Trumps

CHAPTER XXXIV. — HEAVEN’S LAST BEST GIFT.

“My dear Alfred, I am glad to see you. You may kiss me—carefully, carefully!”

Mr. Alfred Dinks therewith kissed lips upon his return from Boston.

“Sit down, Alfred, my dear, I wish to speak to you,” said Fanny Newt, with even more than her usual decision. The eyes were extremely round and black. Alfred seated himself with vague trepidation.

“My dear, we must be married immediately,” remarked Fanny, quietly.

The eyes of the lover shone with pleasure.

“Dear Fanny!” said he, “have you told mother?”

“No,” answered she, calmly.

“Well, but then you know—” rejoined Alfred. He would have said more, but he was afraid. He wanted to inquire whether Fanny thought that her father would supply the sinews of matrimony. Alfred’s theory was that he undoubtedly would. He was sure that a young woman of Fanny’s calmness, intrepidity, and profound knowledge of the world would not propose immediate matrimony without seeing how the commissariat was to be supplied. She has all her plans laid, of course, thought he—she is so talented and cool that ‘tis all right, I dare say. Of course she knows that I have nothing, and hope for nothing except from old Burt, and he’s not sure for me, by any means. But Boniface Newt is rich enough.

And Alfred consoled himself by thinking of the style in which that worthy commission merchant lived, and especially of his son Abel’s expense and splendor.

“Alfred, dear—just try not to be trying, you know, but think what you are about. Your mother has found out that something has gone wrong—that you are not engaged to Hope Wayne.”

“Yes—yes, I know,” burst in Alfred; “she treated me like a porcupine this morning—or ant-eater, which is it, Fanny—the thing with quills, you know?”

Miss Fanny Newt patted the floor with her foot. Alfred continued:

“Yes, and Hope sent down, and she wanted to see me alone some time to-day.”

Fanny’s foot stopped.

“Alfred, dear,” said she, “you are a good fellow, but you are too amiable. You must do just as I want you to, dearest, or something awful will happen.”

“Pooh! Fanny; nothing shall happen. I love you like any thing.”

Smack! smack!

“Well, then, listen, Alfred! Your mother doesn’t like me. She would do any thing to prevent your marrying me. The reasons I will tell you at another time. If you go home and talk with her and Hope Wayne, you can not help betraying that you are engaged to me; and—you know your mother, Alfred—she would openly oppose the marriage, and I don’t know what she might not say to my father.”

Fanny spoke clearly and rapidly, but calmly. Alfred looked utterly bewildered.

“It’s a great pity, isn’t it?” said he, feebly. “What do you think we had better do?”

“We must be married, Alfred, dear!”

“Yes; but when, Fanny?”

“To-day,” said Fanny, firmly, and putting out her hand to her beloved.

He seized it mechanically.

“To-day, Fanny?” asked he, after a pause of amazement.

“Certainly, dear—to-day. I am as ready now as I shall be a year hence.”

“But what will my mother say?” inquired Alfred, in alarm.

“It will be too late for her to say any thing. Don’t you see, Alfred, dear!” continued Fanny, in a most assuring tone, “that if we go to your mother and say, ‘Here we are, married!’ she has sense enough to perceive that nothing can be done; and after a little while all will be smooth again?”

Her lover was comforted by this view. He was even pleased by the audacity of the project.

“I swear, Fanny,” said he, at length, in a more cheerful and composed voice, “I think it’s rather a good idea!”

“Of course it is, dear. Are you ready?”

Alfred gasped a little at the prompt question, despite his confidence.

“Why, Fanny, you don’t mean actually now—this very day? Gracious!”

“Why not now? Since we think best to be married immediately and in private, why should we put it off until to-night, or next week, when we are both as ready now as we can be then?” asked Fanny, quietly; “especially as something may happen to make it impossible then.”

Alfred Dinks shut his eyes.

“What will your father say?” he inquired, at length, without raising his eyelids.

“Do you not see he will have to make up his mind to it, just as your mother will?” replied Fanny.

“And my father!” said Alfred, in a state of temporary blindness continued.

“Yes, and your father too,” answered Fanny, both she and Alfred treating the Honorable Budlong Dinks as a mere tender to that woman-of-war his wife, in a way that would have been incredible to a statesman who considered his wife a mere domestic luxury.

