University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.
A HAPPY PARTY AT THE WIDOW'S, TWO OF THE GUESTS
EXCEPTED.

Mr. D. L. Parke had conversed frequently and fully
with Mrs. Dimple on the subject of Susan and Ned, as
well as in relation to his own and his deceased brother's
business connections with Eugene Bainton. Stricken dumb
at the intimations of improper conduct on the part of the
two gentlemen — Bainton and Mallex — who were in the
habit of making frequent and prolonged visits at her mansion,
she remained for a time in a state of serious dubiety
in regard to the solidity of the foundations upon which
such suspicions had been raised. Although rich and
fashionable, and fond of pleasure, yet she was not deficient
in that species of intuitive intelligence, by which well-informed
minds arrive at a clear perception of the motives
and objects of frail humanity, and the derogatory means
so often resorted to for the accomplishment of forbidden
objects. Fortunately neither Bainton nor Mallex had
made any impression on her heart. She could not avoid
being conscious that their assiduous attentions were designed
to make such an impression; but having yielded
her heart completely to her deceased husband, she was
enabled to view their advances with a cool circumspection
which effectually guarded against the machinations so frequently
employed by the sterner sex, to reduce the victims
of their pretended devotions to a state of vassalage.

Susan had informed her that Ned was the offspring of
deceased parents, who had been in the enjoyment of all
the luxuries of wealth and the benefits of the best society.
And she believed the poor devoted girl. She had known
Susan for many years, even before Ned was born; she had
seen her almost weekly during the whole term of their acquaintance;
and in contempt of the insinuations that the
poor girl was the mother of Ned, she had rather encouraged
her visits, and those of the boy, at her mansion, than repulsed
them. She was no imitator of others, who, without

investigation, acted upon the supposition that where there
was a mere charge of disreputable conduct, there must be
some degree of criminality, and contact with the implicated
was to be avoided as a pollution.

But Susan had never mentioned to her the name of
Ned's parents, and even suffered her patroness to suppose,
in common with all the world, that the son and heir of the
deceased John Parke had been consigned to the tomb.
And, now, when the whole story was communicated; when
the solemn asseverations of Susan were supported in no
slight degree by the history of the business transactions
of the Parkes with Eugene; the surprising strides to fortune
and consideration by Bainton and Mallex—both having
been destitute of capital but a few years previously—
the recent mysterious attempt to remove the boy — the
seizure of the letters, and the payment of $10,000 to
Mr. D. L. Parke, were, altogether, circumstances well calculated
to fill the breast of the lady with emotions of an
enthusiastic desire to protect the weak and oppressed, and
to vindicate the rights of those who had been made the
victims of a most inhuman and cruel conspiracy.

The suggestion that the physician had been duped into
the signing of a certificate of the death of this unfortunate
and unprotected child, was seized upon by the lady with
the avidity of a tangible fact. In her mind there could be
no doubt of the mistake, whether innocent or intentional.
She was convinced. How could such an intelligent and
well-disposed boy be sent to such a place, if it were not
for the purpose of accomplishing some wicked object?
There was not a boy in the institution of so amiable a
countenance, of such gentle manners, and exhibiting so
many evidences of having been tenderly nourished. How
could such a boy live in such a place? It must have been
known, it must have been desired, that he would soon die,
if suffered to remain among such associates, and under such
treatment as was practised there.

Such were not only Mrs. Dimple's convictions, but her
repeated declarations in the presence of Mr. Parke. And
while she uttered her expressions of horror and pity, her
daughter Alice only wept.

This being the effect of the revelations at the mansion

of Mrs. Dimple, so far as Ned and Susan were concerned,
it may be readily surmised that a corresponding change of
sentiment was experienced in regard to the characters of
their persecutors. Mrs. Dimple could no longer withhold
the expression of her utter detestation of the characters
of Bainton and Mallex; and even after she had given vent
to a volley of bitter invectives against the presumptuous
suitors who would have added her, and perhaps Alice, to
the list of their victims, it was difficult for Mr. Parke to
impress her with the necessity of a prudent abstinence
from communications or actions which might defeat the
ends of justice. He succeeded, however; and both the
lady and her daughter, convinced that the welfare, and it
might be the safety of Ned, depended upon a strict adherence
to the line of policy pointed out by the aged and experienced
lawyer, promised faithfully to be governed by
his counsels. He had likewise informed his fair auditors
of the contemplated marriage of Susan, and of the purpose
to remove Ned to the school at Summerton. But even
these facts were to be kept a profound secret.

