Trumps

CHAPTER XLVII. — DEATH.

The clover-blossom perfumed the summer air. The scythe and the sickle still hung in the barn. Grass and grain swayed and whispered and sparkled in the sun and wind. June loitered upon all the gentle hills, and peaceful meadows, and winding brook sides. June breathed in the sweet-brier that climbed the solid stone posts of the gate-way, and clustered along the homely country stone wall. June blossomed in the yellow barberry by the road-side, and in the bright rhodora and the pale orchis in the dark woods. June sang in the whistle of the robin swinging on the elm and the cherry, and the gushing warble of the bobolink tumbling, and darting, and fluttering in the warm meadow. June twinkled in the keen brightness of the fresh green of leaves, and swelled in the fruit buds. June clucked and crowed in the cocks and hens that stepped about the yard, followed by the multitudinous peep of little chickens. June lowed in the cattle in the pasture. June sprang, and sprouted, and sang, and grew in all the sprouting and blooming, in all the sunny new life of the world.

White among the dark pine-trees stood the old house of Pinewood—a temple of silence in the midst of the teeming, overpowering murmur of new life; of silence and darkness in the midst of jubilant sunshine and universal song, that seemed to press against the very windows over which the green blinds were drawn.

But that long wave of rich life, as it glided across the lawn and in among the solemn pine-trees, was a little hushed and subdued. The birds sang in the trees beyond—the bobolinks gushed in the meadows below. But there was a little space of silence about the house.

In the large drawing-room, draped in cool-colored chintz, where once Gabriel Bennet and Abel Newt had seen Hope Wayne, on the table where books had lain like porcelain ornaments, lay a strange piece of furniture, long, and spreading at one end, smelling of new varnish, studded with high silver-headed nails, and with a lid. It was lined with satin. Yes, it was a casket.

The room was more formal, and chilly, and dim than ever. Puffs of air crept through it as if frightened—frightened to death before they got out again. The smell of the varnish was stronger than that of the clover-blossoms, or the roses or honey-suckles outside in the fields and gardens, and about the piazzas.

Upon the wall hung the portrait of Christopher Burt at the age of ten, standing in clean clothes, holding a hoop in one hand and a book in the other. It was sixty-four years before that the portrait was painted, and if one had come searching for that boy he would have found him—by lifting that lid he would have seen him; but in those sunken features, that white hair, that startling stillness of repose, would he have recognized the boy of the soft eyes and the tender heart, whose June clover had not yet blossomed?

There was a creaking, crackling sound upon the gravel in the avenue, and then a carriage emerged from behind the hedge, and another, and another. They were family carriages, and stopped at the front door, which was swung wide open. There was no sound but the letting down of steps and slamming of doors, and the rolling away of wheels. People with grave faces, which they seemed to have put on for the occasion as they put on white gloves for weddings, stepped out and came up the steps. They were mostly clad in sober colors, and said nothing, or conversed in a low, murmuring tone, or in whispers. They entered the house and seated themselves in the library, with the large, solemn Family Bible, and the empty inkstand, and the clean pen-wiper, and the paper knife, and the melancholy recluses of books locked into their cells.

Presently some one would come to the door and beckon with his finger to some figure sitting in the silent library. The sitter arose and walked out quietly, and went with the beckoner and looked in at the lid, and saw what had once been a boy with soft eyes and tender heart. Coming back to the library the smell of varnish was for a moment blown out of the wide entry by the breath of the clover that wandered in, and reminded the silent company of the song and the sunshine and bloom that were outside.

At length every thing was waiting. No more carriages came—no more people. There was no more looking into the casket—no more whispering and moving. The rooms were full of a silent company, and they were all waiting. The clock ticked audibly. The wind rustled in the pine-trees. What next? Would not the master of the house appear to welcome his guests?

He did not come; but from the upper entry, at the head of the stairs, near a room in which sat Hope Wayne, and Lawrence Newt, and Mrs. Simcoe, and Fanny Dinks, and Alfred, and his parents, and a few others, was heard the voice of Dr. Peewee, saying, “Let us pray!”

And he prayed a long prayer. He spoke of the good works of this life, and the sweet promises of the next; of the Christian hero, who fights the good fight encompassed by a crowd of witnesses; of those who do justice and love mercy, and walk in the way of the Lord. He referred to our dear departed brother, and eulogized Christian merchants, calling those blessed who, being rich, are almoners of the Lord’s bounty. He prayed for those who remained, reminding them, that the Lord chastens whom he loves, and that they who die, although full of years and honors, do yet go where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest, and at last pass beyond to enter into the joy of their Lord.

