MALTBOY'S TWENTIETH AFFAIR.
The house which had elicited Quigg's last sagacious remark, was a
three-story brownstone front, and was one of the finest looking on the
south side. The heavy mahogany door was opened by a slovenly girl, who
ushered the callers into the front parlor, which was carefully darkened,
according to the custom of the day. The only objects plainly visible
were two female figures, each seated near a front window, under the
rosy shade of damask curtains artfully disposed. One of the ladies, whom
Matthew Maltboy was not slow to recognize, looked like a fountain of
pink silk, gushing out with great vehemence in high, curving jets on
every side; from which fountain a slim, graceful figure had risen, as
far as the waist, like a modern Arethusa. The gleam of a shapely neck,
of a pearl necklace and diamond cross, of diamond earrings, of an
enormous gold brooch, of golden gyves an inch broad on each wrist, as
the rose-tinted rays fell on those natural and artificial charms,
produced a dazzling effect in the shady corner. On plainer persons, this
display might have seemed, in Maltboy's eyes, a glaring instance of bad
taste. But, looking at that small, oval face, those large, flashing
black eyes, complexion of red and white, so beautifully blended that it
hardly seemed a work of nature, pouting lips, even, white teeth, and
heavily braided hair, Maltboy thought that no decorations could be-too
gaudy for a creature of such radiant loveliness.
At the same instant (as their feet passed the parlor threshold) that
Maltboy made these comprehensive observations, the quick eyes of Fayette
Overtop were scanning the lady that basked in the subdued light of the
other window. She rose from a smaller fountain of silk to a less height
than her companion. She was fat to such a degree, that the bodice of her
dress seemed ready to burst with the excessive pressure beneath,
immediately suggesting to every beholder the obvious humanity of
enlarging it, by taking only a small portion from the superfluous silk
below. She was quite pretty, and very healthy, and had a smile lurking
on her lips, and in the corners of her small blue eyes, and in the
dimples of her round, red cheeks, and in the curved crease which was
beginning to show under her apple of a chin. She wore plain colors, and
exhibited no ornaments save a large brooch with braided hair in it. The
lean Overtop immediately felt a tender inclination toward this fat
young lady.
Mr. Quigg paid the compliments of the season in his neat, settled
style, to Miss Whedell--the tall young lady--who received them with
marked coldness, and then begged leave to introduce Messrs. Overtop and
Maltboy, to whom she smiled graciously, rising slightly from her chair,
and sinking back again, without disturbing the symmetrical flow of the
silken fountain. With a wave of her jewelled right hand she performed
the ceremony of introduction between the three callers and Mrs.
Frump--the fat young lady--who also carefully raised herself about two
inches from her chair, and lowered herself again, without disarranging
a ripple.
In compliance with an invitation from Miss Whedell, the three callers
sat down. Mr. Maltboy gravitated by a natural instinct to the side of
his charmer. Mr. Overtop was drawn by an irresistible impulse into the
vicinity of Mrs. Frump, having detected in her general appearance
certain indications of what he called "a sensible woman." Mr. Quigg,
feeling that he was one too many, took a "seat equally removed from the
two ladies, and commenced playing soft tunes on his hat, and looking
vacantly about the room.
"I had begun to wonder, Mr. Maltboy," said Miss Whedell, "what makes our
friends so backward to-day. I do declare, we have not had a caller for
more than--how long is it, Gusty, since Colonel Bigford dropped in?"
Maltboy thought her voice had a sweet, metallic ring.
"About half an hour," replied Mrs. Frump, after a brief mental
calculation.
"Why, Gusty!" exclaimed Miss Whedell; "how can you sit there and tell
such stories? You know it is not five minutes."
"Just as you please, dear," said Mrs. Frump, leaving on the minds of her
hearers the impression that her estimate was the correct one.
"I never saw anything so slow," pursued Miss Whedell. "Would you believe
it, Mr. Maltboy--here are two hours gone, and we have not had more
than--how many callers have we had, Gusty? You keep account of them."
Mrs. Frump drew out a little memorandum book from one of her pockets,
and consulted. "Exactly eleven, Clemmy," said she.
"Gusty Frump," returned Miss Whedell, with some warmth, "you ought to be
ashamed of yourself! We have had fifty callers, to my certain
knowledge."
"I presume you are right," said Mrs. Frump, with a smile that irradiated
the whole of her fat face, and again imparted the idea that Miss Whedell
was wrong.
"For one," said Matthew Maltboy, improving the opportunity to put in a
word, "I should not be surprised to learn that you had a hundred."
Miss Whedell appreciated the delicate compliment, and beamed fascination
upon him.
