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Trumps by George William Curtis

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He also read to her one day a poem upon a cloud, so beautiful that Hope
Wayne's cheek flushed, and she asked, eagerly,

"Whose is that?"

"It is one of Shelley's, a friend of Byron's."

"But how different!"

"Yes, they were different men. Listen to this."

And the young man read the ode to a Sky-lark.

"How joyous it is!" said Hope; "but I feel the sadness."

"Yes, I often feel that in people as well as in poems," replied Arthur,
looking at her closely.

She colored a little--said that it was warm--and rose to go.

The cold black eyes of Miss Fanny Newt suddenly glittered upon them.

"Will you go home with us, Miss Wayne?"

"Thank you, I am just coming;" and Hope passed into the wood.

When Arthur Merlin was left alone he quietly lighted a cigar, opened his
port-folio and spread it before him, then sharpened a pencil and began to
sketch. But while he looked at the tree before him, and mechanically
transferred it to the paper, he puffed and meditated.

He saw that Hope Wayne was constantly with other people, and yet he felt
that she was a woman who would naturally like her own society. He also
saw that there was no person then at Saratoga in whom she had such an
interest that she would prefer him to her own society.

And yet she was always seeking the distraction of other people.

Puff--puff--puff.

Then there was something that made the society of her own thoughts
unpleasant--almost intolerable.

Mr. Arthur Merlin vigorously rubbed out with a piece of stale bread a
false line he had drawn.

What is that something--or some-bod-y?

He stopped sketching, and puffed for a long time.

As he returned at sunset Hope Wayne was standing upon the piazza of the
hotel.

"Have you been successful?" asked she, dawning upon him.

"You shall judge."

He showed her his sketch of a tree-stump.

"Good; but a little careless," she said.

"Do you draw, Miss Wayne?"

A curious light glimmered across her face, for she remembered where she
had last heard those words. She shrank a little, almost imperceptibly, as
if her eyes had been suddenly dazzled. Then a little more distantly--not
much more, but Arthur had remarked every thing--she said:

"Yes, I draw a little. Good-evening."

"Stop, please, Miss Wayne!" exclaimed Arthur, as he saw that she was
going. She turned and smiled--a smile that seemed to him like starlight,
it was so clear and cool and dim.

"I have drawn this for you, Miss Wayne."

She bent and took the sketch which he drew from his port-folio.

"It is Manfred in the Coliseum," said he.

She glanced at it; but the smile faded entirely. Arthur stared at her in
astonishment as the blood slowly ebbed from her cheeks, then streamed
back again. The head of Manfred was the head of Abel Newt. Hope Wayne
looked from the sketch to the artist, searching him with her eye to
discover if he knew what he was doing. Arthur was sincerely unconscious.

Hope Wayne dropped the paper almost involuntarily. It floated into the
road.

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Merlin," said she, making a step to recover it.

He was before her, and handed it to her again.

"Thank you," said she, quietly, and went in.

It was still twilight, and Arthur lighted a cigar and sat down to a
meditation. The result of it was clear enough.

"That head looks like somebody, and that somebody is Hope Wayne's
secret." Puff--puff--puff.

"Where did I get that head?" He could not remember. "Tut!" cried he,
suddenly bringing his chair down upon its legs with a force that knocked
his cigar out of his mouth, "I copied it from a head which Jim Greenidge
has, and which he says was one of his school-fellows."

Meanwhile Hope Wayne had carefully locked the door of her room. Then she
hurriedly tore the sketch into the smallest possible pieces, laid them in
her hand, opened the window, and whiffed them away into the dark.




CHAPTER XXIII.

BONIFACE NEWT, SON, AND CO., DRY GOODS ON COMMISSION.


Abel Newt smoked a great many cigars to enable him to see his position
clearly.

When he told his mother that he could not accompany her to the Springs
because he was about entering his father's counting-room, it was not so
much because he was enamored of business as that his future relations
with Hope were entirely doubtful, and he did not wish to complicate them
by exposing himself to the chances of Saratoga.

