Trumps

CHAPTER LXVI. — MENTOR AND TELEMACHUS.

Drawing his chair near to Abel’s, General Belch lighted a cigar, and said:

“You see it’s not so very hard.”

Abel looked inquiringly.

“To go to Congress,” answered Belch.

“Yes, but I’m not elected yet, thank you.”

General Arcularius Belch blew a long, slow cloud, and gazed at his companion with a kind of fond superiority.

“What do you mean by looking so?” asked Abel.

“My dear Newt, I was not aware that you had such a soft spot. No, positively, I did not know that you had so much to learn. It is inconceivable.”

The General smiled, and smoked, and looked blandly at his companion.

“You’re not elected yet, hey?” asked the General, with an amused laugh.

“Not that I am aware of,” said Abel.

“Why, my dear fellow, who on earth do you suppose does the electing?”

“I thought the people were the source of power,” replied Abel, gravely.

The General looked for a moment doubtfully at his companion.

“Hallo! I see you’re gumming. However, there’s one thing. You know you’ll have to speak after the election. Did you ever speak?”

“Not since school,” replied Abel.

“Well, you know the cue. I gave it to you to-night. The next thing is, how strong can you come down?”

“You know I’ve failed.”

“Of course you have. That’s the reason the boys will expect you to be very liberal.”

“How much?” inquired Abel.

“Let me see. There’ll be the printing, halls, lights, ballots, advertisements—Well, I should say a thousand dollars, and a thousand more for extras. Say two thousand for the election, and a thousand for the committee.”

“Devil! that’s rather strong!” replied Abel.

“Not at all,” said General Belch. “Your going to Washington secures the grant, and the grant nets you at least three thousand dollars upon every share. It’s a good thing, and very liberal at that price. By-the-by, don’t forget that you’re a party man of another sort. You do the dancing business, and flirting—”

“Pish!” cried Abel; “milk for babes!”

“Exactly. And you’re going to a place that swarms with babes. So give ‘em milk. Work the men through their wives, and mistresses, and daughters. It isn’t much understood yet; but it is a great idea.”

“Why don’t you go to Congress?” asked Abel, suddenly.

“It isn’t for my interest,” answered the General. “I make more by staying out.”

“How many members are there for Belch?” continued Abel.

The General did not quite like the question, nor the tone in which it was asked. His fat nose glistened for a moment, while his mouth twisted into a smile, and he answered,

“They’re only for Belch as far as Belch is for them—”

“Or as far as Belch makes them think he is,” answered Abel, smiling.

The General smiled too, for he found the game going against him.

“We were speaking of your speech,” said he. “Now, Newt, the thing’s in your own hands. You’ve a future before you. With the drill of the party, and with your talents, you ought to do any thing.”

“Too many rivals,” said Abel, curtly.

“My dear fellow, what are the odds? They can’t do any thing outside the party, or without the drill. Make it their interest not to be ambitious, and they’re quiet enough. Here’s William Condor—lovely, lovely William. He loves the people so dearly that he does nothing for them at twenty thousand dollars a year. Tell him that you will secure him his place, and he’s your humble servant. Of course he is. Now I am more familiar with the details of these things, and I’m always at your service. Before you go, there will be a caucus of the friends of the grant, which you must attend, and make a speech.”

“Another speech?” said Abel.

“My dear fellow, you are now a speech-maker by profession. Now that you are in Congress, you will never be free from the oratorical liability. Wherever two or three are gathered together, and you are one of them, you’ll have to return thanks, and wave the glorious flag of our country. And you’ll have to begin very soon.”

CHAPTER LXVII. — WIRES.

General Belch was right. Abel had to begin very soon. The committee met and called the meetings. The members of the committee, each in his own district, consulted with various people, whom they found generally at corner groceries. They were large, coarse-featured, hulking men, and were all named Jim, or Tom, or Ned.

“What’ll you have, Jim?”

“Well, Sir, it’s so early in the day, that I can’t go any thing stronger than brandy.”

“Two cocktails—stiff,” was the word of the gentleman to the bar-keeper.

The companions took their glasses, and sat down behind a heavy screen.

“Well, Sir, what’s the word? I see there’s going to be more meetin’s.”

“Yes, Jim. Bodley has resigned.”

“Who’s the man, Mr. Slugby?” asked Jim, as if to bring matters to a point.

“Mr. Abel Newt has been mentioned,” replied the gentleman with the diamond ring, which he had slipped into his waistcoat pocket before the interview.

