrs. Plumer, the large, handsome woman from New Orleans, whom you saw when we dined at your Uncle Magot’s last summer? She has come on, and will be at the Spring this year. I am told Mr. Plumer is a very large planter—the largest, some people say, in the country. Their oldest daughter, Grace is as school in town. She is only fourteen, I believe. What an heiress she will be! The Moultries, from South Carolina, will be there too, I suppose. By-the-by, now old is Sligo Moultrie? Then there are some of those rich Havana people coming. What diamonds they wear! It will be very pleasant at the Springs; and I hope the little visit will do Fanny good. Dr. Maundy is giving us a series of sermons upon the different kinds of wood used in building Solomon’s Temple. They are very interesting; and he has such a flow of beautiful words and such wavy gestures, and he looks so gentlemanly in the pulpit, that I have no doubt he does a great deal of good. The church is always full. Your Uncle Lawrence has been to hear a preacher from Boston, by the name of Channing, and is very much pleased. Have you ever heard him? It seems he is very famous in his own sect, who are infidels, or deists, or pollywogs, or atheists—I don’t know which it is. I believe they preach mere morality, and read essays instead of sermons. I hope you go regularly to church; and from what I have heard of Dr. Peewee, I respect him very highly. Perhaps you had better make abstracts of his sermons, and I can look over them some time when you come home.

“Speaking of religion, I must tell you a little story which Fanny told me the other day. She was coming home from church with Mr. Dinks, and he said to her, ‘Miss Newt, what do you do when you go into church and put your head down?’ Fanny did not understand him, and asked him what he meant. ‘Why,’ said he, ‘when we go into church, you know, we all put our heads down in front of the pew, or in our hands, for a little while, and Dr. Maundy spreads his handkerchief on the desk and puts his face into it for quite a long time. What do you do?’ he asked, in a really perplexed way, Fanny says. ‘Why,’ said she, gravely, ‘Mr. Dinks, it is to say a short prayer.’ ‘Bless my soul!’ said he; ‘I never thought of that.’ 'Why, what do you do, then?’ asked Fanny, curiously. ‘Well,’ answered Dinks, ‘you know I think it’s a capital thing to do; it’s proper, and so forth; but I never knew what people were really at when they did it; so I always put my head into my hat and count ten. I find it comes to about the same thing—I get through at the same time with other people.’ He isn’t very bright, but he is a good-hearted fellow, and very gentlemanly, and I am told he is very rich. Fanny laughs at him; but I think she likes him very well. I wish you would find out whether Miss Wayne really is engaged to him. Here I am at the very end of my paper. Take care of yourself, my dear Abel, and remember the religion and the solid reading.

“Your affectionate mother,

“NANCY NEWT.”

Abel read the letters, and stood looking at the floor, musingly. His school days, then, were numbered; the stage was to be deepened and widened—the scenery and the figures so wonderfully changed! He was to step in a moment from school into the world. He was to lie down one night a boy, and wake up a man the next morning.

The cloud of thoughts and fancies that filled his mind all drifted toward one point—all floated below a summit upon which stood the only thing he could discern clearly, and that was the figure of Hope Wayne. Just as he thought he could reach her, was he to be torn away?

And who was Mr. Alfred Dinks?

CHAPTER X. — BEGINNING TO SKETCH.

The next morning when Gabriel declared that he was perfectly well and had better return, nobody opposed his departure. Hope Wayne, indeed, ordered the carriage so readily that the poor boy’s heart sank. Yet Hope pitied Gabriel sincerely. She wished he had not been injured, because then there would have been nobody guilty of injuring him; and she was quite willing he should go, because his presence reminded her too forcibly of what she wanted to forget.

The poor boy drove dismally away, thinking what a dreadful thing it is to be young.

After he had gone Hope Wayne sat upon the lawn reading. Suddenly a shadow fell across the page, and looking up she saw Abel Newt standing beside her. He had his cap in one hand and a port-folio in the other. The blood rushed from Hope’s cheek to her heart; then rushed back again. Abel saw it.

Rising from the lawn and bowing gravely, she turned toward the house.

“Miss Wayne,” said Abel, in a voice which was very musical and very low—she stopped—“I hope you have not already convicted and sentenced me.”

He smiled a little as he spoke, not familiarly, not presumptuously, but with an air which indicated his entire ability to justify himself. Hope said:

“I have no wish to be unjust.”

