CHAPTER XXVII. — GABRIEL AT HOME.
During all this time Gabriel Bennet is becoming a merchant. Every morning he arrives at the store with the porter or before him. He helps him sweep and dust; and it is Gabriel who puts Lawrence Newt’s room in order, laying the papers in place, and taking care of the thousand nameless details that make up comfort. He reads the newspapers before the other clerks arrive, and sits upon chests of tea or bales of matting in the loft, that fill the air with strange, spicy, Oriental odors, and talks with the porter. In the long, warm afternoons, too, when there is no pressure of business, and the heat is overpowering, he sits also alone among those odors, and his mind is busy with all kinds of speculations, and dreams, and hopes.
As he walks up Broadway toward evening, his clear, sweet eyes see every thing that floats by. He does not know the other side of the fine dresses he meets any more than of the fine houses, with the smiling, glittering windows. The sun shines bright in his eyes—the street is gay—he nods to his friends—he admires the pretty faces—he wonders at the fast men driving fast horses—he sees the flowers in the windows, the smiling faces between the muslin curtains—he gazes with a kind of awe at the funerals going by, and marks the white bands of the clergymen and the physicians—the elm-trees in the hospital yard remind him of the woods at Delafield; and here comes Abel Newt, laughing, chatting, smoking, with an arm in the arms of two other young men, who are also smoking. As Gabriel passes Abel their eyes meet. Abel nods airily, and Gabriel quietly; the next moment they are back to back again—one is going up street, the other down.
It is not one of the splendid houses before which Gabriel stops when he has reached the upper part of the city. It is not a palace, nor is it near Broadway. Nor are there curtains at the window, but a pair of smiling faces, of friendly women’s faces. One is mild and maternal, with that kind of tender anxiety which softens beauty instead of hardening it. It has that look which, after she is dead, every affectionate son thinks he remembers to have seen in his mother’s face; and the other is younger, brighter—a face of rosy cheeks, and clustering hair, and blue eyes—a beaming, loyal, loving, girlish face.
They both smile welcome to Gabriel, and the younger face, disappearing from the window, reappears at the door. Gabriel naturally kisses those blooming lips, and then goes into the parlor and kisses his mother. Those sympathetic friends ask him what has happened during the day. They see if he looks unusually fatigued; and if so, why so? they ask. Gabriel must tell the story of the unlading the ship Mary B., which has just come in—which is Lawrence Newt’s favorite ship; but why called Mary B. not even Thomas Tray knows, who knows every thing else in the business. Then sitting on each side of him on the sofa, those women wonder and guess why the ship should be called Mary B. What Mary B.? Oh! dear, there might be a thousand women with those initials. And what has ever happened to Mr. Newt that he should wish to perpetuate a woman’s name? Stop! remembers mamma, his mother’s name was Mary. Mary what? asks the daughter. Mamma, you remember, of course.
Mamma merely replies that his mother’s name was Bunley—Mary Bunley—a famous belle of the close of the last century, when she was the most beautiful woman at President Washington’s levees—Mary Bunley, to whom Aaron Burr paid his addresses in vain.
“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, who was rather carelessly dressed, and who wore a cue, with thick hair of his own, white as snow, whom a good many people looked at and pointed out to each other, but nobody spoke to?—who gazed at you as we passed so peculiarly that you pressed nearer to me, and asked who it was, and why such an old man seemed to be so lonely, and in all that great throng, which evidently knew him, was as solitary as if he had been in a desert?”
“Perfectly—I remember it,” replies Ellen.
“That friendless old man, my dear, whom at this moment perhaps scarcely a single human being in the world loves, was the most brilliant beau and squire of dames that has ever lived in this country; handsome, accomplished, and graceful, he has stepped many a stately dance with the queenly Mary Bunley, mother of Lawrence Newt. But that was half a century ago.”