Jim cocked his eye at his glass, which was nearly empty.

“Here! another cocktail,” cried Mr. Slugby to the bar-tender.

“Son of old Newt that bust t’other day?”

“The same.”

“Well, I s’pose it’s all right,” said Jim, as he began his second tumbler.

“Oh yes; he’s all right. He understands things, and he’s coming down rather strong. By-the-by, I’ve never paid you that ten dollars.”

And Mr. Slugby pulled out a bill of that amount and handed it to Jim, who received it as if he were pleased, but did not precisely recall any such amount as owing to him.

“I suppose the boys will be thirsty,” said Mr. Enos Slugby.

“There never’s nothin’ to make a man thirsty ekal to a ‘lection,” answered Jim, with his huge features grinning.

“Well, the fellows work well, and deserve it. Here, you needn’t go out of your district, you know, and this will be enough.” He handed more money to his companion. “Have ‘em up in time, and don’t let them get high until after the election of delegates. It was thought that perhaps Mr. Musher and I had better go to the Convention. It’s just possible, Jim, that some of Bodley’s friends may make trouble.”

“No fear, Mr. Slugby, we’ll take care of that. Who do you want for chairman of the meeting?” answered Jim.

“Edward Gasserly is the best chairman. He understands things.”

“Very well, Sir, all right,” said Jim.

“Remember, Jim, Wednesday night, seven o’clock. You’ll want thirty men to make every thing short and sure. Gasserly, chairman; Musher and Slugby, delegates. And you needn’t say any thing about Abel Newt, because that will all be settled in the Convention; and the delegates of the people will express their will there as they choose. I’ll write the names of the delegates on this.”

Mr. Slugby tore off a piece of paper from a letter in his pocket, and wrote the names. He handed the list, and, taking out his watch, said,

“Bless my soul, I’m engaged at eleven, and ‘tis quarter past. Good-by, Jim, and if any thing goes wrong let me know.”

“Sartin, Sir,” replied Jim, and Mr. Slugby departed.

Mr. William Condor had a similar interview with Tom, and Mr. Ele took a friendly glass with Ned. And other Mr. Slugbys, and Condors, and Eles, had little interviews with other red-faced, trip-hammer-fisted Jims, Toms, and Neds. These healths being duly drunk, the placards were posted. They were headed with the inspiring words “Liberty and Equality,” with cuts of symbolic temples and ships and lifted arms with hammers, and summoned the legal voters to assemble in primary meetings and elect delegates to a convention to nominate a representative. The Hon. Mr. Bodley’s letter of resignation was subjoined:

“FELLOW-CITIZENS,—Deeply grateful for the honorable trust you have so long confided to me, nothing but the imperative duty of attending to my private affairs, seriously injured by my public occupations, would induce me to resign it into your hands. But while his country may demand much of every patriot, there is a point, which every honest man feels, at which he may retire. I should be deeply grieved to take this step did I not know how many abler representatives you can find in the ranks of that constituency of which any man may be proud. I leave the halls of legislation at a moment when our party is consolidated, when its promise for the future was never more brilliant, and when peace and prosperity seem to have taken up their permanent abode in our happy country, whose triumphant experiment of popular institutions makes every despot shake upon his throne. Gentlemen, in bidding you farewell I can only say that, should the torch of the political incendiary ever be applied to the sublime fabric of our system, and those institutions which were laid in our father’s struggles and cemented with their blood, should totter and crumble, I, for one, will be found going down with the ship, and waving the glorious flag of our country above the smouldering ruins of that moral night.

“I am, fellow-citizens, your obliged, faithful, and humble servant, WATKINS BODLEY.”

In pursuance of the call the meetings were held. Jim, Tom, and Ned were early on the ground in their respective districts, with about thirty chosen friends. In Jim’s district Mr. Gasserly was elected chairman, and Messrs. Musher and Slugby delegates to the Convention. Mr. Slugby, who was present when the result was announced, said that it was extremely inconvenient for him to go, but that he held it to be the duty of every man to march at the call of the party. His private affairs would undoubtedly suffer, but he held that every man’s private interest must give way to the good of his party. He could say the same thing for his friend, Mr. Musher, who was not present. But he should say to Musher—Musher, the people want us to go, and go we must. With the most respectful gratitude he accepted the appointment for himself and Musher.

