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Trumps by George William Curtis

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"Aunty, the young man?" said Hope, in the same tone.

"Was Lawrence Newt," answered Mrs. Simcoe.

--It was the moment when Abel sat at his desk writing the name that Mrs.
Simcoe had pronounced.

Hope Wayne was perfectly sure it was coming, and yet the word shot out
upon her like a tongue of lightning. At first she felt every nerve in
her frame relaxed--a mist clouded her eyes--she had a weary sense of
happiness, for she thought she was dying. The mist passed. She felt her
cheeks glowing, and was preternaturally calm. Mrs. Simcoe sat beside her,
weeping silently.

"Good-night, dearest aunty!" said Hope, as she rose and bent down to kiss
her.

"My child!" said the older woman, in tones that trembled out of an aching
heart.

Hope took her candle, and moved toward the door. As she went she heard
Mrs. Simcoe repeating, in the old murmuring sunset strain,

"Convince us first of unbelief,
And freely then release;
Fill every soul with sacred grief,
And then with sacred peace."




CHAPTER LXXVI.

A SOCIAL GLASS.


The Honorable Abel Newt was elected to Congress in place of the Honorable
Watkins Bodley, who withdrew on account of the embarrassment of his
private affairs. At a special meeting of the General Committee, Mr. Enos
Slugby, Chairman of the Ward Committee, introduced a long and eloquent
resolution, deploring the loss sustained by the city and by the whole
country in the resignation of the Honorable Watkins Bodley--sympathizing
with him in the perplexity of his private affairs--but rejoicing that the
word "close up!" was always faithfully obeyed--that there was always a
fresh soldier to fill the place of the retiring--and that the Party never
summoned her sons in vain.

General Belch then rose and offered a resolution:

"_Resolved--_That in the Honorable Abel Newt, our representative, just
elected by a triumphant majority of the votes of the enlightened and
independent voters of the district--a constituency of whose favor the
most experienced and illustrious statesmen might be proud--we recognize
a worthy exemplar of the purest republican virtues, a consistent enemy
of a purse-proud aristocracy, the equally unflinching friend of the
people; a man who dedicates with enthusiasm the rare powers of his youth,
and his profoundest and sincerest convictions, to the great cause of
popular rights of which the Party is the exponent.

"_Resolved_--That the Honorable Abel Newt be requested, at the earliest
possible moment, to unfold to his fellow-citizens his views upon State
and National political affairs."

Mr. William Condor spoke feelingly in support of the resolutions:

"Fellow-citizens!" he said, eloquently, in conclusion, "if there is one
thing nobler than another, it is an upright, downright, disinterested,
honest man. Such I am proud and happy to declare my friend, your friend,
the friend of all honest men, to be; and I call for three cheers for
Honest Abel Newt!"

They were given with ardor; and then General Belch was called out for
a few remarks, "which he delivered," said the _Evening Banner of the
Union_, "with his accustomed humor, keeping the audience in a roar of
laughter, and sending every body happy to bed."

The Committee-meeting was over, and the spectators retired to the
neighboring bar-rooms. Mr. Slugby, Mr. Condor, and General Belch
tarried behind, with two or three more.

"Shall we go to Newt's?" asked the General.

"Yes, I told him we should be round after the meeting," replied Mr.
Condor; and the party were presently at his rooms.

The Honorable Abel had placed several full decanters upon the table, with
a box of cigars.

"Mr. Newt," said Enos Slugby, after they had been smoking and drinking
for some time.

Abel turned his head.

"You have an uncle, have you not?"

Abel nodded.

"A very eminent merchant, I believe. His name is very well known, and he
commands great respect. Ahem!"

Mr. Slugby cleared his throat; then continued:

"He will naturally be very much interested in the career and success of
his nephew."

"Oh, immensely!" replied Abel, in a thick voice, and with a look and tone
which suggested to his friends that he was rapidly priming himself.
"Immensely, enormously!"

"Ah, yes," said Mr. Slugby, with an air of curious meditation. "I do
not remember to have heard the character of his political proclivities
mentioned. But, of course, as the brother of Boniface Newt and the uncle
of the Honorable Abel Newt"--here Mr. Slugby bowed to that gentleman, who
winked at him over the rim of his glass--"he is naturally a friend of the
people."

"Yes," returned Abel.

"I think you said he was very fond of you?" added Mr. Slugby, while his
friends looked expectantly on.

"Fond? It's a clear case of apple of the eye," answered Abel, chuckling.

"Very good," said William Condor; "very good, indeed! Capital!" laughed
Belch; and whispered to his neighbor Condor, "In vino veritas."