“Mamma,” asks Ellen, full of interest in her mother’s words, “but why does nobody speak to him? Why is he so alone? Had he not better have died half a century ago?”
“My dear, you have seen Mrs. Beriah Dagon, an aunt of Mr. Lawrence Newt’s? She was Cecilia Bunley, sister of Mary. When she was younger she used to go to the theatre with a little green snake coiled around her arm like a bracelet. It was the most lovely green—the softest color you ever saw; it had the brightest eyes, the most sinuous grace; it had a sort of fascination, but it filled you with fear; fortunately, it was harmless. But, Ellen, if it could have stung, how dreadful it would have been! Aaron Burr was graceful, and, accomplished, and brilliant; he coiled about many a woman, fascinating her with his bright eyes and his sinuous manner; but if he had stung, dear?”
Ellen shakes her head as her mother speaks, and Gabriel involuntarily 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 was named for old Mrs. Newt; people are 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 hangs a portrait representing a young and beautiful woman, not unlike Mrs. Bennet; but the beauty of the face is flashing and passionate, not thoughtful and mild like that of Gabriel’s mother. But although every thing is very plain, it is perfectly cheerful. There is nothing forlorn in the aspect of the room. Roses in a glass upon the table, and the voice and manner of the mother and daughter, tell every thing.
Presently they go in to tea, and Mr. Bennet joins them. His face is pale, and of gentle expression, and he stoops a little in his walk. He wears slippers and an old coat, and has the air of a clergyman who has made up his mind to be disappointed. But he is not a clergyman, although his white cravat, somewhat negligently tied, and his rusty black dress-coat, favor that theory. There is a little weariness in his expression, and an involuntary, half-deferential smile, as if he fully assented to every thing that might be presented—not because he is especially interested in it or believes it, but because it is the shortest way of avoiding discussion and getting back to his own thoughts.
“Gabriel, my son, I am glad to see you!” his father says, as he seats himself, not opposite his wife, but at one side of the table. He inquires if Mr. Newt has returned, and learns that he has been at home for several days. He hopes that he has enjoyed his little journey; then sips his tea, and looks to see if the windows are closed; shakes himself gently, and says he feels chilly; that the September evenings are already autumnal, and that the time is coming when we must begin to read aloud again after tea. And what book shall we read? Perhaps the best of all we can select is Irving’s Life of Columbus; Mr. Bennet himself has read it in the previous year, but he is sure his children will be interested and delighted by it; and, for himself, he likes nothing better than to read over and over a book he knows and loves. He puts down his knife as he speaks, and plays with his tea-spoon on the edge of the cup.
“I find myself enchanted with the description of the islands in the Gulf, and the life of those soft-souled natives. As I read on, I smell the sweet warm odors from the land; I pick up the branches of green trees floating far out upon the water; I see the drifting sea-weed, and the lights at night upon the shore; then I land, and lie under the palm-trees, and hear the mellow tongue of the tropics; I taste the luscious fruits; I bask in that rich, eternal sun—” His eyes swim with tropical languor as he speaks. He still mechanically balances the spoon upon the cup, while his mind is deep sunk in reverie. As his wife glances at him, both the look of tenderness and of anxiety in her face deepen. But the moment of silence rouses him, and with the nervous smile upon his face, he says, “Oh—ah!—I—yes—let it be Irving’s Columbus!”
Toward his wife Mr. Bennet’s manner is almost painfully thoughtful. His eye constantly seeks hers; and when he speaks to her, the mechanical smile which greets every body else is replaced by a kind of indescribable, touching appeal for forgiveness. It is conveyed in no particular thing that he says or does, but it pervades his whole intercourse with her. As Gabriel and Ellen grow up toward maturity, Mrs. Bennet observes that the same peculiarity is stealing into his manner toward them. It is as if he were involuntarily asking pardon for some great wrong that he has unconsciously done them. And yet his mildness, and sweetness, and simplicity of nature are such, that this singular manner does not disturb the universal cheerfulness.
