Читать книгу Trumps - George William Curtis - Страница 20

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Tradition declares that the family of Newt has been uniformly respectable but honest—so respectable, indeed, that Mr. Boniface Newt, the father of Abel, a celebrated New York merchant and a Tammany Sachem, had a crest. He had even buttons for his coachman’s coat with a stag’s head engraved upon them. The same device was upon his sealring. It appeared upon his carriage door. It figured on the edges of his dinner-service. It was worked into the ground glass of the door that led from his dining-room to the back stairs. He had his paper stamped with it; and a great many of his neighbors, thinking it a neat and becoming ornament, imitated him in its generous use.

Mrs. Newt’s family had a crest also. She was a Magot—another of the fine old families which came to this country at the earliest possible period. The Magots, however, had no buttons upon their coachman’s coat; one reason of which omission was, perhaps, that they had no coachman. But when the ladies of the Magot family went visiting or shopping they hired a carriage, and insisted that the driver should brush his hat and black his boots; so that it was not every body who knew that it was a livery equipage.

Their friends did, of course; but there were a great many people from the country who gazed at it, in passing, with the same emotion with which they would have contemplated a private carriage; which was highly gratifying to the feelings of the Magots.

Their friends knew it, but friends never remark upon such things. There was old Mrs. Beriah Dagon—dowager Mrs. Dagon, she was called—aunt of Mr. Newt, who never said, “I see the Magots have hired a hackney-coach from Jobbers to make calls in. They quarreled with Gudging over his last bill. Medora Magot has turned her last year’s silk, which is a little stained and worn; but then it does just as well.”

By-and-by her nephew Boniface married Medora’s sister, Nancy.

It was Mrs. Dagon who sat with Mrs. Newt in her parlor, and said to her,

“So your son Abel is coming home. I’m glad to hear it. I hope he knows how to waltz, and isn’t awkward. There are some very good matches to be made; and I like to have a young man settle early. It’s better for his morals. Men are bad people, my dear. I think Maria Chubleigh would do very well for Abel. She had a foolish affair with that Colonel Orson, but it’s all over. Why on earth do girls fall in love with officers? They never have any pay worth speaking of, and a girl must tramp all over the land, and live I don’t know how. Pshaw! it’s a wretched business. How’s Mr. Dinks? I saw him and Fanny waltzing last month at the Shrimps’. Who are the Shrimps? Somebody says something about the immense fortune Mr. Shrimp has made in the oil trade. You should have seen Mrs. Winslow Orry peering about at the Shrimps. I really believe she counted the spoons. What an eye that woman has, and what a tongue! Are you really going to Saratoga? Will Boniface let you? He is the kindest man! He is so generous that I sometimes fear somebody’ll be taking advantage of him. Gracious me! how hot it is!”

It was warm, and Mrs. Dagon fanned herself. When she and Mrs. Newt met there was a tremendous struggle to get the first innings of the conversation, and neither surrendered the ground until fairly forced off by breathlessness and exhaustion.

“Yes, we shall go to Saratoga,” began Mrs. Newt; “and I want Abel to come, so as to take him. There’ll be a very pleasant season. What a pity you can’t go! However, people must regard their time of life, and take care of their health. There’s old Mrs. Octoyne says she shall never give up. She hopes to bring out her great-grand-daughter next winter, and says she has no life but in society. I suppose you know Herbert Octoyne is engaged to one of the Shrimps. They keep their carriage, and the girls dress very prettily. Herbert tells the young men that the Shrimps are a fine old family, which has been long out of society, having no daughters to marry; so they have not been obliged to appear. But I don’t know about visiting them. However, I suppose we shall. Herbert Octoyne will give ’em family, if they really haven’t it; and the Octoynes won’t be sorry for her money. What a pretty shawl! Did you hear that Mellish Whitloe has given Laura a diamond pin which cost five hundred dollars? Extravagant fellow! Yet I like to have young men do these things handsomely. I do think it’s such a pity about Laura’s nose—”

“She can smell with it, I suppose, mother; and what else do you want of a nose?”

It was Miss Fanny Newt who spoke, and who had entered the room during the conversation. She was a tall young woman of about twenty, with firm, dark eyes, and abundant dark hair, and that kind of composure of manner which is called repose in drawing-rooms and boldness in bar-rooms.

“Gracious, Fanny, how you do disturb one! I didn’t know you were there. Don’t be ridiculous. Of course she can smell with it. But that isn’t all you want of a nose.”

“I suppose you want it to turn up at some people,” replied Miss Fanny, smoothing her dress, and looking in the glass. “Well, Aunt Dagon, who’ve you been lunching on?”

Aunt Dagon looked a little appalled.