There was a silence of several minutes. Then Mr. Dinks opened his eyes, and said,

“Well, Fanny, dear!”

“Well, Alfred, dear!” and Fanny leaned toward him, with her head poised like that of a black snake. Alfred was fascinated. Perhaps he was sorry he was so; perhaps he wanted to struggle. But he did not. He was under the spell.

There was still a lingering silence. Fanny waited patiently. At length she asked again, putting her hand in her lover’s:

“Are you ready?”

“Yes!” said Alfred, in a crisp, resolute tone.

Fanny raised her hand and rang the bell. The waiter appeared.

“John, I want a carriage immediately.”

“Yes, Miss.”

“And, John, tell Mary to bring me my things. I am going out.”

“Yes, Miss.” And hearing nothing farther, John disappeared.

It was perhaps a judicious instinct which taught Fanny not to leave Alfred alone by going up to array herself in her own chamber. The intervals of delay between the coming of the maid and the coming of the carriage the young woman employed in conversing dexterously about Boston, and the friends he had seen there, and in describing to him the great Kingfisher ball.

Presently she was bonneted and cloaked, and the carriage was at the door.

Her home had not been a Paradise to Fanny Newt—nor were Aunt Dagon, Papa and Mamma Newt, and brother Abel altogether angels. She had no superfluous emotions of any kind at any time; but as she passed through the hall she saw her sister May—the youngest child—a girl of sixteen—Uncle Lawrence’s favorite—standing upon the stairs.

She said nothing; the hall was quite dim, and as the girl stood in the half light her childlike, delicate beauty seemed to Fanny more striking than ever. If Uncle Lawrence had seen her at the moment he would have thought of Jacob’s ladder and the angels ascending and descending.

“Good-by, May!” said Fanny, going up to her sister, taking her face between her hands and kissing her lips.

The sisters looked at each other, each inexplicably conscious that it was not an ordinary farewell.

“Good-by, darling!” said Fanny, kissing her again, and still holding her young, lovely face.

Touched and surprised by the unwonted tenderness of her sister’s manner, May threw her arms around her neck and burst into tears.

“Oh! Fanny.”

Fanny did not disengage the arms that clung about her, nor raise the young head that rested upon her shoulder. Perhaps she felt that somehow it was a benediction.

May raised her head at length, kissed Fanny gently upon the lips, smoothed her black hair for a moment with her delicate hand, half smiled through her tears as she thought that after this indication of affection she should have such a pleasant intercourse with her sister, and then pushed her softly away, saying,

“Mr. Dinks is waiting for you, Fanny.”

Fanny said nothing, but drew her veil over her face, and Mr. Dinks handed her into the carriage.

CHAPTER XXXV. — MOTHER-IN-LAW AND DAUGHTER-IN-LAW.

Mrs. Dinks and Hope Wayne sat together in their lodgings, waiting impatiently for Alfred’s return. They were both working busily, and said little to each other. Mrs. Dinks had resolved to leave New York at the earliest possible moment. She waited only to have a clear explanation with her son. Hope Wayne was also waiting for an explanation. She was painfully curious to know why Alfred Dinks had told his mother that they were engaged. As her Aunt Dinks looked at her, and saw how noble and lofty her beauty was, yet how simple and candid, she was more than ever angry with her, because she felt that it was impossible she should ever have loved Alfred.

They heard a carriage in the street. It stopped at the door. In a moment the sound of a footstep was audible.

“My dear, I wish to speak to Alfred alone. I hear his step,” said Mrs. Dinks.

“Yes, aunt,” answered Hope Wayne, rising, and taking her little basket she moved toward the door. Just as she reached it, it opened, and Alfred Dinks and Fanny Newt entered. Hope bowed, and was passing on.

“Stop, Hope!” whispered Alfred, excitedly.

She turned at the door and looked at her cousin, who, with uncertain bravado, advanced with Fanny to his mother, who was gazing at them in amazement, and said, in a thick, hurried voice,

“Mother, this is your daughter Fanny—my wife—Mrs. Alfred Dinks.”

As she heard these words Hope Wayne went out, closing the door behind her, leaving the mother alone with her children.

Mrs. Dinks sat speechless in her chair for a few moments, staring at Alfred, who looked as if his legs would not long support him, and at Fanny, who stood calmly beside him. At length she said to Alfred,

“Is that woman really your wife?”

“Yes, ‘m,” replied the new husband.

