IN WHICH MR. BELDEN REACHES THE END OF HIS ROPE
When Mr. Waddy rang his bell in the morning after the stable scene, no
Chin Chin appeared, and inquiry developed the fact that Chin Chin was
sick. Ira’s toilet may, therefore, not have been quite so accurate as
usual, and the polish on his neat calfskins not so mirrorlike. In fact,
he had too many anxieties crowding around, to concern himself much with
cravat ties and the gleaming boot. He sent his groom, a Bowery boy,
_pur sang_, to care for Chin Chin.
“He ain’t dangerous, sir,” that worthy returned to report, “but he’s
been a-gulpin’ down suthin’ as has kicked up a bobbery in his innards.”
“Very well,” said Mr. Waddy; “have Pallid ready for eleven o’clock. How
does he look this morning?”
“He’s as gay, sir, as a house afire,” Bowery assured him. “Yer kin bet
yer life on it, he’ll rake ’em down!” and Bowery departed, humming
cheerfully to himself, confident of being richer ere the day was over.
Major Granby dropped in upon his friend a moment later.
“I’m losing my interest in this race,” said Waddy, “since Dunstan’s
unwillingness to ride has become so evident. Poor fellow! I’m afraid
there’s very little hope for Diana.”
“Don’t say so,” protested Granby; “the world cannot spare that noble
girl. I was just speaking with Skerrett of her. He says she is the only
woman he ever knew who is afraid of neither fresh air nor sunshine. And
Clara--how can that beautiful friendship be severed? You can hardly
imagine how those sisters have quartered themselves in my rusty old
heart. Did you ever hear them speak of Miss Sullivan, their governess?
She must be a remarkable person.”
“Sullivan? No,” said Waddy, connecting the name at once with his
preserver at The Island. “A lady of that name did me a service once. I
must ask them about her.”
“Dunstan will ride without fail, I suppose?” asked Granby. “We must
beat that fellow Belden.”
“Dunstan will hold to his word; if it were to drive the chariot of
Tullia,” answered Ira, who had read his friend’s character aright.
* * * * *
Mrs. Budlong had an interview with Arabella early that morning.
Arabella looked very tearful, but there was also a new expression
in her face, thanks to Peter Skerrett--one might almost call it
determination.
“Well, my dear,” said the step-mother, “what shall I say to the lover?
He is eager for the kind word of encouragement,” and Mrs. De Flournoy
played affectionately with the young lady’s curls.
“Tell him I hate him!” cried the poor penitent, bursting into tears
again. “I hope, madam, you will never mention his name to me--no, not
once more! Oh! oh! you hurt me.”
The affectionate mamma had given the curls a little tug.
“You silly fool!” said she, “don’t you know he can ruin your prospects?
You’ll offend your father so that he’ll discard you, and then what
will you do? If you are so dishonourable and disobedient, when we are
striving for your good, we shall let you go to the destruction you
choose.”
“I hope I shall find some friends who will not think me dishonourable,”
sobbed poor Arabella, thinking with rueful gratitude and confidence of
honest Peter and his fraternal feelings. “I’m not dishonourable. I’m
trying to do right. I may have been foolish, but that--man--he can’t be
a gentleman, or he would not persecute me so. I don’t know what reason
you can have for wanting to make me miserable.”
“My reasons are of course wise and judicious,” retorted Mrs. B. “I will
see you once more, and then, if you do not choose to yield, you will
be the cause of the _éclatant_ scandal of the season. You won’t think
of going to the race with those red eyes. I wouldn’t take you if you
did.”
Poor Arabella was the only one who did not go; everybody went; all that
we have encountered in this history and platoons of others.
The first beach at Newport is straightish, and a mile or so in
length,--a very long “or so,” when you are dragged over it in the
unwilling family coach, by stagnant steeds--a very short mile when the
beautiful comrade whose presence is a consecration and a poet’s dream,
says “Shall we gallop?” and cheats with fleeting transport, as she
passes, the winds from summer seas, that sigh to stay and dally with
her curls.
Between beach number one and beach number two is an interregnum of up
and down, a regency of dust. Then comes the glorious second beach. You
will hardly see anything more beautiful than this long, graceful sweep,
silvery grey in the sunshine, with a keener silver dashed along its
edge by curving wave that follows curving wave. You will hardly see any
place gayer than this same wide path beside the exhilarating dash of
the Atlantic, on a gay afternoon of August--hundreds of carriages, more
or less well-appointed; scores of riders, more or less well-mounted or
-seated.
Thus, then, to the second beach between grey rocks, grey sand slopes,
and grey meadows beyond, and on the other hand the gleaming glory of
the sea, came at eleven that morning, to see the race, all the snobs
and all the nobs. Peter Skerrett and his aides marshalled them. Mrs.