His voice ceased, and silence fell again upon the house. Every body sat quietly; the women fanned themselves, and the men looked about. Here was again the sense of waiting—of vague expectation. What next?

Three or four workmen went into the parlor. One of them put down the lid and screwed it tight. The casket was closed forever. They lifted it, and carried it out carefully down the steps. They rolled it into a hearse that stood upon the gravel, and the man who closed the lid buttoned a black curtain over the casket.

The same man went to the front door and read several names from a paper in a clear, dry voice. The people designated came down stairs, went out of the door, and stepped into carriages. The company rose in the library and drawing-room, and, moving toward the hall, looked at the mourners—at Hope Wayne and Mrs. Simcoe, at Mr. and Mrs. Budlong Dinks, Mr. and Mrs. Alfred Dinks, and others, as they passed out.

Presently the procession began to move slowly along the avenue. Those who remained stepped out upon the piazza and watched it; then began to bustle about for their own carriages. One after another they drove away. Mr. Kingo said to Mr. Sutler that he believed the will was in the hands of Mr. Budlong Dinks, and would be opened in the morning. They looked around the place, and remarked that Miss Wayne would probably become its mistress.

“Mrs. Alfred Dinks seems to be a very—a very—” said Mr. Kingo, gravely, pausing upon the last word.

“Very much so, indeed,” replied Mr. Sutler, with equal gravity.

“And yet,” said Mr. Grabeau, “if it had been so ordered that young Mr. Dinks should marry his cousin, Miss Wayne, he would—that is, I suppose he would—;” and he too hesitated.

“Undoubtedly,” replied both the other gentlemen, seriously, “without question it would have been a very good thing. Mr. Burt must have left a very large property.”

“He made every cent tell,” said Mr. Sutler, taking the reins and stepping into his carriage.

“Rather—rather—a screw, perhaps?” inquired Mr. Grabeau, gravely, as he took out his whip.

“Awful!” replied Mr. Kingo, as he drove away.

The last carriage went, and the stately old mansion stood behind its trees deserted. The casket and its contents had been borne away forever; but somebody had opened all the windows of the house, and June, with its song, and perfume, and sunshine, overflowed the silent chambers, and banished the smell of the varnish and every thought of death.

CHAPTER XLVIII. — THE HEIRESS.

The next morning it was hard to believe in the spectacle of the preceding day. The house of Pinewood was pleasantly open to the sun and air. Hope Wayne, in a black dress of the lightest possible texture, so thin that her arms could be seen through the sleeves, sat by a window. Lawrence Newt sat beside her. Dr. Peewee was talking with Mrs. Dinks. Her son Alfred was sitting alone in a chair, looking at his mother, and Mrs. Fanny Newt Dinks was looking out at a window upon the lawn. Mrs. Simcoe sat near Hope Wayne. There was a table in the middle of the room, from which every thing had been removed. The Honorable Budlong Dinks was walking slowly up and down the room; and several legal-looking gentlemen, friends of his, were conversing and smiling among themselves.

Mr. Dinks stopped in his walk, and, leaning upon the table with the tips of two fingers and the thumb of his left hand, he thrust the right hand into his waistcoat, by the side of the ruffle of his shirt, as if he were about to address the house upon a very weighty question.

“In accordance,” said he, with an air of respect and resignation, “with the wishes of the late Christopher Burt, as expressed in a paper found in his secretary drawer after his decease, I am about to open his will.”

The Honorable Mr. Dinks cleared his throat. Mrs. Fanny Newt Dinks turned back from the window, and conversation ceased. All eyes were fixed upon the speaker, who became more pigeon-breasted every moment. He took out his glasses and placed them upon his nose, and slowly surveyed the company. He then drew a sealed paper from his pocket, clearing his throat with great dignity as he did so:

“This is the document,” said he, again glancing about the room. At this point Hiram stepped gently in, and stood by the door.

Mr. Dinks proceeded to break the seal as if it had been sacramental bread, and with occasional looks at the groups around him, opened the document—shook it—creased it back—smoothed it—and held it carefully in the attitude of reading.