“You look a little tired to-night, father,” says Gabriel, when they are all seated in the front room again, by the table, with the lamp lighted.
“Yes,” replies the father, who sits upon the sofa, with his wife by his side—“yes; Mr. Van Boozenberg was very angry to-day about some error he thought he had discovered, and he was quite short with us book-keepers, and spoke rather sharply.”
A slight flush passes over Mr. Bennet’s face, as if he recalled something extremely disagreeable. His eyes become dreamy again; but after a moment the old smile returns, and, as if begging pardon, in a half bewildered way, he resumes:
“However, his position is trying. Fortunately there wasn’t any mistake except of his own.”
He is silent again. After a little while he asks, “Couldn’t we have some music? Ellen, can’t you sing something?”
Ellen thinks she can, if Gabriel will sing second; Gabriel says he will try, with pleasure; but really—he is so overwhelmed—the state of his voice—he feigns a little cough—if the crowded and fashionable audience will excuse—he really—in fact, he will—but he is sure—
During this little banter Nellie cries, “Pooh, pooh!” mamma looks pleased, and papa smiles gently. Then the fresh young voices of the brother and sister mingle in “Bonnie Doon.”
The room is not very light, for there is but one lamp upon the table by which the singers sit. The parents sit together upon the sofa; and as the song proceeds the hand of the mother steals into that of the father, which holds it closely, while his arm creeps noiselessly around her waist. Their hearts float far away upon that music. His eyes droop as when he was speaking of the tropic islands—as if he were hearing the soft language of those shores. As his wife looks at him she sees on his face, beneath the weariness of its expression, the light which shone there in the days when they sang “Bonnie Doon” together. He draws her closer to him, and his head bows as if by long habit of humility. Her eyes gradually fill with tears; and when the song is over her head is lying on his breast.
While they are still sitting in silence there is a ring at the door, and Lawrence Newt and Amy Waring enter the room.
CHAPTER XXVIII. — BORN TO BE A BACHELOR.
“The truth is, Madame,” began Lawrence Newt, addressing Mrs. Bennet, “that I am ashamed of myself—I ought to have called a hundred times. I ask your pardon, Sir,” he continued, turning to Mr. Bennet, who was standing irresolutely by the sofa, half-leaning upon the arm.
“Oh!—ah! I am sure,” replied Mr. Bennet, with the nervous smile flitting across his face and apparently breaking out all over him; and there he remained speechless and bowing, while Mr. Newt hastened to seat himself, that every body else might sit down also.
Mrs. Bennet said that she was really, glad to see the face of an old friend again whom she had not seen for so long.
“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 with them, while the parents and Mr. Newt sat together. She praised the roses, and smelled them very often; and whenever she did so, her eyes, having nothing in particular to do at the moment, escaped, as it were, under her brows through the petals of the roses as she bent over them, and wandered away to Lawrence Newt, whose kind, inscrutable eyes, by the most extraordinary chance in the world, seemed to be expecting hers, and were ready to receive them with the warmest welcome, and a half-twinkle—or was it no twinkle at all? which seemed to say, “Oh! you came—did you?” And every time his eyes seemed to say this Amy burst out into fresh praises of those beautiful roses to her younger cousins, and pressed them close to her cheek, as if she found their moist, creamy coolness peculiarly delicious and refreshing—pressed them so close, indeed, that she seemed to squeeze some of their color into her cheeks, which Gabriel and Ellen both thought, and afterward declared to their mother, to be quite as beautiful as roses.
Amy’s conversation with her young cousins was very lively indeed, but it had not a continuous interest. There were incessant little pauses, during which the eyes slipped away again across the room, and fell as softly as before, plump into the same welcome and the same little interrogation in those other eyes, twinkling with that annoying “did you?”