“What are you going to support her with?”

“I have my allowance,” said Alfred, in a very small voice.

“Mrs. Alfred Dinks, your husband’s allowance is six hundred dollars a year from his father. I wish you joy.”

There was a sarcastic sparkle in her eyes. Mrs. Dinks had long felt that she and Fanny were contesting a prize. At this moment, while she knew that she had not won, she was sure that Fanny had lost.

Fanny was prepared for such a reception. She did not shrink. She remembered the great Burt fortune. But before she could speak Mrs. Dinks rose, and, with an air of contemptuous defiance, inquired,

“Where are you living, Mrs. Dinks?”

Mr. Alfred looked at his wife in profound perplexity. He thought, for his part, that he was living in that very house. But his wife answered, quietly,

“We are at Bunker’s, where we shall be delighted to see you. Good-morning, Mrs. Dinks.”

And Fanny took her husband by the arm and went out, having entirely confounded her mother-in-law, who meant to have wished her children good-morning, and then have left them to their embarrassment. But victory seemed to perch upon Fanny’s standards along the whole line.

CHAPTER XXXVI. — THE BACK WINDOW.

Lawrence Newt was not unmindful of the difference of age between Amy Waring and himself; and instinctively he did nothing which could show to others that he felt more for her than for a friend. Younger men, who could not help yielding to the charm of her presence, never complained of him. He was never “that infernal old bore, Lawrence Newt,” to them. More than one of them, in the ardor of young feeling, had confided his passion to Lawrence, who said to him, bravely, “My dear fellow, I do not wonder you feel so. God speed you—and so will I, all I can.”

And he did so. He mentioned the candidate kindly to Miss Waring. He repeated little anecdotes that he had heard to his advantage. Lawrence regarded the poor suitor as a painter does a picture. He took him up in the arms of his charity and moved him round and round. He put him upon his sympathy as upon an easel, and turned on the kindly lights and judiciously darkened the apartment.

His generosity was chivalric, but it was unavailing. Beautiful flowers arrived from the aspiring youths. They were so lovely, so fragrant! What taste that young Hal Battlebury has! remarks Lawrence Newt, admiringly, as he smells the flowers that stand in a pretty vase upon the centre-table. Amy Waring smiles, and says that it is Thorburn’s taste, of whom Mr. Battlebury buys the flowers. Mr. Newt replies that it is at least very thoughtful in him. A young lady can not but feel kindly, surely, toward young men who express their good feeling in the form of flowers. Then he dexterously leads the conversation into some other channel. He will not harm the cause of poor Mr. Battlebury by persisting in speaking of him and his bouquets, when that persistence will evidently render the subject a little tedious.

Poor Mr. Hal Battlebury, who, could he only survey the Waring mansion from the lower floor to the roof, would behold his handsome flowers that came on Wednesday withering in cold ceremony upon the parlor-table—and in Amy Waring’s bureau-drawer would see the little book she received from “her friend Lawrence Newt” treasured like a priceless pearl, with a pressed rose laid upon the leaf where her name and his are written—a rose which Lawrence Newt playfully stole one evening from one of the ceremonious bouquets pining under its polite reception, and said gayly, as he took leave, “Let this keep my memory fragrant till I return.”

But it was a singular fact that when one of those baskets without a card arrived at the house, it was not left in superb solitary state upon the centre-table in the parlor, but bloomed as long as care could coax it in the strict seclusion of Miss Waring’s own chamber, and then some choicest flower was selected to be pressed and preserved somewhere in the depths of the bureau.

Could the bureau drawers give up their treasures, would any human being longer seem to be cold? would any maiden young or old appear a voluntary spinster, or any unmarried octogenarian at heart a bachelor?

For many a long hour Lawrence Newt stood at the window of the loft in the rear of his office, and looked up at the window where he had seen Amy Waring that summer morning. He was certainly quite as curious about that room as Hope about his early knowledge of her home.

“I’ll just run round and settle this matter,” said the merchant to himself.

But he did not stir. His hands were in his pockets. He was standing as firmly in one spot as if he had taken root.

