Trumps

CHAPTER XXXIX. — A FIELD-DAY.

“Now, Nancy, tell me about this thing,” said Mrs. Dagon, when the husband was gone.

But Nancy had nothing to tell.

“I don’t like his running away with her—that looks bad,” continued Mrs. Dagon. She pondered a few moments, and then said:

“I can tell you one thing, Nancy, which it wasn’t worth while to mention to Boniface, who seems to be nervous this morning—but I am sure Fanny proposed the running off. Alfred Dinks is too great a fool. He never would have thought of it, and he would never have dared to do it if he had.”

“Oh dear me!” responded Mrs. Newt.

“Pooh! it isn’t such a dreadful thing, if he is only rich enough,” said Aunt Dagon, in a consoling voice. “Every thing depends on that; and I haven’t much doubt of it. Alfred Dinks is a fool, my dear, but Fanny Newt is not; and Fanny Newt is not the girl to marry a fool, except for reasons. You may trust Fanny, Nancy. You may depend there was some foolish something with Hope Wayne, on the part of Alfred, and Fanny has cut the knot she was not sure of untying. Pooh! pooh! When you are as old as I am you won’t be distressed over these things. Fanny Newt is fully weaned. She wants an establishment, and she has got it. There are plenty of people who would have been glad to marry their daughters to Alfred Dinks. I can tell you there are some great advantages in having a fool for your husband. Don’t you see Fanny never would have been happy with a man she couldn’t manage. It’s quite right, my dear.”

At this moment the bell rang, and Mrs. Newt, not wishing to be caught with red eyes, called May, who had looked on at this debate, and left the room.

While Mrs. Dagon had been so volubly talking she had also been busily thinking. She knew that if Alfred were a fool his mother was not—at least, not in the way she meant. There had been no love lost between the ladies, so that Mrs. Dagon was disposed to criticise the other’s conduct very closely. She saw, therefore, that if Alfred Dinks were not rich—and it certainly was a question whether he were so really, or only in expectation from Mr. Burt—then also he might not be engaged to Hope Wayne. But the story of his wealth and his engagement might very easily have been the ruse by which the skillful Mrs. Dinks meant to conduct her campaign in New York. In that case, what was more likely than that she should have improved Fanny’s evident delusion in regard to her son, and, by suggesting to him an elopement, have secured for him the daughter of a merchant so universally reputed wealthy as Boniface Newt?

Mrs. Dagon was clever—so was Mrs. Dinks; and it is the homage that one clever person always pays to another to believe the other capable of every thing that occurs to himself.

In the matter of the marriage Mrs. Budlong Dinks had been defeated, but she was not dismayed. She had lost Hope Wayne, indeed, and she could no longer hope, by the marriage of Alfred with his cousin, to consolidate the Burt property in her family. She had been very indignant—very deeply disappointed. But she still loved her son, and the meditation of a night refreshed her.

Upon a survey of the field, Mrs. Dinks felt that under no circumstances would Hope have married Alfred; and he had now actually married Fanny. So much was done. It was useless to wish impossible wishes. She did not desire her son to starve or come to social shame, although he had married Fanny; and Fanny, after all, was rather a belle, and the daughter of a rich merchant, who would have to support them. She knew, of course, that Fanny supposed her husband would share in the great Burt property. But as Mrs. Dinks herself believed the same thing, that did not surprise her. In fact, they would all be gainers by it; and nothing now remained but to devote herself to securing that result.

The first step under the circumstances was clearly a visit to the Newts, and the ring which had sent Mrs. Newt from the room was Mrs. Dinks’s.

Mrs. Dagon was alone when Mrs. Dinks entered, and Mrs. Dagon was by no means sure, whatever she said to Nancy, that Mrs. Dinks had not outwitted them all. As she entered Mrs. Dagon put up her glasses and gazed at her; and when Mrs. Dinks saluted her, Mrs. Dagon bowed behind the glasses, as if she were bowing through a telescope at the planet Jupiter.

“Good-morning, Mrs. Dagon!”

“Good-morning, Mrs. Dinks!” replied that lady, still contemplating the other as if she were a surprising and incomprehensible phenomenon.

Profound silence followed. Mrs. Dinks was annoyed by the insult which Mrs. Dagon was tacitly putting upon her, and resolving upon revenge. Meanwhile she turned over some illustrated books upon the table, as if engravings were of all things those that afforded her the profoundest satisfaction.

But she was conscious that she could not deceive Mrs. Dagon by an appearance of interest; so, after a few moments, Mrs. Dinks seated herself in a large easy-chair opposite that lady, who was still looking at her, shook her dress, glanced into the mirror with the utmost nonchalance, and finally, slowly drawing out her own glasses, raised them to her eyes, and with perfect indifference surveyed the enemy.

