WINE AND TRUTH.
The conversation takes a fresh turn. Corlaer Van Boozenberg is talking of
the great heiress, Miss Wayne. He has drunk wine enough to be bold, and
calls out aloud from his end of the table,
"Mr. Abel Newt!"
That gentleman turns his head toward his guest.
"We are wondering down here how it is that Miss Wayne went away from New
York unengaged."
"I am not her confidant," Abel answers; and gallantly adds, "I am sure,
like every other man, I should be glad to be so."
"But you had the advantage of every body else."
"How so?" asks Abel, conscious that Grace Plumer is watching him closely.
"Why, you were at school in Delafield until you were no chicken."
Abel bows smilingly.
"You must have known her."
"Yes, a little."
"Well, didn't you know what a stunning heiress she was, and so handsome!
How'd you, of all men in the world, let her slip through your fingers?"
A curious silence follows this effusion. Corlaer Van Boozenberg is
slightly flown with wine. Hal Battlebury, who sits near him, looks
troubled. Herbert Octoyne and Mellish Whitloe exchange meaning glances.
The young ladies--Mrs. Plumer is the only matron, except Mrs. Dagon, who
sits below--smile pleasantly. Sligo Moultrie eats grapes. Grace Plumer
waits to hear what Abel says, or to observe what he does. Mrs. Dagon
regards the whole affair with an approving smile, nodding almost
imperceptibly a kind of Freemason's sign to Mrs. Plumer, who thinks that
the worthy young Van Boozenberg has probably taken too much wine.
Abel Newt quietly turns to Grace Plumer, saying,
"Poor Corlaer! There are disadvantages in being the son of a very rich
man; one is so strongly inclined to measure every thing by money.. As if
money were all!"
He looks her straight in the eyes as he says it. Perhaps it is some
effort he is making which throws into his look that cold, hard blackness
which is not beautiful. Perhaps it is some kind of exasperation arising
from what he has heard Moultrie say privately and Van Boozenberg
publicly, as it were, that pushes him further than he means to go. There
is a dangerous look of craft; an air of sarcastic cunning in his eyes and
on his face. He turns the current of talk with his neighbors, without any
other indication of disturbance than the unpleasant look. Van Boozenberg
is silent again. The gentle, rippling murmur of talk fills the room, and
at a moment when Moultrie is speaking with his neighbor, Abel says,
looking at the engraving of the Madonna,
"Miss Grace, I feel like those cherubs."
"Why so, Mr. Newt?"
"Because I am perfectly happy."
"Indeed!"
"Yes, Miss Grace, and for the same reason that I entirely love and
admire."
Her heart beats violently. Sligo Moultrie turns and sees her face. He
divines every thing in a moment, for he loves Grace Plumer.
"Yes, Miss Grace," he says, in a quick, thick tone, as if he were
continuing a narration--"yes, she became Princess of Este; but the
fiery eyes burned her, and the sweet tongue stung her forever and ever."
Mrs. Plumer and Mrs. Dagon are rising. There is a rustling tumult of
women's dresses, a shaking out of handkerchiefs, light gusts of laughter,
and fragments of conversation. The handsome women move about like birds,
with a plumy, elastic motion, waving their fans, smelling their bouquets,
and listening through them to tones that are very low. The Prince of the
house is every where, smiling, sinuous, dark in the eyes and hair.
It is already late, and there is no disposition to be seated. Sligo
Moultrie stands by Grace Plumer, and she is very glad and even grateful
to him. Abel, passing to and fro, looks at her occasionally, and can not
possibly tell if her confusion is pain or pleasure. There is a reckless
gayety in the tone with which he speaks to the other ladies. "Surely Mr.
Newt was never so fascinating," they all think in their secret souls; and
they half envy Grace Plumer, for they know the little supper is given for
her, and they think it needs no sibyl to say why, or to prophesy the
future.
It is nearly midnight, and the moon is rising. Hark!
A band pours upon the silent night the mellow, passionate wail of "Robin
Adair." The bright company stands listening and silent. The festive
scene, the hour, the flowers, the luxury of the place, the beauty of
the women, impress the imagination, and touch the music with a softer
melancholy. Hal Battlebury's eyes are clear, but his heart is full of
tears as he listens and thinks of Amy Waring. He knows that all is in
vain. She has told him, with a sweet dignity that made her only lovelier
and more inaccessible, that it can not be. He is trying to believe it. He
is hoping to show her one day that she is wrong. Listening, he follows in
his mind the song the band is playing.
Sligo Moultrie feels and admires the audacious skill of Abel in crowning
the feast with music. Grace Plumer leans upon his arm. Abel Newt's
glittering eyes are upon them. It is the very moment he had intended to
be standing by her side, to hold her arm in his, and to make her feel
that the music which pealed in long cadences through the midnight, and
streamed through the draped windows into the room, was the passionate
entreaty of his heart, the irresistible pathos of the love he bore her.