This brisk little off-hand speech was received with great favor. Immediately upon its conclusion Jim moved an adjournment, which was unanimously carried, and Jim led the way to a neighboring corner, where he expended a reasonable proportion of the money which Slugby had given him.

A few evenings afterward the Convention met. Mr. Slugby was appointed President, and Mr. William Condor Secretary. The Honorable B.J. Ele presented a series of resolutions, which were eloquently advocated by General Arcularius Belch. At the conclusion of his speech the Honorable A. Bat made a speech, which the daily Flag of the Country the next morning called “a dry disquisition about things in general,” but which the Evening Banner of the Union declared to be “one of his most statesmanlike efforts.”

After these speeches the Convention proceeded to the ballot, when it was found that nine-tenths of all the votes cast were for Abel Newt, Esquire.

General Belch rose, and in an enthusiastic manner moved that the nomination be declared unanimous. It was carried with acclamation. Mr. Musher proposed an adjournment, to meet at the polls. The vote was unanimous. Mr. Enos Slugby rose, and called for three cheers for “the Honorable Abel Newt, our next talented and able representative in Congress.” The Convention rose and roared.

“Members of the Convention who wish to call upon the candidate will fall into line!” shouted Mr. Condor; then leading the way, and followed by the members, he went down stairs into the street. A band of music was at hand, by some thoughtful care, and, following the beat of drums and clangor of brass, the Convention marched toward Grand Street.

CHAPTER LXVIII. — THE INDUSTRIOUS APPRENTICE.

Good news fly fast. On the wings of the newspapers the nomination of Abel Newt reached Delafield, where Mr. Savory Gray still moulded the youthful mind. He and his boys sat at dinner.

“Fish! fish! I like fish,” said Mr. Gray. “Don’t you like fish, Farthingale?”

Farthingale was a new boy, who blushed, and said, promptly,

“Oh! yes, Sir.”

“Don’t you like fish, Mark Blanding? Your brother Gyles used to,” asked Mr. Gray.

“Yes, Sir,” replied that youth, slowly, and with a certain expression in his eye, “I suppose I do.”

“All boys who are in favor of having fish dinner on Fridays will hold up their right hands,” said Mr. Gray. He looked eagerly round the table. “Come, come! up, up, up!” said he, good-naturedly.

“That’s it. Mrs. Gray, fish on Fridays.”

“Mr. Gray,” said Mark Blanding.

“Well, Mark?”

“Ain’t fish cheaper than meat?”

“Mark, I am ashamed of you. Go to bed this instant.”

Mark was unjust, for Uncle Savory had no thought of indulging his purse, but only his palate.

When the criminal was gone Mr. Gray drew a paper from his pocket, and said,

“Boys, attend! In this paper, which is a New York paper, there is an account of the nomination of a member of Congress—a member of Congress, boys,” he repeated, slowly, dwelling upon the words to impress their due importance. “What do you think his name is? Who do you suppose it is who is nominated for Congress?”

He waited a moment, but the boys, not having the least idea, were silent.

“Well, it is Abel Newt, who used to sit at this very table. Abel Newt, one of Mr. Gray’s boys.”

He waited another moment, to allow the overwhelming announcement to have its due effect, while the scholars all looked at him, holding their knives and forks.

“And there is not one of you, who, if he be a good boy, may not arrive at the same eminence. Think, boys, any one of you, if you are good, may one day get nominated to Congress, as the Honorable Mr. Newt is, who was once a scholar here, just like you. Hurrah for Mr. Gray’s boys! Now eat your dinners.”

CHAPTER LXIX. — IN AND OUT.

“And Boniface Newt has failed,” said Mr. Bennet to his wife, in a low voice.

He was shading his eyes with his hand, and his wife was peacefully sewing beside him.

She made no reply, but her face became serious, then changed to an expression in which, from under his hands, for her husband’s eyes were not weak, her husband saw the faintest glimmering of triumph. But Mrs. Bennet did not raise her eyes from her work.

“Lucia!” He spoke so earnestly that his wife involuntarily started.

“My dear,” she replied, looking at him with a tear in her eye, “it is only natural.”

Her husband said nothing, but shook his slippered foot, and his neck sunk a little lower in his limp, white cravat. They were alone in the little parlor, with only the portrait on the wall for company, and only the roses in the glass upon the table, that were never wanting, and always showed a certain elegance of taste in arrangement and care which made the daughter of the house seem to be present though she might be away.