Budlong, alone in her carriage, bowed and smiled very pleasantly to
Peter. However critical that person may have felt her position, and
whatever desperate resolve she might entertain for escape, through
whatever postern, from the infamy of public dismissal, she was quite
as usual. No; she was even handsomer than usual, more quietly splendid
in attire, and reclining with calmer luxuriousness of demeanour on her
cushions of satin.
Among the many traps, drags, and go-carts, of various degrees of
knowingness, Mr. Waddy’s was conspicuous. Major Granby, old Budlong,
and Paulding accompanied him. Old Bud said it made him quite young
again to see the boys out.
“But, sir,” he added, “why do they bump on the outside of a horse, when
they might sit and grow fat in a buggy? There’s Tim, sir, my boy Tim,
is growing quite thin and haggard; he says riding don’t agree with him.
I’m afraid he won’t do much with Drummer to-day.”
A straight race, on a dead level, lacks features of varied brilliancy.
Peter Skerrett had arranged that the field should start alternately
from either end, that all might see alphas and omegas. Thus the proud
and numerous start and the disarrayed and disappointed finishes might
be viewed by all spectators. All might share the breathless sympathies
of doubts and enthusiasms for the winner.
Peter Skerrett, too busy to think of poor Arabella, who, in her bower,
was thinking much of him and sighing as she thought how unworthy she
had been in her long education of vanities and follies; Peter now
brought forward his rank of equestrians. The sea was still, and hardly
rustled as it crept along the sands, unterrifying to horse or man; yet
the air was cool and the sun not too ardent to be repelled by a parasol.
As the line formed, the ladies chose their champion men and bet gloves
recklessly on them; the gentlemen chose champion horses, with a view
also to riders, and bet reckfully.
It appeared that Tim Budlong was--bluntly--drunk, and Drummer lost his
backers. There was a murmur of sympathy as Dunstan rode up on Pallid;
sympathy admiring for this pair, a best of the animal and a best of
the man, and sympathy pitiful for the man of a soul that must bear the
anxiety and perhaps the sorrow that all knew of. A noble fellow and a
generous the common suffrage made him, already distinguished for bold
ability and frank disdain of cowardice and paltering. When experience
had made him a little more indulgent to the limping progress and feeble
vision and awkward drill of mankind, rank and file, he would be a
great popular leader. So thought the Nestors, feeling themselves fired
by the fervours of this young Achilles.
Belden had overdone his costume, as such men often do. It was urgent
with him to look young; he achieved only a gaudy autumnal bloom.
Knockknees, _malgré_ that ungainly quality of his legs, was an
imposing, masculine style of horse. As he passed, stopping to speak
intimately to Mrs. De Flournoy, several of the intuitionless women
envied that person and several men called him “lucky dog.”
Blinders was not a lady’s man. His horse was, however, one of the
favourites. Very few men but Blinders would have ventured to mount,
or even approach, such a rascal brute. Nosegay knew that his master
was invincible, but he wished to inform him that they were a pair of
invincibles; accordingly, despising the two snaffles, the one in hand,
the other around the rider’s waist for steady drag, Nosegay would fling
his head about and then move on without reference to requests that he
tarry or stand at ease.
“That there ’oss’ll overrun ’isself,” said Figgins to Mr. Waddy’s
Bowery Boy, with whom he had bets on Pallid, money up. “’E’ll make a
four-mile ’eat hout of hevery mile ’eat.”
“Gaaz, Johnny Bull!” returned the Bowery. “Thar ain’t no hoss in a hide
as kin git away from Mr. Blinders. It caan’t be did. He’s one er the
bohoys, he is.”
Bob O’Link’s horse was a mare. The sentimental fellow had named her
Lalla Rookh. She was a delicate beauty, but it was quite evident that
her master would not give himself the trouble to win.
Scalper was so busy caricaturing Billy Dulger that he was near
forgetting to present himself with Gossoon. Little Skibbereen recalled
him to his duty. Skibby wanted to see his horse go, and could hardly
forgive his mamma for keeping him at her side.
“Why shouldn’t I break my neck, ma, if I like?” he protested. “I’ll go
and break it the day I’m twenty-one and leave my property to the Tract
Society.”
Sir Com Ambient said good-naturedly that he merely started to make one
more in the field. This was clear to the observing eye.
Billy Dulger, having achieved his heart’s desire, rode up very
unwillingly. The bookkeeper had sent him on garments much too refulgent
for this, or any occasion. He was rather conspicuous _per se_ as the
Great Accepted of Miss Center. The Billy-dulgerid epic, having already
been brought to its finale, nothing more need be said of its hero’s
performances in the race, except that his horse did not disappoint the
stableman, his owner; did not win a heat; did not start a second time;
and that Billy’s hair was full of sand for several days after this
eventful one.