Somehow Grace Plumer is troubled. She fears the fascination she enjoys.
She dreads the assumption of power over her which she has observed in
Abel. She recoils from the cold blackness she has seen in his eyes. She
sees it at this moment again, in that glittering glance which slips
across the room and holds her as she stands. Involuntarily she leans
upon Sligo Moultrie, as if clinging to him.
There is more music?--a lighter, then a sadder and lingering strain. It
recedes slowly, slowly up the street. The company stand in the pretty
parlor, and not a word is spoken. It is past midnight; the music is over.
"What a charming party! Mr. Newt, how much we are obliged to you!" says
Mrs. Godefroi Plumer, as Abel hands her into the carriage.
"The pleasure is all mine, Madame," replies Mr. Newt, as he sees with
bitterness that Sligo Moultrie stands ready to offer his hand to assist
Miss Plumer. The footman holds the carriage door open. Miss Plumer can
accept the assistance of but one, and Mr. Abel is resolved to know which
one.
"Permit me, Miss Plumer," says Sligo.
"Allow me, Miss Grace," says Abel.
The latter address sounds to her a little too free. She feels, perhaps,
that he has no rights of intimacy--at least not yet--or what does she
feel? But she gives her hand to Sligo Moultrie, and Abel bows.
"Thank you for a delightful evening, Mr. Newt. Good-night!"
The host bows again, bareheaded, in the moonlight.
"By-the-by, Mr. Moultrie," says the ringing voice of the clear-eyed girl,
who remembers that Abel is listening, but who is sure that only Sligo can
understand, "I ought to have told you that the story ended differently.
The Princess left the villa. Good-night! good-night!"
The carriage rattles down the street.
"Good-night, Newt; a very beautiful and pleasant party."
"Good-night, Moultrie--thank you; and pleasant dreams."
The young Georgian skips up the street, thinking only of Grace Plumer's
last words. Abel Newt stands at his door for a moment, remembering them
also, and perfectly understanding them. The next instant he is shawling
and cloaking the other ladies, who follow the Plumers; among them Mrs.
Dagon, who says, softly,
"Good-night, Abel. I like it all very well. A very proper girl! Such a
complexion! and such teeth! Such lovely little hands, too! It's all very
right. Go on, my dear. What a dreadful piece of work Fanny's made of it!
I wonder you don't like Hope Wayne. Think of it, a million of dollars!
However, it's all one, I suppose--Grace or Hope are equally pleasant.
Good-night, naughty boy! Behave yourself. As for your father, I'm afraid
to go to the house lest he should bite me. He's dangerous. Good-night,
dear!"
Yes, Abel remembers with singular distinctness that it was a word, only
one word, just a year ago to Grace Plumer--a word intended only to
deceive that foolish Fanny--which had cost him--at least, he thinks
so--Hope Wayne.
He bows his last guests out at the door with more sweetness in his face
than in his soul. Returning to the room he looks round upon the ruins of
the feast, and drinks copiously of the wine that still remains. Not at
all inclined to sleep, he goes into his bedroom and finds a cigar.
Returning, he makes a few turns in the room while he smokes, and stops
constantly to drink another glass. He half mutters to himself, as he
addresses the chair in which Grace Plumer has been sitting,
"Are you or I going to pay for this feast, Madame? Somebody has got to do
it. Young woman, Moultrie was right, and you are wrong. She _did_ become
Princess of Este. I'll pay now, and you'll pay by-and-by. Yes, my dear
Grace, you'll pay by-and-by."
He says these last words very slowly, with his teeth set, the head
a little crouched between the shoulders, and a stealthy, sullen, ugly
glare in the eyes.
"I've got to pay now, and you shall pay by-and-by. Yes, Miss Grace
Plumer; you shall pay for to-night and for the evening in my mother's
conservatory."
He strides about the room a little longer. It is one o'clock, and he goes
down stairs and out of the house. Still smoking, he passes along Broadway
until he reaches Thiel's. He hurries up, and finds only a few desperate
gamblers. Abel himself looks a little wild and flushed. He sits down
defiantly and plays recklessly. The hours are clanged from the belfry
of the City Hall. The lights burn brightly in Thiel's rooms. Nobody is
sleeping there. One by one the players drop away--except those who remark
Abel's game, for that is so careless and furious that it is threatening,
threatening, whether he loses or wins.
He loses constantly, but still plays on. The lights are steady. His eyes
are bright. The bank is quite ready to stay open for such a run of luck
in its favor.
The bell of the City Hall clangs three in the morning as a young man
emerges from Thiel's, and hurries, then saunters, up Broadway. His
motions are fitful, his dress is deranged, and his hair matted. His
face, in the full moonlight, is dogged and dangerous. It is the Prince
of the feast, who had told Grace Plumer that he was perfectly happy.