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Note: Images of the original pages are available through the Making
of America Collection of the University of Michigan. See
http://www.hti.umich.edu/cgi/b/bib/bibperm?q1=abw7901





TRUMPS

A Novel

by

GEO. WM. CURTIS

Author of _Nile Notes of a Howadji_, _The Howadji in Syria_,
_The Potiphar Papers_, _Prue and I_, etc.

1861







CONTENTS

Chapter

I. SCHOOL BEGINS
II. HOPE WAYNE
III. AVE MARIA!
IV. NIGHT
V. PEEWEE PREACHING
VI. EXPERIMENTUM CRUCIS
VII. CASTLE DANGEROUS
VIII. AFTER THE BATTLE
IX. NEWS FROM HOME
X. BEGINNING TO SKETCH
XI. A VERDICT AND A SENTENCE
XII. HELP, HO!
XIII. SOCIETY
XIV. A NEW YORK MERCHANT
XV. A SCHOOL-BOY NO LONGER
XVI. PHILOSOPHY
XVII. OF GIRLS AND FLOWERS
XVIII. OLD FRIENDS AND NEW
XIX. DOG-DAYS
XX. AUNT MARTHA
XXI. THE CAMPAIGN
XXII. THE FINE ARTS
XXIII. BONIFACE NEWT, SON, & CO., DRY GOODS ON COMMISSION
XXXIV. "QUEEN AND HUNTRESS"
XXV. A STATESMAN--AND STATESWOMAN
XXVI. THE PORTRAIT AND THE MINIATURE
XXVII. GABRIEL AT HOME
XXVIII. BORN TO BE A BACHELOR
XXIX. MR. ABEL NEWT, GRAND STREET
XXX. CHECK
XXXI. AT DELMONICO'S
XXXII. MRS. THEODORE KINGFISHER AT HOME. _On dansera_
XXXIII. ANOTHER TURN IN THE WALTZ
XXXIV. HEAVEN'S LAST BEST GIFT
XXXV. MOTHER-IN-LAW AND DAUGHTER-IN-LAW
XXXVI. THE BACK WINDOW
XXXVII. ABEL NEWT _Vice_ SLIGO MOULTRIE REMOVED
XXXVIII. THE DAY AFTER THE WEDDING
XXXIX. A FIELD-DAY
XL. AT THE ROUND TABLE
XLI. A LITTLE DINNER
XLII. CLEARING AND CLOUDY
XLIII. WALKING HOME
XLIV. CHURCH GOING
XLV. IN CHURCH
XLVI. IN ANOTHER CHURCH
XLVII. DEATH
XLVIII. THE HEIRESS
XLIX. A SELECT PARTY
L. WINE AND TRUTH
LI. A WARNING
LII. BREAKFAST
LIII. SLIGO MOULTRIE _vice_ ABEL NEWT
LIV. CLOUDS AND DARKNESS
LV. ARTHUR MERLIN'S GREAT PICTURE
LVI. REDIVIVUS
LVII. DINING WITH LAWRENCE NEWT
LVIII. THE HEALTH OF THE JUNIOR PARTNER
LIX. MRS. ALFRED DINKS
LX. POLITICS
LXI. GONE TO PROTEST
LXII. THE CRASH, UP TOWN
LXIII. ENDYMION
LXIV. DIANA
LXV. THE WILL OF THE PEOPLE
LXVI. MENTOR AND TELEMACHUS
LXVII. WIRES
LXVIII. THE INDUSTRIOUS APPRENTICE
LXIX. IN AND OUT
LXX. THE REPRESENTATIVE OF THE PEOPLE
LXXI. RICHES HAVE WINGS
LXXII. GOOD-BY
LXXIII. THE BELCH PLATFORM
LXXIV. MIDNIGHT
LXXV. REMINISCENCE
LXXVI. A SOCIAL GLASS
LXXVII. FACE TO FACE
LXXVIII. FINISHING PICTURES
LXXIX. THE LAST THROW
LXXX. CLOUDS BREAKING
LXXXI. MRS. ALFRED DINKS AT HOME
LXXXII. THE LOST IS FOUND
LXXXIII. MRS. DELILAH JONES
LXXXIV. PROSPECTS OF HAPPINESS
LXXXV. GETTING READY
LXXXVI. IN THE CITY
LXXXVII. A LONG JOURNEY
LXXXVIII. WAITING
LXXXIX. DUST TO DUST
XC. UNDER THE MISLETOE





CHAPTER I.