Amy Waring was certainly twenty-five, although Gabriel laughed and jeered at any such statement. But mamma and the Family Bible were too much for him. Lawrence Newt was certainly more than forty. But the Newt Family Bible was under a lock of which the key lay in Mrs. Boniface Newt’s bureau, who, in a question of age, preferred tradition, which she could judiciously guide, to Scripture. When Boniface Newt led Nancy Magot to the altar, he recorded, in a large business hand, both the date of his marriage and his wife’s birth. She protested, it was vulgar. And when the bridegroom inquired whether the vulgarity were in the fact of being born or in recording it, she said: “Mr. Newt, I am ashamed of you,” and locked up the evidence.
There was a vague impression in the Newt family—Boniface had already mentioned it to his son Abel—that there was something that Uncle Lawrence never talked about—many things indeed, of course, but still something in particular. Outside the family nothing was suspected. Lawrence Newt was simply one of those incomprehensibly pleasant, eccentric, benevolent men, whose mercantile credit was as good as Jacob Van Boozenberg’s, but who perversely went his own way. One of these ways led to all kinds of poor people’s houses; and it was upon a visit to the widow of the clergyman to whom Boniface Newt had given eight dollars for writing a tract entitled “Indiscriminate Almsgiving a Crime,” that Lawrence Newt had first met Amy Waring. As he was leaving money with the poor woman to pay her rent, Amy came in with a basket of comfortable sugars and teas. She carried the flowers in her face. Lawrence Newt was almost blushing at being caught in the act of charity; and as he was sliding past her to get out, he happened to look at her face, and stopped.
“Bless my soul! my dear young lady, surely your name is Darro!”
The dear young lady smiled and colored, and replied,
“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 face, replied,
“Yes, there was my Aunt Martha.”
“I remember all. She is gone; my dear young lady, you will forgive me, but your face recalls other years.” Then turning to the widow, he said, “Mrs. Simmer, I am sure that you could have no kinder, no better friend than this young lady.”
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 touching the tips of her fingers with his lips, said, “Good-by, Mrs. Simmer,” and departed.
He called at Mrs. Waring’s within a few days afterward. He had known her as a child, but his incessant absence from home when he was younger had prevented any great intimacy with old acquaintances. But the Darros were dancing-school friends and partners. Since those days they had become women and mothers. He had parted with Corinna Darro, a black-eyed little girl in short white frock and short curling hair and red ribbons. He met her as Mrs. Delmer Waring, a large, maternal, good-hearted woman.
This had happened two years before, and during all the time since then Lawrence Newt had often called—had met Amy in the street on many errands—had met her at balls whenever he found she was going. He did not ask her to drive with him. He did not send her costly gifts. He did nothing that could exclude the attentions of younger men. But sometimes a basket of flowers came for Miss Waring—without a card, without any clue. The good-hearted mother thought of various young men, candidates for degrees in Amy’s favor, who had undoubtedly sent the flowers. The good-hearted mother, who knew that Amy was in love with none of them, pitied them—thought it was a great shame they should lose their time in such an utterly profitless business as being in love with Amy; and when any of them called said, with a good-humored sigh, that she believed her daughter would never be any thing but a Sister of Charity.
Sometimes also a new book came, and on the fly-leaf was written, “To Miss Amy Waring, from her friend Lawrence Newt.” Then the good-hearted mother remarked that some men were delightfully faithful to old associations, and that it was really beautiful to see Mr. Newt keeping up the acquaintance so cordially, and complimenting his old friend so delicately by thinking of pleasing her daughter. What a pity he had never married, to have had daughters of his own! “But I suppose, Amy, some men are born to be bachelors.”
“I suppose they are, mother,” Amy replied, and found immediately after that she had left her scissors, she couldn’t possibly remember where; perhaps in your room, mamma, perhaps in mine.