“May I then plead my own cause?”

“I must go into the house—I will call my grandfather, whom I suppose you wish to see.”

“I am here by his permission, and I hope you will not regard me as an intruder.”

“Certainly not, if he knows you are here;” and Hope lingered to hear if he had any thing more to say.

“It was a very sudden affair. We were both hot and angry; but he is smaller than I, and I should have done nothing had he not struck me, and fallen upon me so that I was obliged to defend myself.”

“Yes—to be sure—in that case,” said Hope, still lingering, and remarking the music of his voice. Abel continued—while the girl’s eyes saw how well he looked upon that lawn—the clustering black hair—the rich eyes—the dark complexion—the light of intelligence playing upon his face—his dress careful but graceful—and the port-folio which showed this interview to be no design or expectation, but a mere chance—

“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 impression.”

“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 the musical voice at her side; “I have seen you so constantly in church, and I have even tried sometimes—I confess it—to catch a glance from you as you came out. But I am not sorry, for now—”

“Hope! Hope!” 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 permits me to sketch the place?”

“Do you draw, Mr. Newt?” asked Hope Wayne, in a tone which seemed to Abel to trickle along his nerves, so exquisite and prolonged was the pleasure it gave him to hear her call him by name. How did she know it? thought he.

“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.”

“Hope! Hope!” came the voice again from the garden. Abel heard it—perhaps Hope did not. He was busily opening his port-folio and turning over the drawings, and stepped closer to her, as he said:

“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 always 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 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, instead of standing on this lawn, I might be a knight slaying 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 who would desolate all Delafield with the swishing of his scaly tail; then you would place a wreath upon my head, and all the people would come out and salute me for saving the Princess whom they loved, and I”—said Abel, after a momentary pause, a shade more gravely, and in a tone a little lower—“and I, as I rode away, should not wonder that they loved her.”

He looked across the lawn under the pine-trees as if he were thinking of some story that he had been actually reading. Hope smiled no longer, but said, quietly,

“Mr. Newt, I am wanted. I must go in. Good-morning!” And she moved away.

“Perhaps 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?”

“I heard it somewhere,” answered Abel, gently and respectfully, but looking at Hope with a curious glance which seemed to her to penetrate every pore in her body. That glance said as plainly as words could have said, “And I heard you were engaged to him.”

Hope Wayne looked serious for a moment; then she said, with a half smile,

“I suppose it is no secret that Alfred Dinks is my cousin;” and, bowing to Abel, she went swiftly over the lawn toward the house.

CHAPTER XI. — A VERDICT AND A SENTENCE.

Hope Wayne did not agree with Abel Newt that life was so much better in books. There was nothing better in any book she had ever read than the little conversation with the handsome youth which she had had that morning upon the lawn. When she went into the house she found no one until she knocked at Mrs. Simcoe’s door.

“Aunty, did you call me?”

“Yes, Hope.”

“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 window. Neither 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 boy without stunning him? He might easily have killed him,” said Mrs. Simcoe, in the same dry tone.

“It was very unfortunate, and Mr. Newt says so; but I don’t think he is to bear every thing.”

“What did the other do?”

“He insulted him.”

“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 “indeed!” as Mrs. Simcoe pronounced it, that Hope was really angry with her.

“I don’t see why you should treat Mr. Newt in that manner,” said she, haughtily.

“In what manner, Hope?” asked the other, calmly, 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 ordinary 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 understand what it was, nor why. A little while before, upon the lawn, she had been so happy. Now it seemed as if her heart were breaking. When she grew calmer, Mrs. Simcoe, holding the fair face between her hands, and tenderly kissing it once more, said, slowly,

“Hope, my child, we must all walk the path alone. But you, too, will learn that our human affections are but tents of a night.”

“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 mean, Hope, that you are in love with Abel Newt.”

Hope’s hands dropped by her side. She stepped back a little. A feeling of inexpressible solitude fell upon her—of alienation from her grandfather, and of an inexplicable separation from her old nurse—a feeling as if she suddenly stood alone in the world—as if she had ceased to be a girl.

“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 was wrong; I know it was, and I am very sorry. But, ma’am, I hope you won’t—ch—ch—I mean, won’t—”

That unlucky “ma’am” had choked all his other words. Hope was so lofty and splendid in his eyes as she stood before him that he was impressed with a kind of awe. But the moment he had spoken to her as if he were only a little boy and she a woman, he was utterly confused. He staggered and stumbled in his sentence until Hope graciously said,

“I blame nobody.”

