A \ B \ C \ D \ E \ F \ G \ H \ I \ J \ K \ L \ M \ N \ O \ P \ R \ S \ T \ U \ V \ W \Z

Trumps by George William Curtis

G >> George William Curtis >> Trumps




"This way, Sir," said the nimble Hiram, going before, but half turning
and studying the visitor as he spoke, and quite unable to comprehend him
at a glance. "I will speak to him."

Abel Newt was shown into a large drawing-room. The furniture was draped
for the season in cool-colored chintz. There was a straw matting upon
the floor. The chandeliers and candelabras were covered with muslin,
and heavy muslin curtains hung over the windows. The tables and chairs
were of a clumsy old-fashioned pattern, with feet in the form of claws
clasping balls, and a generally stiff, stately, and uncomfortable air.
The fire-place was covered by a heavy painted fire-board. The polished
brass andirons, which seemed to feel the whole weight of responsibility
in supporting the family dignity, stood across the hearth, belligerently
bright, and there were sprays of asparagus in a china vase in front of
them. A few pictures hung upon the wall--family portraits, Abel thought;
at least old Christopher was there, painted at the age of ten, standing,
in very clean attire, holding a book in one hand and a hoop in the other.
The picture was amusing, and looked to Abel symbolical, representing the
model boy, equally devoted to study and play. That singular sneering
smile flitted over his face as he muttered, "The Reverend Gabriel
Bennet!"

There were a few books upon the centre-table, carefully placed and
balanced as if they had been porcelain ornaments. The bindings and the
edges of the leaves had a fresh, unworn look. The outer window-blinds
were closed, and the whole room had a chilly formality and dimness which
was not hospitable nor by any means inspiring.

Abel seated himself in an easy-chair, and was still smiling at the
portrait of Master Christopher Burt at the age of ten, when that
gentleman, at the age of seventy-three, was heard in the hall. Hiram
had left the door open, so that Abel had full notice of his approach,
and rose just before the old gentleman entered, and stood with his cap
in his hand and his head slightly bent.

Old Burt came into the room, and said, a little fiercely, as he saw the
visitor,

"Well, Sir!"

Abel bowed.

"Well, Sir!" he repeated, more blandly, apparently mollified by something
in the appearance of the youth.

"Mr. Burt," said Abel, "I am sure you will excuse me when you understand
the object of my call; although I am fully aware of the liberty I am
taking in intruding upon your valuable time and the many important cares
which must occupy the attention of a gentleman so universally known,
honored, and loved in the community as you are, Sir."

"Did you come here to compliment me, Sir?" asked Mr. Burt. "You've got
some kind of subscription paper, I suppose." The old gentleman began to
warm up as he thought of it. "But I can't give any thing. I never do--I
never will. It's an infernal swindle. Some deuced Missionary Society,
or Tract Society, or Bible Society, some damnable doing-good society,
that bleeds the entire community, has sent you up here, Sir, to suck
money out of me with your smooth face. They're always at it. They're
always sending boys, and ministers in the milk, by Jove! and women that
talk in a way to turn the milk sour in the cellar, Sir, and who have
already turned themselves sour in the face, Sir, and whom a man can't
turn out of doors, Sir, to swindle money out of innocent people! I tell
you, young man, 'twon't work! I'll, be whipped if I give you a solitary
red cent!" And Christopher Burt, in a fine wrath, seated himself by the
table, and wiped his forehead.

Abel stood patiently and meekly under this gust of fury, and when it
was ended, and Mr. Burt was a little composed, he began quietly, as if
the indignation were the most natural thing in the world:

"No, Sir; it is not a subscription paper--"

"Not a subscription paper!" interrupted the old gentleman, lifting his
head and staring at him. "Why, what the deuce is it, then?"

"Why, Sir, as I was just saying," calmly returned Abel, "it is a personal
matter altogether."

"Eh! eh! what?" cried Mr. Burt, on the edge of another paroxysm, "what
the deuce does that mean? Who are you. Sir?"