"Business, of course, is the only career in this country, my son," said
Boniface Newt. "What men want, and women too, is money. What is this city
of New York? A combination of men and machines for making money. Every
body respects a rich man. They may laugh at him behind his back. They
may sneer at his ignorance and awkwardness, and all that sort of thing,
but they respect his money. Now there's old Jacob Van Boozenberg. I say
to you in strict confidence, my son, that there was never a greater fool
than that man. He absolutely knows nothing at all. When he dies he will
be no more missed in this world than an old dead stage-horse who is made
into a manure heap. He is coarse, and vulgar, and mean. His daughter Kate
married his clerk, young Tom Witchet--not a cent, you know, but five
hundred dollars salary. 'Twas against the old man's will, and he shut his
door, and his purse, and his heart. He turned Witchet away; told his
daughter that she might lie in the bed she had made for herself; told
Witchet that he was a rotten young swindler, and that, as he had married
his daughter for her money, he'd be d----d if he wouldn't be up with him,
and deuce of a cent should they get from him. They live I don't know
where, nor how. Some of her old friends send her money--actually give
five-dollar bills to old Jacob Van Boozenberg's daughter, somewhere over
by the North River. Every body knows it, you know; but, for all that, we
have to make bows to old Van B. Don't we want accommodations? Look here,
Abel; if Jacob were not worth a million of dollars, he would be of less
consequence than the old fellow who sells apples at the corner of his
bank. But as it is, we all agree that he is a shrewd, sensible old
fellow; rough in some of his ways--full of little prejudices--rather
sharp; and as for Mrs. Tom Witchet, why, if girls will run away, and all
that sort of thing, they must take the consequences, you know. Of course
they must. Where should we be if every rich merchant's daughters were at
the mercy of his clerks? I'm sorry for all this. It's sad, you know. It's
positively melancholy. It troubles me. Ah, yes! where was I? Oh, I was
saying that money is the respectable thing. And mark, Abel, if this were
the Millennium, things would be very different. But it isn't the
Millennium. It's give one and take two, if you can get it. That's what it
is here; and let him who wants to, kick against the pricks."

Abel hung his legs over the arms of the office-chairs in the
counting-room, and listened gravely.

"I don't suppose, Sir, that 'tis money _as_ money that is worth having.
It is only money as the representative of intelligence and refinement, of
books, pictures, society--as a vast influence and means of charity; is it
not, Sir?"

Upon which Mr. Abel Newt blew a prodigious cloud of smoke.

Mr. Boniface Newt responded, "Oh fiddle! that's all very fine. But my
answer to that is Jacob Van Boozenberg."

"Bless my soul! here he comes. Abel put your legs down! throw that cigar
away!"

The great man came in. His clothes were snuffy and baggy--so was his
face.

"Good-mornin', Mr. Newt. Beautiful mornin'. I sez to ma this mornin', ma,
sez I, I should like to go to the country to-day, sez I. Go 'long; pa!
sez she. Werry well, sez I, I'll go 'long if you'll go too. Ma she
laughed; she know'd I wasn't in earnest. She know'd 'twasn't only a
joke."

Mr. Van Boozenberg drew out a large red bandana handkerchief, and blew
his nose as if it had been a trumpet sounding a charge.

Messrs. Newt & Son smiled sympathetically. The junior partner observed,
cheerfully,

"Yes, Sir."

The millionaire stared at the young man.

"Ma's going to Saratogy," remarked Mr. Van Boozenberg. "She said she
wanted to go. Werry well, sez I, ma, go."

Messrs. Newt & Son smiled deferentially, and hoped Mrs. Van B. would
enjoy herself.

"No, I ain't no fear of that," replied the millionaire.

"Mr. Van Boozenberg," said Boniface Newt, half-hesitatingly, "you were
very kind to undertake that little favor--I--I--"

"Oh! yes, I come in to say I done that as you wanted. It's all right."