When the audience had been sufficiently impressed with this ceremony, and with a proper conviction of the fact that he of all other men had been selected to reveal the contents of that important paper to mankind, he began, and read that, being of sound mind and body, etc., etc., Christopher Burt, etc., etc., as an humble Christian, and loving the old forms, gave his body to the ground, his soul to his God, in the hope of a happy resurrection, etc., etc.; and devised and bequeathed his property, etc., etc., in the manner following, to wit; that is to say:

At this point Mr. Dinks paused, and blew his nose with profound gravity. He proceeded:

“First. I give to my housekeeper, Jane Simcoe, the friend of my darling daughter Mary, and the life-long friend and guardian of my dear grand-daughter, Hope Wayne, one thousand dollars per annum, as hereinafter specified.”

Mrs. Simcoe’s face did not change; nobody moved except Alfred Dinks, who changed the position of his legs, and thought within himself—“By Jove!”

“Second. I give to Almira Dinks, the daughter of my brother Jonathan Burt, and the wife of Budlong Dinks, of Boston, the sum of five thousand dollars.”

The voice of Mr. Dinks faltered. His wife half rose and sat down again—her face of a dark mahogany color. Fanny Newt sat perfectly still and looked narrowly at her father-in-law, with an expression which was very black and dangerous. Alfred had an air of troubled consternation, as if something fearful were about to happen. The whole company were disturbed. They seemed to be in an electrical condition of apprehension, like the air before a thunder-burst.

Mr. Dinks continued:

“Third. I give to Alfred Dinks, my grand-nephew, my silver shoe-buckles, which belonged to his great-grandfather Burt.”

“Fourth. And all the other estate, real and personal, of which I may die seized, I give, devise, and bequeath to Budlong Dinks, Timothy Kingo, and Selah Sutler, in trust, nevertheless, and for the sole use, behoof, and benefit of my dearly-beloved grand-daughter, Hope Wayne.”

Mr. Dinks stopped. There were some papers annexed, containing directions for collecting the annuity to be paid to Mrs. Simcoe, and a schedule of the property. The Honorable B. Dinks looked hastily at the schedule.

“Miss Wayne’s property will be at least a million of dollars,” said he, in a formal voice.

There were a few moments of utter silence. Even the legal gentlemen ceased buzzing; but presently the forefinger of one of them was laid in the palm of his other hand, and as he stated his proposition to his neighbor, a light conversation began again.

Mrs. Fanny Dinks Newt seemed to have been smitten. She sat crushed up, as it were, biting her nails nervously; her brow wrinkled incredulously, and glaring at her father-in-law, as he folded the paper. Her face grew altogether as black as her hair and her eyes; as if she might discharge a frightful flash and burst of tempest if she were touched or spoken to, or even looked at.

But Mrs. Dinks the elder did look at her, not at all with an air of sullen triumph, but, on the contrary, with a singularly inquisitive glance of apprehension and alarm, as if she felt that the petty trial of wits between them was insignificant compared with the chances of Alfred’s happiness. In one moment it flashed upon her mind that the consequences of this will to her Alfred—to her son whom she loved—would be overwhelming. Good Heavens! she turned pale as she thought of him and Fanny together.

The young man had merely muttered “By Jove, that’s too d—— bad!” and flung himself out of the room.

His wife did not observe that her mother-in-law was regarding her; she did not see that her husband had left the room; she thought of no contest of wits, of no game she had won or lost. She thought only of the tragical mistake she had made—the dull, blundering crime she had committed; and still bowed over, and gnawing her nails, she looked sideways with her hard, round, black eyes, at Hope Wayne.

The heiress sat quietly by the side of her friend Lawrence Newt. She was holding the hand of Mrs. Simcoe, who glanced sometimes at Lawrence, calmly, and with no sign of regretful or revengeful remembrance. The Honorable Budlong Dinks was walking up and down the room, stroking his chin with his hand, not without a curiously vague indignation with the late lamented proprietor of Pinewood.

It was a strange spectacle. A room full of living men and women who had just heard what some of them considered their doom pronounced by a dead man. They had carried him out of his house, cold, powerless, screwed into the casket. They had laid him in the ground beneath the village spire, and yet it was his word that troubled, enraged, disappointed, surprised, and envenomed them. Beyond their gratitude, reproaches, taunts, or fury, he lay helpless and dumb—yet the most terrible and inaccessible of despots.

