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Trumps by George William Curtis

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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:

"I hold Thee with a trembling hand,
And will not let Thee go;
Till steadfastly by faith I stand,
And all Thy goodness know."




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.

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