"It has been a horrid, dreary winter, has it not, Mr. Maltboy?" said
she, in a tone that invited sympathy and confidence.
Mr. Maltboy, supposing that she alluded to the prevalent snow and ice of
the season, said that it certainly had.
"No balls, no opera--or none to speak of--no parties, no anything. You
will hardly believe it, Mr. Maltboy, but I declare I haven't been to
twenty parties this winter--have I, Gusty?"
"To only two that I know of," responded Mrs. Frump, in a winning voice.
"You provoking creature," said Miss Whedell, "to talk so, when you know
that I have been to at least eighteen parties!" Miss Whedell scowled
charmingly as she spoke, and then added, with a pleasant smile, for the
benefit of Mr. Maltboy: "She's a gay young widow; and you know what
widows are."
Mr. Maltboy's knowledge of that species of the human family was
extensive and exact. He nodded, to signify that he knew something of
them, and felt forearmed, from that moment, against the charms of
Mrs. Frump.
Mrs. Frump told Miss Whedell that she thanked her very much for the
compliment, and laughed so prettily, that Fayette Overtop determined to
apply some of his grand tests for the discovery of sensible women.
Abandoning the vein of commonplace conversation which he had worked
during the five minutes since his arrival, he remarked:
"It really makes us feel young again--does it not, Mrs. Frump?--to renew
this charming custom of receiving and making calls."
Mr. Overtop spoke in general terms, like a philosopher; whereas Mrs.
Frump made a personal application of the remark to herself, and replied,
rather coldly: "I have no doubt that it makes _old_ persons feel
younger," and then she looked at Matthew Maltboy, and seemed to be
listening to the conversation between him and Miss Whedell.
Mr. Overtop paused a moment, and tried again: "Is it not pleasant,
though sad, Mrs. Frump, to think of the friends whom we knew many, many
years ago, who no longer live to greet us on this festal day?" The
speaker alluded to mankind at large.
Mrs. Frump responded tartly, that she could not speak from experience,
of course, but she presumed that Mr. Overtop's opinion was correct. And
again she glanced at Maltboy.
Mr. Overtop briefly rested, and then remarked:
"It may be merely a poetical conceit of mine, but it seems to me that
the horses prance higher, and shake their bells more merrily on New
Year's than any other day, as if they partook in our enjoyment of the
occasion. May not the horse, by some mysterious instinct, know that it
is the beginning of the year?"
Mrs. Frump smiled, and answered: "Not being a horse, of course I can't
say. But I would suggest, whether ostlers do not give their animals an
extra quantity of oats on New Year's day, to make their action
more stylish?"
Mr. Overtop marked a quizzical expression in the widow's left eye, and
was disgusted.
For the third time she looked intently at Matthew Maltboy, who was
putting in a few words with great animation; and then turned her face
toward Mr. Quigg, who was taking his third mental inventory of the
furniture, and executing "Hail Columbia," with variations, on his hat.
"It's a finer New Year's day than the last one, is it not, Mr. Quigg?"
Mr. Quigg, who had an astonishing memory for dates and conditions of the
weather, replied, after a second's reflection:
"It is a much finer day, Mrs. Frump. It rained last New Year's. Perhaps
you may remember my leaving an umbrella at the house where you were then
stopping, in Sixteenth street, and my calling for it again, on which
occasion you said I reminded you of Paul Pry, in the play, who was
always forgetting his umbrella."
The widow laughed, and said that she distinctly remembered the
circumstances.
Mr. Quigg, thus encouraged, went on:
"New Year's days differ very much. The one before the last was very
snowy in the forenoon, with hail in the afternoon; and the one before
that was so mild, that I found an overcoat really uncomfortable. The
one before--"
"Excuse me for the interruption," said Mrs. Frump, suddenly, "but I
can't help saying how much Mr. Maltboy looks like Dr. Warts. Doesn't
he, Clemmy?"
"Like Dr. Warts!" exclaimed Miss Whedell. "Who's he?"
"Why, don't you remember, Clemmy, the doctor that you consulted about
your hair?" The widow looked the picture of guilelessness as she asked
the question.
Miss Whedell turned slightly red in parts of her face that were not red
before, and involuntarily raised her hands to two heavy braids of hair
which fronted each ear, and adjusted them. Then she said, sarcastically:
"Mr. Maltboy must feel much flattered at being compared with a notorious
quack."
Mrs. Frump, with a laugh spreading all over her gentle face, replied:
"Oh! of course you call him a quack, because he could not save your--"
"You are rude, madam," said Miss Whedell, with emotion.
"And you are silly, miss," retorted Mrs. Frump, still smiling, "to take
offence at nothing."
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, madam."