As they whispered, and smiled, and nodded together, Abel Newt glanced
around the circle with sullen, fiery eyes.

"Uncle Lawrence is worth a million of dollars," said he, carelessly.

The group of political gentlemen shook their heads in silent admiration.
They seemed to themselves to have struck a golden vein, and General Belch
could not help inwardly complimenting himself upon his profound sagacity
in having put forward a candidate who had a bachelor uncle who doated
upon him, and who was worth a million. He perceived at once his own
increased importance in the Party. To have displaced Watkins Bodley--who
was not only an uncertain party implement, but poor--by an unhesitating
young man of great ability and of enormous prospects, he knew was to have
secured for himself whatever he chose to ask. The fat nose reddened and
glistened as if it would burst with triumph and joy. General Arcularius
Belch was satisfied.

"Of course," said William Condor, "a man of Mr. Lawrence Newt's
experience and knowledge of the world is aware that there are certain
necessary expenses attendant upon elections--such as printing, rent,
lighting, warming, posting, etc.--"

"In fact, sundries," said Abel, smiling with the black eyes.

"Yes, precisely; sundries," answered Mr. Condor, "which sometimes swell
to quite an inordinate figure. Your uncle, I presume, Mr. Newt, would not
be unwilling to contribute a certain share of the expense of your
election; and indeed, now that you are so conspicuous a leader, he would
probably expect to contribute handsomely to the current expenses of the
Party. Isn't it so?"

"Of course," said General Belch.

"Of course," said Enos Slugby.

"Of course," echoed the two or three other gentlemen who sat silently,
assiduously smoking and drinking.

"Oh, clearly, of course," answered Abel, still thickly, and in a tone by
no means agreeable to his companions. "What should you consider to be his
fair share?"

"Well," began Condor, "I should think, in ordinary times, a thousand a
year; and then, as particular occasion demands."

At this distinct little speech the whole company lifted their glasses
that they might more conveniently watch Abel.

With a half-maudlin grin he looked along the line.

"By-the-by, Condor, how much do you give a year?" asked he.

There was a moment's silence.

"Hit, by G----!" energetically said one of the silent men.

"Good for Newt!" cried General Belch, thumping the table.

There was another little burst of laughter, with the least possible
merriment in it. William Condor joined with an entirely unruffled face.

"As for Belch," continued Abel, with what would be called in animals an
ugly expression--"Belch is the clown, and they left him off easy. The
Party is like the old kings, it keeps a good many fools to make it
laugh."

His tone was threatening, and nobody laughed. General Belch looked as if
he were restraining himself from knocking his friend down. But they all
saw that their host was mastered by his own liquor.

"Squeeze Lawrence Newt, will you? Why, Lord, gentlemen, what do you
suppose he thinks of you--I mean, of fellows like you?" asked Abel.

He paused, and glared around him. William Condor daintily knocked off the
ash of his cigar faith the tip of his little finger, and said, calmly,

"I am sure I don't know."

"Nor care," said General Belch.

"He thinks you're all a set of white-livered sneaks!" shouted Abel, in a
voice harsh and hoarse with liquor.

The gentlemen were silent. The leaders wagged their feet nervously; the
others looked rather amused.

"No offense," resumed Abel. "I don't mean he despises you in particular,
but all bar-room bobtails."

His voice thickened rapidly.

"Of all mean, mis-mis-rabble hounds, he thinks you are the dirt-est."

Still no reply was made. The honorable gentleman looked at his guests
leeringly, but found no responsive glance.

"In vino veritas," whispered Condor to his neighbor Belch. William Condor
was always clean in linen and calm in manner.

"Don't be 'larmed, fel-fel-f'-low cit-zens! Lawrence Newt's no friend of
mine. I guess his G---- d---- pride 'll get a tumble some day; by G---- I
do!" Abel added, with a fierce hiss.

The guests looked alarmed as they heard the last words. Abel ceased, and
passed the decanter, which they did not decline; for they all felt as if
the Honorable Abel Newt would probably throw it at the head of any man
who said or did what he did not approve. There was a low anxious murmur
of conversation among them until Abel was evidently very intoxicated,
and his head sank upon his breast.

"I'm terribly afraid we've burned our fingers," said Mr. Enos Slugby,
looking a little ruefully at the honorable representative.