The ladies gazed at each other for a few moments in silence.

“How’s your daughter, Mrs. Alfred Dinks?” asked Mrs. Dagon, abruptly.

Mrs. Dinks continued to gaze without answering. She was resolved to put down this dragon that laid waste society. The dragon was instantly conscious that she had made a mistake in speaking, and was angry accordingly. She said nothing more; she only glared.

“Good-morning, my dear Mrs. Dinks,” said Mrs. Newt, in a troubled voice, as she entered the room. “Oh my! isn’t it—isn’t it—singular?”

For Mrs. Newt was bewildered. Between her husband and Mrs. Dagon she had been so depressed and comforted that she did not know what to think. She was sure it was Fanny who had married Alfred, and she supposed, with all the world, that he had, or was to have, a pretty fortune. Yet she felt, with her husband, that the private marriage was suspicious. It seemed, at least, to prove the indisposition of Mrs. Dinks to the match. But, as they were married, she did not wish to alienate the mother of the rich bridegroom.

“Singular, indeed, Mrs. Newt!” rejoined Mrs. Dinks; “I call it extraordinary!”

“I call it outrageous,” interpolated Mrs. Dagon. “Poor girl! to be run away with and married! What a blow for our family!”

Mrs. Dinks resumed her glasses, and looked unutterably at Mrs. Dagon. But Mrs. Dinks, on her side, knowing the limitations of Alfred’s income, and believing in the Newt resources, did not wish to divert from him any kindness of the Newts. So she outgeneraled Mrs. Dagon again.

“Yes, indeed, it is an outrage upon all our feelings. We must, of course, be mutually shocked at the indiscretion of these members of both our families.”

“Yes, oh yes!” answered Mrs. Newt. “I do declare! what do people do so for?”

Neither cared to take the next step, and make the obvious and necessary inquiries as to the future, for neither wished to betray the thought that was uppermost. At length Mrs. Dinks ventured to say,

“One thing, at least, is fortunate.”

“Indeed!” ejaculated Mrs. Dagon behind the glasses, as if she scoffed at the bare suggestion of any thing but utter misfortune being associated with such an affair.

“I say one thing is fortunate,” continued Mrs. Dinks, in a more decided tone, and without the slightest attention to Mrs. Dagon’s remark.

“Dear me! I declare I don’t see just what you mean, Mrs. Dinks,” said Mrs. Newt.

“I mean that they are neither of them children,” answered the other.

“They may not be children,” commenced Mrs. Dagon, in the most implacable tone, “but they are both fools. I shouldn’t wonder, Nancy, if they’d both outwitted each other, after all; for whenever two people, without the slightest apparent reason, run away to be married, it is because one of them is poor.”

This was a truth of which the two mothers were both vaguely conscious, and which by no means increased the comfort of the situation. It led to a long pause in the conversation. Mrs. Dinks wished Aunt Dagon on the top of Mont Blanc, and while she was meditating the best thing to say, Mrs. Dagon, who had rallied, returned to the charge.

“Of course,” said she, “that is something that would hardly be said of the daughter of Boniface Newt.”

And Mrs. Dagon resumed the study of Mrs. Dinks.

“Or of the grand-nephew of Christopher Burt,” said the latter, putting up her own glasses and returning the stare.

“Grand-nephew! Is Alfred Dinks not the grandson of Mr. Burt?” asked Mrs. Newt, earnestly.

“No, he is his grand-nephew. I am the niece of Mr. Burt—daughter of his brother Jonathan, deceased,” replied Mrs. Dinks.

“Oh!” said Mrs. Newt, dolefully.

“Not a very near relation,” added Mrs. Dagon. “Grand-nephews don’t count.”

That might be true, but it was thin consolation for Mrs. Newt, who began to take fire.

“But, Mrs. Dinks, how did this affair come about?” asked she.

“Exactly,” chimed in Aunt Dagon; “how did it come about?”

“My dear Mrs. Newt,” replied Mrs. Dinks, entirely overlooking the existence of Mrs. Dagon, “you know my son Alfred and your daughter Fanny. So do I. Do you believe that Alfred ran away with Fanny, or Fanny with Alfred. Theoretically, of course, the man does it. Do you believe Alfred did it?”

Mrs. Dinks’s tone was resolute. Mrs. Newt was on the verge of hysterics.

“Do you mean to insult my daughter to her mother’s face?” exclaimed she. “O you mean to insinuate that—”

“I mean to insinuate nothing, my dear Mrs. Newt. I say plainly what I mean to say, so let us keep as cool as we can for the sake of all parties. They are married—that’s settled. How are they going to live?”

