A WARNING.
A few evenings afterward, when Abel called to know how the ladies had
borne the fatigues of the feast, Mrs. Plumer said, with smiles, that it
was a kind of fatigue ladies bore without flinching. Miss Grace, who was
sitting upon a sofa by the side of Sligo Moultrie, said that it was one
of the feasts at which young women especially are supposed to be
perfectly happy. She emphasized the last words, and her bright black
eyes opened wide upon Mr. Abel Newt, who could not tell if he saw
mischievous malice or a secret triumph and sense release in them.
"Oh!" said he, gayly, "it would be too much for me hope to make any
ladies, and especially young ladies, perfectly happy."
And he returned Miss Plumer's look with a keen glance masked in
merriment.
Sligo Moultrie wagged his foot.
"There now is conscious power!" said Abel, with a laugh, as he pointed at
Miss Plumer's companion.
They all laughed, but not very heartily. There appeared to be some
meaning lurking in whatever was said; and like all half-concealed
meanings, it seemed, perhaps, even more significant than it really was.
Abel was very brilliant, and told more and better stories than usual.
Mrs. Plumer listened and laughed, and declared that he was certainly the
best company she had met for a long time. Nor were Miss Plumer and Mr.
Moultrie reluctant to join the conversation. In fact, Abel was several
times surprised by the uncommon spirit of Sligo's replies.
"What is it?" said Abel to himself, with a flash of the black eyes that
was startling.
All the evening he felt particularly belligerent toward Sligo Moultrie;
and yet a close observer would have discovered no occasion in the conduct
of the young man for such a feeling upon Abel's part. Mr. Moultrie sat
quietly by the side of Grace Plumer--"as if somehow he had a right to sit
there," thought Abel Newt, who resolved to discover if indeed he had a
right.
During that visit, however, he had no chance. Moultrie sat persistently,
and so did Abel. The clock pointed to eleven, and still they did not
move. It was fairly toward midnight when Abel rose to leave, and at the
same moment Sligo Moultrie rose also. Abel bade the ladies good-evening,
and passed out as if Moultrie were close by him. But that young man
remained standing by the sofa upon which Grace Plumer was seated, and
said quietly to Abel,
"Good-evening, Newt!"
Grace Plumer looked at him also, with the bright black eyes, and blushed.
For a moment Abel Newt's heart seemed to stand still! An expression of
some bitterness must have swept over his face, for Mrs. Plumer stepped
toward him, as he stood with his hand upon the door, and said,
"Are you unwell?"
The cloud dissolved in a forced smile.
"No, thank you; not at all!" and he looked surprised, as if he could not
imagine why any one should think so.
He did not wait longer, and the next moment was in the street.
Mrs. Plumer also left the room almost immediately after his departure.
Sligo Moultrie seated himself by his companion.
"My dear Grace, did you see that look?"
"Yes."
"He suspects the truth," returned Sligo Moultrie; and he might have added
more, but that his lips at that instant were otherwise engaged.
Abel more than suspected the truth. He was sure of it, and the certainty
made him desperate. He had risked so much upon the game! He had been so
confident! As he half ran along the street he passed many things rapidly
in his mind. He was like a seaman in doubtful waters, and the breeze was
swelling into a gale.
Turning out of Broadway he ran quickly to his door, opened it, and leaped
up stairs.
To his great surprise his lamp was lighted and a man was sitting reading
quietly at his table. As Abel entered his visitor closed his book and
looked up.
"Why, Uncle Lawrence," said the young man, "you have a genius for
surprises! What on earth are you doing in my room?"
His uncle said, only half smiling,
"Abel, we are both bachelors, and bachelors have no hours. I want to talk
with you."
Abel looked at his guest uneasily; but he put down his hat and lighted a
cigar; then seated himself, almost defiantly, opposite his uncle, with
the table between them.
"Now, Sir; what is it?"
Lawrence Newt paused a moment, while the young man still calmly puffed
the smoke from his mouth, and calmly regarded his uncle.