But poor Gabriel’s speech was gone. His mouth was parched and his mind dry. He could not think of a word to say; and, twisting and fumbling his cap, did not know how to go.

“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 apparent resumption of a previous conversation. As he ran up the avenue he had not remarked Abel sketching on the lawn. But Abel, sketching on the lawn, had observed Gabriel running up the avenue, and therefore happened in to ask Miss Wayne’s opinion of his drawing. He chatted merrily on:

“Why, there’s your grandpapa when he was a little grand-baby and had an old grandpapa in his turn,” said he, pointing at the portrait he had remarked upon his previous visit in that parlor. “What a funny little old fellow! Let me see. Gracious! ‘twas before the Revolution. Ah! now, if he could only speak and tell us just what he saw in the room where they were painting him—what he had for breakfast, for instance—what those dear little ridiculous waistcoats, with all their flowery embroidery, cost a yard, say—yes, yes, and what book that is—and who gave him the hoop—”

He rattled on. Never in Hope’s lifetime had such sounds of gay speech been heard in that well-arranged and well-behaved parlor. They seemed to light it up. The rapid talk bubbled like music.

“Hoop and book—book and hoop! Oh yes. Good boy, very good boy,” said Abel, laughing. “I should think it was a portrait of the young Dr. Peewee—the wee Peewee, Miss Hope,” said the audacious youth, sliding, as it were, unconsciously and naturally into greater familiarity. “Ah! I know you know all his sermons by heart, for you never look away from him. What on earth are they all about?”

What a contrast to Gabriel’s awkward silence of the moment before! Such a handsome face! such a musical voice!

In the midst of it all Hiram was heard remonstrating outside:

“Don’t, Sir, don’t! You’ll—you’ll—something will happen, Sir.”

There was a moment’s scuffling and trampling, and Christopher Burt, restrained by Hiram, burst into the room. The old man was white with wrath. He had his cane in one hand, and Hiram held the other hand and arm.

He had come in from the garden, and as he stopped in the dining-room to take a little trip to the West Indies, he had heard voices in the drawing-room. Summoning Hiram to know if they were visitors, he had learned the awful truth which apprised him that his Hesperidian wall was down, and that the robbers at that very moment might be shaking his precious fruit from the boughs. To be sure he had himself left the gate open. Do you think, then, it helps a man’s temper to be as furious with himself as with other people? He burst into the room.

There stood Hope: Abel at her side, in the merry midst of his talk, with his sketch in his hand, his port-folio under his arm, and his finger pointed toward the portrait; Gabriel, at a little distance, confounded and abashed by an acquaintance between Hope and Abel of which he had no previous suspicion. The poor boy! forgotten by Hope, and purposely trampled down by the eager talk of Abel.

“Hope, go up stairs!” shouted the old gentleman. “And what are you doing in my house, you scamps?”

He lifted his cane as he came toward them. “I knew all this fighting business yesterday was a conspiracy—a swindling cheat to get into this house! I’ve a mind to break your impudent bones!”

“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-daughter? Hope, I say, go up 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 permission. 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 impossible to resist; and Abel and Gabriel moved slowly toward the door. The former was furious at finding himself doomed in company with Gabriel. But he betrayed nothing. He was preternaturally calm. Hope, dismayed and pale, stood looking on, but saying nothing. Gabriel went quietly out of the room. Abel turned to the door, and bowed gravely to Hope.

“Remember, Sir,” cried the old man, “I take back my permission!”

“I understand, Sir,” replied Abel, bowing to him also.

He closed the door; and as he did so it seemed to Hope Wayne as if the sunshine were extinguished.

CHAPTER XII. — HELP, HO!

Abel Newt was fully aware that his time was short. His father’s letter had apprised him of his presently leaving school. To leave school—was it not to quit Delafield? Might it not be to lose Hope Wayne? He was banished from Pinewood. There were flaming swords of suspicion waving over that flowery gate. The days were passing. The summer is ending, thought he, and I am by no means saved.