They must be looked for, however, and, O how curious! there they lay in her own room upon the table. In her own room, where she opened the new book and read in it for half an hour at a time, but always poring on the same page. It was such a profound work. It was so full of weighty matter. When would she ever read it through at this rate, for the page over which she pored had less on it than any other page in the book. In fact it had nothing on it but that very commonplace and familiar form of words, “To Miss Amy Waring, from her friend Lawrence Newt.”
Amy was entirely of her mother’s opinion. Some men are undoubtedly born to be bachelors. Some men are born to be as noble as the heroes of romances—simple, steadfast, true; to be gentle, intelligent, sagacious, with an experience that has mellowed by constant and various intercourse with men, but with a heart that that intercourse has never chilled, and a faith which that experience has only confirmed. Some men are born to possess every quality of heart, and mind, and person that can awaken and satisfy the love of a woman. Yes, unquestionably, said Amy Waring in her mind, which was so cool, so impartial, so merely contemplating the subject as an abstract question, some men—let me see, shall I say like Lawrence Newt, simply as an illustration?—well, yes—some men like Lawrence Newt, for instance, are born to be all that some women dream of in their souls, and they are the very ones who are born to be bachelors.
It might be very sad not to be aware of it, thought Amy. What a profound pity it would be if any young woman should not see it, for instance, in the case of Lawrence Newt. But when a young woman is in no doubt at all, when she knows perfectly well that such a man is not intended by nature to be a marrying man, and therefore never thinks of such a thing, but only with a grace, and generosity, and delicacy beyond expression offers his general homage to the sex by giving little gifts to her, “why, then—then,” thought Amy, and she was thinking so at the very moment when she sat with Gabriel and Ellen, talking in a half wild, lively, incoherent way, “why, then—then,” and her eyes leaped across the room and fell, as it were, into the arms of Lawrence Newt’s, which caressed them with soft light, and half-laughed “You came again, did you?”—“why, then—then,” and Amy buried her face in the cool, damp roses, and did not dare to look again, “then she had better go and be a Sister of Charity.”
CHAPTER XXIX. — MR. ABEL NEWT, GRAND STREET.
As the world returned to town and the late autumnal festivities began, the handsome person and self-possessed style of Mr. Abel Newt became the fashion. Invitations showered upon him. Mrs. Dagon proclaimed every where that there had been nobody so fascinating since the days of the brilliant youth of Aaron Burr, whom she declared that she well remembered, and added, that if she could say it without blushing, or if any reputable woman ought to admit such things, she should confess that in her younger days she had received flowers and even notes from that fascinating man.
“I don’t deny, my dears, that he was a naughty man. But I can tell you one thing, all the naughty men are not in disgrace yet, though he is. And, if you please, Miss Fanny, with all your virtuous sniffs, dear, and all your hugging of men in waltzing, darling, Colonel Burr was not sent to Coventry because he was naughty. He might have been naughty all the days of his life, and Mrs. Jacob Van Boozenberg and the rest of ‘em would have been quite as glad to have him at their houses. No, no, dears, society doesn’t punish men for being naughty—only women. I am older than you, and I have observed that society likes spice in character. It doesn’t harm a man to have stories told about him.”
No ball was complete without Abel Newt. Ladies, meditating parties, engaged him before they issued a single invitation. At dinners he was sparkling and agreeable, with tact enough not to extinguish the other men, who yet felt his superiority and did not half like it. They imitated his manner; but what was ease or gilded assurance in him was open insolence, or assurance with the gilt rubbed off, in them. The charm and secret of his manner lay in an utter devotion, which said to every woman, “There’s not a woman in the world who can resist me, except you. Have you the heart to do it?” Of course this manner was assisted by personal magnetism and beauty. Wilkes said he was only half an hour behind the handsomest man in the world. But he would never have overtaken him if the handsome man had been Wilkes.
In his dress Abel was costly and elegant. With the other men of his day, he read “Pelham” with an admiration of which his life was the witness. Pelham was the Byronic hero made practicable, purged of romance, and adapted to society. Mr. Newt, Jun., was one of a small but influential set of young men about town who did all they could to repair the misfortune of being born Americans, by imitating the habits of foreign life.