“My dear, what do you mean?” she said, fanning herself violently. “I hope I never say any thing that isn’t true about people. I’m sure I should be very sorry to hurt any body’s feelings. There’s Mrs. Kite—you know, Joseph Kite’s wife, the man they said really did cheat his creditors, only none of ’em would swear to it; well, Kitty Kite, my dear, does do and say the most abominable things about people. At the Shrimps’ ball, when you were waltzing with Mr. Dinks, I heard her say to Mrs. Orry, ‘Do look at Fanny Newt hug that man!’ It was dreadful to hear her say such things, my dear; and then to see the whole room stare at you! It was cruel—it was really unfeeling.”

Fanny did not wince. She merely said,

“How old is Mrs. Kite, Aunt Dagon?”

“Well, let me see; she’s about my age, I suppose.”

“Oh! well, Aunt, people at her time of life can’t see or hear much, you know. They ought to be in their beds with hot bottles at their feet, and not obtrude themselves among people who are young enough to enjoy life with all their senses,” replied Miss Fanny, carelessly arranging a stray lock of hair.

“Indeed, Miss, you would like to shove all the married people into the wall, or into their graves,” retorted Mrs. Dagon, warmly.

“Oh no, dear Aunt, only into their beds—and that not until they are superannuated, which, you know, old people never find out for themselves,” answered Fanny, smiling sweetly and calmly upon Mrs. Dagon.

“What a country it is, Aunt!” said Mrs. Newt, looking at Fanny with a kind of admiration. “How the young people take every thing into their own hands! Dear me! dear me! how they do rule us!”

Miss Newt made no observation, but took up a gayly-bound book from the table and looked carelessly into it. Mrs. Dagon rose to go. She had somewhat recovered her composure.

“Don’t think I believed it, dear,” said she to Fanny, in whom, perhaps, she recognized some of the family character. “No, no—not at all! I said to every body in the room that I didn’t believe what Mrs. Kite said, that you were hugging Mr. Dinks in the waltz. I believe I spoke to every body I knew, and they all said they didn’t believe it either.”

“How kind it was of you, dear Aunt Dagon!” said Fanny, as she rose to salute her departing relative, “and how generous people were not to believe it! But I couldn’t persuade them that that beautiful lace-edging on your dress was real Mechlin, although I tried very hard. They said it was natural in me to insist upon it, because I was your grand-niece; and it was no matter at all, because old ladies could do just as they pleased; but for all that it was not Mechlin. I must have told as many as thirty people that they were wrong. But people’s eyes are so sharp—it’s really dreadful. Good-morning, darling Aunt Dagon!”

“Fanny dear,” said her mother, as the door closed upon Mrs. Dagon, who departed speechless and in what may be called a simmering state of mind, “Abel will be here in a day or two. I really hope to hear something about this Miss Wayne. Do you suppose Alfred Dinks is actually engaged to her?”

“How should I know, mother?”

“Why, my dear, you have been so intimate with him.”

“My dear mother, how can any body be intimate with Alfred Dinks? You might as well talk of breathing in a vacuum.”

“But, Fanny, he is a very good sort of young man—so respectable, and with such good manners, and he has a very pretty fortune—”

Mrs. Newt was interrupted by the servant, who announced Mr. Wetherley.

Poor Mr. Zephyr Wetherley! He was one of the rank and file of society—one of the privates, so to speak, who are mentioned in a mass after a ball, as common soldiers are mentioned after a battle. He entered the room and bowed. Mrs. Newt seeing that it was one of her daughter’s visitors, left the room. Miss Fanny sat looking at the young man with her black eyes so calmly that she seemed to him to be sitting a great way off in a cool darkness. Miss Fanny was not fond of Mr. Wetherley, although she had seen plainly enough the indications of his feeling for her. This morning he was well gloved and booted. His costume was unexceptionable. Society of that day boasted few better-dressed men than Zephyr Wetherley. His judgment in a case of cravat was unerring. He had been in Europe, and was quoted when waistcoats were in debate. He had been very attentive to Mr. Alfred Dinks and Mr. Bowdoin Beacon, the two Boston youths who had been charming society during the season that was now over. He was even a little jealous of Mr. Dinks.

After Mrs. Newt had left the room Mr. Wetherley fell into confusion. He immediately embarked, of course, upon the weather; while Fanny, taking up a book, looked casually into it with a slight air of ennui.

“Have you read this?” said she to Mr. Wetherley.

“No, I suppose not; eh! what is it?” replied Zephyr, who was not a reading man.

“It is John Meal’s ‘Rachel Dyer.’ ”

“Oh, indeed! No, indeed. I have not read it!”

“What have you read, Mr. Wetherley?” inquired Fanny, glancing through the book which she held in her hand.

“Oh, indeed!—” he began. Then he seemed to undergo some internal spasm. He dropped his hat, slid his chair to the side of Fanny’s, and said, “Ah, Miss Newt, how can you ask me at such a moment?”

Miss Fanny looked at him with a perfectly unruffled face.

“Why not at this moment, Mr. Wetherley?”