“What a beautiful night!” said Mr. Bennet at last, as his eyes lingered upon the window through which he saw the soft illumination of the full moonlight.

His wife looked for a moment with him, and answered, “Beautiful!”

“How lovely those roses are, and how sweet they smell!” he said, after another interval of silence, and as if there were a change in the pleasant dreams he was dreaming.

“Yes,” she replied, and looked at him and smiled, and, smiling, sewed on.

“Where is Ellen to-night?” he asked, after a little pause.

“She is walking in this beautiful moonlight.”

“All alone?” he inquired, with a smile.

“No! with Edward.”

“Ah! with Edward.” And there was evidently another turn in the pleasant dream.

“And Gabriel—where is Gabriel?” asked he, still shaking the slippered foot.

His wife smoothed her work, and said, with an air of tranquil happiness,

“I suppose he is walking too.”

“All alone?”

“No, with May.”

Involuntarily, as she said it, she laid her work in her lap, as if her mind would follow undisturbed the happy figures of her children. She looked abstractedly at the window, as if she saw them both, the manly candor of her Gabriel, and the calm sweetness of May Newt—the loyal heart of her blue-eyed Ellen clinging to Edward Wynne. Down the windings of her reverie they went, roses in their cheeks and faith in their hearts. Down and down, farther and farther, closer and closer, while the springing step grew staid, and the rose bloom slowly faded. Farther and farther down her dream, and gray glistened in the brown hair and the black and gold, but the roses bloomed around them in younger cheeks, and the brown hair and the black and gold were as glossy and abundant upon those younger heads, and still their arms were twined and their eyes were linked, as if their hearts had grown together, each pair into one. Farther and farther—still with clustering younger faces—still with ever softer light in the air falling upon the older forms, grown reverend, until—until—had they faded in that light, or was she only blinded by her tears?

For there were tears in her eyes—eyes that glistened with happiness—and there was a hand in hers, and as she looked at her husband she knew that their hands had clasped each other because they saw the same sweet vision.

He looked at his wife, and said,

“Could I have been the rich man I one day hoped to be—the great merchant I longed to be, when I asked you to marry me—I could have owned nothing—no diamond—so dear to me as that very tear in your eye. I wanted to be rich—I felt as if I had cheated you, in being so poor and unsuccessful—you, who were bred so differently. For your sake I wanted to be rich.” He spoke with a stronger, fuller voice. “Yes, and when Laura Magot broke my engagement with her because of my first failure, I resolved that she should see me one of the merchant princes she idolized, and that my wife should be envied by her as being the wife of a richer man than Boniface Newt. Darling, you know how I struggled for it—you did not know the secret spur—and how I failed. And I know who it was that made my failure my success, and who taught a man who wanted to be rich how to be happy.”

While he spoke his wife’s arm had stolen tenderly around him. As he finished, she said, gently,

“I am not such a saint, Gerald.”

“If you are not, I don’t believe in saints,” replied her husband.

“No, I will prove it to you.”

“I defy you,” said Gerald, smiling.

“Listen! Why did you say Lucia in such a tone, a little while ago?” asked his wife.

Gerald Bennet smiled with arch kindness.

“Shall I answer truly?”

“Under pain of displeasure.”

“Well,” he began, slowly, “when I heard that Laura Magot’s husband had failed, as I knew that Lucia Darro’s husband had once been jilted by Laura Magot because he failed, I could not help wondering—now, Lucia dear, how could I help wondering?—I wondered how Lucia Darro would feel. Because—because—”

He made a full stop, and smiled.

“Because what?” asked his wife.

He lingered, and smiled.

“Because what?” persisted his wife, with mock gravity.

“Because Lucia Darro was a woman, and—well! I’ll make a clean breast of it—and because, although a man and woman love each other as long and dearly as Lucia Darro and her husband have and do, there is still something in the woman that the man can not quite understand, and upon which he is forever experimenting. So I was curious to hear, or rather to see and feel, what your thoughts were; and, at the moment I spoke, I thought I saw them, and I was surprised.”

“Exactly, Sir; and that surprise ought to have shown you that I was no saint. Listen again, Sir. Lucia Darro’s husband was never jilted by Laura Magot, for the impetuous and ambitious young man who was engaged to that lady is an entirely different person from my husband. Do you hear, Sir?”

“Precisely; and who made him so entirely different?”