“Yes—upon the whole, I’ll just run round,” thought Lawrence, without the remotest approach to motion of any kind. But his fancy was running round all the time, and the fancies of men who watch windows, as Lawrence Newt watched this window, are strangely fantastic. He imagined every thing in that room. It was a woman with innumerable children, of course—some old nurse of Amy’s—who had a kind of respectability to preserve, which intrusion would injure. No, no, by Heaven! it was Mrs. Tom Witchet, old Van Boozenberg’s daughter! Of course it was. An old friend of Amy’s, half-starving in that miserable lodging, and Amy her guardian angel. Lawrence Newt mentally vowed that Mrs. Tom Witchet should never want any thing. He would speak to Amy at the next meeting of the Round Table.

Or there were other strange fancies. What will not an India merchant dream as he gazes from his window? It was some old teacher of Amy’s—some music-master, some French teacher—dying alone and in poverty, or with a large family. No, upon the whole, thought Lawrence Newt, he’s not old enough to have a large family—he is not married—he has too delicate a nature to struggle with the world—he was a gentleman in his own country; and he has, of course, it’s only natural—how could he possibly help it?—he has fallen in love with Miss Waring. These music-masters and Italian teachers are such silly fellows. I know all about it, thought Mr. Newt; and now he lies there forlorn, but picturesque and very handsome, singing sweetly to his guitar, and reciting Petrarch’s sonnets with large, melancholy eyes. His manners refined and fascinating. His age? About thirty. Poor Amy! Of course common humanity requires her to come and see that he does not suffer. Of course he is desperately in love, and she can only pity. Pity? pity? Who says something about the kinship of pity? I really think, says Lawrence Newt to himself, that I ought to go over and help that unfortunate young man. Perhaps he wishes to return to his native country. I am sure he ought to. His native air will be balm to him. Yes, I’ll ask Miss Waring about it this very evening.

He did not. He never alluded to the subject. They had never mentioned that summer noontide exchange of glance and gesture which had so curious an effect on Lawrence Newt that he now stood quite as often at his back window, looking up at the old brick house, as at his front window, looking out over the river and the ships, and counting the spires—at least it seemed so—in Brooklyn.

For how could Lawrence know of the book that was kept in the bureau drawer—of the rose whose benediction lay forever fragrant upon those united names?

“I am really sorry for Hal Battlebury,” said the merchant to himself. “He is such a good, noble fellow! I should have supposed that Miss Waring would have been so very happy with him. He is so suitable in every way; in age, in figure, in tastes—in sympathy altogether. Then he is so manly and modest, so simple and true. It is really very—very—”

And so he mused, and asked and answered, and thought of Hal Battlebury and Amy Waring together.

It seemed to him that if he were a younger man—about the age of Battlebury, say—full of hope, and faith, and earnest endeavor—a glowing and generous youth—it would be the very thing he should do—to fall in love with Amy Waring. How could any man see her and not love her? His reflections grew dreamy at this point.

“If so lovely a girl did not return the affection of such a young man, it would be—of course, what else could it be?—it would be because she had deliberately made up her mind that, under no conceivable circumstances whatsoever, would she ever marry.”

As he reached this satisfactory conclusion Lawrence Newt paced up and down before the window, with his hands still buried in his pockets, thinking of Hal Battlebury—thinking of the foreign youth with the large, melancholy eyes pining upon a bed of pain, and reciting Petrarch’s sonnets, in the miserable room opposite—thinking also of that strange coldness of virgin hearts which not the ardors of youth and love could melt.

And, stopping before the window, he thought of his own boyhood—of the first wild passion of his young heart—of the little hand he held—of the soft darkness of eyes whose light mingled with his own—again the palm-trees—the rushing river—when, at the very window upon which he was unconsciously gazing, one afternoon a face appeared, with a black silk handkerchief twisted about the head, and looking down into the court between the houses.

Lawrence Newt stared at it without moving. Both windows were closed, nor was the woman at the other looking toward him. He had, indeed, scarcely seen her fully before she turned away. But he had recognized that face. He had seen a woman he had so long thought dead. In a moment Amy Waring’s visit was explained, and a more heavenly light shone upon her character as he thought of her.

“God bless you, Amy dear!” were the words that unconsciously stole to his lips; and going into the office, Lawrence Newt told Thomas Tray that he should not return that afternoon, wished his clerks good-day, and hurried around the corner into Front Street.

CHAPTER XXXVII. — ABEL NEWT, vice SLIGO MOULTRIE REMOVED.

The Plumers were at Bunker’s. The gay, good-hearted Grace, full of fun and flirtation, vowed that New York was life, and all the rest of the world death.