"I am one of Mr. Gray's boys, Sir," replied Abel.

"What! what!" thundered Grandpa Burt, springing up suddenly, his mind
opening upon a fresh scent. "One of Mr. Gray's boys? How dare you, Sir,
come into my house? Who sent you here, Sir? What right have you to
intrude into this place, Sir? Hiram! Hiram!"

"Yes, Sir," answered the man, as he came across the hall.

"Show this young man out."

"He may have some message, Sir," said Hiram, who had heard the preceding
conversation.

"Have you got any message?" asked Mr. Burt.

"No, Sir; but I--"

"Then why, in Heaven's name, don't you go?"

"Mr. Burt," said Abel, with placid persistence, "being one of Mr. Gray's
boys, I go of course to Dr. Peewee's Church, and there I have so often
seen--"

"Come, come, Sir, this is a little too much. Hiram, put this boy out,"
said the old gentleman, quite beside himself as he thought of his
grand-daughter. "Seen, indeed! What business have you to see, Sir?"

"So often seen your venerable figure," resumed Abel in the same tone as
before, while Mr. Burt turned suddenly and looked at him closely, "that I
naturally asked who you were. I was told, Sir; and hearing of your wealth
and old family, and so on, Sir, I was interested--it was only natural,
Sir--in all that belongs to you."

"Eh! eh! what?" said Mr. Burt, quickly.

"Particularly, Mr. Burt, in your--"

"By Jove! young man, you'd better go if you don't want to have your
head broken. D'ye come here to beard me in my own house? By George!
your impudence stupefies me, Sir. I tell you go this minute!"

But Abel continued:

"In your beautiful--"

"Don't dare to say it, Sir!" cried the old man, shaking his finger.

"Place," said Abel, quietly.

The old gentleman glared at him with a look of mixed surprise and
suspicion. But the boy wore the same look of candor. He held his cap in
his hand. His black hair fell around his handsome face. He was entirely
calm, and behaved in the most respectful manner.

"What do you mean, Sir?" said Christopher Burt, in great perplexity, as
he seated himself again, and drew a long breath.

"Simply, Sir, that I am very fond of sketching. My teacher says I draw
very well, and I have had a great desire to draw your place, but I did
not dare to ask permission. It is said in school, Sir, that you don't
like Mr. Gray's boys, and I knew nobody who could introduce me. But
to-day, as I came by, every thing looked so beautifully, and I was so
sure that I could make a pretty picture if I could only get leave to
come inside the grounds, that almost unconsciously I found myself coming
up the avenue and ringing the bell. That's all, Sir; and I'm sure I beg
your pardon for troubling you so much."

Mr. Burt listened to this speech with a pacified air. He was perhaps a
little ashamed of his furious onslaughts and interruptions, and therefore
the more graciously inclined toward the request of the young man.

So the old man said, with tolerable grace,

"Well, Sir, I am willing you should draw my house. Will you do it this
afternoon?"

"Really, Sir," replied Abel, "I had no intention of asking you to-day;
and as I strolled out merely for a walk, I did not bring my drawing
materials with me. But if you would allow me to come at any time, Sir,
I should be very deeply obliged. I am devoted to my art, Sir."

"Oh! you mean to be an artist?"

"Perhaps, Sir."

"Phit! phit! Don't do any such silly thing, Sir. An artist! Why how much
does an artist make in a year?"

"Well, Sir, the money I don't know about, but the fame!"

"Oh! the fame! The fiddle, Sir! You are capable of better things."

"For instance, Mr. Burt--"

"Trade, Sir, trade--trade. That is the way to fortune in this country.
Enterprise, activity, shrewdness, industry, that's what a young man
wants. Get rid of your fol-de-rol notions about art. Benjamin West was a
great man, Sir; but he was an exception, and besides he lived in England.
I respect Benjamin West, Sir, of course. We all do. He made a good
thing of it. Take the word of an old man who has seen life and knows
the world, and remember that, with all your fine fiddling, it is
money makes the mare go. Old men like me don't mince matters, Sir.
It's money--money!"