“Hush, Sir! I’ve no time to hear such folly. I, too, am going to make a clean breast of it, and confess that there was the least little sense of—of—of—well, justice, in my mind, when I thought that Laura Magot who jilted you, who were so unfortunate, and with whom she might have been so happy—”

Gerald Bennet dissented, with smiles and shaking head.

“Hush, Sir! Any woman might have been. That she should have led such a life with Boniface Newt, and have seen him ruined after all. Poor soul! poor soul!”

“Which?” asked her husband.

“Both—both, Sir. I pity them both from my heart.”

“Thou womanest of women!” retorted her husband. “Art thou, therefore, no saint because thou pitiest them?”

“No, no; but because it was not an unmixed pity.”

“At any rate, it is an unmixed goodness,” said her husband.

The restless glance, the glimmering uncertainty, had faded from his eyes. He sat quietly on the sofa, swinging his foot, and with his head bent a little to one side over the limp cravat.

“Gerald,” said his wife, “let us go out, and walk in the moonlight too.”

CHAPTER LXX. — THE REPRESENTATIVE OF THE PEOPLE.

In a few moments they were sauntering along the street. It was full and murmurous. The lights were bright in the shop windows, and the scuffling of footsteps, more audible than during the day, when it is drowned by the roar of carriage-wheels upon the pavement, had a friendly, social sound.

“Broadway is never so pleasant as in the early evening,” said Mr. Bennet; “for then the rush of the day is over, and people move with a leisurely air, as if they were enjoying themselves. What is that?”

They were going down the street, and saw lights, and heard music and a crowd approaching. They came nearer; and Mr. Bennet and his wife turned aside, and stood upon the steps of a dwelling-house. A band of music came first, playing “Hail Columbia!” It was surrounded by a swarm of men and boys, in the street and on the sidewalk, who shouted, and sang, and ran; and it was followed by a file of gentlemen, marching in pairs. Several of them carried torches, and occasionally, as they passed under a house, they all looked up at the windows, and gave three cheers. Sometimes, also, an individual in the throng shouted something which was received with loud hi-hi’s and laughter.

“What is it?” asked Mrs. Bennet.

“This is a political procession, my dear. Look! they will not come by us at all; they are turning into Grand Street, close by. I suppose they are going to call upon some candidate. I never see any crowd of this kind without thinking how simple and beautiful our institutions are. Do you ever think of it, Lucia? What a majestic thing the popular will is!”

“Let’s hurry, and we may see something,” said his wife.

The throng had left Broadway, and had stopped in Grand Street under a balcony in a handsome house. The music had stopped also, and all faces were turned toward the balcony. Mr. Bennet and his wife stood at the corner of Broadway. Suddenly a gentleman took off his hat and waved it violently in the air, and a superb diamond-ring flashed in the torch-light as he did so, while he shouted,

“Three cheers for Newt!”

There was a burst of huzzas from the crowd—the drums rolled—the boys shrieked and snarled in the tone of various animals—the torches waved—one excited man cried, “One more!”—there was another stentorian yell, and roll, and wave—after which the band played a short air. But the windows did not open.

“Newt! Newt! Newt!” shouted the crowd. The young gentleman with the diamond-ring disappeared into the house, with several others.

“Why, Slugby, where the devil is he?” said one of them to another, in a whisper, as they ran up the stairs.

“I’m sure I don’t know. Musher promised to have him ready.”

“And I sent Ele up to get here before we did,” replied his friend, in the same hurried whisper, his fat nose glistening in the hall-light.

When they reached Mr. Newt’s room they found him lying upon a sofa, while Musher and the Honorable B.J. Ele were trying to get him up.

“D——n it! stand up, can’t you?” cried Mr. Ele.

“No, I can’t,” replied Abel, with a half-humorous maudlin smile.

At the same moment the impetuous roar of the crowd in the street stole in through the closed windows.

“Newt! Newt! Newt!”

“What in —— shall we do?” gasped Mr. Enos Slugby, walking rapidly up and down the room.

“Who let him get drunk?” demanded General Belch, angrily.

Nobody answered.

“Newt! Newt! Newt!” surged in from the street.

“Thunder and devils, there’s nothing for it but to prop him up on the balcony!” said General Belch. “Come now, heave to, every body, and stick him on his pins.”

Abel looked sleepily round, with his eyes half closed and his under lip hanging.

“‘Tain’t no use,” said he, thickly; “‘tain’t no use.”

And he leered and laughed.