"And, Mr. Van Boozenberg, I am pleased to introduce to you my son Abel,
who has just entered the house."

Abel rose and bowed.

"Have you been in the store?" asked the old gentleman.

"No, Sir, I've been at school."

"What! to school till now? Why, you must be twenty years old!" exclaimed
Mr. Van Boozenberg, in great surprise.

"Yes, Sir, in my twentieth year."

"Why, Mr. Newt," said Mr. Van B., with the air of a man who is in entire
perplexity, "what on earth has your boy been doing at school until now?"

"It was his grandfather's will, Sir," replied Boniface Newt.

"Well, well, a great pity! a werry great pity! Ma wanted one of our boys
to go to college. Ma, sez I, what on earth should Corlaer go to college
for? To get learnin', pa, sez ma. To get learnin'! sez I. I'll get him
learnin', sez I, down to the store, Werry well, sez ma. Werry well, sez
I, and so 'twas; and I think I done a good thing by him."

Mr. Van Boozenberg talked at much greater length of his general
intercourse with ma. Mr. Boniface Newt regarded him more and more
contemptuously.

But the familiar style of the old gentleman's conversation begot a
corresponding familiarity upon the part of Mr. Newt. Mr. Van Boozenberg
learned incidentally that Abel had never been in business before. He
observed the fresh odor of cigars in the counting-room--he remarked the
extreme elegance of Abel's attire, and the inferential tailor's bills.
He learned that Mrs. Newt and the family were enjoying themselves at
Saratoga. He derived from the conversation and his observation that
there were very large family expenses to be met by Boniface Newt.

Meanwhile that gentleman had continually no other idea of his visitor
than that he was insufferable. He had confessed to Abel that the old man
was shrewd. His shrewdness was a proverb. But he is a dull, ignorant,
ungrammatical, and ridiculous old ass for all that, thought Boniface
Newt; and the said ass sitting in Boniface Newt's counting-room, and
amusing and fatiguing Messrs. Newt & Son with his sez I's, and sez shes,
and his mas, and his done its, was quietly making up his mind that the
house of Newt & Son had received no accession of capital or strength by
the entrance of the elegant Abel into a share of its active management,
and that some slight whispers which he had heard remotely affecting the
standing of the house must be remembered.

"A werry pretty store you have here, Mr. Newt. Find Pearl Street as good
as Beaver?"

"Oh yes, Sir," replied Boniface Newt, bowing and rubbing his hands. "Call
again, Sir; it's a rare pleasure to see you here, Mr. Van Boozenberg."

"Well, you know, ma, sez she, now pa you mustn't sit in draughts. It's so
sort of draughty down town in your horrid offices, pa, sez she--sez ma,
you know--that I'm awful 'fraid you'll catch your death, sez she, and I
must mind ma, you know. Good-mornin', Mr. Newt, a werry good-mornin',
Sir," said the old gentleman, as he stepped out.

"Do you have much of that sort of thing to undergo in business, father?"
asked Abel, when Jacob Van Boozenberg had gone.

"My dear son," replied the older Mr. Newt, "the world is made up of
fools, bores, and knaves. Some of them speak good grammar and use white
cambric pocket-handkerchiefs, some do not. It's dreadful, I know, and I
am rather tired of a world where you are busy driving donkeys with a
chance of their presently driving you."

Mr. Boniface Newt shook his foot pettishly.

"Father," said Abel.

"Well."

"Which is Uncle Lawrence--a fool, a bore, or a knave?"

Mr. Boniface Newt's foot stopped, and, after looking at his son for a few
moments, he answered:

"Abel, your Uncle Lawrence is a singular man. He's a sort of exception to
general rules. I don't understand him, and he doesn't help me to. When he
was a boy he went to India and lived there several years. He came home
once and staid a little while, and then went back again, although I
believe he was rich. It was mysterious, I never could quite understand
it--though, of course, I believe there was some woman in it. Neither your
mother nor I could ever find out much about it. By-and-by he came home
again, and has been in business here ever since. He's a bachelor, you
know, and his business is different from mine, and he has queer friends
and tastes, so that I don't often see him except when he comes to the
house, and that isn't very often."