The conversation was cool and indifferent. The legal gentlemen moved about with a professional and indifferent air, as if they assisted at such an occasion as medical students at dissections. It was in the way of business. As Mr. Quiddy, the confidential counsel of the late lamented Mr. Burt, looked at Mrs. Alfred Dinks, he remarked to Mr. Baze, a younger member of the bar, anxious to appear well in the eyes of Quiddy, that it was a pity the friends of deceased parties permitted their disappointments to overpower them upon these occasions. Saying which, Mr. Quiddy waved his forefinger in the air, while Mr. Baze, in a deferential manner and tone, answered, Certainly, because they could not help themselves. There was no getting round a will drawn as that will was—here a slight bow to Mr. Quiddy, who had drawn the will, was interpolated—and if people didn’t like what they got, they had better grin and bear it. Mr. Quiddy further remarked, with the forefinger still wandering in the air as if restlessly seeking for some argument to point, that the silver shoe-buckles which had so long been identified with the quaint costume of Mr. Burt, would be a very pretty and interesting heir-loom in the family of young Mr. Dinks.

Upon which the eminent confidential counsel took snuff, and while he flirted the powder from his fingers looked at his young friend Baze.

Young Mr. Baze said, “Very interesting!” and continued the attitude of listening for further wisdom from his superior.

Lawrence Newt meanwhile had narrowly watched his niece Fanny. Nobody else cared to approach her; but he went over to her presently.

“Well, Fanny.”

“Well, Uncle Lawrence.”

“Beautiful place, Fanny.”

“Is it?”

“So peaceful after the city.”

“I prefer town.”

“Fanny!”

“Uncle Lawrence.”

“What are you going to do?”

She had not looked at him before, but now she raised her eyes to his. She might as well have closed them. Dropping them, she looked upon the floor and said nothing.

“I’m sorry for you, Fanny.”

She looked fierce. There was a snake-like stealthiness in her appearance, which Alfred’s mother saw across the room and trembled. Then she raised her eyes again to her uncle’s, and said, with a kind of hissing sneer,

“Indeed, Uncle Lawrence, thank you for nothing. It’s not very hard for you to be sorry.”

Not dismayed, not even surprised by this speech, Lawrence was about to reply, but she struck in,

“No, no; I don’t want to hear it. I’ve been cheated, and I’ll have my revenge. As for you, my respected uncle, you have played your cards better.”

He was surprised and perplexed.

“Why, Fanny, what cards? What do you mean?”

“I mean that an old fox is a sly fox,” said she, with the hissing sneer.

Lawrence looked at her in amazement.

“I mean that sly old foxes who have lined their own nests can afford to pity a young one who gets a silver shoe-buckle,” hissed Fanny, with bitter malignity. “If Alfred Dinks were not a hopeless fool, he’d break the will. Better wills than this have been broken by good lawyers before now. Probably,” she added suddenly, with a sarcastic smile, “my dear uncle does not wish to have the will broken?”

Lawrence Newt was pondering what possible interest she thought he could have in the will.

“What difference could it make to me in any case, Fanny?”

“Only the difference of a million of dollars,” said she, with her teeth set.

Gradually her meaning dawned upon Lawrence Newt. With a mingled pain, and contempt, and surprise, and a half-startled apprehension that others might have thought the same thing, and that all kinds of disagreeable consequences might flow from such misapprehension, he perceived what she was thinking of, and said, so suddenly and sharply that even Fanny started,

“You think I want to marry Hope Wayne?”

“Of course I do. So does every body else. Do you suppose we have not known of your intimacies? Do you think we have heard nothing of your meetings all winter with that artist and Amy Waring, and your reading poetry, and your talking poetry?” said Fanny, with infinite contempt.

There was a look of singular perplexity upon the face of Lawrence Newt. He was a man not often surprised, but he seemed to be surprised and even troubled now. He looked musingly across the room to Hope Wayne, who was sitting engaged in earnest conversation with Mrs. Simcoe. In her whole bearing and aspect there was that purity and kindliness which are always associated with blue eyes and golden hair, and which made the painters paint the angels as fair women. A lambent light played all over her form, and to Lawrence Newt’s eyes she had never seemed so beautiful. The girlish quiet which he had first known in her had melted into a sweet composure—a dignified serenity which comes only with experience. The light wind that blew in at the window by which she sat raised her hair gently, as if invisible fingers were touching her with airy benedictions. Was it so strange that such a woman should be loved? Was it not strange that any man should see much of her, be a great deal with her, and not love her? Was Fanny’s suspicion, was the world’s gossip, unnatural?

He asked himself these questions as he looked at her, while a cloud of thoughts and memories floated through his mind.