Abel thought old men sometimes minced grammar a little, but he did not
say so. He only looked respectful, and said, "Yes, Sir."

"About drawing the house, come when you choose," said Mr. Burt, rising.

"It may take more than one, or even three or four afternoons, Sir, to do
it properly."

"Well, well. If I'm not at home ask for Mrs. Simcoe, d'ye hear? Mrs.
Simcoe. She will attend to you."

Abel bowed very respectfully and as if he were controlling a strong
desire to kneel and kiss the foot of his Holiness, Christopher Burt;
but he mastered himself, and Hiram opened the front door.

"Good-by, Hiram," said. Abel, putting a piece of money into his hand.

"Oh no, Sir," said Hiram, pocketing the coin.

Abel walked sedately down the steps, and looked carefully around him. He
scanned the windows; he glanced under the trees; but he saw nothing. He
did every thing, in fact, but study the house which he had been asking
permission to draw. He looked as if for something or somebody who did not
appear. But as Hiram still stood watching him, he moved away.

He walked faster as he approached the gate. He opened it; flung it to
behind him, broke into a little trot, and almost tumbled over Gabriel
Bennet and Little Malacca as he did so.

The collision was rude, and the three boys stopped.

"You'd better look where you're going," said Gabriel, sharply, his cheeks
reddening and swelling.

Abel's first impulse was to strike; but he restrained himself, and in the
most contemptuous way said merely,

"Ah, the Reverend Gabriel Bennet!"

He had scarcely spoken when Gabriel fell upon him like a young lion.
So sudden and impetuous was his attack that for a moment Abel was
confounded. He gave way a little, and was well battered almost before
he could strike in return. Then his strong arms began to tell. He was
confident of victory, and calmer than his antagonist; but it was like
fighting a flame, so fierce and rapid were Gabriel's strokes.

Little Malacca looked on in amazement and terror. "Don't! don't!" cried
he, as he saw the faces of the fighters. "Oh, don't! Abel, you'll kill
him!" For Abel was now fully aroused. He was seriously hurt by Gabriel's
blows.

"Don't! there's somebody coming!" cried Little Malacca, with the tears in
his eyes, as the sound of a carriage was heard driving down the hill.

The combatants said nothing. The faces of both of them were bruised, and
the blood was flowing. Gabriel was clearly flagging; and Abel's face was
furious as he struck his heavy blows, under which the smaller boy
staggered, but did not yet succumb.

"Oh, please! please!" cried Little Malacca, imploringly, the tears
streaming down his face.

At that moment Abel Newt drew back, aimed a tremendous blow at Gabriel,
and delivered it with fearful force upon his head. The smaller boy
staggered, reeled, threw up his arms, and fell heavily forward into
the road, senseless.

"You've killed him! You've killed him!" sobbed Little Malacca, piteously,
kneeling down and bending over Gabriel.

Abel Newt stood bareheaded, frowning under his heavy hair, his hands
clenched, his face bruised and bleeding, his mouth sternly set as he
looked down upon his opponent. Suddenly he heard a sound close by
him--a half-smothered cry. He looked up. It was the Burt carriage, and
Hope Wayne was gazing in terror from the window.




CHAPTER VIII.

AFTER THE BATTLE.


Hiram was summoned to the door by a violent ringing of the bell. Visions
of apoplexy--of--in fact, of any thing that might befall a testy
gentleman of seventy-three, inclined to make incessant trips to the
West Indies--rushed to his mind as he rushed to the door. He opened
it in hot haste.

There stood Hope Wayne, pale, her eyes flashing, her hand ungloved. At
the foot of the steps was the carriage, and in the carriage sat Mrs.
Simcoe, with a bleeding boy's head resting upon her shoulder. The
coachman stood at the carriage door.

"Here, Hiram, help James to bring in this poor boy."

"Yes, miss," replied the man, as he ran down the steps.

The door was opened, and the coachman and Hiram lifted out Gabriel.