“You do not compliment the South very much,” said Sligo Moultrie, smiling.

“Oh no! The South is home, and we don’t compliment relations, you know,” returned Miss Grace.

“Yes, thank Heaven! the South is home, Miss Grace. New York is like a foreign city. The tumult is fearful; yet it is only a sea-port after all. It has no metropolitan repose. It never can have. It is a trading town.”

“Then I like trading towns, if that is it,” returned Miss Grace, looking out into the bustling street.

Mr. Moultrie smiled—a quiet, refined, intelligent, and accomplished smile.

He smiled confidently. Not offensively, but with that half-shy sense of superiority which gave the high grace of self-possession to his manner—a languid repose which pervaded his whole character. The symmetry of his person, the careless ease of his carriage, a sweet voice, a handsome face, were valuable allies of his intellectual accomplishments; and when all the forces were deployed they made Sligo Moultrie very fascinating. He was not audacious nor brilliant. It was a passive, not an active nature. He was not rich, although Mrs. Boniface Newt had a vague idea that every Southern youth was ex-officio a Croesus. Scion of a fine old family, like the Newts, and Whitloes, and Octoynes of New York, Mr. Sligo Moultrie, born to be a gentleman, but born poor, was resolved to maintain his state.

Miss Grace Plumer, as we saw at Mrs. Boniface Newt’s, had bright black eyes, profusely curling black hair, olive skin, pouting mouth, and pearly teeth. Very rich, very pretty, and very merry was Miss Grace Plumer, who believed with enthusiastic faith that life was a ball, but who was very shrewd and very kindly also.

Sligo Moultrie understood distinctly why he was sitting at the window with Grace Plumer.

“The roses are in bloom at your home, I suppose, Miss Grace?” said he.

“Yes, I suppose they are, and a dreadfully lonely time they’re having of it. Southern life, of course, is a hundred times better than life here; but it is a little lonely, isn’t it, Mr. Moultrie?”

Grace said this turning her neck slightly, and looking an arch interrogatory at her companion.

“Yes, it is lonely in some ways. But then there is so much going up to town and travelling that, after all, it is only a few months that we are at home; and a man ought to be at home a good deal—he ought not to be a vagabond.”

“Thank you,” said Grace, bowing mockingly.

“I said ‘a man,’ you observe, Miss Grace.”

“Man includes woman, I believe, Mr. Moultrie.”

“In two cases—yes.”

“What are they?”

“When he holds her in his arms or in his heart.”

Here was a sudden volley masked in music. Grace Plumer was charmed. She looked at her companion. He had been “a vagabond” all winter in New York; but there were few more presentable men. Moreover, she felt at home with him as a compatriot. Yes, this would do very well.

Miss Grace Plumer had scarcely mentally installed Mr. Sligo Moultrie as first flirter in her corps, when a face she remembered looked up at the window from the street, more dangerous even than when she had seen it in the spring. It was the face of Abel Newt, who raised his hat and bowed to her with an admiration which he concealed that he took care to show.

The next moment he was in the room, perfectly comme il faut, sparkling, resistless.

“My dear Miss Plumer, I knew spring was coming. I felt it as I approached Bunker’s. I said to Herbert Octoyne (he’s off with the Shrimp; Papa Shrimp was too much, he was so old that he was rank)—I said, either I smell the grass sprouting in the Battery or I have a sensation of spring. I raise my eyes—I see that it is not grass, but flowers. I recognize the dear, delicious spring. I bow to Miss Plumer.”

He tossed it airily off. It was audacious. It would have been outrageous, except that the manner made it seem persiflage, and therefore allowable. Grace Plumer blushed, bowed, smiled, and met his offered hand half-way. Abel Newt knew perfectly what he was doing, and raised it respectfully, bowed over it, kissed it.

“Moultrie, glad to see you. Miss Plumer, ‘tis astonishing how this man always knows the pleasant places. If I want to know where the best fruits and the earliest flowers are, I ask Sligo Moultrie.”

Mr. Moultrie bowed.

“The first rose of the year blooms in Mr. Moultrie’s button-hole,” continued Abel, who galloped on, laughing, and seating himself upon an ottoman, so that his eyes were lower than the level of Grace Plumer’s.

She smiled, and joined the hunt.

“He talks nothing but ‘ladies’ delights,’” said she.