Yet a close observer, who could read men’s hearts in their faces—and that could be more easily done with every one else than with him—would have seen another expression gradually supplanting the first, or mingling with it rather: a look as of joy at some unexpected discovery—as if, for instance, he had said to himself, “She must be very dear whom I love so deeply that it has not occurred to me I could love this angel!”

Something of that kind, perhaps; at least, something that brought a transfigured cheerfulness into his face.

“Believe me, Fanny,” he said, at length, “I am not anxious to marry Miss Wayne; nor would she marry me if I asked her.”

Then he rose and passed across the room to her side.

“We were talking about the future life of the mistress of this mansion,” said Hope Wayne to Lawrence as he joined them.

“What does she wish?” asked he; “that is always the first question.”

“To go from here,” said she, simply.

“Forever?”

“Forever!”

Hope Wayne said it quietly. Mrs. Simcoe sat holding her hand. The three seemed to be all a little serious at the word.

“Aunty says she has no particular desire to remain here,” said Hope.

“It is like living in a tomb,” said Mrs. Simcoe, turning her calm face to Lawrence Newt.

“Would you sell it outright?” asked he. Hope Wayne bent her head in assent.

“Why not? My own remembrances here are only gloomy. I should rather find or make another home. We could do it, aunty and I.”

She said it simply. Lawrence shook his head smilingly, and replied,

“I don’t think it would be hard.”

“I am going to see my trustees this morning, Uncle Dinks says,” continued Hope, “and I shall propose to them to sell immediately.”

“Where will you go?” asked Lawrence.

“My best friends are in New York,” replied she, with a tender color.

Lawrence Newt thought of Arthur Merlin.

“With my aunty,” continued she, looking fondly at Mrs. Simcoe, “I think I need not be afraid.”

Lunch was brought in; and meanwhile Mr. Kingo and Mr. Sutler had been sent for, and arrived. Mr. Burt had not apprised them of his intention of making them trustees.

They fell into conversation with Mr. Quiddy, and Mr. Baze, and Mr. Dinks. Dr. Peewee took his leave, “H’m ha! yes. My dear Miss Wayne, I congratulate you; congratulate you! h’m ha, yes, oh yes—congratulate you.” The other legal gentlemen, friends of Mr. Dinks, drove off. Nobody was left behind but the trustees and the family and Lawrence Newt—the Dinks were of the family.

After business had been discussed, and the heiress—the owner of Pinewood—had announced her wishes in regard to that property, she also invited the company to remain to dinner, and to divert themselves as they chose meanwhile.

Mrs. Fanny Newt Dinks declined to stay. She asked her husband to call their carriage, and when it came to the door she made a formal courtesy, and did not observe—at least she did not take—the offered hand of Hope Wayne. But as she bowed and looked at Hope that young lady visibly changed color, for in the glance which Fanny gave her she seemed to see the face of her brother Abel; and she was not glad to see it.

Toward sunset of that soft June day, when Uncle and Aunt Dinks—the latter humiliated and alarmed—were gone, and the honest neighbors were gone, Hope Wayne was sitting upon the very bench where, as she once sat reading, Abel Newt had thrown a shadow upon her book. But not even the memory of that hour or that youth now threw a shadow upon her heart or life. The eyes with which she watched the setting sun were as free from sorrow as they were from guile.

Lawrence Newt was standing near the window in the library, looking up at the portrait that hung there, and deep into the soft, dark eyes. He had a trustful, candid air, as if he were seeking from it a benediction or consolation. As the long sunset light swept across the room, and touched tenderly the tender girl’s face of the portrait, it seemed to him to smile tranquilly and trustingly, as if it understood and answered his confidence, and a deep peace fell upon his heart.

And high above, from her window that looked westward—with a clearer, softer gaze, as if Time had cleared and softened the doubts and obscurities of life—Mrs. Simcoe’s face was turned to the setting sun.

Behind the distant dark-blue hills the June sun set—set upon three hearts, at least, that Time and Life had taught and tempered—upon three hearts that were brought together then and there, not altogether understanding each other, but ready and willing to understand. As it darkened within the library and the picture was hidden, Lawrence Newt stood at the window and looked upon the lawn where Hope was sitting. He heard a murmuring voice above him, and in the clear, silent air Hope heard it too. It was only a murmur mingling with the whisper of the pine-trees. But Hope knew what it was, though she could not hear the words. And yet the words were heard:

CHAPTER XLIX. — A SELECT PARTY.