"He's rich, isn't he?" asked Abel.

"Yes, he's very rich, and that's the curious part of it," answered his
father, "and he gives away a great deal of money in what seems to me a
very foolish way. He's a kind of dreamer--an impracticable man. He pays
lots of poor people's rents, and I try to show him that he is merely
encouraging idleness and crime. But I can't make him see it. He declares
that, if a sewing-girl makes but two dollars a week and has a helpless
mother and three small sisters to support besides rent and fuel, and so
on, it's not encouraging idleness to help her with the rent. Well, I
suppose it _is_ hard sometimes with some of those people. But you've no
right to go by particular cases in these matters. You ought to go by the
general rule, as I constantly tell him. 'Yes,' says he, in that smiling
way of his which does put me almost beside myself, 'yes, you shall go by
the general rule, and let people starve; and I'll go by particular cases,
and feed 'em.' Then he is just as rich as if he were an old flint like
Van Boozenberg. Well, it is the funniest, foggiest sort of world. I swear
I don't see into it at all--I give it all up. I only know one thing; that
it's first in first win. And that's extremely sad, too, you know. Yes,
very sad! Where was I? Ah yes! that we are all dirty scoundrels."

Abel had relighted his cigar, after Mr. Van Boozenberg's departure, and
filled the office with smoke until the atmosphere resembled the fog in
which his father seemed to be floundering.

"Abel, merchants ought not to smoke cigars in their counting-rooms,"
said his father, in a half-pettish way.

"No, I suppose not," replied Abel, lightly; "they ought to smoke other
people. But tell me, father, do you know nothing about the woman that you
say was mixed up with Uncle Lawrence's affairs?"

"Nothing at all"

"Not even her name?"

"Not a syllable."

"Pathetic and mysterious," rejoined Abel; "a case of unhappy love, I
suppose."

"If it is so," said Mr. Newt, "your Uncle Lawrence is the happiest
miserable man I ever knew."

"Well, there's a difference among men, you know, father. Some wear their
miseries like an order in their button-holes. Some do as the Spartan boy
did when the wolf bit him."

"How'd the Spartan boy do?" asked Mr. Newt.

"He covered it up, laughed, and dropped dead."

"Gracious!" said Mr. Boniface Newt.

"Or like Boccaccio's basil-pot," continued Abel, calmly; pouring forth
smoke, while his befogged papa inquired,

"What on earth do you mean by Boccaccio's basil-pot?"

"Why, a girl's lover had his head cut off, and she put it in a
flower-pot, and covered it up that way, and instead of laughing herself,
set flowers to blooming over it."

"Goodness me, Abel, what are you talking about?"

"Of Love, the canker-worm, Sir," replied Abel, imperturbable, and
emitting smoke.

It was evidently not the busy season in the Dry-goods Commission House of
Boniface Newt & Son.

When Mr. Van Boozenberg went home to dinner, he said:

"Ma, you'd better improve this werry pleasant weather and start for
Saratogy as soon as you can. Mr. Boniface Newt tells me his wife and
family is there, and you'll find them werry pleasant folks. I jes' want
you to write me all about 'em. You see, ma, one of our directors to-day
sez to me, after board, sez he, 'The Boniface Newts is a going it
slap-dash up to Saratogy.' I laughed, and sez I, 'Why shouldn't they?
but I don't believe they be,' sez I. Sez he, 'I'll bet you a new shawl
for your wife they be,' sez he. Sez I, 'Done.' So you see ma, if so be
they be, werry well. A new shawl for some folks, you know; only jes'
write me all about it."