They carried him, still unconscious, up stairs and laid him on a couch.
Old Burt could not refuse an act of mere humanity, but he said in a loud
voice,

"It's all a conspiracy to get into the house, Mrs. Simcoe, ma'am. I'll
have bull-dogs--I'll have blunderbusses and spring-guns, Mrs. Simcoe,
ma'am! And what do you mean by fighting at my gate, Sir?" he said,
turning upon Little Malacca, who quivered under his wrath. "What are you
doing at my gate? Can't Mr. Gray keep his boys at home? Hope, go up
stairs!" said the old gentleman, as he reached the foot of the staircase.

But Hope Wayne and Mrs. Simcoe remained with the patient. Hope rubbed
the boy's hands, and put her own hand upon his forehead from time to
time, until he sighed heavily and opened his eyes. But before he could
recognize her she went out to send Hiram to him, while Mrs. Simcoe sat
quietly by him.

"We must put you to bed," she said, gently, "and to-morrow you may go.
But why do you fight?"

Gabriel turned toward her with a piteous look.

"No matter," replied Mrs. Simcoe. "Don't talk. You shall tell all about
it some other time. Come in, Hiram," she added, as she heard a knock.

The man entered, and Mrs. Simcoe left the room after having told him
to undress the boy carefully and bathe his face and hands. Gabriel was
perfectly passive, Hiram was silent, quick, and careful, and in a few
moments he closed the door softly behind him, and left Gabriel alone.

He was now entirely conscious, but very weak. His face was turned toward
the window, which was open, and he watched the pine-trees that rustled
gently in the afternoon breeze. It was profoundly still out of doors and
in the house; and as he lay exhausted, the events of the last few days
and months swam through his mind in misty confusion. Half-dozing,
half-sleeping, every thing glimmered before him, and the still hours
stole by.

When he opened his eyes again it was twilight, and he was lying on his
back looking up at the heavy tester of the great bedstead from which hung
the curtains, so that he had only glimpses into the chamber. It was large
and lofty, and the paper on the wall told the story of Telemachus. His
eyes wandered over it dreamily.

He could dimly see the beautiful Calypso--the sage Mentor--the eager
pupil--pallid phantoms floating around him. He seemed to hear the beating
of the sea upon the shore. The tears came to his eyes. The ghostly
Calypso put aside the curtain of the bed. Gabriel stretched out his
hands.

"I must go," he murmured, as if he too were a phantom.

The lips of Calypso moved.

"Are you better?"

Gabriel was awake in a moment. It was Hope Wayne who spoke to him.

About ten o'clock in the evening she knocked again gently at Gabriel's
door. There was no reply. She opened the door softly and went in. A
night-lamp was burning, and threw a pleasant light through the room.
The windows were open, and the night-air sighed among the pine-trees
near them.

Gabriel's face was turned toward the door, so that Hope saw it as she
entered. He was sleeping peacefully. At that very moment he was dreaming
of her. In dreams Hope Wayne was walking with him by the sea, her hand in
his: her heart his own.

She stood motionless lest she might wake him. He did not stir, and she
heard his low, regular breathing, and knew that all was well. Then she
turned as noiselessly as she had entered, and went out, leaving him to
peaceful sleep--to dreams--to the sighing of the pines.

Hope Wayne went quietly to her room, which was next to the one in which
Gabriel lay. Her kind heart had sent her to see that he wanted nothing.
She thought of him only as a boy who had had the worst of a quarrel, and
she pitied him. Was it then, indeed, only pity for the victim that
knocked gently at his door? Was she really thinking of the conqueror
when she went to comfort the conquered? Was she not trying somehow to
help Abel by doing all she could to alleviate the harm he had done?

Hope Wayne asked herself no questions. She was conscious of a curious
excitement, and the sighing of the pines lulled her to sleep. But all
night long she dreamed of Abel Newt, with bare head and clustering black
hair, gracefully bowing, and murmuring excuses; and oh! so manly, oh! so
heroic he looked as he carefully helped to lay Gabriel in the carriage.