On a pleasant evening in the same month of June Mr. Abel Newt entertained a few friends at supper. The same June air, with less fragrance, perhaps, blew in at the open windows, which looked outside upon nothing but the street and the house walls opposite, but inside upon luxury and ease.

It mattered little what was outside, for heavy muslin curtains hung over the windows; and the light, the beauty, the revelry, were all within.

The boyish look was entirely gone now from the face of the lord of the feast. It was even a little sallow in hue and satiated in expression. There was occasionally that hard, black look in his eyes which those who had seen his sister Fanny intimately had often remarked in her—a look with which Alfred Dinks, for instance, was familiar. But the companions of his revels were not shrewd of vision. It was not Herbert Octoyne, nor Corlaer Van Boozenberg, nor Bowdoin Beacon, nor Sligo Moultrie, nor any other of his set, who especially remarked his expression; it was, oddly enough, Miss Grace Plumer, of New Orleans.

She sat there in the pretty, luxurious rooms, prettier and more luxurious than they. For, at the special solicitation of Mr. Abel Newt, Mrs. Plumer had consented to accept an invitation to a little supper at his rooms—very small and very select; Mrs. Newt, of course, to be present.

The Plumers arrived, and Laura Magot; but a note from mamma excused her absence—papa somewhat indisposed, and so forth; and Mr. Abel himself so sorry—but Mrs. Plumer knows what these husbands are! Meanwhile the ladies have thrown off their shawls.

The dinner is exquisite, and exquisitely served. Prince Abel, with royal grace, presides. By every lady’s plate a pretty bouquet; the handsomest of all not by Miss, but by Mrs. Plumer. Flowers are every where. It is Grand Street, indeed, in the city; but the garden at Pinewood, perhaps, does not smell more sweetly.

“There is, indeed, no perfume of the clover, which is the very breath of our Northern June, Mrs. Plumer; but clover does not grow in the city, Miss Grace.”

Prince Abel begins the little speech to the mother, but his voice and face turn toward the daughter as it ends.

Flowers are in glasses upon the mantle, and in vases of many-colored materials and of various shapes upon tables about the room. The last new books, in English editions often, and a few solid classics, are in sight. Pictures also.

“What a lovely Madonna!” says Miss Plumer, as she raises her eyes to a beautiful and costly engraving that hangs opposite upon the wall; which, indeed, was intended to be observed by her.

“Yes. It is the Sistine, you know,” says the Prince, as he sees that the waiter pours wine for Mrs. Plumer.

The Prince forgets to mention that it is not the engraving which usually hangs there. Usually it is a pretty-colored French print representing “Lucille,” a young woman who has apparently very recently issued from the bath. Indeed there is a very choice collection of French prints which the young men sometimes study over their cigars, but which are this evening in the port-folio, which is not in sight.

The waiters move very softly. The wants of the guests are revealed to them by being supplied. Quiet, elegance, luxury prevail.

“Really, Mr. Newt”—it is Mrs. Plumer, of New Orleans, who speaks—“you have created Paris in Grand Street!”

“Ah! madame, it is you who graciously bring Versailles and the Tuileries with you!”

He speaks to the mother; he looks, as he ends, again at the daughter.

The daughter for the first time is in the sanctuary of a bachelor—of a young man about town. It is a character which always interests her—which half fascinates her. Miss Plumer, of New Orleans, has read more French literature of the lighter sort—novels and romances, for instance—than most of the young women whom Abel Newt meets in society. Her eyes are very shrewd, and she is looking every where to see if she shall not light upon some token of bachelor habits—something that shall reveal the man who occupies those pretty rooms.

Every where her bright eyes fall softly, but every where upon quiet, elegance, and luxury. There is the Madonna; but there are also the last winner at the Newmarket, the profile of Mr. Bulwer, and a French landscape. The books are good, but not too good. There is an air of candor and honesty in the room, united with the luxury and elegance, that greatly pleased Miss Grace Plumer. The apartment leads naturally up to that handsome, graceful, dark-haired, dark-eyed gentleman whose eye is following hers, while she does not know it; but whose mind has preceded hers in the very journey around the room it has now taken.