Mrs. Newt opened her mouth with amazement.

“I believe the husband usually supports the wife,” ejaculated the dragon behind the glasses.

“I understand you to say, then, my dear Mrs. Newt,” continued Mrs. Dinks, with a superb disregard of the older lady, who had made the remark, “that the husband usually supports the family. Now in this matter, you know, we are going to be perfectly cool and sensible. You know as well as I that Alfred has no profession, but that be will by-and-by inherit a fortune from his grand-uncle—”

At this point Mrs. Dagon coughed in an incredulous and contemptuous manner. Mrs. Dinks put her handkerchief to her nose, which she patted gently, and waited for Mrs. Dagon to stop.

“As I was saying—a fortune from his grand-uncle. Now until then provision must be made—”

“Really,” said Mrs. Dagon, for Mrs. Newt was bewildered into silence by the rapid conversation of Mrs. Dinks—“really, these are matters of business which, I believe, are usually left to gentlemen.”

“I know, of course, Mrs. Newt,” continued the intrepid Mrs. Dinks, utterly regardless of Mrs. Dagon, for she had fully considered her part, and knew her own intentions, “that such things are generally arranged by the gentlemen. But I think sensible women like you and I, mothers, too, are quite as much interested in the matter as fathers can be. Our honor is as much involved in the happiness of our children as their fathers’ is. So I have come to ask you, in a purely friendly and private manner, what the chances for our dear children are?”

“I am sure I know nothing,” answered Mrs. Newt; “I only know that Mr. Newt is furious.”

“Perfectly lunatic,” added Aunt Dagon, in full view of Mrs. Dinks.

“Pity, pity!” returned Mrs. Dinks, with an air of compassionate unconcern; “because these things can always be so easily settled. I hope Mr. Newt won’t suffer himself to be disturbed. Every thing will come right.”

“What does Mr. Dinks say?” feebly inquired Mrs. Newt.

“I really don’t know,” replied Mrs. Dinks, with a cool air of surprise that any body should care what he thought—which made Mrs. Dagon almost envious of her enemy, and which so impressed Mrs. Newt, who considered the opinion of her husband as the only point of importance in the whole affair, that she turned pale.

“I mean that his mind is so engrossed with other matters that he rarely attends to the domestic details,” added Mrs. Dinks, who had no desire of frightening any of her new relatives. “Have you been to see Fanny yet?”

“No,” returned Mrs. Newt, half-sobbing again, “I have only just heard of it; and—and—I don’t think Mr. Newt would wish me to go.”

Mrs. Dinks raised her eyebrows, and again touched her face gently with the handkerchief. Mrs. Dagon rubbed her glasses and waited, for she knew very well that Mrs. Dinks had not yet discovered what she had come to learn. The old General was not deceived by the light skirmishing.

“I am sorry not to have seen Mr. Newt before he went down town,” began Mrs. Dinks, after a pause. “But since we must all know these matters sooner or later—that is to say, those of us whose business it is”—here she glanced at Mrs. Dagon—“you and I, my dear Mrs. Newt, may talk confidentially. How much will your husband probably allow Fanny until Alfred comes into his property?”

Mrs. Dinks leaned back and folded her shawl closely around her, and Mrs. Dagon hemmed and smiled a smile of perfect incredulity.

“Gracious, gracious! Mrs. Dinks, Mr. Newt won’t give her a cent!” answered Mrs. Newt. As she uttered the words Mrs. Dagon held the enemy in full survey.

Mrs. Dinks was confounded. That there would be some trouble in arranging the matter she had expected. But the extreme dolefulness of Mrs. Newt had already perplexed her; and the prompt, simple way in which she answered this question precluded the suspicion of artifice. Something was clearly, radically wrong. She knew that Alfred had six hundred a year from his father. She had no profound respect for that gentleman; but men are willful. Suppose he should take a whim to stop it? On the other side, she knew that Boniface Newt was an obstinate man, and that fathers were sometimes implacable. Sometimes, even, they did not relent in making their wills. She knew all about Miss Van Boozenberg’s marriage with Tom Witchet, for it was no secret in society. Was it possible her darling Alfred might be in actual danger of such penury—at least until he came into his property? And what property was it, and what were the chances that old Burt would leave him a cent?

These considerations instantly occupied her mind as Mrs. Newt spoke; and she saw more clearly than ever the necessity of propitiating old Burt.

At length she asked, with an undismayed countenance, and with even a show of smiling:

“But, Mrs. Newt, why do you take so cheerless a view of your husband’s intentions in this matter?”