Greatly to the relief of the three callers, who were seized with a
desire to laugh aloud during this short, snapping dialogue, a bell rang,
and a new figure entered upon the scene. The two ladies rose about three
inches, and greeted him as Mr. Chiffield. Mr. Chiffield bowed stiffly,
smiled mechanically, and cast a sweeping glance at the three men
present. This glance, and the looks with which it was met, called up a
singular train of associations.
Maltboy remembered the new comer as a fellow who had trod on his corns
getting into an Amity street stage. Overtop remembered him as an
eccentric individual, who always carried, without the slightest
reference to existing weather, an umbrella under his arm, with the point
rearward, and held at just the angle to pierce the eye of a person
walking incautiously after him. Overtop had frequently felt a strong
inclination to pull the umbrella out from behind, and ask the bearer to
carry it in a less threatening manner.
Mr. Chiffield, on the other hand, readily recalled Matthew Maltboy as a
suspicious person whom he had seen hanging around an up-town hotel,
about a year and a half before (when Maltboy was paying his ineffectual
addresses to a cruel Cuban beauty who passed the summer months at that
house). Mr. Chiffield had always supposed him to be a confidence man of
superior abilities.
Of Overtop, Mr. Chiffield was vaguely reminiscent. Unless he was
mistaken, that person was the one who wore an entire suit of pepper and
salt, including a felt hat, necktie, and gaiters, two summers before.
Mr. Quigg was a novelty in Mr. Chiffield's eyes; but Mr. Chiffield was
well known by sight to Mr. Quigg, who also remembered to have heard that
he was a partner in the great drygoods house of Upjack, Chiffield & Co.
Mr. Chiffield was about forty years of age, and had a bald head, a
square, heavy face, scanty whiskers, small, shrewd eyes, and a bilious
complexion. He dressed in profound black, wore his necktie negligently,
exhibited neither ring nor breastpin nor gold chain, spoke as if he were
always thinking inwardly of his private business, and never laughed.
These peculiarities indicated, beyond any doubt, that Mr. Chiffield was
a wealthy man; though it might be difficult to trace the exact processes
of reasoning by which this conclusion was reached. Any unprejudiced
stranger, seeing Mr. Chiffield, and being told that he was a partner in
a large drygoods house, would instantly think, "That drygoods house will
stand in the midst of fires, earthquakes, and financial revulsions."
With that fine instinct peculiar to lovers, Matthew Maltboy immediately
recognized in Mr. Chiffield a rival--and a dangerous one. Having seen
much of society, Maltboy was well aware that Mr. Chiffield's mature age,
his grim appearance, his sparse whiskers, and even the bald spot on the
top of his head, were eminent advantages with which youth and bloom, and
a full head of hair could not cope--unless with the aid of that
fascination which Matthew flattered himself that he possessed, and
which, he thought, he had used to some purpose during his hurried
conversation with his twentieth enslaver, Miss Whedell. The usages of
New Year's day, as well as frequent impatient nods from Quigg, and
suggestive coughs from Overtop, would not permit of his staying longer.
He therefore, rose to take his leave, his fellow pilgrims doing
likewise, when Miss Whedell remarked that they were in a great hurry,
and regretted that they could not remain a few minutes more.
The captivated Maltboy toyed, with his hat in an uncertain way, and was
half disposed to sit down again, when Quigg hastily produced his
visiting list, and said, with his best business smile:
"We Should certainly be very happy, Miss Whedell; but we have
seventy-five calls still to make, and it is now (consulting his watch)
two o'clock."'
As the three visitors withdrew (declining, at every step, a pressing
invitation to taste the refreshments which were piled in mountainous
form on a table in an adjoining alcove), Maltboy exchanged a look of
deep, sentimental meaning with Miss Whedell, who rose at least six
inches from her chair, and followed it with a slight hostile glare at
Mr. Chiffield, upon whose equable face it fell harmless. Overtop bowed
coldly to everybody, as if he were disappointed in the human species;
and Quigg gave a parting grin at the room in general, and at nobody or
nothing in particular,
"We're all right, Top," whispered Maltboy, as they descended the steps
to the sidewalk. "She smiled slightly when I mentioned having seen her
from our back parlor window. I have obtained permission to call again."
"You'll have to do it without me, my dear fellow," returned Overtop,
tossing back his head from force of habit, the offensive cowlick being
then suppressed by his hat. "Nothing on earth could induce me to speak
to that dull widow again."
"She doesn't live there," said Quigg. "She is some connection, I
believe, of the queer old Dutchman that I spoke of, and is probably only
helping Miss Whedell to receive callers. I should think, from the way
they abuse each other, that they were old and dear friends."