Neither he nor Gabriel had mentioned their last visit to Pinewood and its catastrophe. It was a secret better buried in their own bosoms. Abel’s dislike of the other was deepened and imbittered by the ignominy of the expulsion by Mr. Burt, of which Gabriel had been not only a companion but a witness. It was an indignity that made Abel tingle whenever he thought of it. He fancied Gabriel thinking of it too, and laughing at him in his sleeve, and he longed to thrash him. But Gabriel had much better business. He was thinking only of Hope Wayne, and laughing at himself for thinking of her.

The boys were strolling in different parts of the village. Abel, into whose mind had stolen that thought of the possible laughter in Gabriel’s sleeve, pulled out his handkerchief suddenly, and waved it with an indignant movement in the air. At the same moment a carriage had overtaken him and was passing. The horses, startled by the shock of the waving handkerchief, shied and broke into a run. The coachman tried in vain to control them. They sprang forward and had their heads in a moment.

Abel looked up, and saw that it was the Burt carriage dashing down the road. He flew after, and every boy followed. The horses, maddened by the cries of the coachman and passers-by, by the rattling of the carriage, and their own excitement and speed, plunged on with fearful swiftness. As the carriage flew by, two faces were seen at the window—both calm, but one terrified. They were those of Hope and Mrs. Simcoe.

“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 remaining perfectly quiet. They both knew the danger—they knew that every instant they were hovering on the edge of death or accident. How strange to Hope’s eyes, in those swift moments, looked the familiar houses—the trees—the signs—the fences—as they swept by! How peaceful and secure they were! How far away they seemed! She read the names distinctly. She thought of little incidents connected with all the places. Her mind, and memory, and perception were perfectly clear; but her hands were clenched, and her cheek cold and pale with vague terror. Mrs. Simcoe sat beside her, calmly holding one of Hope’s hands, but neither of them spoke.

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,

“That corner! that corner!” shouted the throng, as the horses neared a sudden turn into a side-road, toward which they seemed to be making, frightened by the persons who came running toward them on the main street. Among these was Gabriel, who, hearing the confused murmur that rang down the road, turned and recognized the carriage that was whirled along at the mercy of wild horses. He seemed to his companions to fly as he went—to himself he seemed to be standing still.

“Carefully, carefully!” cried the others, as they saw his impetuosity. “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 other corner from him there was a wall. They were running toward Gabriel down the main road; but just as he came up with them he flung himself with all his might toward the animals’ heads. The startled horses half-recoiled, turned sharply and suddenly—dashed themselves against the wall—and the carriage stood still. In a moment a dozen men had secured them, and the danger was past.

The door was opened, and the ladies stepped out. Mrs. Simcoe was pale, but her heart had not quailed. The faith that sustains a woman’s heart in life does not fail when death brushes her with his finger-tips.

“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 she did not see his face. She felt a secret disappointment.

“Here is your preserver, ma’am,” said one of the villagers, pushing Gabriel forward. Mrs. Simcoe actually smiled. She put out her hand to him kindly; and Hope, with grave Sweetness, told him how great was their obligation. The boy bowed and looked at her earnestly.

“Are you hurt?”

“Oh! no, not at all,” replied Hope, smiling, and not without some effort, because she fancied that Gabriel looked at her as if she showed some sign of pain—or disappointment—or what?

“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 from 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 with Hope—“how strange it is that just as I was wondering when and where and how I should see you again, I should meet you in this way, Miss Wayne!”

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 movement—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 fastened upon the ground, her hands playing with her handkerchief.

“I hope you are,” he said, quietly, with 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 both 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 audacity 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 when the lion had struck him with his paw, upon a certain occasion, he lay in a kind of paralysis, of which he would have been cured in a moment more by being devoured.

“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 music.

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 disappointed.

“Good-by forever, Miss Wayne!” he said. He could not see Hope’s paler face as she heard the more formal address, and knew by it that he was offended.

“Good-by!” was all he caught as Hope Wayne took Mrs. Simcoe’s arm and walked away.

CHAPTER XIII. — SOCIETY.

Tradition declares that the family of Newt has been uniformly respectable but honest—so respectable, indeed, that Mr. Boniface Newt, the father of Abel, a celebrated New York merchant and a Tammany Sachem, had a crest. He had even buttons for his coachman’s coat with a stag’s head engraved upon them. The same device was upon his sealring. It appeared upon his carriage door. It figured on the edges of his dinner-service. It was worked into the ground glass of the door that led from his dining-room to the back stairs. He had his paper stamped with it; and a great many of his neighbors, thinking it a neat and becoming ornament, imitated him in its generous use.