The words that her husband had spoken in his wrath had rung in Mrs. Newt’s mind ever since, and they now fell, echo-like, from her tongue.

“Because he said that, daughter or no daughter, she shall lie in the bed she has made.”

Mrs. Dinks could not help showing a little chagrin. It was the sign for Mrs. Newt to burst into fresh sorrow. Mrs. Dagon was as rigid as a bronze statue.

“Very well, then, Mrs. Newt,” said her visitor, rising, “Mr. Newt will have the satisfaction of seeing his daughter starve.”

“Oh, her husband will take care of that,” said the bronze statue, blandly.

“My son Alfred,” continued Mrs. Dinks, “has an allowance of six hundred dollars a year, no profession, and expectations from his grand-uncle. These are his resources. If his father chooses, he can cut off his allowance. Perhaps he will. You can mention these facts to Mr. Newt.”

“Oh! mercy! mercy!” exclaimed Mrs. Newt. “What shall we do? What will people say?”

“Good-morning, ladies!” said Mrs. Dinks, with a comprehensive bow. She was troubled, but not overwhelmed; for she believed that the rich Mr. Newt would not, of course, allow his daughter to suffer. Mrs. Dagon was more profoundly persuaded than ever that Mrs. Dinks had managed the whole matter.

“Nancy,” said she, as the door closed upon Mrs. Dinks, “it is a scheming, artful woman. Her son has no money, and I doubt if he ever will have any. Boniface will be implacable. I know him. He is capable of seeing his daughter suffer. Fanny has made a frightful mistake. Poor Fanny! she was not so clever as she thought herself. There is only one hope—that is in old Burt. I think we had better present that view chiefly to Boniface. We must concede the poverty, but insist and enlarge upon the prospect. No Newt ought to be allowed to suffer if we can help it. Poor Fanny! She was always pert, but not quite so smart as she thought herself!”

Mrs. Dagon indulged in a low chuckle of triumph, while Mrs. Newt was overwhelmed with a vague apprehension that all her husband’s wrath at his daughter’s marriage would be visited upon her.

CHAPTER XL. — AT THE ROUND TABLE.

Mrs. Dinks had informed Hope that she was going home. That lady was satisfied, by her conversation with Mrs. Newt, that it would be useless for her to see Mr. Newt—that it was one of the cases in which facts and events plead much more persuasively than words. She was sure the rich merchant would not allow his daughter to suffer. Fathers do so in novels, thought she. Of course they do, for it is necessary to the interest of the story. And old Van Boozenberg does in life, thought she. Of course he does. But he is an illiterate, vulgar, hard old brute. Mr. Newt is of another kind. She had herself read his name as director of at least seven different associations for doing good to men and women.

But Mrs. Dinks still delayed her departure. She knew that there was no reason for her staying, but she staid. She loved her son dearly. She was unwilling to leave him while his future was so dismally uncertain; and every week she informed Hope that she was on the point of going.

Hope Wayne was not sorry to remain. Perhaps she also had her purposes. At Saratoga, in the previous summer, Arthur Merlin had remarked her incessant restlessness, and had connected it with the picture and the likeness of somebody. But when afterward, in New York, he cleared up the mystery and resolved who the somebody was, to his great surprise he observed, at the same time, that the restlessness of Hope Wayne was gone. From the months of seclusion which she had imposed upon herself he saw that she emerged older, calmer, and lovelier than he had ever seen her. The calmness was, indeed, a little unnatural. To his sensitive eye—for, as he said to Lawrence Newt, in explanation of his close observation, it is wonderful how sensitive an exclusive devotion to art will make the eye—to his eye the calmness was still too calm, as the gayety had been too gay.

In the solitude of his studio, as he drew many pictures upon the canvas, and sang, and smoked, and scuffled across the floor to survey his work from a little distance—and studied its progress through his open fist—or as he lay sprawling upon his lounge in a cotton velvet Italian coat, inimitably befogged and bebuttoned—and puffed profusely, following the intervolving smoke with his eye—his meditations were always the same. He was always thinking of Hope Wayne, and befooling himself with the mask of art, actually hiding himself from himself: and not perceiving that when a man’s sole thought by day and night is a certain woman, and an endless speculation about the quality of her feeling for another man, he is simply a lover thinking of his mistress and a rival.

The infatuated painter suddenly became a great favorite in society. He could not tell why. Indeed there was no other secret than that he was a very pleasant young gentleman who made himself agreeable to young women, because he wished to know them and to paint them—not, as he wickedly told Lawrence Newt, who winked and did not believe a word of it, because the human being is the noblest subject of art—but only because he wished to show himself by actual experience how much more charming in character, and sprightly in intelligence, and beautiful in person and manner, Hope Wayne was than all other young women.