It was presently clear to him that residence under the parental roof was incompatible with the habits of a strictly fashionable 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 mentioned every reason which made a separate residence desirable.
So Abel Newt hired a pleasant set of rooms in Grand Street, near Broadway, in the neighborhood of other youth of the right set. He furnished them sumptuously, with the softest carpets, the most luxurious easy-chairs, the most costly curtains, and pretty, bizarre little tables, and bureaus, and shelves. Various engravings hung upon the walls; a profile-head of Bulwer, with a large Roman nose and bushy whiskers, and one of his Majesty George IV., in that famous cloak which Lord Chesterfield bought at the sale of his Majesty’s wardrobe for eleven hundred dollars, and of which the sable lining alone originally cost four thousand dollars. Then there were little vases, and boxes, and caskets standing upon all possible places, with a rare flower in some one of them often, sent by some kind dowager who wished to make sure of Abel at a dinner or a select soiree. Pipes, of course, and boxes of choice cigars, were at hand, and in a convenient closet such a beautiful set of English cut glass for the use of a gentleman!
It was no wonder that the rooms of Abel Newt became a kind of club-room and elegant lounge for the gay gentlemen about town. He even gave little dinners there to quiet parties, sometimes including two or three extremely vivacious and pretty, as well as fashionably dressed, young women, whom he was not in the habit of meeting in society, but who were known quite familiarly to Abel and his friends.
Upon other occasions these little dinners took place out of town, whither the gentlemen drove alone in their buggies by daylight, and, meeting the ladies there, had the pleasure of driving them back to the city in the evening. The “buggy” of Abel’s day was an open gig without a top, very easy upon its springs, but dangerous with stumbling horses. The drive was along the old Boston road, and the rendezvous, Cato’s—Cato Alexander’s—near the present shot-tower. If the gentlemen returned alone, they finished the evening at Benton’s, in Ann Street, where they played a game of billiards; or at Thiel’s retired rooms over the celebrated Stewart’s, opposite the Park, where they indulged in faro. Abel Newt lost and won his money with careless grace—always a little glad when he won, for somebody had to pay for all this luxurious life.
Boniface Newt remonstrated. His son was late at the office in the morning. He drew large sums to meet his large expenses. Several times, instead of instantly filling out the checks as Abel directed, the book-keeper had delayed, and said casually to Mr. Newt during Abel’s absence at lunch, which was usually prolonged, that he supposed it was all right to fill up a check of that amount to Mr. Abel’s order? Mr. Boniface Newt replied, in a dogged way, that he supposed it was.
But one day when the sum had been large, and the paternal temper more than usually ruffled, he addressed the junior partner upon his return from lunch and his noontide glass with his friends at the Washington Hotel, to the effect that matters were going on much too rapidly.
“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 office 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 destroy all kind of discipline by smoking and lounging, but you don’t manifest the slightest interest in the business; and, above all, you are living at a frightfully ruinous rate! Yes, Sir, ruinous! How do you suppose I can pay, or that the business can pay, for such extravagance?”
Abel smoked calmly during this energetic discourse, and blew little rings from his mouth, which he watched with interest as they melted in the air.
“Certain things are inevitable, father.”
His 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 five-dollar note of the Bank of New York, “here is a promise to pay five dollars—in gold or silver, of course. Do you suppose that the Bank of New York has gold and silver enough to pay all those promises it has issued? Of course not.”
Abel knocked off the ash from his cigar, and took a long contemplative whiff, as if he were about making a plunge into views even more profound. Mr. Newt, half pleased with the show of philosophy, listened with less frowning brows.
“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 father.
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 illustration 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, suppose that nobody wanted to retreat, but that the Bank was only to be carried over a dangerous place, then credit is a bridge, isn’t it? If it were out of money, it could live upon its credit until it got the money back again.”