SCHOOL BEGINS.


Forty years ago Mr. Savory Gray was a prosperous merchant. No gentleman
on 'Change wore more spotless linen or blacker broadcloth. His ample
white cravat had an air of absolute wisdom and honesty. It was so very
white that his fellow-merchants could not avoid a vague impression that
he had taken the church on his way down town, and had so purified himself
for business. Indeed a white cravat is strongly to be recommended as a
corrective and sedative of the public mind. Its advantages have long been
familiar to the clergy; and even, in some desperate cases, politicians
have found a resort to it of signal benefit. There are instructive
instances, also, in banks and insurance offices of the comfort and
value of spotless linen. Combined with highly-polished shoes, it is
of inestimable mercantile advantage.

Mr. Gray prospered in business, and nobody was sorry. He enjoyed his
practical joke and his glass of Madeira, which had made at least three
voyages round the Cape. His temperament, like his person, was just
unctuous enough to enable him to slip comfortably through life.

Happily for his own comfort, he had but a speaking acquaintance with
politics. He was not a blue Federalist, and he never d'd the Democrats.
With unconscious skill he shot the angry rapids of discussion, and swept,
by a sure instinct, toward the quiet water on which he liked to ride. In
the counting-room or the meeting of directors, when his neighbors waxed
furious upon raking over some outrage of that old French infidel, Tom
Jefferson, as they called him, sending him and his gun-boats where no
man or boat wants to go, Mr. Gray rolled his neck in his white cravat,
crossed his legs, and shook his black-gaitered shoe, and beamed, and
smiled, and blew his nose, and hum'd, and ha'd, and said, "Ah, yes!"
"Ah, indeed?" "Quite so!" and held his tongue.

Mr. Savory Gray minded his own business; but his business did not
mind him. There came a sudden crash--one of the commercial earthquakes
that shake fortunes to their foundations and scatter failure on every
side. One day he sat in his office consoling his friend Jowlson, who
had been ruined. Mr. Jowlson was terribly agitated--credit gone--fortune
wrecked--no prospects--"O wife and children!" he cried, rocking to and
fro as he sat.

"My dear Jowlson, you must not give way in this manner. You must
control your feelings. Have we not always been taught," said Mr. Gray,
as a clerk brought in a letter, the seal of which the merchant broke
leisurely, and then skimmed the contents as he continued, "that riches
have wings and--my God!" he ejaculated, springing up, "I am a ruined
man!"

So he was. Every thing was gone. Those pretty riches that chirped and
sang to him as he fed them; they had all spread their bright plumage,
like a troop of singing birds--have we not always been taught that they
might, Mr. Jowlson?--and had flown away.

To undertake business anew was out of the question. His friends said,
"Poor Gray! what shall be done?"

The friendly merchants pondered and pondered. The worthy Jowlson, who
had meanwhile engaged as book-keeper upon a salary of seven hundred
dollars a year--one of the rare prizes--was busy enough for his friend,
consulting, wondering, planning. Mr. Gray could not preach, nor practice
medicine, nor surgery, nor law, because men must be instructed in those
professions; and people will not trust a suit of a thousand dollars, or
a sore throat, or a broken thumb, in the hands of a man who has not
fitted himself carefully for the responsibility. He could not make boots,
nor build houses, nor shoe horses, nor lay stone wall, nor bake bread,
nor bind books. Men must be educated to be shoemakers, carpenters,
blacksmiths, bakers, masons, or book-binders. What _could_ be done?
Nobody suggested an insurance office, or an agency for diamond mines
on Newport beach; for, although it was the era of good feeling, those
ingenious infirmaries for commercial invalids were not yet invented.

"I have it!" cried Jowlson, one day, rushing in, out of breath, among
several gentlemen who were holding a council about their friend
Gray--that is, who had met in a bank parlor, and were talking about
his prospects--"I have it! and how dull we all are! What shall he do?
Why, keep a school, to be sure!--a school!--a school! Take children,
and be a parent to them!"