"Abel, you are not a fool. You know the inevitable results of certain
courses. I want to fortify your knowledge by my experience. I understand
all the temptations and excitements that carry you along. But I don't
like your looks, Abel; and I don't like the looks of other people when
they speak of you and your father. Remember, we are of the same blood.
Heaven knows its own mysteries! Your father and I were sons of one woman.
That is a tie which we can neither of us escape, if we wanted to. Why
should you ruin yourself?"
"Did you come to propose any thing for me to do, Sir, or only to inform
me that you considered me a reprobate?" asked Abel, half-sneeringly, the
smoke rising from his mouth.
Lawrence Newt did not answer.
"I am like other young men," continued Abel. "I am fond of living well,
of a good horse, of a pretty woman. I drink my glass, and I am not afraid
of a card. Really, Uncle Lawrence, I see no such profound sin or shame in
it all, so long as I honestly pay the scot. Do I cheat at cards? Do I lie
in the gutters?"
"No!" answered Lawrence.
"Do I steal?"
"Not that I know," said the other.
"Please, Uncle Lawrence, what do you mean, then?"
"I mean the way, the spirit in which you do things. If you are not
conscious of it, how can I make you? I can not say more than I have.
I came merely--"
"As a handwriting upon the wall, Uncle Lawrence?"
Lawrence Newt rose and stood a little back from the table.
"Yes, if you choose, as a handwriting on the wall. Abel, when the
prodigal son _came to himself_, he rose and went to his father. I came
to ask you to return to yourself."
"From these husks, Sir?" asked Abel, as he looked around his luxurious
rooms, his eye falling last upon the French print of Lucille, fresh from
the bath.
Lawrence Newt looked at his nephew with profound gravity. The young
man lay back in his chair, lightly holding his cigar, and carelessly
following the smoke with his eye. The beauty and intelligence of his
face, the indolent grace of his person, seen in the soft light of the
lamp, and set like a picture in the voluptuous refinement of the room,
touched the imagination and the heart of the older man. There was a look
of earnest, yearning entreaty in his eyes as he said,
"Abel, you remember Milton's Comus?"
The young man bowed.
"Do you think the revelers were happy?"
Abel smiled, but did not answer. But after a few minutes he said, with a
smile,
"I was not there."
"You _are_ there," answered Lawrence Newt, with uplifted finger, and in a
voice so sad and clear that Abel started.
The two men looked at each other silently for a few moments.
"Good-night, Abel."
"Good-night, Uncle Lawrence."
The door closed behind the older man. Abel sat in his chair, intently
thinking. His uncle's words rang in his memory. But as he recalled the
tone, the raised finger, the mien, with which they had been spoken, the
young man looked around him, and seemed half startled and frightened by
the stillness, and awe-struck by the midnight hour. He moved his head
rapidly and arose, like a person trying to rouse himself from sleep or
nightmare. Passing the mirror, he involuntarily started at the haggard
paleness of his face under the clustering black hair. He was trying to
shake something off. He went uneasily about the room until he had lighted
a match, and a candle, with which he went into the next room, still
half-looking over his shoulder, as if fearing that something dogged him.
He opened the closet where he kept his wine. He restlessly filled a large
glass and poured it down his throat--not as if he were drinking, but as
if he were taking an antidote. He rubbed his forehead with his hand, and
half-smiled a sickly smile.
But still his eyes wandered nervously to the spot in which his uncle
had stood; still he seemed to fear that he should see a ghostly figure
standing there and pointing at him; should see himself, in some phantom
counterpart, sitting in the chair. His eyes opened as if he were
listening intently. For in the midnight he thought he heard, in that dim
light he thought he saw, the Prophet and the King. He did not remember
more the words his uncle had spoken. But he heard only, "Thou art the
man! Thou art the man!"
And all night long, as he dreamed or restlessly awoke, he heard the same
words, spoken as if with finger pointed--"Thou art the man! Thou art the
man!"