Mrs. Newt’s family had a crest also. She was a Magot—another of the fine old families which came to this country at the earliest possible period. The Magots, however, had no buttons upon their coachman’s coat; one reason of which omission was, perhaps, that they had no coachman. But when the ladies of the Magot family went visiting or shopping they hired a carriage, and insisted that the driver should brush his hat and black his boots; so that it was not every body who knew that it was a livery equipage.

Their friends did, of course; but there were a great many people from the country who gazed at it, in passing, with the same emotion with which they would have contemplated a private carriage; which was highly gratifying to the feelings of the Magots.

Their friends knew it, but friends never remark upon such things. There was old Mrs. Beriah Dagon—dowager Mrs. Dagon, she was called—aunt of Mr. Newt, who never said, “I see the Magots have hired a hackney-coach from Jobbers to make calls in. They quarreled with Gudging over his last bill. Medora Magot has turned her last year’s silk, which is a little stained and worn; but then it does just as well.”

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 Orson, but it’s all over. Why on earth do girls fall in love with officers? They never have any pay worth speaking of, and a girl must tramp all over the land, and live I don’t know how. Pshaw! it’s a wretched business. How’s Mr. Dinks? I saw him and Fanny waltzing last month at the Shrimps’. Who are the Shrimps? Somebody says something about the immense fortune Mr. Shrimp has made in the oil trade. You should have seen Mrs. Winslow Orry peering about at the Shrimps. I really believe she counted the spoons. What an eye that woman has, and what a tongue! Are you really going to Saratoga? Will Boniface let you? He is the kindest man! He is so generous that I sometimes fear somebody’ll be taking advantage of him. Gracious me! how hot it is!”

It was warm, and Mrs. Dagon fanned herself. When she and Mrs. Newt met there was a tremendous struggle to get the first innings of the conversation, and neither surrendered the ground until fairly forced off by breathlessness and exhaustion.

“Yes, we shall go to Saratoga,” began Mrs. Newt; “and I want Abel to come, so as to take him. There’ll be a very pleasant season. What a pity you can’t go! However, people must regard their time of life, and take care of their health. There’s old Mrs. Octoyne says she shall never give up. She hopes to bring out her great-grand-daughter next winter, and says she has no life but in society. I suppose you know Herbert Octoyne is engaged to one of the Shrimps. They keep their carriage, and the girls dress very prettily. Herbert tells the young men that the Shrimps are a fine old family, which has been long out of society, having no daughters to marry; so they have not been obliged to appear. But I don’t know about visiting them. However, I suppose we shall. Herbert Octoyne will give ‘em family, if they really haven’t it; and the Octoynes won’t be sorry for her money. What a pretty shawl! Did you hear that Mellish Whitloe has given Laura a diamond pin which cost five hundred dollars? Extravagant fellow! Yet I like to have young men do these things handsomely. I do think it’s such a pity about Laura’s nose—”

“She can smell with it, I suppose, mother; and what else do you want of a nose?”

It was Miss Fanny Newt who spoke, and who had entered the room during the conversation. She was a tall young woman of about twenty, with firm, dark eyes, and abundant dark hair, and that kind of composure of manner which is called repose in drawing-rooms and boldness in bar-rooms.

“Gracious, Fanny, how you do disturb one! I didn’t know you were there. Don’t be ridiculous. Of course she can smell with it. But that isn’t all you want of a nose.”

“I suppose you want it to turn up at some people,” replied Miss Fanny, smoothing her dress, and looking in the glass. “Well, Aunt Dagon, who’ve you been lunching on?”

Aunt Dagon looked a little appalled.

“My dear, what do you mean?” she said, fanning herself violently. “I hope I never say any thing that isn’t true about people. I’m sure I should be very sorry to hurt any body’s feelings. There’s Mrs. Kite—you know, Joseph Kite’s wife, the man they said really did cheat his creditors, only none of ‘em would swear to it; well, Kitty Kite, my dear, does do and say the most abominable things about people. At the Shrimps’ ball, when you were waltzing with Mr. Dinks, I heard her say to Mrs. Orry, ‘Do look at Fanny Newt hug that man!’ It was dreadful to hear her say such things, my dear; and then to see the whole room stare at you! It was cruel—it was really unfeeling.”