"How dull we all were!" cried the gentlemen in chorus. "A school is the
very thing! A school it shall be!" And a school it was.

Upon the main street of the pleasant village of Delafield Savory Gray,
Esq., hired a large house, with an avenue of young lindens in front, a
garden on one side, and a spacious play-ground in the rear. The pretty
pond was not far away, with its sloping shores and neat villas, and a
distant spire upon the opposite bank--the whole like the vignette of an
English pastoral poem. Here the merchant turned from importing pongees to
inculcating principles. His old friends sent some of their children to
the new school, and persuaded their friends to send others. Some of his
former correspondents in other parts of the world, not entirely satisfied
with the Asian and East Indian systems of education, shipped their sons
to Mr. Gray. The good man was glad to see them. He was not very learned,
and therefore could not communicate knowledge. But he did his best, and
tried very hard to be respected. The boys did not learn any thing; but
they had plenty of good beef, and Mr. Gray played practical jokes upon
them; and on Sundays they all went to hear Dr. Peewee preach.




CHAPTER II.

HOPE WAYNE.


When there was a report that Mr. Savory Gray was coming to Delafield to
establish a school for boys, Dr. Peewee, the minister of the village,
called to communicate the news to Mr. Christopher Burt, his oldest and
richest parishioner, at Pine wood, his country seat. When Mr. Burt heard
the news, he foresaw trouble without end; for his orphan grand-daughter,
Hope Wayne, who lived with him, was nearly eighteen years old; and it had
been his fixed resolution that she should be protected from the wicked
world of youth that is always going up and down in the earth seeking whom
it may marry. If incessant care, and invention, and management could
secure it, she should arrive safely where Grandpa Burt was determined
she should arrive ultimately, at the head of her husband's dinner-table,
Mrs. Simcoe, ma'am.

Mrs. Simcoe was Mr. Burt's housekeeper. So far as any body could say,
Mrs. Burt died at a period of which the memory of man runneth not to
the contrary. There were traditions of other housekeepers. But since
the death of Hope's mother Mrs. Simcoe was the only incumbent. She had
been Mrs. Wayne's nurse in her last moments, and had rocked the little
Hope to sleep the night after her mother's burial. She was always tidy,
erect, imperturbable. She pervaded the house; and her eye was upon a
table-cloth, a pane of glass, or a carpet, almost as soon as the spot
which arrested it. Housekeeper _nascitur non fit_. She was so silent and
shadowy that the whole house sympathized with her, until it became
extremely uncomfortable to the servants, who constantly went away; and a
story that the house was haunted became immensely popular and credible
the moment it was told.

There had been no visiting at Pinewood for a long time, because of the
want of a mistress and of the unsocial habits of Mr. Burt. But the
neighboring ladies were just beginning to call upon Miss Wayne. When she
returned the visits Mrs. Simcoe accompanied her in the carriage, and sat
there while Miss Wayne performed the parlor ceremony. Then they drove
home. Mr. Burt dined at two, and Miss Hope sat opposite her grandfather
at table; Hiram waited. Mrs. Simcoe dined alone in her room.

There, too, she sat alone in the long summer afternoons, when the work of
the house was over for the day. She held a book by the open window, or
gazed for a very long time out upon the landscape. There were pine-trees
near her window; but beyond she could see green meadows, and blue hills,
and a glittering river, and rounded reaches of woods. She watched the
clouds, or, at least, looked at the sky. She heard the birds in spring
days, and the dry hot locusts on sultry afternoons; and she looked with
the same unchanging eyes upon the opening buds and blooming flowers, as
upon the worms that swung themselves on filaments and ate the leaves and
ruined the trees, or the autumnal hectic which Death painted upon the
leaves that escaped the worms.

Sometimes on these still, warm afternoons her lips parted, as if she were
singing. But it was a very grave, quiet performance. There was none of
the gush and warmth of song, although the words she uttered were always
those of the hymns of Charles Wesley--those passionate, religious songs
of the New Jerusalem. For Mrs. Simcoe was a Methodist, and with Methodist
hymns she had sung Hope to sleep in the days when she was a baby; so that
the young woman often listened to the music in church with a heart full
of vague feelings, and dim, inexplicable memories, not knowing that she
was hearing, though with different words, the strains that her nurse had
whispered over her crib in the hymns of Wesley.