“Yes—two other things, please, Miss Grace,” said Moultrie.

“What, Mr. Moultrie, two other cases? You always have two more.”

“Better two more than too much,” struck in Abel, who saw that Miss Plumer had put out her darling little foot from beneath her dress, and therefore had fixed his eyes upon it, with an admiration which was not lost upon the lady.

“Heavens!” cried Moultrie, laughing and looking at them. “You are both two more and too much for me.”

“Good, good, good for Moultrie!” applauded Abel; “and now, Miss Plumer, I submit that he has the floor.”

“Very well, Mr. Moultrie. What are the two other things that you talk?”

“Pansies and rosemary,” said the young man, rising and bowing himself out.

“Miss Plumer, you have been the inspiration of my friend Sligo, who was never so brilliant in his life before. How generous in you to rise and shine on this wretched town! It is Sahara. Miss Plumer descends upon it like dew. Where have you been?”

“At home, in Louisiana.”

“Ah! yes. Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle—I have never been there; but it comes to me here when you come, Miss Plumer.”

Still the slight persiflage to cover the audacity.

“And so, Mr. Newt, I have the honor of seeing the gentleman of whom I have heard most this winter.”

“What will not our enemies say of us, Miss Plumer?”

“You have no enemies,” replied she, “except, perhaps—no, I’ll not mention them.”

“Who? who? I insist,” said Abel, looking at Grace Plumer earnestly for a moment, then dropping his eyes upon her very pretty and very be-ringed white hands, where the eyes lingered a little and worshipped in the most evident manner.

“Except, then, your own sex,” said the little Louisianian, half blushing.

“I do them no harm,” replied Abel.

“No; but you make them jealous.”

“Jealous of what?” returned the young man, in a lower tone, and more seriously.

“Oh! it’s only of—of—of—of what I hear from the girls,” said Grace, fluttering a little, as she remembered the conservatory at Mrs. Boniface Newt’s, which also Abel had not forgotten.

“And what do you hear, Miss Grace?” he asked, in pure music.

Grace blushed, and laughed.

“Oh! only of your success with poor, feeble women,” said she.

“I have no success with women,” returned Abel Newt, in a half-serious way, and in his most melodious voice. “Women are naturally generous. They appreciate and acknowledge an honest admiration, even when it is only honest.”

“Only honest! What more could it be, Mr. Newt?”

“It might be eloquent. It might be fascinating and irresistible. Even when a man does not really admire, his eloquence makes him dangerous. If, when he truly admires, he were also eloquent, he would be irresistible. There is no victory like that. I should envy Alexander nothing and Napoleon nothing if I thought I could really conquer one woman’s heart. My very consciousness of the worth of the prize paralyzes my efforts. It is musty, but it is true, that fools rush in where angels fear to tread.”

He sat silent, gazing abstractedly at the two lovely feet of Miss Grace Plumer, with an air that implied how far his mind had wandered in their conversation from any merely personal considerations. Miss Grace Plumer had not made as much progress as Mr. Newt since their last meeting. Abel Newt seemed to her the handsomest fellow she had ever seen. What he had said both piqued and pleased her. It pleased her because it piqued her.

“Women are naturally noble,” he continued, in a low, rippling voice. “If they see that a man sincerely admires them they forgive him, although he can not say so. Yes, and a woman who really loves a man forgives him every thing.”

He was looking at her hands, which lay white, and warm, and glittering in her lap. She was silent.

“What a superb ruby, Miss Grace! It might be a dew-drop from a pomegranate in Paradise.”

She smiled at the extravagant conceit, while he took her hand as he spoke, and admired the ring. The white, warm hand remained passive in his.

“Let me come nearer to Paradise,” he said, half-abstractedly, as if he were following his own thoughts, and he pressed his lips to the fingers upon which the ruby gleamed.

Miss Grace Plumer was almost frightened. This was a very different performance from Mr. Sligo Moultrie’s—very different from any she had known. She felt as if she suggested, in some indescribable way, strange and beautiful thoughts to Abel Newt. He looked and spoke as if he addressed himself to the thoughts she had evoked rather than to herself. Yet she felt herself to be both the cause and the substance. It was very sweet. She did not know what she felt; she did not know how much she dared. But when he went away she knew that Abel Newt was appointed first flirter, vice Sligo Moultrie removed.