The perspiring and indignant politicians grasped him—Slugby and William Condor under the arms, Belch on one side, and Ele ready to help any where. They raised their friend to his feet, while his head rolled slowly round from one side to the other, with a maudlin grin.

“‘Tain’t no use,” he said.

Indeed, when they had him fairly on his feet nothing further seemed to be possible. They were all holding him and looking very angry, while they heard the loud and imperative—“Newt! Newt! Newt!” accompanied with unequivocal signs of impatience in an occasional stone or chip that rattled against the blinds.

In the midst of it all the form of the drunken man slipped back upon the sofa, and sitting there leaning on his hands, which rested on his knees, and with his head heavily hanging forward, he lifted his forehead, and, seeing the utterly discomfited group standing perplexed before him, he said, with a foolish smile,

“Let’s all sit down.”

There was a moment of hopeless and helpless inaction. Then suddenly General Belch laid his hands upon the sofa on which Abel was lying, and moved it toward the window.

“Now,” cried he to the others, “open the blinds, and we’ll make an end of it.”

Enos Slugby raised the window and obeyed. The crowd below, seeing the opening blinds and the lights, shouted lustily.

“Now then,” cried the General, “boost him up a moment and hold him forward. Heave ho! all together.”

They raised the inert body, and half-lifted, half-slid it forward upon the narrow balcony.

“Here, Slugby, you prop him behind; and you, Ele and Condor, one on each side. There! that’s it! Now we have him. I’ll speak to the people.”

So saying, the General removed his hat and bowed very low to the crowd in the street. There was a great shout, “Three cheers for Newt!” and the three cheers rang loudly out.

“‘Tain’t Newt,” cried a sharp voice: “it’s Belch.”

“Three cheers for Belch!” roared an enthusiastic somebody.

“D—— Belch,” cried the sharp voice.

“Hi! hi!” roared the chorus; while the torches waved and the drums rolled once more.

During all this time General Arcularius Belch had been bowing profoundly and grimacing in dumb show to the crowd, pointing at Abel Newt, who stood, ingeniously supported, his real state greatly concealed by the friendly night.

“Gentlemen!” cried Belch, in a piercing voice.

“H’st! h’st! Down, down! Silence,” in the crowd.

“Gentlemen, I am very sorry to have to inform you that our distinguished fellow-citizen, Mr. Newt, to compliment whom you have assembled this evening, is so severely unwell (oh! gum! from the sharp-voiced skeptic below) that he is entirely unable to address you. But so profoundly touched is he by your kindness in coming to compliment him by this call, that he could not refuse to appear, though but for a moment, to look the thanks he can not speak. At the earliest possible moment he promises himself the pleasure of addressing you. Let me, in conclusion, propose three cheers for our representative in the next Congress, the Honorable Abel Newt. And now—” he whispered to his friends as the shouts began, “now lug him in again.”

The crowd cheered, the Honorable Mr. Newt was lugged in, the windows were closed, and General Belch and his friends withdrew.

“I tell you what it is,” said he, as they passed up the street at a convenient distance behind the crowd, “Abel Newt is a man of very great talent, but he must take care. By Jove! he must. He must understand times and seasons. One thing can not be too often repeated,” said he, earnestly, “if a man expects to succeed in political life he must understand when not to be drunk.”

The merry company laughed, and went home with Mr. William Condor to crack a bottle of Champagne.

Mr. and Mrs. Bennet had stood at the street corner during the few minutes occupied by these events. When they heard the shouts for Newt they had looked inquiringly at each other. But when the scene was closed, and the cheers for the Honorable Abel Newt, our representative in Congress, had died away, they stood for a few moments quite stupefied.

“What does it mean, Gerald?” asked his wife. “Is Abel Newt in Congress?”

“I didn’t know it. I suppose he is only a candidate.”

He moved rapidly away, and his wife, who was not used to speed in his walking, smiled quietly, and, could he have seen her eye, a little mischievously. She said presently,

“Yes, our institutions are very simple and beautiful.”

Mr. Bennet said nothing. But she relentlessly continued,

“What a majestic thing the election of Abel Newt by the popular will will be!”

“My dear,” he answered, “don’t laugh until you know that it is the popular will; and when you do know it, cry.”

They walked on silently for some little distance further, and then Gerald Bennet turned toward St. John’s Square. His wife asked:

“Where are you going?”

“Can’t you guess?”

“Yes; but we have never been there before.”