Sligo Moultrie sits beyond Miss Plumer, who is at the left of Mr. Newt. Upon his right sits Mrs. Plumer. The friendly relations of Abel and Sligo have not been disturbed. They seem, indeed, of late to have become even strengthened. At least the young men meet oftener; not infrequently in Mrs. Plumer’s parlor. Somehow they are aware of each other’s movements; somehow, if one calls upon the Plumers, or drives with them, or walks with them alone, the other knows it. And they talk together freely of all people in the world, except the Plumers of New Orleans. In Abel’s room of an evening, at a late hour, when a party of youth are smoking, there are many allusions to the pretty Plumer—to which it happens that Newt and Moultrie make only a general reply.

As the dinner proceeds from delicate course to course, and the wines of varying hue sparkle and flow, so the conversation purls along—a gentle, continuous stream. Good things are said, and there is that kind of happy appreciation which makes the generally silent speak and the clever more witty.

Mrs. Godefroi Plumer has traveled much, and enjoys the world. She is a Creole, with the Tropics in her hair and complexion, and Spain in her eyes. She wears a Parisian headdress, a brocade upon her ample person, and diamonds around her complacent neck and arms. Diamonds also flash in the fan which she sways gently, admiring Prince Abel. Diamonds—huge solitaires—glitter likewise in the ears of Miss Grace. She wears also a remarkable bracelet of the same precious stones; for the rest, her dress is a cloud of Mechlin lace. She has quick, dark eyes, and an olive skin. Her hands and feet are small. She has filbert nails and an arched instep. Prince Abel, who hangs upon his wall the portrait of the last Newmarket victor, has not omitted to observe these details. He thinks how they would grace a larger house, a more splendid table.

Sligo Moultrie remembers a spacious country mansion, surrounded by a silent plantation, somewhat fallen from its state, whom such a mistress would superbly restore. He looks a man too refined to wed for money, perhaps too indolently luxurious to love without it.

Half hidden under the muslin drapery by the window hangs a cage with a canary. The bird sits silent; but as the feast proceeds he pours a shrill strain into the murmur of the guests. For the noise of the golden-breasted bird Sligo Moultrie can not hear something that is said to him by the ripe mouth between the solitaires. He asks pardon, and it is repeated.

Then, still smiling and looking toward the window, he says, and, as he says it, his eyes—at which he knows his companion is looking—wander over the room,

“A very pretty cage!”

The eyes drop upon hers as they finish the circuit of the room. They say no more than the lips have said. And Miss Grace Plumer answers,

“I thought you were going to say a very noisy bird.”

“But the bird is not very noisy,” says the young man, his dark eyes still holding hers.

There is a moment of silence, during which Miss Plumer may have her fancy of what he means. If so, she does not choose to betray it. If her eyes are clear and shrewd, the woman’s wit is not less so. It is with an air of the utmost simplicity that she replies,

“It was certainly noisy enough to drown what I was saying.”

There is a sound upon her other side as if a musical bell rang.

“Miss Plumer!”

Her head turns. This time Mr. Sligo Moultrie sees the massive dark braids of her hair behind. The ripe mouth half smiles upon Prince Abel.

He holds a porcelain plate with a peach upon it, and a silver fruit-knife in his hand. She smiles, as if the music had melted into a look. Then she hears it again:

“Here is the sunniest side of the sunniest peach for Miss Plumer.”

Sligo Moultrie can not help hearing, for the tone is not low. But, while he is expecting to catch the reply, Miss Magot, who sits beyond him, speaks to him. The Prince Abel, who sees many things, sees this; and, in a tone which is very low, Miss Plumer hears, and nobody else in the room hears:

“May life always be that side of a sweet fruit to her!”

It is the tone and not the words which are eloquent.

The next instant Sligo Moultrie, who has answered Miss Magot’s question, hears Miss Plumer say:

“Thank you, with all my heart.”

It seems to him a warm acknowledgment for a piece of fruit.

“I did not speak of the bird; I spoke of the cage,” are the words that Miss Plumer next hears, and from the other side.

She turns to Sligo Moultrie and says, with eyes that expect a reply,

“Yes, you are right; it is a very pretty cage.”

“Even a cage may be a home, I suppose.”

“Ask the canary.”

“And so turned to the basest uses,” says Mr. Moultrie, as if thinking aloud.

He is roused by a little ringing laugh:

“A pleasant idea of home you suggest, Mr. Moultrie.”

He smiles also.

“I do not wonder you laugh at me; but I mean sense, for all that,” he says.

“You usually do,” she says, sincerely, and eyes and solitaires glitter together.

Sligo Moultrie is happy—for one moment. The next he hears the musical bell of that other voice again. Miss Plumer turns in the very middle of a word which she has begun to address to him.