CHAPTER XXXVIII. — THE DAY AFTER THE WEDDING.

“On the 23d instant, Alfred Dinks, Esq., of Boston, to Fanny, oldest daughter of Boniface Newt, Esq., of this city.”

Fanny wrote the notice with her own hands, and made Alfred take it to the papers. In this manner she was before her mother-in-law in spreading the news. In this manner, also, as Boniface Newt, Esq., sat at breakfast, he learned of his daughter’s marriage. His face grew purple. He looked apoplectic as he said to his wife,

“Nancy, what in God’s name does this mean?”

His frightened wife asked what, and he read the announcement aloud.

He rose from table, and walked up and down the room.

“Did you know any thing of this?” inquired he. “What does it mean?”

“Dear me! I thought he was engaged to Hope Wayne,” replied Mrs. Newt, crying.

There was a moment’s silence. Then Mr. Newt said, with a sneer,

“It seems to me that a mother whose, daughter gets married without her knowledge is a very curious kind of mother—an extremely competent kind of mother.”

He resumed his walking. Mrs. Newt went on with her weeping. But Boniface Newt was aware of the possibilities in the case of Alfred, and therefore tried to recover himself and consider the chances.

“What do you know about this fellow?” said he, petulantly, to his wife.

“I don’t know any thing in particular,” she sobbed.

“Do you know whether he has money, or whether his father has?”

“No; but old Mr. Burt is his grandfather.”

“What! his mother’s father?”

“I believe so. I know Fanny always said he was Hope Wayne’s cousin.”

Mr. Newt pondered for a little while. His brow contracted.

“Why on earth have they run away? Did Mr. Burt’s grandson suppose he would be unwelcome to me? Has he been in the habit of coming here, Nancy?”

“No, not much.”

“Have you seen them since this thing?”

“No, indeed,” replied the mother, bursting into tears afresh.

Her husband looked at her darkly.

“Don’t blubber. What good does crying do? G—! if any thing happens in this world, a woman falls to crying her eyes out, as if that would help it.”

Boniface Newt was not usually affectionate. But there was almost a ferocity in his address at this moment which startled his wife into silence. His daughter May turned pale as she saw and heard her father.

“I thought Abel was trial enough!” said he, bitterly; “and now the girl must fall to cutting up shines. I tell you plainly, Nancy, if Fanny has married a beggar, a beggar she shall be. There is some reason for a private marriage that we don’t understand. It can’t be any good reason; and, daughter or no daughter, she shall lie in the bed she has made.”

He scowled and set his teeth as he said it. His wife did not dare to cry any more. May went to her mother and took her hand, while the father of the family walked rapidly up and down.

“Every thing comes at once,” said he. “Just as I am most bothered and driven down town, this infernal business of Fanny’s must needs happen. One thing I’m sure of—if it was all right it would not be a private wedding. What fools women are! And Fanny, whom I always thought so entirely able to take care of herself, turns out to be the greatest fool of all! This fellow’s a booby, I believe, Mrs. Newt. I think I have heard even you make fun of him. But to be poor, too! To run away with a pauper-booby, by Heavens, it’s too absurd!”

Mr. Newt laughed mockingly, while the tears flowed fast from the eyes of his wife, who said at intervals, “I vow,” and “I declare,” with such utter weakness of tone and movement that her husband suddenly exclaimed, in an exasperated tone,

“Nancy, if you don’t stop rocking your body in that inane way, and shaking your hand and your handkerchief, and saying those imbecile things, I shall go mad. I suppose this is the kind of sympathy a man gets from a woman in his misfortunes!”

May Newt looked shocked and indignant. “Mother, I am sorry for poor Fanny,” said she.

She said it quietly and tenderly, and without the remotest reference in look, or tone, or gesture to her father.

He turned toward her suddenly.

“Hold your tongue, Miss!”

“Mamma, I shall go and see Fanny to-day,” May continued, as if her father had not spoken. Her mother looked frightened, and turned to her deprecatingly with a look that said, “For Heaven’s sake, don’t!” Her father regarded her for a moment in amazement.

“What do you mean, you little vixen? Let me catch you disobeying me and going to see that ungrateful wicked girl, if you think fit!”

There was a moment in which May Newt turned pale, but she said, in a very low voice,

“I must go.”

“May, I forbid your going,” said Mr. Newt, severely and loudly.

“Father, you have no right to forbid me.”