Preparations are of years, acts of moments. To run a mile takes a
minute and so many seconds, disappointingly brief. Poor, dissolute Tim
Budlong, over-fortified by drink, struck Drummer viciously at starting.
Drummer shied toward the water and Tim went over his head. Sobered
by the plunge, Timothy mounted the horse, which someone caught, and
disappeared homeward, fully ashamed of himself.
In a minute and so many seconds, a hurrah came down the wind. Blinders
had won; Pallid second; Knockknees third.
“All right next time,” telegraphed Figgins to his master.
Sir Comeguys had saved his distance handsomely and now withdrew.
Time was about to be called again. Where was Blinders? At last he
reappeared. Nosegay had gone on indefinitely and was at last, with
difficulty, persuaded to return.
Off they all go once more. The ladies at the upper end are almost
terrified at this assault of cavalry. So even seems the front of charge
that all are deemed winners; but the judges announce Pallid first;
Knockknees second; Nosegay third--all very close running.
Belden began to be anxious. Instead of drooping, Pallid was improving.
Had the poison failed? He superintended the care of his horse most
sedulously. Each of the gentlemen had a groom at either end of the
course. Dunstan grew excited with success. The match was a very even
one. Good riding would determine it. Bob O’Link strolled up to Miss
Anthrope’s carriage.
“I think I’ll win the next heat, if you wish it,” said he languidly.
Everyone was astonished at the next announcement of victory. Lalla
Rookh first; Knockknees second; Pallid and Nosegay third. Blinders kept
Nosegay up, but he was showing the effects of his stubborn struggles.
Belden called Figgins.
“By God!” said he, “you’ve cheated me; the horse goes better every
time. I only got ahead this time by Link’s riding in.”
“Hi dunno what hit means,” protested his accomplice. “Hif I’ve cheated
you, Hi’ve cheated myself. Hevery penny of mine’s hon it. I ’ope ’e’ll
drop next time.”
But he did not drop. There was only half a head between him and
Nosegay, but Pallid won the race and immense applause. He was victor in
the first regular race ever run on the beach of Newport. Everyone felt
that the occasion was important.
For a moment Belden sat his horse like a man dazed. He had been
falling a long time--at last he had come to the ground. He had backed
Knockknees heavily, besides his bet with Granby. He could not pay. He
knew that his Boston creditors would be down to attach his horses for
Boston debts; Millard’s bill of three figures was lying on his table
unpaid.
“That damned Figgins will blow me,” he thought. He cursed Dunstan,
winner of the race, winner of Diana. “She would have made me a better
man,” thought he, with a groan of despair. “I shall have to retire for
a while. Luckily, I’ve got hold of someone that I can invite, rather
positively, to go along and pay expenses.”
The thought nerved him, and he pulled himself together. He dismounted,
gave his horse to his supplemental groom, and looking with a pleasant
scowl around, walked up to Mrs. Budlong’s carriage.
“I find it rather warm, now that the race is over,” said that person.
“Will you get in and drive home with me?”
So they drove off in very handsome style, admired by the admiring,
envied by the envious. Mrs. Budlong complained of a headache, and kept
her room the rest of the day.
Wellabout drove Dunstan away. They stopped at Mr. Waddie’s. Diana would
see her betrothed to-day. His heart sank at the announcement. There
was, indeed, no hope; she must die; slowly, sadly, after many days of
lingering adieux, and all that divine beauty be no more seen and felt
to inspire and to consecrate her neighbour world.
Mr. Waddy, Major Granby, and Peter Skerrett returned at ten that
evening from dining at the Skibbereens’. Old Budlong met them in the
hall, and they all went up to Mr. Waddy’s parlour for a cigar.
Chin Chin had reappeared, looking as unwholesome as a cold buckwheat
cake. Retribution for his reticence had overtaken him. He began to tell
Ira his story of the stable scene in his odd, broken English. While he
was so doing, there was a knock at the door. A woman, Miss Arabella’s
maid, to see Mr. Skerrett, and the Bowery Boy for Mr. Waddy.
Ira interpreted Chin Chin’s tale to the other gentlemen.
“Well,” said the Bowery Boy, who had waited with the imperturbableness
of his class, “if somebody tried t’ pizen the hoss afore, it must be
the same chap as has did it now. I found this piece of a ball in the
manger, and Pallid’s down on his side as dead as Billy Kirby.”
At this moment Peter Skerrett returned.
“Send your people away, Waddy,” said he. “Mr. Budlong, these gentlemen
are friends. We shall need their advice. Your wife and Mr. Belden are
missing. They probably went in the Providence boat two hours ago.”
For a moment no one spoke. Poor Bud sat staring, his face purple,
unable for a breath to comprehend. Then his colour faded, his face fell
suddenly into folds and wrinkles. He put down his head and groaned.