He proved that important point to his perfect satisfaction. He punctually attended every meeting of the Round Table, as Lawrence called the meetings at which he and Arthur read and talked with Hope Wayne and Amy Waring, that he might lose no opportunity of pursuing the study. He found Hope Wayne always friendly and generous. She frankly owned that he had shown her many charming things in poetry that she had not known, and had helped her to form juster opinions. It was natural she should think it was Arthur who had helped her. She did not know that it was a very different person who had done the work—a person whose name was Abel Newt. For it was her changing character—changing in consequence of her acquaintance with Abel—which modified her opinions; and Arthur arrived upon her horizon at the moment of the change.

She was always friendly and generous with him. But somehow he could not divest himself of the idea that she must be the Diana of his great picture. There was an indescribable coolness and remoteness about her. Has it any thing to do with that confounded sketch at Saratoga, and that—equally confounded Abel Newt? thought he.

For the conversation at the Round Table sometimes fell upon Abel.

“He is certainly a handsome fellow,” said Amy Waring. “I don’t wonder at his success.”

“It’s beauty that does it, then, Miss Waring?” asked Arthur.

“Does what?” said she.

“Why, that gives what you call social success.”

“Oh! I mean that I don’t wonder such a handsome, bright, graceful; accomplished young man, who lives in fine style, drives pretty horses, and knows every body, should be a great favorite with the girls and their mothers. Don’t you see, Abel Newt is a sort of Alcibiades?”

Lawrence Newt laughed.

“You don’t mean Pelham?” said he.

“No, for he has sense enough to conceal the coxcomb. But you ought to know your own nephew, Mr. Newt,” answered Amy.

“Perhaps; but I have a very slight acquaintance with him,” said Mr. Newt.

“I don’t exactly like him,” said Arthur Merlin, with perfect candor.

“I didn’t know you knew him,” replied Amy, looking up.

Arthur blushed, for he did not personally know him; but he felt as if he did, so that he unwittingly spoke so.

“No, no,” said he, hastily; “I don’t know him, I believe; but I know about him.”

As he said this he looked at Hope Wayne, who had been sitting, working, in perfect silence. At the same moment she raised her eyes to his inquiringly.

“I mean,” said Arthur, quite confused, “that I don’t—somehow—that is to say, you know, there’s a sort of impression you get about people—”

Lawrence Newt interposed—

“I suppose that Arthur doesn’t like Abel for the same reason that oil doesn’t like water; for the same reason that you, Miss Amy, and Miss Wayne, would probably not like such a man.”

Arthur Merlin looked fixedly at Hope Wayne.

“What kind of man is Mr. Newt?” asked Hope, faintly coloring. She was trying herself.

“Don’t you know him?” asked Arthur, abruptly and keenly.

“Yes,” replied Hope, as she worked on, only a little more rapidly.

“Well, what kind of man do you think him to be?” continued Arthur, nervously.

“That is not the question,” answered Hope, calmly.

Lawrence Newt and Amy Waring looked on during this little conversation. They both wanted Hope to like Arthur. They both doubted how Abel might have impressed her. Lawrence Newt had not carelessly said that neither Amy nor Hope would probably like Abel.

“Miss Hope is right, Arthur,” said he. “She asks what kind of man my nephew is. He is a brilliant man—a fascinating man.”

“So was Colonel Burr,” said Hope Wayne, without looking up.

“Exactly, Miss Hope. You have mentioned the reason why neither you nor Amy would like my nephew.”

Hope and Amy understood. Arthur Merlin was bewildered.

“I don’t quite understand,” said he; “I am such a great fool.”

Nobody spoke.

“I am sorry for that poor little Grace Plumer,” Lawrence Newt gravely said.

“Don’t you be troubled about little Grace Plumer. She can take proper care of herself,” answered Arthur, merrily.

Hope Wayne’s busy fingers did not stop. She remembered Miss Grace Plumer, and she did not agree with Arthur Merlin. Hope did not know Grace; but she knew the voice, the manner, the magnetism to which the gay girl was exposed,

“If Mr. Godefroi Plumer is really as rich as I hear,” said Lawrence, “I think we shall have a Mrs. Abel Newt in the autumn. Poor Mrs. Abel Newt!”

He shook his head with that look, mingled of feeling and irony, which was very perplexing. The tone in which he spoke was really so full of tenderness for the girl, that Hope, who heard every word and felt every tone, was sure that Lawrence Newt pitied the prospective bride sincerely.