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! well, Aunt, people at her time of life can’t see or hear much, you know. They ought to be in their beds with hot bottles at their feet, and not obtrude themselves among people who are young enough to enjoy life with all their senses,” replied Miss Fanny, carelessly arranging a stray lock of hair.

“Indeed, Miss, you would like to shove all the married people into the wall, or into their graves,” retorted Mrs. Dagon, warmly.

“Oh no, dear Aunt, only into their beds—and that not until they are superannuated, which, you know, old people never find out for themselves,” answered Fanny, smiling sweetly and calmly upon Mrs. Dagon.

“What a country it is, Aunt!” said Mrs. Newt, looking at Fanny with a kind of admiration. “How the young people take every thing into their own hands! Dear me! dear me! how they do rule us!”

Miss Newt made no observation, but took up a gayly-bound book from the table and looked carelessly into it. Mrs. Dagon rose to go. She had somewhat recovered her composure.

“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 generous people were not to believe it! But I couldn’t persuade them that that beautiful lace-edging on your dress was real Mechlin, although I tried very hard. They said it was natural in me to insist upon it, because I was your grand-niece; and it was no matter at all, because old ladies could do just as they pleased; but for all that it was not Mechlin. I must have told as many as thirty people that they were wrong. But people’s eyes are so sharp—it’s really dreadful. Good-morning, darling Aunt Dagon!”

“Fanny dear,” said her mother, as the door closed upon Mrs. Dagon, who departed speechless and in what may be called a simmering state of mind, “Abel will be here in a day or two. I really hope to hear something about this Miss Wayne. Do you suppose Alfred Dinks is actually engaged to her?”

“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 Alfred Dinks? You might as well talk of breathing in a vacuum.”

“But, Fanny, he is a very good sort of young man—so respectable, and with such good manners, and he has a very pretty fortune—”

Mrs. Newt was 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 mentioned in a mass after a ball, as common soldiers are mentioned after a battle. He entered the room and bowed. Mrs. Newt seeing that it was one of her daughter’s visitors, left the room. Miss Fanny sat looking at the young man with her black eyes so calmly that she seemed to him to be sitting a great way off in a cool darkness. Miss Fanny was not fond of Mr. Wetherley, although she had seen plainly enough the indications of his feeling for her. This morning he was well gloved and booted. His costume was unexceptionable. Society of that day boasted few better-dressed men than Zephyr Wetherley. His judgment in a case of cravat was unerring. He had been in Europe, and was quoted when waistcoats were in debate. He had been very attentive to Mr. Alfred Dinks and Mr. Bowdoin Beacon, the two Boston youths who had been charming society during the season that was now over. He was even a little jealous of Mr. Dinks.

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 Meal’s ‘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 declare—”

“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 I 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. 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 feelings forbid silence! Great Heavens! Miss Newt, you really have no idea—I am sure you have no idea—you can not have any idea of the ardor with which for a long, long time I have—”

“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, vehemently. “It’s the very thing I am trying to do, and you won’t let me. You keep cutting me off just as I am saying how I—”

“You need go no further, Sir,” said Miss Newt, coldly, rising and standing by the table; while Zephyr Wetherley, red and hot and confused, crushed his handkerchief into a ball, and swept his hand through his hair, wagging his foot, and rubbing his fingers together. “I understand, Sir, what you wish to say, and I desire to tell you only—”

“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 pain 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—” stammered 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 was bewildered.

“It is very confusing, somehow, Miss Newt, isn’t it?” said he, wiping his face.

“Yes, Mr. Wetherley; one should always look before he leaps.”

“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. “How’d he come here listening?”

“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 departed.

The brother and sister laughed.

“Sensible fellow,” said Abel; “he flies the grandpas.”

“How did you come here, you wretch!” asked Fanny, “listening 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 attend me next winter. And there’s to be the handsome Boston 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 dowdy of next winter?”

“Mrs. Alfred Dinks,” replied Fanny, carelessly, but looking with her keenest glance at Abel.

He, sprang up and began to say something; but his sister’s eye arrested him.

“Oh yes,” said he, hurriedly—“Dinks, I’ve heard about Alfred 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 was 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 more than knows her—he loves her—or thinks he does. Wouldn’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 engaged to him.”

Miss Fanny was pleased with that thought, because she meant to be engaged to him herself, if it proved to be true, as every body declared, that he had ten or fifteen thousand a year.