CHAPTER IX.

NEWS FROM HOME.


Abel found a letter waiting for him when he returned to the school. He
tore it open and read it:

"MY DEAR ABEL,--You have now nearly reached the age at which, by your
grandfather's direction, you were to leave school and enter upon active
life. Your grandfather, who had known and respected Mr. Gray in former
years, left you, as you know, a sum sufficient for your education, upon
condition of your being placed at Mr. Gray's until your nineteenth
birthday. That time is approaching. Upon your nineteenth birthday you
will leave school. Mr. Gray gives me the best accounts of you. My plans
for you are not quite settled. What are your own wishes? It is late for
you to think of college; and as you will undoubtedly be a business man,
I see no need of your learning Greek or writing Latin poetry. At your age
I was earning my own living. Your mother and the family are well. Your
affectionate father,

"BONIFACE NEWT.

"P.S.--Your mother wishes to add a line."

"DEAR ABEL,--I am very glad to hear from Mr. Gray of your fine progress
in study, and your general good character and deportment. I trust you
give some of your leisure to solid reading. It is very necessary to
improve the mind. I hope you attend to religion. It will help you if
you keep a record of Dr. Peewee's texts, and write abstracts of his
sermons. Grammar, too, and general manners. I hear that you are very
self-possessed, which is really good news. My friend Mrs. Beacon was
here last week, and she says you _bow beautifully_! That is a great
deal for her to admit, for her son Bowdoin is one of the most elegant
and presentable young men I have ever seen. He is very gentlemanly
indeed. He and Alfred Dinks have been here for some time. My dear son,
could you not learn to waltz before you come home? It is considered very
bad by some people, because you have to put your arm round the lady's
waist. But I think it is very foolish for any body to set themselves up
against the customs of society. I think if it is permitted in Paris and
London, we needn't be so very particular about it in New York. Mr. Dinks
and Mr. Beacon both waltz, and I assure you it is very _distingue_
indeed. But be careful in learning. Your sister Fanny says the Boston
young men stick out their elbows dreadfully when they waltz, and look
like owls spinning on invisible teetotums. She declares, too, that all
the Boston girls are dowdy. But she is obliged to confess that Mr. Beacon
and Mr. Dinks are as well dressed and gentlemanly and dance as well as
our young men here. And as for the Boston ladies, Mr. Dinks tells Fanny
that he has a cousin, a Miss Wayne, who lives in Delafield, who might
alter her opinion of the dowdiness of Boston girls. It seems she is a
great heiress, and very beautiful; and it is said here (but you know how
idle such gossip is) that she is going to marry her cousin, Alfred
Dinks. He does not deny it. He merely laughs and shakes his head--the
truth is, he hasn't much to say for himself. Bless me! I've got to take
another sheet.

"Now, Abel, my dear, do you know Miss Wayne? I have never heard you speak
of her, and yet, if she lives in Delafield, you must know something about
her. Your father is working hard at his business, but it is shocking how
much money we have to spend to keep up our place in society properly. I
know that he spends all his income every year; and if any thing should
happen--I cry my eyes out to think of it. Miss Wayne, I hear, is very
beautiful, and about your age. Is it true about her being an heiress?

"What is the news--let me see. Oh! your cousin, Laura Magot, is engaged,
and she has made a capital match. She will be eighteen on her next
birthday; and the happy man is Mellish Whitloe. It is the fine old
Knickerbocker family. Fanny says she knows all about them--that she has
the Whitloes all at her fingers' ends. You see she is as bright as
ever. It is a capital match. Mr. Whitloe has at least five thousand
dollars a year from his business now; and his aunt, Patience Doolittle,
widow of the old merchant, who has no children, is understood to prefer
him to all her relations. Laura will have a little something; so there
could be nothing better. We are naturally delighted. But what a pity
Laura is not a little taller--about Fanny's height; and as I was looking
at Fanny the other day, I thought how sorry I was for Mr. Whitloe that
Laura was not just a little prettier. She has _such_ a nose; and then her
complexion! However, my dear Abel of course cares nothing about such
things, and, I have no doubt, is wickedly laughing at his mamma at this
very moment for scribbling him such a long, rambling letter. What is Miss
Wayne's first name? Is she fair or brunette? Don't forget to write me all
you know. I am going to Saratoga in a few days--I think Fanny ought to
drink the waters. I told Dr. Lush I was perfectly sure of it; so he told
your father, and he has consented.