“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 thumping business.’ Perhaps we are—perhaps we are not. We are crossing the bridge of credit. Before people know that we have been living up to our incomes—quite up, father dear”—Mr. Newt frowned an entire assent—“we have plenty of money!”
“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, father, as a man of the world and a sensible, sagacious, successful merchant, am I not more likely to meet and marry such a girl, if I live generously in society, than if I shut myself up to be a mere dig?”
Mr. Newt was not sure. Perhaps 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 become enamored so that he might be justified in wooing her for his wife—that for all these contingencies it was a good thing for a young man to have a regular business connection and apparent employment—and very advantageous, indeed, that that connection should be with a man so well known in commercial and fashionable circles as his father. That of itself was one of the great advantages of credit. It was a frequent joke of Abel’s with his father, after the recent conversation, that credit was the most creditable thing going.
CHAPTER XXX. — CHECK.
During these brilliant days of young bachelorhood Abel, by some curious chance, had not met Hope Wayne, who was passing the winter in New York with her Aunt Dinks, and who had hitherto declined all society. It was well known that she was in town. The beautiful Boston heiress was often enough the theme of discourse among the youth at Abel’s rooms.
“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, with the air of a naturalist pursuing his researches.
One day, indeed, as he was passing Stewart’s, he saw Hope alighting from a carriage. He was not alone; and as he passed their eyes met. He bowed profoundly. She bent her head without speaking, as one acknowledges a slight acquaintance. It was not a “cut,” as Abel said to himself; “not at all. It was simply ranking me with the herd.”
“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 painter. I wonder how the deuce he came to know her!”
In fact, it was the painter. It was the first time he had met her since the summer days of Saratoga; and as he stood talking with her upon the sidewalk, and observed that her cheeks had an unusual flush, and her manner a slight excitement, he could not help feeling a secret pleasure—feeling, in truth, so deep a delight, as he looked into that lovely face, that he found himself reflecting, as he walked away, how very fortunate it was that he was so entirely devoted to his art. It is very fortunate indeed, thought he. And yet it might be a pity, too, if I should chance to meet some beautiful and sympathetic woman; because, being so utterly in love with my art, it would be impossible for me to fall in love with her! Quite impossible! Quite out of the question!
Just as he thought this he bumped against some one, and looked up suddenly. A calm, half-amused face met his glance, as Arthur said, hastily, “I beg your pardon.”
“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 carriage,” 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 hand. “I am glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. Arthur Merlin.”
The painter shook the merchant’s hand cordially. They had some further conversation, and finally Mr. Merlin turned, and the two men strolled together down town. While they yet talked, Lawrence Newt observed that the eyes of his companion studied every carriage that passed. He did it in a very natural, artless way; but Lawrence Newt smiled with his eyes, and at length said, as if Arthur had asked him the question, “There she comes!”
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 was so fanatically devoted to his art that it was clearly impossible he should fall in love, said, “Oh!” as if somebody had answered his question.
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 think, Hope, you could make up your mind to go to Mrs. Kingfisher’s ball next week? You know you haven’t been out at all.”
“Perhaps,” replied 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 apprehension 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?”
Mrs. Dinks was uneasy in her turn. But she pushed bravely 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 amazement; “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 expression 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 was overwhelmed by a sudden consciousness of bitter disappointment, mingled with an exasperating conviction that she had been somehow duped. The tone was thick in which she answered.
“What is the meaning of this? Hope, are you deceiving me?”
She knew Hope was not deceiving her as well as she knew that they were sitting together in the carriage.
Hope’s reply was a clear, ringing, irresistible 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?” replied Mrs. Dinks, sardonically.
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 you were engaged to him.”
They drove on for some time without speaking.
“What does he mean by using my name in that way?” said Hope, with the Diana look in her eyes.
“Oh! that you 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.