It is to be presumed that at some period Mrs. Simcoe, whom Mr. Burt
always addressed in the same manner as "Mrs. Simcoe, ma'am," had received
a general system of instruction to the effect that "My grand-daughter,
Miss Wayne--Mrs. Simcoe, ma'am--will marry a gentleman of wealth and
position; and I expect her to be fitted to preside over his household.
Yes, Mrs. Simcoe, ma'am."

What on earth is a girl sent into this world for but to make a proper
match, and not disgrace her husband--to keep his house, either directly
or by a deputy--to take care of his children, to see that his slippers
are warm and his Madeira cold, and his beef not burned to a cinder, Mrs.
Simcoe, ma'am? Christopher Burt believed that a man's wife was a more
sacred piece of private property than his sheep-pasture, and when he
delivered the deed of any such property he meant that it should be in
perfect order.

"Hope may marry a foreign minister, Mrs. Simcoe, ma'am. Who knows? She
may marry a large merchant in town or a large planter at the South, who
will be obliged to entertain a great deal, and from all parts of the
world. I intend that she shall be fit for the situation, that she shall
preside at her husband's table in a superior manner."

So Hope, as a child, had played with little girls, who were invited to
Pinewood--select little girls, who came in the prettiest frocks and
behaved in the prettiest way, superintended by nurses and ladies' maids.
They tended their dolls peaceably in the nursery; they played clean
little games upon the lawn. Not too noisy, Ellen! Mary, gently, gently,
dear! Julia, carefully! you are tumbling your frock. They were not
chattery French nurses who presided over these solemnities; they were
grave, housekeeping, Mrs. Simcoe-kind of people. Julia and Mary were
exhorted to behave themselves like little ladies, and the frolic ended
by their all taking books from the library shelves and sitting properly
in a large chair, or on the sofa, or even upon the piazza, if it had been
nicely dusted and inspected, until the setting sun sent them away with
the calmest kisses at parting.

As Hope grew older she had teachers at home--recluse old scholars,
decayed clergymen in shiny black coats, who taught her Latin, and looked
at her through round spectacles, and, as they looked, remembered that
they were once young. She had teachers of history, of grammar, of
arithmetic--of all English studies. Some of these Mentors were weak-eyed
fathers of ten children, who spoke so softly that their wives must have
had loud voices. Others were young college graduates, with low collars
and long hair, who read with Miss Wayne in English literature, while Mrs.
Simcoe sat knitting in the next chair. Then there had been the Italian
music-masters, and the French teachers, very devoted, never missing a
lesson, but also never missing Mrs. Simcoe, who presided over all
instruction which was imparted by any Mentor under sixty.

But when Hope grew older still and found Byron upon the shelves of the
Library, his romantic sadness responded to the vague longing of her
heart. Instinctively she avoided all that repels a woman in his verses,
as she would have avoided the unsound parts of a fruit. But the solitary,
secluded girl lived unconsciously and inevitably in a dream world, for
she had no knowledge of any other, nor contact with it. Proud and shy,
her heart was restless, her imagination morbid, and she believed in
heroes.

When Dr. Peewee had told Mr. Burt all that he knew about the project of
the school, Mr. Burt rang the bell violently.

"Send Miss Hope to me."

The servant disappeared, and in a few moments Hope Wayne entered the
room. To Dr. Peewee's eyes she seemed wrapped only in a cloud of delicate
muslin, and the wind had evidently been playing with her golden hair, for
she had been lying upon the lawn reading Byron.

"Did you want me, grandfather?"

"Yes, my dear. Mr. Gray, a respectable person, is coming here to set up a
school. There will be a great many young men and boys. I shall never ask
them to the house. I hate boys. I expect you to hate them too."

"Yes--yes, my dear," said Dr. Peewee; "hate the boys? Yes; we must hate
the boys."

Hope Wayne looked at the two old gentlemen, and answered,

"I don't think you need have warned me, grandfather; I'm not so apt to
fall in love with boys."