It did indeed resemble a jubilation when the company,
young and old, high and low, assembled in the nursery that
evening. Songs were sung, and joyous laughter sounded
throughout the halls of the stately mansion. The amused
mistress was almost as gay as her daughter Alice; and the
gray-haired lawyer vied with Master Ned in innocent merriment.
Susan and Mulvany sat a short distance apart,
conversing in half-whispered sentences, and exhibiting on
their countenances legible marks of the happiness they
enjoyed.

Alice had Ned to repeat over and over again many of
the particulars of his escape from the clutches of the little
old woman, who, though not willing for him to depart, yet
persisted in calling him an intruder. And if she wept at
the narration of his perils and sufferings, and turned pale
at the mention of the horrible spectacle he beheld in the
adjoining room, yet she could not avoid laughing heartily
at his mimicry of the old woman's speech, and imitation of
her gestures when standing in the snow.

But perhaps the most amusing feature of the evening
was a slight quarrel between Betty Simple and Tim Trudge,

in an adjoining room. It seemed that upon the return of
Tim, Betty had almost gone into hysterics of delight, and
could not repress her anxiety to repeat to Tim the boundless
affection she felt for him, nor avoid evincing in
his presence an unaffected gladness to see him return in
safety.

But honest Tim, indignant Tim, conceiving the idea that
all his mishaps, and all Ned's sufferings, were owing to the
silly tongue of Betty, who had poured such a torrent of information
into the eager ears of Mallex and Bainton, only returned
her enthusiastic greeting with coldness, and had even
turned his back upon her. Being summoned to his mistress
as soon as she heard of his return, he had been immediately
after despatched to Susan's house, as we have seen; and
no explantion had taken place between him and Betty until
they met at night in the little room adjoining the apartment
where the party were assembled.

The door was ajar, and Mrs. Dimple and Mr. Parke
were seated in a position to see and hear what transpired.

Susan had stationed herself in the room near the entrance
communicating with the narrow passage in the rear
through which Tim was to pass; the moment he entered she
sprang before him, barring his further progress, and commenced
weeping, with the corner of her apron lifted to her
eyes.

“Go 'way, Betty,” said Tim. “What're you popping
before me, for! What're you crying about?”

“Because you've treated me so cruelly, so shamefully.”

“Me! 'Taint so; I didn't. I havn't done anything to
make you cry!”

“When I was so glad to see you come back, and laughed,
and jumped, you looked grum, and turned your back on
me. I want to know what you done it for?” She
dropped the corner of her apron as she spoke, and grasped
the button of his coat.

“I'll tell you, if you must know. It was your tongue
that night which sent me off after a book that never was
nowhere, and that let the cat out of the bag to Mr. Mallex,
who went and carried away poor Ned. That's what
you did!”

“I didn't—”

“You did!”

“I mean I didn't intend to do it. You know I didn't.
I wouldn't have done such a thing for all the world, if I'd
known it!”

“May be not. But when a bad thing's done, what difference
does it make, whether one knew what she was
doing or not? I wouldn't have a blab-tongue for my wife,
for all the'world! She'd be having my head cracked every
day. Let go my button!”

“I wont! I'm no blab-tongue. I'll cut it off, first!
You know I didn't intend to say anything to do anybody
any harm.”

“Let go my button! What's the odds whether you intended
it or not? It's the same thing—”

“No, Tim, it is not the same thing as if she had done it
intentionally!” said Mrs. Dimple, stepping in, followed by
Mr. Parke.

“By no means the same thing,” said the lawyer. “There
can be no great offence, where there is no intention to do
wrong.”

“You must forgive her, Tim,” said Mrs. Dimple; “or
rather as there is nothing to be forgiven, you must be reconciled.”

In the midst of this scene, a servant announced that Mr.
Eugene Bainton was in the parlour, and desired to see
Mrs. Dimple! This announcement produced an instantaneous
silence and caused several faces to turn pale.

“Ma, are you not engaged?” asked Alice.

“I will see him, Alice,” replied the mother.

“I pray you,” said Mr. Parke, “to look and act, if possible,
as you would have done, had you been kept in ignorance
of everything relating to the history of Ned.”

“I will endeavor to do so. I see the necessity of it,
and think I shall be equal to the part I am to enact. Remain,
all of you, until I return.”

Mrs. Dimple first withdrew to her private chamber, and
then descended to the parlor most tastefully attired, and
seeming altogether more charming and lovely, as Bainton
thought, and almost ventured to say, than he had ever beheld
her. Eugene, himself, was carefully dressed for the
occasion. He was handsome, too, in the estimation of the

ladies. Not more than thirty, of a medium stature, with a
fair complexion, light hair, blue eyes, and a small foot.
His hands, however, which had not been exempt from service
in his days of poverty, were large and rough. But
these were covered with faultless kid gloves, while his feet
were ever thrust forward and artfully exhibited. He did
not seem to survey them himself; but he observed others
looking at them. Like many men grown suddenly rich, he
had fallen into the habit of presuming that his wealth gave
him an influence, and entitled him to privileges not to be
enjoyed by others in different circumstances. Thus he was
supercilious with persons of moderate possessions, and affected
a bold equality and fellowship with the wealthy.

