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Trumps: A Novel, a novel by George William Curtis |
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Chapter 79. The Last Throw |
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_ CHAPTER LXXIX. THE LAST THROW While Arthur and Lawrence were conversing in the office of the latter, Abel Newt, hat in hand, stood in Hope Wayne's parlor. His hair was thinner and grizzled; his face bloated, and his eyes dull. His hands had that dead, chalky color in which appetite openly paints its excesses. The hand trembled as it held the hat; and as the man stood before the mirror, he was straining his eyes at his own reflection, and by some secret magic he saw, as if dimly traced beside it, the figure of the boy that stood in the parlor of Pinewood--how many thousand years ago? He heard a step, and turned. Hope Wayne stopped, leaving the door open, bowed, and looked inquiringly at him. She was dressed simply in a morning dress, and her golden hair clustered and curled around the fresh beauty of her face--the rose of health. "Did you wish to say something to me?" she asked, observing that Abel merely stared at her stupidly. He bowed his head in assent. "What do you wish to say?" Her voice was as cold and remote as if she were a spirit. Abel Newt was evidently abashed by the reception. But he moved toward her, and began in a tone of doubtful familiarity. "Miss Hope, I--" "Mr. Newt, you have no right to address me in that way." "Miss Wayne, I have come to--to--" He stopped, embarrassed, rubbing his fingers upon the palms of his hands. She looked at him steadily. He waited a few moments, then began again in a hurried tone: "Miss Wayne, we are both older than we once were; and once, I think, we were not altogether indifferent to each other. Time has taught us many things. I find that my heart, after foolish wanderings, is still true to its first devotion. We can both view things more calmly, not less truly, however, than we once did. I am upon the eve of a public career. I have outgrown morbid emotions, and I come to ask you if you would take time to reflect whether I might not renew my addresses; for indeed I love, and can love, no other woman." Hope Wayne stood pale, incredulous, and confounded while Abel Newt, with some of the old fire in the eye and the old sweetness in the voice, poured out these rapid words, and advanced toward her. "Stop, Sir," she said, as soon as she could command herself. "Is this all you have to say?" "Don't drive me to despair," he said, suddenly, in reply, and so fiercely that Hope Wayne started. "Listen." He spoke with stern command. "I am utterly ruined. I have no friends. I have bad habits. You can save me--will you do it?" Hope stood before him silent. His hard black eye was fixed upon her with a kind of defying appeal for help. Her state of mind for some days, since she had heard Mrs. Simcoe's story, had been one of curious mental tension. She was inspired by a sense of renunciation--of self-sacrifice. It seemed to her that some great work to do, something which should occupy every moment, and all her powers and thoughts, was her only hope of contentment. What it might be, what it ought to be, she had not conceived. Was it not offered now? Horrible, repulsive, degrading--yes, but was it not so much the worthier? Here stood the man she had loved in all the prime and power of his youth, full of hope, and beauty, and vigor--the hero that satisfied the girl's longing--and he was bent, gray, wan, shaking, utterly lost, except for her. Should she restore him to that lost manhood? Could she forgive herself if she suffered her own feelings, tastes, pride, to prevent? While the thought whirled through her excited brain: "Remember," he said, solemnly--"remember it is the salvation of a human soul upon which you are deciding." There was perfect silence for some minutes. The low, quick ticking of the clock upon the mantle was all they heard. "I have decided," she said, at last. "What is it?" he asked, under his breath. "What you knew it would be," she answered. "Then you refuse?" he said, in a half-threatening tone. "I refuse!" "Then the damnation of a soul rest upon your head forever," he said, in a loud coarse voice, crushing his hat, and his black eyes glaring. "Have you done?" she asked, pale and calm. "No, Hope Wayne, I have not done; I am not deceived by your smooth face and your quiet eyes. I have known long enough that you meant to marry my Uncle Lawrence, although he is old enough to be your father. The whole world has known it and seen it. And I came to give you a chance of saving your name by showing to the world that my uncle came here familiarly because you were to marry his nephew. You refuse the chance. There was a time when you would have flown into my arms, and now you reject me ... And I shall have my revenge! I warn you to beware, Mrs. Lawrence Newt! I warn you that my saintly uncle is not beyond misfortune, nor his milksop partner, the Reverend Gabriel Bennet. I am a man at bay; and it is you who put me there; you who might save me and won't. You who will one day remember and suffer." He threw up his arms in uncontrollable rage and excitement. His thick hoarse voice, his burning, bad, black eyes, his quivering hands, his bloated body, made him a terrible spectacle. "Have you done?" asked Hope Wayne, with saintly dignity. "Yes, I have done for this time," he hissed; "but I shall cross you many a time. You and yours," he sneered, "but never so that you can harm me. You shall feel, but never see me. You have left me nothing but despair. And the doom of my soul be upon yours!" He rushed from the room, and Hope Wayne stood speechless. Attracted by the loud tone of his voice, Mrs. Simcoe had come down stairs, and the moment he was gone she was by Hope's side. They seated themselves together upon the sofa, and Hope leaned her head upon her aunty's shoulder and wept with utter surprise, grief, indignation, and weariness. _ |
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