Before anyone could find words of consolation, or realise how powerless
to console any words must be, there came another knock at the door. It
was Figgins, looking more like a ticket-of-leave man than ever. The bow
in his legs seemed to have increased.
“My master ’as ran hoff without payin’ me hanythink,” said he, cringing
to Mr. Waddy. “Hi found them papers hamong ’is traps,” he continued,
laying a packet on the table, “hand seein’ as they was marked with yer
honour’s name, Hi thought yer honour mout give me five dollars fer a
savink of ’em.”
“So you’ve been thieving as well as trying to poison,” said Ira, as he
opened the door. “Here, boys,” he called to Chin Chin and Bowery, in
the adjoining room. “Lug this beggar off. We’ll have him attended to
to-morrow.”
“Hi yi! All same!” shouted Chin Chin, pouncing upon Figgins, and that
worthy was dragged off with a Chinaman at his hair and the Bowery Boy
playfully tapping him on the nob.
Mr. Waddy picked up the packet of papers, to toss it after Figgins,
but held his hand, with a sudden start of astonishment as his eye
caught the indorsement. He stared at it a moment, scarce believing that
he saw aright; a swift presentiment shook him, turned him hot, cold----
“Gentlemen,” said he, a little hoarsely, “I do not desire to pry into
Mr. Belden’s private papers, but this parcel is indorsed in my own
hand, or a hand that seems my own, as relating to me. I shall take the
liberty, in your presence, of ascertaining the contents.”
He opened them with trembling fingers: the whole plot burst upon him,
foul, damnable, unspeakably vile.
“My God!” thought he. “They showed her these--she could not doubt my
own hand. And I have wronged her all these fifteen years! Oh, how I
pardon her!”
His hands were trembling still; his eyes were hot with tears--tears of
joy, tears of thankfulness----
Old Budlong looked up, with a sudden jerk of the head. His eyes, too,
were wet and his hands tremulous.
“Gentlemen,” said he, steadying his voice, which would have broken,
“I’m an old man, but I’ve been a kind husband, and as devoted to my
wife as I knew how. I sometimes thought she was a little gay and it
made me unhappy--but I was old and she was young, and I never thwarted
her. She has had everything she wished, and, gentlemen, I loved her
like a wife and a daughter. She was a beautiful woman, you know, and
I found her very poor, the daughter of one of my old cronies, and I
put her where she belonged, among splendid things. I have never seen
anything handsomer than she was, gentlemen, and I was proud of her.”
He spoke of her as if she were dead, and other lips were quivering, in
sympathy with his.
“Perhaps you have thought,” he went on, after a moment, with a quiet
dignity that was new to him and very touching, “that I was too much
away this summer; but when we came back from Europe, she asked me to
take a few thousands she had inherited from her uncle and operate with
them. So I’ve been at work for her all summer in that hot town. I paid
her over the profits last time I was down, in shares of the Manhattan
Bank, a good old stock, twenty-three thousand dollars. I thought
perhaps she’d like to feel more independent of the old man. I felt a
little vain of the operation, gentlemen, and I said to her, ‘You see,
Betty dear, your old boy does understand one thing, and that is how to
make money for you.’ She actually cried at that, she did, gentlemen,
and said she was very sorry I’d been away so much, working so hard,
and she wished she was good enough for me. That doesn’t look like a
bad woman,” he continued, wiping his eyes. “I can’t believe she’s
bad,--not at heart, my friends,--but you know I’m an old man and a
little rough, perhaps, and she didn’t like my being proud that I’d come
up from a deck-hand on a North River barge. It was to please her that
I stopped writing my name Flirney and bought my new house and tried to
study French and went to Europe. But it was too late--I was too old--I
couldn’t change--though God knows I tried!
“I’m sorry on Arabella’s account,” he added, more calmly. “She’s an
honest girl, and a pretty girl, and a good girl, too, though I say
it, and like her own mother, when we lived down in Pearl Street long
ago. Now, nobody will speak to the daughter of an old man whose wife
has----” And the broken-hearted old gentleman stopped and wiped his
eyes again.
“No! no! Peter Skerrett, lad,” he continued, “I know what you mean to
say. I love you like a son; but it’s no use. My name shall never bring
its disgrace upon anyone else.
“And now,” he added, rising, “I thank you, gentlemen, for your kind
feeling and listening to my childish talk. I’m an old man, you see;
but there’s some of the old stuff left in me still. I start to-morrow
morning and I’ll trail him--I’ll trail him like an Injun. I’ve lived
mostly in the city since I was a boy, but I used to be pretty good with
the old King’s arm and I guess he’ll find I can hit the size of a man
yet. Good-night, gentlemen. Good-night, Peter, my boy.”
“Mr. Budlong,” said Ira, seizing the old man’s hand, “I will go with
you. My revenge is older than yours.”
Well out of Vanity Fair, Mr. Ira Waddy!