GETTING READY.
Hope Wayne had not forgotten the threat which Abel had vaguely thrown
out; but she supposed it was only an expression of disappointment and
indignation. Could she have seen him a few evenings after the ball and
his conversation with Mrs. Delilah Jones, she might have thought
differently.
He sat with the same woman in her room.
"To-morrow, then?" she said, looking at him, hesitatingly.
"To-morrow," he answered, grimly.
"I hope all will go well."
"All what?" he asked, roughly.
"All our plans."
"Abel Newt was not born to fail," he replied; "or at least General Belch
said so."
His companion had no knowledge of what Abel really meant to do. She only
knew that he was capable of every thing, and as for herself, her little
mask had fallen, and she did not even wish to pick it up again.
They sat together silently for a long time. He poured freely and drank
deeply, and whiffed cigar after cigar nervously away. The few bells of
the city tolled the hours. Ele had come during the evening and knocked at
the door, but Abel did not let him in. He and his companion sat silently,
and heard the few bells strike.
"Well, Kitty," he said at last, thickly, and with glazing eye. "Well, my
Princess of the Mediterranean. We shall be happy, hey? You're not afraid
even now, hey?"
"Oh, we shall be very happy," she replied, in a low, wild tone, as if it
were the night wind that moaned, and not a woman's voice.
He looked at her for a few moments. He saw how entirely she was
enthralled by him.
"I wonder if I care any thing about you?" he said at length, leering at
her through the cigar-smoke.
"I don't think you do," she answered, meekly.
"But my--my--dear Mrs. Jones--the su-superb Mrs. Delilah Jo-Jones ought
to be sure that I do. Here, bring me a light: that dam--dam--cigar's gone
out."
She rose quietly and carried the candle to Abel. There was an
inexpressible weariness and pathos in all her movements: a kind of
womanly tranquillity that was touchingly at variance with the impression
of her half-coarse appearance. As Abel watched her he remembered the
women whom he had tried to marry. His memory scoured through his whole
career. He thought of them all variously happy.
"I swear! to think I should come to you!" he said at length, looking at
his companion, with an indescribable bitterness of sneering.
Kitty Dunham sat at a little distance from him on the end of a sofa. She
was bowed as if deeply thinking; and when she heard these words her head
only sank a little more, as if a palpable weight had been laid upon her.
She understood perfectly what he meant.
"I know I am not worth loving," she said, in the same low voice, "but my
love will do you no harm. Perhaps I can help you in some way. If you are
ill some day, I can nurse you. I shall be poor company on the long
journey, but I will try."
"What long journey?" asked Abel, suddenly and angrily.
"Where we are going," she replied, gently.
"D---- it, then, don't use such am-am-big-'us phrases. A man would think
we were go-going to die."
She said no more, but sat, half-crouching, upon the sofa, looking into
the fire. Abel glanced at her, from time to time, with maudlin grins and
sneers.
"Go to bed," he said at length; "I've something to do. Sleep all you can;
you'll need it. I shall stay here 'till I'm ready to go, and come for you
in the morning."
"Thank you," she answered, and rose quietly. "Good-night!" she said.
"Oh! good-night, Mrs. De-de-liah--superb Jo-Jones!"
He laughed as she went--sat ogling the fire for a little while, and then
unsteadily, but not unconsciously, drew a pocket-book from his pocket and
took out a small package. It contained several notes, amounting to not
less than a hundred thousand dollars signed by himself, and indorsed by
Lawrence Newt & Co.--at least the name was there, and it was a shrewd eye
that could detect the difference between the signature and that which was
every day seen and honored in the street.
Abel looked at them carefully, and leered and glared upon them as if they
had been windows through which he saw something--sunny isles, and luxury,
and a handsome slave who loved him to minister to every whim.
"'Tis a pretty game," he said, half aloud; "a droll turnabout is life.
Uncle Lawrence plays against other people, and wins. I play against Uncle
Lawrence, and win. But what's un-dred--sousand--to--him?"
He said it drowsily, and his hands unconsciously fell. He was asleep in
his chair.
He sat there sleeping until the gray of morning. Kitty Dunham, coming
into the room ready-dressed for a journey, found him there. She was
frightened; for he looked as if he were dead. Going up to him she shook
him, and he awoke heavily.
"What the h----'s the matter?" said he, as he opened his sleepy eyes.
"Why, it's time to go."
"To go where?"
"To be happy," she said, standing passively and looking in his face.
He roused himself, and said:
"Well, I'm all ready. I've only to stop at my room for my trunk."
His hair was tangled, his eyes were bloodshot, his clothes tumbled and
soiled.
"Wouldn't you like to dress yourself?" she asked.
"Why, no; ain't I dressed enough for you? No gentleman dresses when he's
going to travel."
She said no more. The carriage came as Abel had ordered, a private
conveyance to take them quite through to New York. All the time before it
came Kitty Dunham moved solemnly about the room, seeing that nothing was
left. The solemnity fretted Abel.
"What are you so sober about?" he asked impatiently.
"Because I am getting ready for a long journey," she answered,
tranquilly.
"Perhaps not so long," he said, sharply--"not if I choose to leave you
behind."
"But you won't."
"How do you know?"
"Because you will want somebody, and I'm the only person in the world
left to you."
She spoke in the same sober way. Abel knew perfectly well that she spoke
the truth, but he had never thought of it before. Was he then going so
long a journey without a friend, unless she went with him? Was she the
only one left of all the world?
As his mind pondered the question his eye fell upon a newspaper of the
day before, in which he saw his name. He took it up mechanically, and
read a paragraph praising him and his speech; foretelling "honor and
troops of friends" for a young man who began his public career so
brilliantly.
"There; hear this!" said he, as he read it aloud and looked at his
companion. "Troops of friends, do you see? and yet you talk of being my
only dependence in the world! Fie! fie! Mrs. Delilah Jones."
It was melancholy merriment. He did not smile, and the woman's face was
quietly sober.
"For the present, then, Mr. Speaker and fellow-citizens," said Abel Newt,
waving his hand as he saw that every thing was ready, and that the
carriage waited only for him and his companion, "I bid these scenes
adieu! For the present I terminate my brief engagement. And you, my
fellow-members, patterns of purity and pillars of truth, farewell!
Disinterested patriots, I leave you my blessing! Pardon me that I
prefer the climate of the Mediterranean to that of the District, and the
smiles of my Kitty to the intelligent praises of my country. Friends of
my soul, farewell! I kiss my finger tips! Boo--hoo!"
He made a mock bow, and smiled upon an imaginary audience. Then offering
his arm with grave ceremony to his companion as if a crowd had been
looking on, he went down stairs.