Ma was not reluctant to depart at the earliest possible moment. Her son
Corlaer, whose education had been intercepted by his father, was of
opinion, when he heard that the Newts were at Saratoga, that his health
imperatively required Congress water. But papa had other views.

"Corlaer, I wish you would make the acquaintance of young Mr. Newt. I
done it to-day. He is a well-edicated young man; I shall ask him to
dinner next Sunday. Don't be out of the way."

Jacob Van Boozenberg having dined, arose from the table, seated himself
in a spacious easy-chair, and drawing forth the enormous red bandana,
spread it over his head and face, and after a few muscular twitches, and
a violent nodding of the head, which caused the drapery to fall off
several times, finally propped the refractory head against the back of
the chair, and bobbing and twitching no longer, dropped off into
temporary oblivion.




CHAPTER XXIV.

"QUEEN AND HUNTRESS."


Hope Wayne leaned out of the window from which she had just scattered the
fragments of the drawing Arthur Merlin had given her. The night was soft
and calm, and trees, not far away, entirely veiled her from observation.

She thought how different this window was from that other one at home,
also shaded by the trees; and what a different girl it was who looked
from it. She recalled that romantic, musing, solitary girl of Pinewood,
who lived alone with a silent, grave old nurse, and the quiet years that
passed there like the shadows and sunlight over the lawn. She remembered
the dark, handsome face that seemed to belong to the passionate poems
that girl had read, and the wild dreams she had dreamed in the still, old
garden. In the hush of the summer twilight she heard again the rich voice
that seemed to that other girl of Pinewood sweeter than the music of the
verses, and felt the penetrating glance, that had thrilled the heart of
that girl until her red cheek was pale.

How well for that girl that the lips which made the music had never
whispered love! Because--because--

Hope raised herself from lightly leaning on the window-sill as the
thought flashed in her mind, and she stood erect, as if straightened by a
sudden, sharp, almost insupportable pain--"because," she went on saying
in her mind, "had they done so, that other romantic, solitary girl at
Pinewood"--dear child! Hope's heart trembled for her--"might have
confessed that she loved!"

Hope Wayne clenched her hands, and, all alone in her dim room, flushed,
and then turned pale, and a kind of cold splendor settled on her face, so
that if Arthur Merlin could have seen her he would have called her Diana.

During the moment in which she thought these things--for it was scarcely
more--the little white bits of paper floated and fell beneath her. She
watched them as they disappeared, conscious of them, but not thinking of
them. They looked like rose-leaves, they were so pure; and how silently
they sank into the darkness below!

And if she had confessed she loved, thought Hope, how would it be with
that girl now? Might she not be standing in the twilight, watching her
young hopes scattered like rose-leaves and disappearing in the dark?

She clasped her hands before her, and walked gently up and down the room.
The full moon was rising, and the tender, tranquil light streamed through
the trees into her chamber.

But, she thought, since she did not--since the young girl dreamed,
perhaps only for a moment, perhaps so very vaguely, of what might have
been--she has given nothing, she has lost nothing. There was a pleasant
day which she remembers, far back in her childhood--oh! so pleasant! oh!
so sunny, and flowery, and serene! A pleasant day, when something came
that never comes--that never can come--but once.

She stopped by the window, and looked out to see if she could yet
discover any signs of the scattered paper. She strained her eyes down
toward the ground. But it was entirely dark there. All the light was
above--all the light was peaceful and melancholy, from the moon.

She laid her face in that moonlight upon the window-sill, and covered it
with her hands. The low wind shook the leaves, and the trees rustled
softly as if they whispered to her. She heard them in her heart. She knew
what they were saying. They sang to her of that other girl and her
wishes, and struggles and prayers.

Then came the fierce, passionate, profuse weeping--the spring freshet of
a woman's soul.

--She heard a low knock at the door. She remained perfectly silent.
Another knock. Still she did not move.

The door was tried.

Hope Wayne raised her head, but said nothing.