"Do you remember Mrs. Plumer, the large, handsome woman from New Orleans,
whom you saw when we dined at your Uncle Magot's last summer? She has
come on, and will be at the Spring this year. I am told Mr. Plumer is a
very large planter--the largest, some people say, in the country. Their
oldest daughter, Grace is as school in town. She is only fourteen, I
believe. What an heiress she will be! The Moultries, from South Carolina,
will be there too, I suppose. By-the-by, now old is Sligo Moultrie? Then
there are some of those rich Havana people coming. What diamonds they
wear! It will be very pleasant at the Springs; and I hope the little
visit will do Fanny good. Dr. Maundy is giving us a series of sermons
upon the different kinds of wood used in building Solomon's Temple. They
are very interesting; and he has such a flow of beautiful words and such
wavy gestures, and he looks so gentlemanly in the pulpit, that I have no
doubt he does a great deal of good. The church is always full. Your Uncle
Lawrence has been to hear a preacher from Boston, by the name of
Channing, and is very much pleased. Have you ever heard him? It seems he
is very famous in his own sect, who are infidels, or deists, or
pollywogs, or atheists--I don't know which it is. I believe they preach
mere morality, and read essays instead of sermons. I hope you go
regularly to church; and from what I have heard of Dr. Peewee, I respect
him very highly. Perhaps you had better make abstracts of his sermons,
and I can look over them some time when you come home.

"Speaking of religion, I must tell you a little story which Fanny told me
the other day. She was coming home from church with Mr. Dinks, and he
said to her, 'Miss Newt, what do you do when you go into church and put
your head down?' Fanny did not understand him, and asked him what he
meant. 'Why,' said he, 'when we go into church, you know, we all put our
heads down in front of the pew, or in our hands, for a little while, and
Dr. Maundy spreads his handkerchief on the desk and puts his face into it
for quite a long time. What do _you_ do?' he asked, in a really perplexed
way, Fanny says. 'Why,' said she, gravely, 'Mr. Dinks, it is to say a
short prayer.' 'Bless my soul!' said he; 'I never thought of that.'
'Why, what do you do, then?' asked Fanny, curiously. 'Well,' answered
Dinks, 'you know I think it's a capital thing to do; it's proper, and so
forth; but I never knew what people were really at when they did it; so I
always put my head into my hat and count ten. I find it comes to about
the same thing--I get through at the same time with other people.' He
isn't very bright, but he is a good-hearted fellow, and very gentlemanly,
and I am told he is very rich. Fanny laughs at him; but I think she likes
him very well. I wish you would find out whether Miss Wayne really is
engaged to him. Here I am at the very end of my paper. Take care of
yourself, my dear Abel, and remember the religion and the solid reading.

"Your affectionate mother,

"NANCY NEWT."

Abel read the letters, and stood looking at the floor, musingly. His
school days, then, were numbered; the stage was to be deepened and
widened--the scenery and the figures so wonderfully changed! He was to
step in a moment from school into the world. He was to lie down one night
a boy, and wake up a man the next morning.

The cloud of thoughts and fancies that filled his mind all drifted toward
one point--all floated below a summit upon which stood the only thing he
could discern clearly, and that was the figure of Hope Wayne. Just as he
thought he could reach her, was he to be torn away?

Copyright (c) 2007. bestextbooks.com. All rights reserved.

Various - "Punch, Or The London Charivari, Vol. 103, October 15, 1892"

Hugo Muensterberg - "The Photoplay"

Various - "The American Missionary Vol. 48, No. 10, October, 1894"

Ellen Glasgow - "Life and Gabriella"