“I forbid your going,” roared her father, planting himself in front of her, and quite white with wrath.

May said no more.

“A pretty family you have brought up, Mrs. Nancy Newt,” said he, at length, looking at his wife with all the contempt which his voice expressed. “A son who ruins me by his extravagance, a daughter who runs away with—with”—he hesitated to remember the exact expression—“with a pauper-booby, and another daughter who defies and disobeys her father. I congratulate you upon your charming family, upon your distinguished success, Mrs. Newt. Is there no younger brother of your son-in-law whom you might introduce to Miss May Newt? I beg your pardon, she is Miss Newt, now that her sister is so happily married,” said Boniface Newt, bowing ceremoniously to his daughter.

Mrs. Newt clasped her hands in an utterly helpless despair, and unconsciously raised them in a beseeching attitude before her.

“The husband’s duty takes him away from home,” continued Mr. Newt. “While he is struggling for the maintenance of his family he supposes that his wife is caring for his children, and that she has, at least, the smallest speck of an idea of what is necessary to be done to make them tolerably well behaved. Some husbands are doomed to be mistaken.”

Boniface Newt bowed, and smiled sarcastically.

“Yes, and as if it were not enough to have my wife such a model trainer—and my son so careful—and my daughter so obedient—and my younger daughter so affectionate—I must also have trials in my business. I expected a great loan from Van Boozenberg’s bank, and I haven’t got it. He’s an old driveling fool. Mrs. Newt, you must curtail expenses. There’s one mouth less, and one Stewart’s bill less, at any rate.”

“Father,” said May, as if she could not bear the cool cutting adrift of her sister from the family, “Fanny is not dead.”

“No,” replied her father, sullenly. “No, the more’s the—”

He stopped, for he caught May’s eye, and he could not finish the sentence.

“Mr. Newt,” said his wife, at length, “perhaps Alfred Dinks is not poor.”

That was the chance, but Mr. Newt was skeptical. He had an instinctive suspicion that no rich young man, however much a booby, would have married Fanny clandestinely. Men are forced to know something of their reputations, and Boniface Newt was perfectly aware that it was generally understood he had no aversion to money. He knew also that he was reputed rich, that his family were known to live expensively, and he was quite shrewd enough to believe that any youth in her own set who ran off with his daughter did so because he depended upon her father’s money. He was satisfied that the Newt family was not to be a gainer by the new alliance. The more he thought of it the more he was convinced, and the more angry he became. He was still storming, when the door was thrown open and Mrs. Dagon rushed in.

“What does it all mean?” asked she.

Mr. Newt stopped in his walk, smiled contemptuously, and pointed to his wife, who sat with her handkerchief over her eyes.

“Pooh!” said Mrs. Dagon, “I knew ‘twould come to this. I’ve seen her hugging him the whole winter, and so has every body else who has eyes.”

And she shook her plumage as she settled into a seat.

“Mrs. Boniface Newt is unfortunately blind; that is to say, she sees every body’s affairs but her own,” said Mr. Newt, tauntingly.

Mrs. Dagon, without heeding him, talked on.

“But why did they run away to be married? What does it mean? Fanny’s not romantic, and Dinks is a fool. He’s rich, and a proper match enough, for a woman can’t expect to have every thing. I can’t see why he didn’t propose regularly, and behave like other people. Do you suppose he was actually engaged to his cousin Hope Wayne, and that our darling Fanny has outwitted the Boston beauty, and the Boston beau too, for that matter? It looks like it, really. I think that must be it. It’s a pity a Newt should marry a fool—”

“It is not the first time,” interrupted her nephew, making a low bow to his wife.

Mrs. Dagon looked a little surprised. She had seen little jars and rubs before in the family, but this morning she seemed to have happened in upon an earthquake. She continued:

“But we must make the best of it. Are they in the house?”

“No, Aunt Dagon,” said Mr. Newt. “I knew nothing of it until, half an hour ago, I read it in the paper with all the rest of the world. It seems it was a family secret.” And he bowed again to his wife,

“Don’t, don’t,” sobbed she. “You know I didn’t know any thing about it. Oh! Aunt Dagon, I never knew him so unjust and wicked as he is to-day. He treats me cruelly.” And the poor woman covered her red eyes again with her handkerchief, and rocked herself feebly. Mr. Newt went out, and slammed the door behind him.