“Ah, Miss Newt, how can you when you know my feelings? Did you not carry my bouquet at the theatre last evening? Have you not long authorized me by your treatment to declare—”

“Stop, Mr. Wetherley,” said Fanny, calmly. “The day is warm—let us be cool. Don’t say any thing which you will regret to remember. Don’t mistake any thing that I have done as an indication of—”

“Oh, Miss Newt,” interrupted Zephyr, “how can you say such things? Hear me but one word. I assure you that I most deeply, tenderly, truly—”

“Mr. Wetherley,” said Fanny, putting down the book and speaking very firmly, “I really can not sit still and hear you proceed. You are laboring under a great misapprehension. You must be aware that I have never in the slightest way given you occasion to believe that I—”

“I must speak!” burst in the impetuous Zephyr. “My feelings forbid silence! Great Heavens! Miss Newt, you really have no idea—I am sure you have no idea—you can not have any idea of the ardor with which for a long, long time I have—”

“Mr. Wetherley,” said Fanny Newt, darker and cooler than ever, “it is useless to prolong this conversation. I can not consent to hear you declare that—”

“But you haven’t heard me declare it,” replied Zephyr, vehemently. “It’s the very thing I am trying to do, and you won’t let me. You keep cutting me off just as I am saying how I—”

“You need go no further, Sir,” said Miss Newt, coldly, rising and standing by the table; while Zephyr Wetherley, red and hot and confused, crushed his handkerchief into a ball, and swept his hand through his hair, wagging his foot, and rubbing his fingers together. “I understand, Sir, what you wish to say, and I desire to tell you only—”

“Just what I don’t want to hear! Oh dear me! Please, please, Miss Newt!” entreated Zephyr Wetherley.

“Mr. Wetherley,” interrupted the other, imperiously, “you wish to ask me to marry you. I desire to spare you the pain of my answer to that question by preventing your asking it.”

Mr. Wetherley was confounded. He wrinkled his brows doubtfully a moment—he stared at the floor and at Miss Newt—he looked foolish and mortified. “But—but—but—” stammered he. “Well—but—why—but—haven’t you somehow answered the question?” inquired he, with gleams of doubtful intelligence shooting across his face.

Fanny Newt smiled icily.

“As you please,” said she.

Poor Zephyr was bewildered.

“It is very confusing, somehow, Miss Newt, isn’t it?” said he, wiping his face.

“Yes, Mr. Wetherley; one should always look before he leaps.”

“Yes, yes; oh, indeed, yes. A man had better look out, or—”

“Or he’ll catch a Tartar!” said a clear, strange voice.

Fanny Newt and Wetherley turned simultaneously toward the speaker. It was a young man, with clustering black hair and sparkling eyes, in a traveling dress. He stood in the back room, which he had entered through the conservatory.

“Abel!” said his sister, running toward him, and pulling him forward.

“Mr. Wetherley, this is my brother, Mr. Abel Newt.”

The young men bowed.

“Oh, indeed!” said Zephyr. “How’d he come here listening?”

“Chance, chance, Mr. Wetherley. I have just returned from school. Pretty tough old school-boy, hey? Well, it’s all the grandpa’s doing. Grandpas are extraordinary beings, Mr. Wetherley. Now there was—”

“Oh, indeed! Really, I must go. Good-morning, Miss Newt. Good-morning, Sir.” And Mr. Zephyr Wetherley departed.

The brother and sister laughed.

“Sensible fellow,” said Abel; “he flies the grandpas.”

“How did you come here, you wretch!” asked Fanny, “listening to my secrets?”

“My dear, I arrived this morning, only half an hour ago. I let myself in by my pass-key, and, hearing voices in the parlor, I went round by the conservatory to spy out the land. Then and there I beheld this spectacle. Fanny, you’re wonderful.”

Miss Newt made a demure courtesy.

“So you’ve really come home for good? Well, Abel, I’m glad. Now you’re here I shall have a man of my own to attend me next winter. And there’s to be the handsome Boston bride here, you know, next season.”

“Who is she?” said Abel, laughing, sinking into a chair. “Mother wrote me you said that all Boston girls are dowdy. Who is the dowdy of next winter?”

“Mrs. Alfred Dinks,” replied Fanny, carelessly, but looking with her keenest glance at Abel.

He, sprang up and began to say something; but his sister’s eye arrested him.

“Oh yes,” said he, hurriedly—“Dinks, I’ve heard about Alfred Dinks. What a devil of a name!”

“Come, dear, you’d better go up stairs and see mamma,” said Fanny; “and I’m so sorry you missed Aunt Dagon. She was here this morning, lovely as ever. But I think the velvet is wearing off her claws.”

Fanny Newt laughed a cold little laugh. Abel went out of the room.

“Master Abel, then, does know Miss Hope Wayne,” said she to herself. “He more than knows her—he loves her—or thinks he does. Wouldn’t he have known if she had been engaged to her cousin?”

She pondered a little while.

“I don’t believe,” thought Miss Fanny, “that she is engaged to him.”

Miss Fanny was pleased with that thought, because she meant to be engaged to him herself, if it proved to be true, as every body declared, that he had ten or fifteen thousand a year.