"Oh, I hope not," said General Belch; "but there may be some breakers
ahead. If we lose the Grant it won't be the first cause or man that has
been betrayed by the bottle. Condor, let me fill your glass. It is clear
that if our dear friend Newt has a weakness it is the bottle; and if our
enemies at Washington, who want to head off this Grant, have a strength,
it is finding out an adversary's soft spot. We may find in this case that
it's dangerous playing with edged tools. But I've great faith in his want
of principle. We can show him so clearly that his interest, his advance,
his career depend so entirely upon his conduct, that I think we can keep
him straight. And, for my part, if we can only work this Grant through,
I shall retire upon my share of the proceeds, and leave politics to those
who love 'em. But I don't mean to have worked for nothing--hey, Condor?"

"Amen," replied William, placidly.

"By-the-by, Condor," said Mr. Enos Slugby.

Mr. Condor turned toward him inquiringly.

"I heard Jim say t'other day--"

"Who's Jim?" asked Condor.

"Jim!" returned Slugby, "Jim--why, Jim's the party in my district."

"Oh yes--yes; I beg pardon," said Condor; "the name had escaped me."

"Well, I heard Jim say t'other day that Mr. William Condor was getting
too d----d stuck up, and that he'd yank him out of his office if he
didn't mind his eye. That's you, Condor; so I advise you to look out.
It's easy enough to manage Jim, if you take care. He'll go as gently as
a well-broke filly; but if he once takes a lurch--if he thinks you're too
'proud' or 'big,' it's all up with you. So mind how you treat Jim."

"Well, well," said Belch, impatiently; "we've other business on hand
now."

"Exactly," said Condor; "we are the Honorable Abel's Jim. Turn about is
fair play. Jim makes us go; we make Abel go. It's a lovely series of
checks and balances."

He said it so quietly and airily that they all laughed. Then the General
continued:

"We're going to send Newt to look after Ele, and I rather think we shall
have to send somebody to look after Newt. However, we'll see. Let's leave
this hog to snore by himself."

They rose as he spoke.

"What were the words of your resolution, Belch?" asked William Condor,
with his eyes twinkling. "I don't quite remember. Did you say," he added,
looking at Abel, who lay huddled, dead drunk, in his chair, "that he
dedicated to his country his profoundest and sincerest, or sincerest and
profoundest convictions?"

"And you, Condor," said Enos Slugby, smiling, as he lighted a fresh
cigar, "did you say that you were proud and happy, or happy and proud,
to call him your friend?"

"Lord! Lord! what an old hum it is--isn't it?" said General Belch,
cheerfully, as he smoothed his hat with his coat-sleeve, and put it on.

They went down stairs laughing and chatting; and the Honorable Abel Newt,
the worthy exemplar of the purest republican virtues--as the resolution
stated when it appeared in the next morning's papers--was left snoring
amidst his constituency of empty decanters and drained glasses.




CHAPTER LXXVII.

FACE TO FACE.


"Signore Pittore! what brings a bird into the barn-yard?" said Lawrence
Newt, as Arthur Merlin entered his office.

"The hope of some crumb of comfort."

"Do you dip from your empyrean to the cold earth--from the studio to a
counting-room--to find comfort?" asked Lawrence Newt, cheerfully.

Arthur Merlin looked only half sympathetic with his friend's gayety.
There was a wan air on his face, a piteous look in his eyes, which
touched Lawrence.

"Why, Arthur, what is it?"

"Do you remember what Diana said?" replied the painter. "She said, 'I am
sure that that silly shepherd will not sleep there forever. Never fear,
he will wake up. Diana never looks or loves for nothing.'"

Lawrence Newt gazed at him without speaking.

"Come," said Arthur, with a feeble effort at fun, "you have
correspondence all over the world. What is the news from Latmos? Has
the silly shepherd waked up?"

"My dear Arthur," said Mr. Newt, gravely, "I told you long ago that he
was dead to all that heavenly splendor."

The two men gazed steadfastly at each other without speaking. At length
Arthur said, in a low voice,

"Dead?"

"Dead."

As Lawrence Newt spoke the word the air far off and near seemed to him
to ring again with that pervasive murmur, sad, soft, infinitely tender,
"Good-by, Mr. Newt, good-by!"

But his eye was calm and his face cheerful.

"Arthur, sit down."

The young man seated himself, and the older one drawing a chair to the
window, they sat with their backs to the outer office and looked upon
the ships.

"I am older than you, Arthur, and I am your friend. What I am going to
say to you I have no right to say, except in your entire friendship."

The young man's eyes glistened.

"Go on," he said.

"When I first knew you I knew that you loved Hope Wayne."

A flush deepened upon Arthur's face, and his fingers played idly upon the
arm of the chair.

"I hoped that Hope Wayne would love you. I was sure that she would. It
never occurred to me that she could--could--"

Arthur turned and looked at him.

"Could love any body else," said Lawrence Newt, as his eyes wandered
dreamily among the vessels, as if the canvas were the wings of his memory
sailing far away.