“I beg pardon, Mr. Newt, and Miss Wayne,” said Arthur Merlin; “but how can a man have a high respect for women when he sees his sister do what Fanny Newt has done?”

“Why should a man complain that his sister does precisely what he is trying to do himself?” asked Lawrence.

CHAPTER XLI. — A LITTLE DINNER.

When Mrs. Dinks told her husband of Alfred’s marriage, the Honorable Budlong said it was a great pity, but that it all came of the foolish fondness of the boy’s mother; that nothing was more absurd than for mothers to be eternally coddling their children. Although who would have attended to Mr. Alfred if his mother had not, the unemployed statesman forgot to state, notwithstanding that he had just written a letter upon public affairs, in which he eloquently remarked that he had no aspirations for public life; but that, afar from the turmoils of political strife, his modest ambition was satisfied in the performance of the sweet duties which the wise Creator, who has set the children of men in families, has imposed upon all parents.

“However,” said he, “Mr. Newt is a wealthy merchant. It’s all right, my dear! Women, and especially mothers, are peculiarly silly at such times. Endeavor, Mrs. Dinks, to keep the absurdity—which, of course, you will not be able to suppress altogether—within bounds. Try to control your nerves, and rely upon Providence.”

Therewith the statesman stroked his wife’s chin. He controlled his own nerves perfectly, and went to dress for dinner with a select party at General Belch’s, in honor of the Honorable B. J. Ele, who, in his capacity as representative in Washington, had ground an axe for his friend the General. Therefore, when the cloth was removed, the General rose and said: “I know that we are only a party of friends, but I can not help indulging my feelings, and gratifying yours, by proposing the health of our distinguished, able, and high-minded representative, whose Congressional career proves that there is no office in the gift of a free and happy people to which he may not legitimately aspire. I have the honor and pleasure to propose, with three times three, the Honorable B. Jawley Ele.”

The Honorable Budlong Dinks led off in gravely pounding the table with his fork; and when the rattle of knives, and forks, and spoons, and glasses had subsided, and when Major Scuppernong, of North Carolina—who had dined very freely, and was not strictly following the order of events, but cried out in a loud voice in the midst of the applause, “Encore, encore! good for Belch!”—had been reduced to silence, then the honorable gentleman who had been toasted rose, and expressed his opinion of the state of the country, to the general effect that General Jackson—Sir, and fellow-citizens—I mean my friends, and you, Mr. Speaker—I beg pardon, General Belch, that General Jackson, gentlemen and ladies, that is to say, the relatives here present—I mean—yes—is one of the very greatest—I venture to say, and thrust it in the teeth and down the throat of calumny—the greatest human being that now lives, or ever did live, or ever can live.

Mr. Ele sat down amidst a fury of applause. Major Scuppernong, of North Carolina, and Captain Lamb, of Pennsylvania, turned simultaneously to the young gentleman who sat between them, and who had been introduced to them by General Belch as Mr. Newt, son of our old Tammany friend Boniface Newt, and said to him, with hysterical fervor,

“By G—, Sir! that is one of the greatest men in this country. He does honor, Sir, to the American name!”

The gentlemen, without waiting for a reply, each seized a decanter and filled their glasses. Abel smiled and bowed on each side of him, filled his own glass and lighted a cigar.

Of course, after General Belch had spoken and Mr. Ele had responded, it was necessary that every body else should be brought to a speech. General Belch mentioned the key-stone of the arch of States; and Captain Lamb, in reply, enlarged upon the swarthy sons of Pennsylvania. General Smith, of Vermont, when green mountains were gracefully alluded to by General Belch, was proud to say that he came—or, rather, he might say—yes, he would say, hailed from the hills of Ethan Allen; and, in closing, treated the company to the tale of Ticonderoga. The glittering mouth of the Father of Waters was a beautiful metaphor which brought Colonol le Fay, of Louisiana, to his feet; and the Colonel said that really he did not know what to say. “Say that the Mississippi has more water in its mouth than ever you had!” roared Major Scuppernong, with great hilarity. The company laughed, and the Colonel sat down. When General Belch mentioned Plymouth Hock, the Honorable Budlong Dinks sprang upon it, and congratulated himself and the festive circle he saw around him upon the inestimable boon of religious liberty which, he might say, was planted upon the rock of Plymouth, and blazed until it had marched all over the land, dispensing from its vivifying wings the healing dew of charity, like the briny tears that lave its base.

“Beautiful! beautiful! My God, Sir, what a poetic idea!” murmured, or rather gurgled, Major Scuppernong to Abel at his side.