"No, no, Hope; I know. Ever since you have lived with me--how long is it,
my dear, since your mother died?"

"I don't know, grandfather; I never saw her," replied Hope, gravely.

"Yes, yes; well, ever since then you have been a good, quiet little girl
with grandpapa. Here, Cossy, come and give grandpa a kiss. And mind the
boys! No speaking, no looking--we are never to know them. You understand?
Now go, dear."

As she closed the door, Dr. Peewee also rose to take leave.

"Doctor," said Mr. Burt, as the other pushed back his chair, "it is a
very warm day. Let me advise you to guard against any sudden debility
or effect of the heat by a little cordial."

As he spoke he led the way into the dining-room, and fumbled slowly
over a bunch of keys which he drew from his pocket. Finding the proper
key, he put it into the door of the side-board. "In this side-board, Dr.
Peewee, I keep a bottle of old Jamaica, which was sent me by a former
correspondent in the West Indies." As Dr. Peewee had heard the same
remark at least fifty times before, the kindly glistening of his nose
must be attributed to some other cause than excitement at this
intelligence.

"I like to preserve my friendly relations with my old commercial
friends," continued Mr. Burt, speaking very pompously, and slowly
pouring from a half-empty decanter into a tumbler. "I rarely drink
any thing myself--"

"H'm, ha!" grunted the Doctor.

"--except a glass of port at dinner. Yet, not to be impolite, Doctor,
not to be impolite, I could not refuse to drink to your very good health
and safe return to the bosom of your family."

And Mr. Burt drained the glass, quite unobservant of the fact that the
Rev. Dr. Peewee was standing beside him without glass or old Jamaica. In
truth Mr. Burt had previously been alarmed about the effect of the bottle
of port--which he metaphorically called a glass--that he had drunk at
dinner, and to guard against evil results he had already, that very
afternoon, as he was accustomed to say with an excellent humor, been
to the West Indies for his health.

"Bless my soul, Doctor, you haven't filled your glass! Permit me."

And the old gentleman poured into the one glass and then into the other.

"And now, Sir," he added, "now, Sir, let us drink to the health of Mr.
Gray, but not of the boys--ha! ha!"

"No, no, not of the boys? No, not of the boys. Thank you, Sir--thank you.
That is a pleasant liquor, Mr. Burt. H'm, ha! a very pleasant liquor.
Good-afternoon, Mr. Burt; a very good day, Sir. H'm, ha!"

As Hope left her grandfather, Mrs. Simcoe was sitting at her window,
which looked over the lawn in front of the house upon which Hope
presently appeared. It was already toward sunset, and the tender golden
light streamed upon the landscape like a visible benediction. A few rosy
clouds lay in long, tranquil lines across the west, and the great trees
bathed in the sweet air with conscious pleasure.

As Hope stood with folded hands looking toward the sunset, she began
unconsciously to repeat some of the lines that always lay in her mind
like invisible writing, waiting only for the warmth of a strong emotion
to bring them legibly out:

"Though the rock of my last hope is shivered,
And its fragments are sunk in the wave;
Though I feel that my soul is delivered
To pain, it shall not be its slave.
There is many a pang to pursue me;
They may crush, but they shall not contemn;
They may torture, but shall not subdue me;
'Tis of thee that I think, not of them."

At the same moment Mrs. Simcoe was closing her window high over Hope's
head. Her face was turned toward the sunset with the usual calm impassive
look, and as she gazed at the darkening landscape she was singing, in her
murmuring way,

"I rest upon thy word;
Thy promise is for me:
My succor and salvation, Lord,
Shall surely come from thee.
But let me still abide,
Nor from my hope remove,
Till thou my patient spirit guide
Into thy perfect love."




CHAPTER III.

AVE MARIA!


Mr. Gray's boys sat in several pews, which he could command with his
eye from his own seat in the broad aisle. Every Sunday morning at the
first stroke of the bell the boys began to stroll toward the church.
But after they were seated, and the congregation had assembled, and Dr.
Peewee had gone up into the pulpit, the wheels of a carriage were heard
outside--steps were let down--there was an opening of doors, a slight
scuffing and treading, and old Christopher Burt entered. His head was
powdered, and he wore a queue. His coat collar was slightly whitened
with-powder, and he carried a gold-headed cane.