"Suddenly, without the least suspicion on my part, I discovered that she
did love somebody else."

"Yes," said Arthur, "so did I."

"What could I do?" said the other, still abstractedly gazing; "for I
loved her."

"You loved her?" cried Arthur Merlin, so suddenly and loud that Thomas
Tray looked up from his great red Russia book and turned his head toward
the inner office.

"Certainly I loved her," replied Lawrence Newt, calmly, and with tender
sweetness; "and I had a right to, for I loved her mother. Could I have
had my way Hope Wayne's mother would have been my wife."

Arthur Merlin stole a glance at the face of his companion.

"I was a child and she was a child--a boy and a girl. It was not to be.
She married another man and died; but her memory is forever sacred to me,
and so is her daughter."

To this astonishing revelation Arthur Merlin said nothing. His fingers
still played idly on the chair, and his eyes, like the eyes of Lawrence,
looked out upon the river. Every thing in Lawrence Newt's conduct was at
once explained; and the poor artist was ready to curse his absurd folly
in making his friend involuntarily sit for Endymion. Lawrence Newt knew
his friend's thoughts.

"Arthur," he said, in a low voice, "did I not say that, if Endymion were
not dead, it would be impossible not to awake and love her? Do you not
see that I was dead to her?"

"But does she know it?" asked the painter.

"I believe she does now," was the slow answer. "But she has not known it
long."

"Does Amy Waring know it?"

"No," replied Lawrence Newt, quietly, "but she will to-night."

The two men sat silently together for some time. The junior partner came
in, spoke to Arthur, wrote a little, and went out again. Thomas Tray
glanced up occasionally from his great volume, and the melancholy eyes of
Little Malacca scarcely turned from the two figures which he watched from
his desk through the office windows. Venables was promoted to be second
to Thomas Tray on the very day that Gabriel was admitted a junior
partner. They were all aware that the head of the house was engaged
in some deeply interesting conversation, and they learned from Little
Malacca who the stranger was.

The two men sat silently together, Lawrence Newt evidently tranquilly
waiting, Arthur Merlin vainly trying to say something further.

"I wonder--" he began, at length, and stopped. A painful expression of
doubt clouded his face; but Lawrence turned to him cheerfully, and said,
in a frank, assuring tone,

"Arthur, speak out."

"Well," said the artist, with almost a girl's shyness in his whole
manner, "before you, at least, I can speak, and am not ashamed. I want
to know whether--you--think--"

He spoke very slowly, and stopped again. Before he resumed he saw
Lawrence Newt shake his head negatively.

"Why, what?" asked Arthur, quickly.

"I do not believe she ever will," replied the other, as if the artist had
asked a question with his eyes. He spoke in a very low, serious tone.

"Will what?" asked Arthur, his face burning with a bright crimson flush.

Lawrence Newt waited a moment to give his friend time to recover, before
he said,

"Shall I say what?"

Arthur also waited for a little while; then he said, sadly,

"No, it's no matter."

He seemed to have grown older as he sat looking from the window. His
hands idly played no longer, but rested quietly upon the chair. He shook
his head slowly, and repeated, in a tone that touched his friend to the
heart,

"No--no--it's no matter."

"But, Arthur, it's only my opinion," said the other, kindly.

"And mine too," replied the artist, with an inexpressible sadness.

Lawrence Newt was silent. After a few moments Arthur Merlin rose and
shook his hand.

"Good-by!" he said. "We shall meet to-night."




CHAPTER LXXVIII.

FINISHING PICTURES.


Arthur Merlin returned to his studio and carefully locked the door. Then
he opened a huge port-folio, which was full of sketches--and they were
all of the same subject, treated in a hundred ways--they were all Hope
Wayne.

Sometimes it was a lady leaning from an oriel window in a medieval tower,
listening in the moonlight, with love in her eyes and attitude, to the
music of a guitar, touched by a gallant knight below, who looked as
Arthur Merlin would have looked had Arthur Merlin been a gallant medieval
knight.

Then it was Juliet, pale and unconscious in the tomb; superb in
snow-white drapery; pure as an angel, lovely as a woman; but it was
Hope Wayne still--and Romeo stole frightened in, but Romeo was Arthur.

Or it was Beatrice moving in a radiant heaven; while far below, kneeling,
and with clasped hands, gazing upward, the melancholy Dante watched the
vision.

Or the fair phantom of Goethe's ballad looked out with humid, passionate
glances between the clustering reeds she pushed aside, and lured the
fisherman with love.

