Читать книгу Trumps - George William Curtis - Страница 11

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The next day when school was dismissed, Abel asked leave to stroll out of bounds. He pushed along the road, whistling cheerily, whipping the road-side grass and weeds with his little ratan, and all the while approaching the foot of the hill up which the road wound through the estate of Pinewood. As he turned up the hill he walked more slowly, and presently stopped and leaned upon a pair of bars which guarded the entrance of one of Mr. Burt’s pastures. He gazed for some time down into the rich green field that sloped away from the road toward a little bowery stream, but still whistled, as if he were looking into his mind rather than at the landscape.

After leaning and musing and vaguely whistling, he turned up the hill again and continued his walk.

At length he reached the entrance of Pinewood—a high iron gate, between huge stone posts, on the tops of which were urns overflowing with vines, that hung down and partly tapestried the columns. Immediately upon entering the grounds the carriage avenue wound away from the gate, so that the passer-by could see nothing as he looked through but the hedge which skirted and concealed the lawn. The fence upon the road was a high, solid stone wall, along whose top clustered a dense shrubbery, so that, although the land rose from the road toward the house, the lawn was entirely sequestered; and you might sit upon it and enjoy the pleasant rural prospect of fields, woods, and hills, without being seen from the road. The house itself was a stately, formal mansion. Its light color contrasted well with the lofty pine-trees around it. But they, in turn, invested it with an air of secrecy and gloom, unrelieved by flowers or blossoming shrubs, of which there were no traces near the house, although in the rear there was a garden so formally regular that it looked like a penitentiary for flowers.

These were the pine-trees that Hope Wayne had heard sing all her life—but sing like the ocean, not like birds or human voices. In the black autumn midnights they struggled with the north winds that smote them fiercely and filled the night with uproar, while the child cowering in her bed thought of wrecks on pitiless shores—of drowning mothers and hapless children. Through the summer nights they sighed. But it was not a lullaby—it was not a serenade. It was the croning of a Norland enchantress, and young Hope sat at her open window, looking out into the moonlight, and listening.

Abel Newt opened the gate and passed in. He walked along the avenue, from which the lawn was still hidden by the skirting hedge, went up the steps, and rang the bell.

“Is Mr. Burt at home?” he asked, quietly.

“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.