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Trumps: A Novel, a novel by George William Curtis |
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Chapter 40. At The Round Table |
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_ CHAPTER XL. AT THE ROUND TABLE Mrs. Dinks had informed Hope that she was going home. That lady was satisfied, by her conversation with Mrs. Newt, that it would be useless for her to see Mr. Newt--that it was one of the cases in which facts and events plead much more persuasively than words. She was sure the rich merchant would not allow his daughter to suffer. Fathers do so in novels, thought she. Of course they do, for it is necessary to the interest of the story. And old Van Boozenberg does in life, thought she. Of course he does. But he is an illiterate, vulgar, hard old brute. Mr. Newt is of another kind. She had herself read his name as director of at least seven different associations for doing good to men and women. But Mrs. Dinks still delayed her departure. She knew that there was no reason for her staying, but she staid. She loved her son dearly. She was unwilling to leave him while his future was so dismally uncertain; and every week she informed Hope that she was on the point of going. Hope Wayne was not sorry to remain. Perhaps she also had her purposes. At Saratoga, in the previous summer, Arthur Merlin had remarked her incessant restlessness, and had connected it with the picture and the likeness of somebody. But when afterward, in New York, he cleared up the mystery and resolved who the somebody was, to his great surprise he observed, at the same time, that the restlessness of Hope Wayne was gone. From the months of seclusion which she had imposed upon herself he saw that she emerged older, calmer, and lovelier than he had ever seen her. The calmness was, indeed, a little unnatural. To his sensitive eye--for, as he said to Lawrence Newt, in explanation of his close observation, it is wonderful how sensitive an exclusive devotion to art will make the eye--to his eye the calmness was still too calm, as the gayety had been too gay. In the solitude of his studio, as he drew many pictures upon the canvas, and sang, and smoked, and scuffled across the floor to survey his work from a little distance--and studied its progress through his open fist--or as he lay sprawling upon his lounge in a cotton velvet Italian coat, inimitably befogged and bebuttoned--and puffed profusely, following the intervolving smoke with his eye--his meditations were always the same. He was always thinking of Hope Wayne, and befooling himself with the mask of art, actually hiding himself from himself: and not perceiving that when a man's sole thought by day and night is a certain woman, and an endless speculation about the quality of her feeling for another man, he is simply a lover thinking of his mistress and a rival. The infatuated painter suddenly became a great favorite in society. He could not tell why. Indeed there was no other secret than that he was a very pleasant young gentleman who made himself agreeable to young women, because he wished to know them and to paint them--not, as he wickedly told Lawrence Newt, who winked and did not believe a word of it, because the human being is the noblest subject of art--but only because he wished to show himself by actual experience how much more charming in character, and sprightly in intelligence, and beautiful in person and manner, Hope Wayne was than all other young women. He proved that important point to his perfect satisfaction. He punctually attended every meeting of the Round Table, as Lawrence called the meetings at which he and Arthur read and talked with Hope Wayne and Amy Waring, that he might lose no opportunity of pursuing the study. He found Hope Wayne always friendly and generous. She frankly owned that he had shown her many charming things in poetry that she had not known, and had helped her to form juster opinions. It was natural she should think it was Arthur who had helped her. She did not know that it was a very different person who had done the work--a person whose name was Abel Newt. For it was her changing character--changing in consequence of her acquaintance with Abel--which modified her opinions; and Arthur arrived upon her horizon at the moment of the change. She was always friendly and generous with him. But somehow he could not divest himself of the idea that she must be the Diana of his great picture. There was an indescribable coolness and remoteness about her. Has it any thing to do with that confounded sketch at Saratoga, and that--equally confounded Abel Newt? thought he. For the conversation at the Round Table sometimes fell upon Abel. "He is certainly a handsome fellow," said Amy Waring. "I don't wonder at his success." "It's beauty that does it, then, Miss Waring?" asked Arthur. "Does what?" said she. "Why, that gives what you call social success." "Oh! I mean that I don't wonder such a handsome, bright, graceful; accomplished young man, who lives in fine style, drives pretty horses, and knows every body, should be a great favorite with the girls and their mothers. Don't you see, Abel Newt is a sort of Alcibiades?" Lawrence Newt laughed. "You don't mean Pelham?" said he. "No, for he has sense enough to conceal the coxcomb. But you ought to know your own nephew, Mr. Newt," answered Amy. "Perhaps; but I have a very slight acquaintance with him," said Mr. Newt. "I don't exactly like him," said Arthur Merlin, with perfect candor. "I didn't know you knew him," replied Amy, looking up. Arthur blushed, for he did not personally know him; but he felt as if he did, so that he unwittingly spoke so. "No, no," said he, hastily; "I don't know him, I believe; but I know about him." As he said this he looked at Hope Wayne, who had been sitting, working, in perfect silence. At the same moment she raised her eyes to his inquiringly. "I mean," said Arthur, quite confused, "that I don't--somehow--that is to say, you know, there's a sort of impression you get about people--" Lawrence Newt interposed-- "I suppose that Arthur doesn't like Abel for the same reason that oil doesn't like water; for the same reason that you, Miss Amy, and Miss Wayne, would probably not like such a man." Arthur Merlin looked fixedly at Hope Wayne. "What kind of man is Mr. Newt?" asked Hope, faintly coloring. She was trying herself. "Don't you know him?" asked Arthur, abruptly and keenly. "Yes," replied Hope, as she worked on, only a little more rapidly. "Well, what kind of man do you think him to be?" continued Arthur, nervously. "That is not the question," answered Hope, calmly. Lawrence Newt and Amy Waring looked on during this little conversation. They both wanted Hope to like Arthur. They both doubted how Abel might have impressed her. Lawrence Newt had not carelessly said that neither Amy nor Hope would probably like Abel. "Miss Hope is right, Arthur," said he. "She asks what kind of man my nephew is. He is a brilliant man--a fascinating man." "So was Colonel Burr," said Hope Wayne, without looking up. "Exactly, Miss Hope. You have mentioned the reason why neither you nor Amy would like my nephew." Hope and Amy understood. Arthur Merlin was bewildered. "I don't quite understand," said he; "I am such a great fool." Nobody spoke. "I am sorry for that poor little Grace Plumer," Lawrence Newt gravely said. "Don't you be troubled about little Grace Plumer. She can take proper care of herself," answered Arthur, merrily. Hope Wayne's busy fingers did not stop. She remembered Miss Grace Plumer, and she did not agree with Arthur Merlin. Hope did not know Grace; but she knew the voice, the manner, the magnetism to which the gay girl was exposed, "If Mr. Godefroi Plumer is really as rich as I hear," said Lawrence, "I think we shall have a Mrs. Abel Newt in the autumn. Poor Mrs. Abel Newt!" He shook his head with that look, mingled of feeling and irony, which was very perplexing. The tone in which he spoke was really so full of tenderness for the girl, that Hope, who heard every word and felt every tone, was sure that Lawrence Newt pitied the prospective bride sincerely. "I beg pardon, Mr. Newt, and Miss Wayne," said Arthur Merlin; "but how can a man have a high respect for women when he sees his sister do what Fanny Newt has done?" "Why should a man complain that his sister does precisely what he is trying to do himself?" asked Lawrence. _ |
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