But when General Belch rose and said that eloquence was unnecessary when he mentioned one name, and that he therefore merely requested his friends to fill and pledge, without further introduction, “The old North State,” there was a prolonged burst of enthusiasm, during which Major Scuppernong tottered on to his feet and wavered there, blubbering in maudlin woe, and wiping his eyes with a napkin; while the company, who perceived his condition, rattled the table, and shouted, and laughed, until Sligo Moultrie, who sat opposite Abel, declared to him across the table that it was an abominable shame, that the whole South was insulted, and that he should say something.

“Fiddle-de-dee, Moultrie,” said Abel to him, laughing; “the South is no more insulted because Major Scuppernong, of North Carolina, gets drunk and makes a fool of himself than the North is insulted because General Smith, of Vermont, and the Honorable Dinks, of Boston, make fools of themselves without getting drunk. Do you suppose that, at this time of night, any of these people have the remotest idea of the points of the compass? Their sole interest at the present moment is to know whether the gallant Major will tumble under the table before he gets through his speech.”

But the gallant Major did not get through his speech at all, because he never began it. The longer he stood the unsteadier he grew, and the more profusely he wept. Once or twice he made a motion, as if straightening himself to begin. The noise at table then subsided a little. The guests cried “H’st.” There was a moment of silence, during which the eloquent and gallant Major mopped the lingering tears with his napkin, then his mouth opened in a maudlin smile; the roar began again, until at last the smile changed into a burst of sobbing, and to Abel Newt’s extreme discomfiture, and Sligo Moultrie’s secret amusement, Major Scuppernong suddenly turned and fell upon Abel’s neck, and tenderly embraced him, whispering with tipsy tenderness, “My dearest Belch, I love you! Yes, by Heaven! I swear I love you!”

Abel called the waiters, and had the gallant and eloquent Major removed to a sofa.

“He enjoys life, the Major, Sir,” said Captain Lamb, of Pennsylvania, at Abel’s left hand; “a generous, large-hearted man. So is our host, Sir. General Belch is a man who knows enough to go in when it rains.”

Captain Lamb, of Pennsylvania, cocked one eye at his glass, and then opening his mouth, and throwing his head a little back, tipped the entire contents down at one swallow. He filled the glass again, took a puff at his cigar, scratched his head a moment with the handle of a spoon, then opening his pocket-knife, proceeded to excavate some recesses in his teeth with the blade.

“Is Dinks a rising man in Massachusetts, do you know, Sir?” asked Captain Lamb of Abel, while the knife waited and rested a moment on the outside of the mouth.

“I believe he is, Sir,” said Abel, at a venture.

“Wasn’t there some talk of his going on a foreign mission? Seems to me I heard something.”

“Oh! yes,” replied Abel. “I’ve heard a good deal about it. But I am not sure that he has received his commission yet.”

Captain Lamb cocked his eye at Abel as if he had been a glass of wine.

Abel rose, and, seating himself by Sligo Moultrie, entered into conversation.

But his object in moving was not talk. It was to give the cue to the company of changing their places, so that he might sit where he would. He drifted and tacked about the table for some time, and finally sailed into the port toward which he had been steering—an empty chair by Mr. Dinks. They said, good-evening. Mr. Dinks added, with a patronizing air,

“I presume you are not often at dinners of this kind, Mr. Newt?”

“No,” replied Abel; “I usually dine on veal and spring chickens.”

“Oh!” said Mr. Dinks, who thought Abel meant that he generally ate that food.

“I mean that men of my years usually feed with younger and softer people than I see around me here,” explained the young man.

“Yes, of course, I understand,” replied Mr. Dinks, loftily, who had not the least idea what Abel meant; “young men must expect to begin at women’s dinners.”

“They must, indeed,” replied Abel. “Now, Mr. Dinks, one of the pleasantest I remember was this last winter, under the auspices of your wife. Let me see, there were Mr. Moultrie there, Mr. Whitloe and Miss Magot, Mr. Bowdoin Beacon and Miss Amy Waring—and who else? Oh! I beg pardon, your son Alfred and my sister Fanny.”

As he spoke the young gentleman filled a glass of wine, and looked over the rim at Mr. Dinks as he drained it.

“Yes,” returned the Honorable Mr. Dinks, “I don’t go to women’s dinners.”

He seemed entirely unconscious that he was conversing with the brother of the young lady with whom his son had eloped. Abel smiled to himself.

“I suppose,” said he, “we ought to congratulate each other, Mr. Dinks.”