“Has he ever failed before?”

“No, you dear soul! and I am very glad we are going.”

CHAPTER LXXI. — RICHES HAVE WINGS.

They rang at the door of Boniface Newt. It was quite late in the evening, and when they entered the parlor there were several persons sitting there.

“Why! father and mother!” exclaimed Gabriel, who was sitting in a remote dim corner, and who instantly came forward, with May Newt following him.

Mrs. Newt rose and bowed a little stiffly, and said, in an excited voice, that really she had no idea, but she was very happy indeed, she was sure, and so was Mr. Newt. When she had tied her sentence in an inextricable knot, she stopped and seated herself.

Boniface Newt rose slowly and gravely. He was bent like a very old man. His eye was hard and dull, and his dry voice said:

“How do you do? I am happy to see you.”

Then he sat down again, while Lawrence went up and shook hands with the new-comers. Boniface drummed slowly upon his knees with the long, bony white fingers, and rocked to and fro mechanically, as he sat.

When Lawrence had ended his greetings there was a pause. Mrs. Newt seemed to be painfully conscious of it. So did Mr. Bennet, whose eyes wandered about the room, resting for a few instants upon Boniface, then sliding toward his wife. Boniface himself seemed to be entirely unconscious of any pause, or of any person, or of any thing, except some mysterious erratic measure that he was beating with the bony fingers.

“It is a great while since we have met, Mrs. Newt,” said Mrs. Bennet.

“Yes,” returned Mrs. Nancy Newt, rapidly; “and now that we are to be so very nearly related, it is really high time that we became intimate.”

She looked, however, very far off from intimacy with the person she addressed.

“I am glad our children are so happy, Mrs. Newt,” said Gerald Bennet, in a tremulous voice, with his eyes glimmering.

“Yes. I am glad Gabriel’s prospects are so good,” returned Mrs. Newt. “I’ve no doubt he’ll be a very rich man very soon.”

When she had spoken, Boniface Newt, still drumming, turned his face and looked quietly at his wife. Nobody spoke. Gabriel only winced at what May’s mother had said; and they all looked at Boniface. The old man gazed fixedly at his wife as if he saw nobody else, and as if he were repeating the words to which the bony fingers beat time. He said, in a cold, dry voice, still beating time,

“Riches have wings! Riches have wings!”

“I’m sure, Boniface, I know that, if any body does,” said his wife, pettishly, and in a half-whimpering voice. “I think we’ve all learned that.”

“Riches have wings! Riches have wings!” he said, beating with the bony fingers.

“Really, Boniface,” said his wife, with an air of offended propriety, “I see no occasion for such pointed allusions to our misfortunes. It is certainly in very bad taste.”

“Riches have wings! Riches have wings!” persisted her husband, still gazing at her, and still beating time with the white bony fingers.

Mrs. Newt’s whimpering broadened into crying. She sat weeping and wiping her eyes, in the way which used to draw down a storm from her husband. There was no storm now. Only the same placid stare—only the same measured refrain.

“Riches have wings! Riches have wings!”

Lawrence Newt laid his hand gently on his brother’s arm.

“Boniface, you did your best. We all did what we thought best and right.”

The old man turned his eyes from his wife and went on silently drumming, looking at the wall.

“Nancy,” said Lawrence, “as Mr. and Mrs. Bennet are about to be a part of the family, I see no reason for not saying to them that provision is made for your husband’s support. His affairs are as bad as they can be; but you and he shall not suffer. Of course you will leave this house, and—”

“Oh dear! What will people say? Nobody’ll come to see us in a small house. What will Mrs. Orry say?” interrupted Mrs. Newt.

“Let her say what she chooses, Nancy. What will honest people say to whom your husband owes honest debts, if you don’t try to pay them?”

“They are not my debts, and I don’t see why I should suffer for them,” said Mrs. Newt, vehemently, and crying. “When I married him he said I should ride in my carriage; and if he’s been a fool, why should I be a beggar?”

There was profound silence in the room.

“I think it’s very hard,” said she, querulously.

It was useless for Lawrence to argue. He saw it, and merely remarked,

“The house will be sold, and you’ll give up the carriage and live as plainly as you can.”

“To think of coming to this!” burst out Mrs. Newt afresh.

But a noise was heard in the hall, and the door opened to admit Mr. and Mrs. Alfred Dinks.