There was a louder knock, and the voice of Fanny Newt:

"Miss Wayne, are you asleep? Please let me in."

It was useless to resist longer. Hope Wayne opened the door, and Fanny
Newt entered. Hope sat down with her back to the window.

"I heard you come in," said Fanny, "and I did not hear you go out; so I
knew you were still here. But I was afraid you would oversleep yourself,
and miss the ball."

Hope replied that she had not been sleeping.

"Not sleeping, but sitting in the moonlight, all alone?" said Fanny. "How
romantic!"

"Is it?"

"Yes, of course it is! Why, Mr. Dinks and I are romantic every evening.
He _will_ come and sit in the moonlight, and listen to the music. What an
agreeable fellow he is!" And Fanny tried to see Hope's face, which was
entirely hidden.

"He is my cousin, you know," replied Hope.

"Oh yes, we all know that; and a dangerous relationship it is too," said
Fanny.

"How dangerous?"

"Why, cousins are such privileged people. They have all the intimacy of
brothers, without the brotherly right of abusing us. In fact, a cousin is
naturally half-way between a brother and a lover."

"Having neither brother nor lover," said Hope, quietly, "I stop half-way
with the cousin."

Fanny laughed her cold little laugh. "And you mean to go on the other
half, I suppose?" said she.

"Why do you suppose so?" asked Hope.

"It is generally understood, I believe," said Fanny, "that Mr. Alfred
Dinks will soon lead to the hymeneal altar his beautiful and accomplished
cousin, Miss Hope Wayne. At least, for further information inquire of
Mrs. Budlong Dinks." And Fanny laughed again.

"I was not aware of the honor that awaited me," replied Hope.

"Oh no! of course not. The family reasons, I suppose--"

"My mind is as much in the dark as my body," said Hope. "I really do not
see the point of the joke."

"Still you don't seem very much surprised at it."

"Why should I be? Every girl is at the mercy of tattlers."

"Exactly," said Fanny. "They've had me engaged to I don't know how many
people. I suppose they'll doom Alfred Dinks to me next. You won't be
jealous, will you?"

"No," said Hope, "I'll congratulate him."

Fanny Newt could not see Hope Wayne's face, and her voice betrayed
nothing. She, in fact, knew no more than when she came in.

"Good-by, dear, _a ce soir!_" said she, as she sailed out of the room.

Hope lingered for some time at the window. Then she rang for candles, and
sat down to write a letter.




CHAPTER XXV.

A STATESMAN--AND STATESWOMAN.


In the same twilight Mrs. Dinks and Alfred sat together in her room.

"Alfred, my dear, I see that Bowdoin Beacon drives out your Cousin Hope
a good deal."

Mrs. Dinks arranged her cap-ribbon as if she were at present mainly
interested in that portion of her dress.

"Yes, a good deal," replied Mr. Alfred, in an uncertain tone, for he
always felt uncomfortably at the prospect of a conversation with his
mother.

"I am surprised he should do so," continued Mrs. Dinks, with
extraordinary languor, as if she should undoubtedly fall fast asleep
before the present interview terminated. And yet she was fully awake.

"Why shouldn't he drive her out if he wants to?" inquired Alfred.

"Now, Alfred, be careful. Don't expose yourself even to me. It is too hot
to be so absurd. I suppose there is some sort of honor left among young
men still, isn't there?"

And the languid mamma performed a very well-executed yawn.

"Honor? I suppose there is. What do you mean?" replied Alfred.

Mamma yawned again.

"How drowsy one does feel here! I am so sleepy! What was I saying? Oh I
remember. Perhaps, however, Mr. Beacon doesn't know. That is probably the
reason. He doesn't know. Well, in that case it is not so extraordinary.
But I should think he must have seen, or inferred, or heard. A man may
be very stupid; but he has no right to be so stupid as that. How many
glasses do you drink at the spring in the morning, Alfred? Not more than
six at the outside, I hope. Well, I believe I'll take a little nap."

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