The honorable gentleman looked at Abel, paused a moment, then said:

“My son marries at his own risk. Sir. He is of years of discretion, I believe, and having an income of only six hundred dollars a year, which I allow him, I presume he would not marry without some security upon the other side. However, Sir, as that is his affair, and as I do not find it very interesting—no offense, Sir, for I shall always be happy to see my daughter-in-law—we had better, perhaps, find some other topic. The art of life, my young friend, is to avoid what is disagreeable. Don’t you think Mr. Ele quite a remarkable man? I regard him as an honor to your State, Sir.”

“A very great honor, Sir, and all the gentlemen at this charming dinner are honors to the States from which they come, and to our common country, Mr. Dinks. We younger men are content to dine upon veal and spring chickens so long as we know that such intellects have the guidance of public affairs.”

Mr. Abel Newt bowed to Mr. Dinks as he spoke, while that gentleman listened with the stately gravity with which a President of the United States hears the Latin oration in which he is made a Doctor of Laws. He bowed in reply to the little speech of Abel’s, as if he desired to return thanks for the combined intellects that had been complimented.

“And yet, Sir,” continued Abel, “if my father should unhappily conceive a prejudice in regard to this elopement, and decline to know any thing of the happy pair, six hundred dollars, in the present liberal style of life incumbent upon a man who has moved in the circles to which your son has been accustomed, would be a very limited income for your son and daughter-in-law—very limited.”

Abel lighted another cigar. Mr. Dinks was a little confounded by the sudden lurch of the conversation.

“Very, very,” he replied, as if he were entirely loth to linger upon the subject.

“The father of the lady in these cases is very apt to be obdurate,” said Abel.

“I think very likely,” replied Mr. Dinks, with the polite air of a man assenting to an axiom in a science of which, unfortunately, he has not the slightest knowledge.

“Now, Sir,” persisted Abel, “I will not conceal from you—for I know a father’s heart will wish to know to what his son is exposed—that my father is in quite a frenzy about this affair.”

“Oh! he’ll get over it,” interrupted Mr. Dinks, complacently. “They always do; and now, don’t you think that we had better—”

“Exactly,” struck in the other. “But I, who know my father well, know that he will not relent. Oh, Sir, it is dreadful to think of a family divided!” Abel puffed for a moment in silence. “But I think my dearest father loves me enough to allow me to mould him a little. If, for instance, I could say to him that Mr. Dinks would contribute say fifteen hundred dollars a year, until Mr. Alfred comes into his fortune, I think in that case I might persuade him to advance as much; and so, Sir, your son and my dear sister might live somewhat as they have been accustomed, and their mutual affection would sustain them, I doubt not, until the grandfather died. Then all would be right.”

Abel blew his nose as if to command his emotion, and looked at Mr. Dinks.

“Mr. Newt, I should prefer to drop the subject. I can not afford to give my son a larger allowance. I doubt if he ever gets a cent from Mr. Burt, who is not his grandfather, but only the uncle of my wife. Possibly Mrs. Dinks may receive something. I repeat that I presume my son understands what he is about. If he has done a foolish thing, I am sorry. I hope he has not. Let us drink to the prosperity of the romantic young pair, Sir.”

“With all my heart,” said Abel.

He was satisfied. He had come to the dinner that he might discover, in the freedom of soul which follows a feast, what Alfred Dinks’s prospects really were, and what his father would do for him. Boniface Newt, upon coming to the store after the tête-à-tête with his wife, had told Abel of his sister’s marriage. Abel had comforted his parent by the representation of the probable Burt inheritance. But the father was skeptical. Therefore, when General Arcularius Belch requested the pleasure of Mr. Abel Newt’s company at dinner, to meet the Honorable B. Jawley Ele—an invitation which was dictated by General Belch’s desire to stand well with Boniface Newt, who contributed generously to the expenses of the party—the father and son both perceived the opportunity of discovering what they wished.

“Mr. and Mrs. Alfred Dinks will have six hundred a year, as long as papa Dinks chooses to pay it,” said Abel to his father the day after the dinner.

Mr. Newt clenched his teeth and struck his fist upon the table.

“Not a cent shall they have from me!” cried he. “What the devil does a girl mean, by this kind of thing?”

Abel was not discomposed. He did not clench his teeth or strike his fist.

“I tell you what they can do, father,” said he.

His father looked at him inquiringly.

“They can take Mr. and Mrs. Tom Witchet to board.”

Mr. Newt remembered every thing he had said of Mr. Van Boozenberg. But of late, his hair was growing very gray, his brow very wrinkled, his expression very anxious and weary. When he remembered the old banker, it was with no self-reproach that he himself was now doing what, in the banker’s case, he had held up to Abel’s scorn. It was only to remember that the wary old man had shut down the portcullis of the bank vaults, and that loans were getting to be almost impossible. His face darkened. He swore a sharp oath. “That—old villain!”