It was the first time they had entered her father’s house since her marriage. May, who had been the last person Fanny had seen in her old home, ran forward to greet her, and said, cheerfully,

“Welcome home, Fanny.”

Mrs. Dinks looked defiantly about the room. Her keen black eyes saw every body, and involuntarily every body looked at her—except her father. He seemed quite unconscious of any new-comers. Alfred’s heavy figure dropped into a chair, whence his small eyes, grown sullen, stared stupidly about. Mrs. Newt merely said, hurriedly, “Why Fanny!” and looked, from the old habit of alarm and apprehension, at her husband, then back again to her daughter. The silence gradually became oppressive, until Fanny broke it by saying, in a dull tone,

“Oh! Uncle Lawrence.”

He simply bowed his head, as if it had been a greeting. Mr. Bennet’s foot twitched rather than wagged, and his wife turned toward him, from time to time, with a tender smile. Mrs. Newt, like one at a funeral, presently began to weep afresh.

“Pleasant family party!” broke in the voice of Fanny, clear and hard as her eyes.

“Riches have wings! Riches have wings!” repeated the gray old man, drumming with lean white fingers upon his knees.

“Will nobody tell me any thing?” said Fanny, looking sharply round. “What’s going to be done? Are we all beggars?”

“Riches have wings! Riches have wings!” answered the stern voice of the old man, whose eyes were still fixed upon the wall.

Fanny turned toward him half angrily, but her black eyes quailed before the changed figure of her father. She recalled the loud, domineering, dogmatic man, insisting, morning and night, that as soon as he was rich enough he would be all that he wanted to be—the self-important, patronizing, cold, and unsympathetic head of the family. Where was he? Who was this that sat in the parlor, in his chair, no longer pompous and fierce, but bowed, gray, drumming on his thin knees with lean white fingers?

“Father!” exclaimed Fanny, involuntarily, and terrified.

The old man turned his head toward her. The calm, hard eyes looked into hers. There was no expression of surprise, or indignation, or forgiveness—nothing but a placid abstraction and vagueness.

“Father!” Fanny repeated, rising, and half moving toward him.

His head turned back again—his eyes looked at the wall—and she heard only the words, “Riches have wings! Riches have wings!”

As Fanny sank back into her chair, pale and appalled, May took her hand and began to talk with her in a low, murmuring tone. The others fell into a fragmentary conversation, constantly recurring with their eyes to Mr. Newt. The talk went on in broken whispers, and it was quite late in the evening when a stumbling step advanced to the door, which was burst open, and there stood Abel Newt, with his hat crushed, his clothes soiled, his jaw hanging, and his eyes lifted in a drunken leer.

“How do?” he said, leaning against the door-frame and nodding his head.

His mother, who had never before seen him in such a condition, glanced at him, and uttered a frightened cry. Lawrence Newt and Gabriel rose, and, going toward him, took his arms and tried to lead him out. Abel had no kindly feeling for either of them. His brow lowered, and the sullen blackness shot into his eyes.

“Hands off!” he cried, in a threatening tone.

They still urged him out of the room.

“Hands off!” he said again, looking at Lawrence Newt, and then in a sneering tone:

“Oh! the Reverend Gabriel Bennet! Come, I licked you like—like—like hell once, and I’ll—I’ll—I’ll—do it again. Stand back!” he shouted, with drunken energy, and struggling to free his arms.

But Gabriel and Lawrence Newt held fast. The others rose and stood looking on, Mrs. Newt hysterically weeping, and May pale with terror. Alfred Dinks laughed, foolishly, and gazed about for sympathy. Gerald Bennet drew his wife’s arm within his own.

The old man sat quietly, only turning his head toward the noise, and looking at the struggle without appearing to see it.

Finding himself mastered, Abel swore and struggled with drunken frenzy. After a little while he was entirely exhausted, and sank upon the floor. Lawrence Newt and Gabriel stood panting over him; the rest crowded into the hall. Abel looked about stupidly, then crawled toward the staircase, laid his head upon the lower step, and almost immediately fell into a deep, drunken slumber.

“Come, come,” whispered Gerald Bennet to his wife.

They took Mrs. Newt’s hand and said Good-by.

“Oh, dear me! isn’t it dreadful?” she sobbed. “Please don’t, say any thing about it. Good-night.”

They shook her hand, but as they opened the door into the still moonlight midnight they heard the clear, hard voice in the parlor, and in their minds they saw the beating of the bony fingers.

“Riches have wings! Riches have wings!”