“Miss Grace?”

“Well, Mr. Newt.”

“You observe the engraving of the Madonna?”

“Yes.”

“You see the two cherubs below looking up?”

“Yes.”

“You see the serene sweetness of their faces?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know what it is?”

Grace Plumer looks as if curiously speculating. Sligo Moultrie can not help hearing every word, although he pares a peach and offers it to Miss Magot.

“Miss Grace, do you remember what I said once of honest admiration—that if it were eloquent it would be irresistible?”

Grace Plumer bows an assent.

“But that its mere consciousness—a sort of silent eloquence—is pure happiness to him who feels it?”

She thinks she remembers that too, although the Prince apparently forgets that he never said it to her before.

“Well, Miss Plumer, it seems to me the serene sweetness of that picture is the expression of the perfect happiness of entire admiration—that is to say, of love; whoever loves is like those cherubs—perfectly happy.”

He looks attentively at the picture, as if he had forgotten his own existence in the happiness of the cherubs. Grace Plumer glances at him for a few moments with a peculiar expression. It is full of admiration, but it is not the look with which she would say, as she just now said to Sligo Moultrie, “You always speak sincerely.”

She is still looking at the Prince, when Mr. Moultrie begins again:

“I ought to be allowed to explain that I only meant that as a cage is a home, so it is often used as a snare. Do you know, Miss Grace, that the prettiest birds are often put into the prettiest cages to entice other birds? By-the-by, how lovely Laura Magot is this evening!”

He cuts a small piece of the peach with his silver knife and puts it into his mouth,

“Peaches are luxuries in June,” he says, quietly.

This time it is at Sligo Moultrie that Miss Grace Plumer looks fixedly.

“What kind of birds, Mr. Moultrie?” she says, at length.

“Miss Grace, do you know the story of the old Prince of Este?” answers he, as he lays a bunch of grapes upon her plate. She pulls one carelessly and lets it drop again. He takes it and puts it in his mouth.

“No; what is the story?”

“There was an old Prince of Este who had a beautiful villa and a beautiful sister, and nothing else in the world but a fiery eye and an eloquent tongue.”

Sligo Moultrie flushes a little, and drinks a glass of wine. Grace Plumer is a little paler, and more serious. Prince Abel plies Madame Plumer with fruit and compliments, and hears every word.

“Well.”

“Well, Miss Grace, she was so beautiful that many a lady became her friend, and many of those friends sighed for the brother’s fiery eyes and blushed as they heard his honeyed tongue. But he was looking for a queen. At length came the Princess of Sheba—”

“Are you talking of King Solomon?”

“No, Miss Plumer, only of Alcibiades. And when the Princess of Sheba came near the villa the Prince of Este entreated her to visit him, promising that the sister should be there. It was a pretty cage, I think; the sister was a lovely bird. And the Princess came.”

He stops and drinks more wine.

“Very well! And then?”

“Why, then, she had a very pleasant visit,” he says, gayly.

“Mr. Moultrie, is that the whole of the story?”

“No, indeed, Miss Plumer; but that is as far as we have got.”

“I want to hear the rest.”

“Don’t be in such a hurry; you won’t like the rest so well.”

“Yes; but that is my risk.”

“It is your risk,” says Sligo Moultrie, looking at her; “will you take it?”

“Of course I will,” is the clear-eyed answer.

“Very well. The Princess came; but she did not go away.”

“How curious! Did she die of a peach-stone at the banquet?”

“Not at all. She became Princess of Este instead of Sheba.”

“Oh-h-h,” says Grace Plumer, in a long-drawn exclamation. “And then?”

“Why, Miss Grace, how insatiable you are!—then I came away.”

“You did? I wouldn’t have come away.”

“No, Miss Grace, you didn’t.”

“How—I didn’t? What does that mean, Mr. Moultrie?”

“I mean the Princess remained.”

“So you said. Is that all?”

“No.”

“Well.”

“Oh! the rest is nothing. I mean nothing new.”

“Let me hear the old story, then, Mr. Moultrie.”

“The rest is merely that the Princess found that the fiery eyes burned her and the eloquent tongue stung her, and truly that is the whole. Isn’t it a pretty story? The moral is that cages are sometimes traps.”

Sligo Moultrie becomes suddenly extremely attentive to Miss Magot. Grace Plumer ponders many things, and among others wonders how, when, where, Sligo Moultrie learned to talk in parables. She does not ask herself why he does so. She is a woman, and she knows why.