There were scores of such sketches, from romance, and history, and fancy,
and in each the beauty was Hope Wayne's; and it was strange to see that
in each, however different from all the others, there was still a charm
characteristic of the woman he loved; so that it seemed a vivid record of
all the impressions she had made upon him, and as if all heroines of
poetry or history were only ladies in waiting upon her. In all of them,
too, there was a separation between them. She was remote in sphere or in
space; there was the feeling of inaccessibility between them in all.

As he turned them slowly over, and gazed at them as earnestly as if his
glance could make that beauty live, he suddenly perceived, what he had
never before felt, that the instinct which had unconsciously given the
same character of hopelessness to the incident of the sketches was the
same that had made him so readily acquiesce in what Lawrence Newt had
hinted. He paused at a drawing of Pygmalion and his statue. The same
instinct had selected the moment before the sculptor's prayer was
granted; when he looks at the immovable beauty of his statue with the
yearning love that made the marble live. But the statue of Arthur's
Pygmalion would never live. It was a statue only, and forever. He asked
himself why he had not selected the moment when she falls breathing
and blushing into the sculptor's arms.

Alone in his studio the artist blushed, as if the very thought were
wrong; and he felt that he had never really dared to hope, however he
had longed, and wished, and flattered his fancy.

He looked at each one of the drawings carefully and long, then kissed
it and turned it upon its face. When he had seen them all he sat for a
moment; then quietly tore them into long strips, then into small pieces;
and, lifting the window, scattered them upon the air. The wind whirled
them over the street.

"Oh, what a pretty snow-storm!" said the little street children, looking
up.

Then Arthur Merlin turned to his great easel, upon which stood the canvas
of the picture of Diana and Endymion. Through the parted clouds the face
of the Queen and huntress--the face of Hope Wayne--looked tenderly upon
the sleeping figure of the shepherd on the bare top of the grassy
hill--the face and figure of Lawrence Newt.

The painter took his brushes and his pallet, and his maulstick. He paused
for some time again, as he stood before the easel, then he went quietly
to work. He touched it here and there. He stepped back to mark the
effect--rubbed with his finger--sighed--stepped back--and still worked
on. The hours glided away, and daylight began to fade, but not until
he had finished his work.

Then he scraped his pallet and washed his brushes, and seated himself
upon the sofa opposite the easel. There was no picture, of Diana or of
Endymion any longer. In the place of Diana there was a full summer moon
shining calmly in a cloudless heaven. Its benignant light fell upon a
solitary grave upon a hill-top, which filled the spot where Endymion
had lain.

Arthur Merlin sat in the corner of the sofa with folded arms, looking at
the picture, until the darkness entirely hid it from view.




CHAPTER LXXIX.

THE LAST THROW.


While Arthur and Lawrence were conversing in the office of the latter,
Abel Newt, hat in hand, stood in Hope Wayne's parlor. His hair was
thinner and grizzled; his face bloated, and his eyes dull. His hands had
that dead, chalky color in which appetite openly paints its excesses. The
hand trembled as it held the hat; and as the man stood before the mirror,
he was straining his eyes at his own reflection, and by some secret
magic he saw, as if dimly traced beside it, the figure of the boy that
stood in the parlor of Pinewood--how many thousand years ago?

He heard a step, and turned.

Hope Wayne stopped, leaving the door open, bowed, and looked inquiringly
at him. She was dressed simply in a morning dress, and her golden hair
clustered and curled around the fresh beauty of her face--the rose of
health.

"Did you wish to say something to me?" she asked, observing that Abel
merely stared at her stupidly.

He bowed his head in assent.

"What do you wish to say?"

Her voice was as cold and remote as if she were a spirit.

Abel Newt was evidently abashed by the reception. But he moved toward
her, and began in a tone of doubtful familiarity.

"Miss Hope, I--"

"Mr. Newt, you have no right to address me in that way."

"Miss Wayne, I have come to--to--"

He stopped, embarrassed, rubbing his fingers upon the palms of his hands.
She looked at him steadily. He waited a few moments, then began again in
a hurried tone:

"Miss Wayne, we are both older than we once were; and once, I think, we
were not altogether indifferent to each other. Time has taught us many
things. I find that my heart, after foolish wanderings, is still true to
its first devotion. We can both view things more calmly, not less truly,
however, than we once did. I am upon the eve of a public career. I have
outgrown morbid emotions, and I come to ask you if you would take time
to reflect whether I might not renew my addresses; for indeed I love, and
can love, no other woman."

Hope Wayne stood pale, incredulous, and confounded while Abel Newt, with
some of the old fire in the eye and the old sweetness in the voice,
poured out these rapid words, and advanced toward her.

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