The boys looked in admiration upon so much respectability, powder, age,
and gold cane united in one person.

But all the boys were in love with the golden-haired grand-daughter.
They went home to talk about her. They went to bed to dream of her.
They read Mary Lamb's stories from Shakespeare, and Hope Wayne was
Ophelia, and Desdemona, and Imogen--above all others, she was Juliet.
They read the "Arabian Nights," and she was all the Arabian Princesses
with unpronounceable names. They read Miss Edgeworth--"Helen,"
"Belinda."--"Oh, thunder!" they cried, and dropped the book to think
of Hope.

Hope Wayne was not unconscious of the adoration she excited. If a swarm
of school-boys can not enter a country church without turning all their
eyes toward one pew, is it not possible that, when a girl comes in and
seats herself in that pew, the very focus of those burning glances, even
Dr. Peewee may not entirely distract her mind, however he may rivet her
eyes? As she takes her last glance at the Sunday toilet in her sunny
dressing-room at home, and half turns to be sure that the collar is
smooth, and that the golden curl nestles precisely as it should under the
moss rose-bud that blushes modestly by the side of a lovelier bloom--is
it not just supposable that she thinks, for a wayward instant, of other
eyes that will presently scan that figure and face, and feels, with a
half-flush, that they will not be shocked nor disappointed?

There was not a boy in Mr. Gray's school who would have dared to dream
that Hope Wayne ever had such a thought. When she appeared behind
Grandfather Burt and the gold-headed cane she had no more antecedents
in their imaginations than a rose or a rainbow. They no more thought
of little human weaknesses and mundane influences in regard to her
than they thought of cold vapor when they looked at sunset clouds.

During the service Hope sat stately in the pew, with her eyes fixed upon
Dr. Peewee. She knew the boys were there. From time to time she observed
that new boys had arrived, and that older ones had left. But how she
discovered it, who could say? There was never one of Mr. Gray's boys who
could honestly declare that he had seen Hope Wayne looking at either of
the pews in which they sat. Perhaps she did not hear what Dr. Peewee
said, although she looked at him so steadily. Perhaps her heart did not
look out of her eyes, but was busy with a hundred sweet fancies in which
some one of those fascinated boys had a larger share than he knew.
Perhaps, when she covered her eyes in an attitude of devotion, she did
not thereby exclude all thoughts of the outer and lower world. Perhaps
the Being for whose worship they were assembled was no more displeased
with the innocent reveries and fancies which floated through that young
heart than with the soft air and sweet song of birds that played through
the open windows of the church on some warm June Sunday morning.

But when the shrill-voiced leader of the choir sounded the key-note of
the hymn-tune through his nose, and the growling bass-viol joined in
unison, while the congregation rose, and Dr. Peewee surveyed his people
to mark who had staid away from service, then Hope Wayne looked at the
choir as if her whole soul were singing; and young Gabriel Bennet,
younger than Hope, had a choking feeling as he gazed at her--an
involuntary sense of unworthiness and shame before such purity and grace.
He counted every line of the hymn grudgingly, and loved the tunes that
went back and repeated and prolonged--the tunes endlessly _da capo_--and
the hymns that he heard as he looked at her he never forgot.

But there were other eyes than Gabriel Bennet's that watched Hope Wayne,
and for many months had watched her--the flashing black eyes of Abel
Newt. Handsome, strong, graceful, he was one of the oldest boys, and a
leader at Mr. Gray's school. Like every handsome, bold boy or young man,
for he was fully eighteen, and seemed much older, Abel Newt had plenty of
allies at school--they could hardly be called friends. There was many a
boy who thought with the one nicknamed Little Malacca, although, more
prudently than he, he might not say it: "Abe gives me gingerbread; but I
guess I don't like him!" If a boy interfered with Abe he was always
punished. The laugh was turned on him; there was ceaseless ridicule and
taunting. Then if it grew insupportable, and came to fighting, Abel Newt
was strong in muscle and furious in wrath, and the recusant was generally
pommeled.

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