There was a flush upon the cheek of the lady, and a
slight smile, produced by mingled emotions of indignation
and curiosity. And the pointed look, somewhat unusual
in the brief salutation, observed by Bainton, was interpreted
by him as a favorable augury. His announcement
alone, had perhaps prepared the radiant widow to expect
a tender declaration. At the first aspect he imagined he
already experienced the premonitions of success, and his
lip assumed a curl of triumph, and his language a tone of
boldness.

“Madam,” said he, “a sudden impulse directed my steps
to your dwelling; but not a new purpose.”

“Indeed! Then I am indebted to chance for the pleasure
of this visit. But it was your settled purpose to call
again some time or other?”

“Pleasant and spirited! It was thus I hoped to find
you. Fortune has hitherto directed my steps to the accomplishment
of my wishes—to all of them but one—”

“Really, Mr. Bainton, you have been a fortunate man.
Never to have but one wish ungratified, is indeed the lot
of but few. For my part, I must own,” she continued
with a sigh, “such has not been my good fortune.”

“It may be in future, madam.”

“I do not expect it, and hence I shall not be disappointed.”

“The one wish, however, to which I have alluded, may
still, I hope, be gratified.”

“If it be within the range of possibility, and within the

limits of justice and honor, of course one may hope for its
accomplishment. What is it? if it be not forbidden to my
idle curiosity.”

“On the contrary, its accomplishment must depend entirely
upon your concurrence.”

“Upon my concurrence! Then, truly, it is not to be
kept a secret from me.”

“By no means. But I want language to express myself.
Can you not infer what it is? May I not presume
upon your favor so much as to urge you to afford me a
slight intimation by a pause—a meaning silence—that you
will contribute whatever may be in your power—and in
this delicate matter, you are all powerful—to secure the
consummation of my wish, which is certainly both justifiable
and honorable.”

“A mystery! You would have me fully express myself
without uttering a word!”

“You have said one might surely hope, if the object
were just—”

“Yes; speaking of indifferent matters. For instance,
if you desired to possess any particular estate, it might be
obtained, if in the market, and a sufficient price—”

“In the market — price! Geraldine! I meant not
that!”

“Geraldine! I believe you never uttered that before?”

“No! But I would do it daily, hourly, for the remainder
of my life! The wish I have, yet ungratified, is the possession
of your hand!”

“Geraldine! Let me never hear it again. Let it be
the first and the last time. That wish can never be gratified—”

“Consider!” exclaimed Eugene, endeavoring to clasp
her hand.

“Have I not done so?” said she, eluding him, and rising
with dignity. “Have I not decided? You have heard
of the laws of the Medes and Persians; they were not
more irrevocable than my decision!”

Pale, and trembling in every limb, Eugene stood like a
victim under the gallows. It was a shock such as he had
never anticipated, much less experienced before. So completely
was he astounded, that he seemed bereft of reason

and utterance for several moments, and stood gazing down
at his feet—but not admiring them. At length, lifting his
head, he said:

“I suppose, then, my fate is sealed?”

“If I am to be the judge, yes—so far as the fate you
make reference to is concerned. But one's fate is a somewhat
more comprehensive thing than merely one's wedding;
and there is a more awful judge than the being who declines
to bestow her hand. It is at His judgment seat that
the decrees of fate are registered.”

“Madam, has any one slandered me?”

“Not that I am aware of.”

“Is some other one—one whom I know—preferred to
me?”

“Now you transcend the limits of your privilege. You
have no right to interrogate me, and I will not answer
you.”

“I ask it not as a right. I beg it as a favor. Has Job
Mallex—”

“Enough, sir. You have my answer. Henceforth my
lips are sealed. The Pythoness has spoken,” she said,
with a derisive smile.

“I humbly take my leave, madam,” said he, departing
slowly, “But yet,” he continued, half turning, I hope I
may continue to enjoy your friendship?”

“I know not what to answer. Of course the proposition
you have made should not make me your enemy. You
must consult your own sense of propriety — but remember
my decision can never be reconsidered, and that it would
be worse than folly for the proposal to be renewed.”

“Farewell, madam!”

She bowed as he withdrew. She then hastened to join
her little mixed coterie, with cheeks a little pale, but with
an expression of fixed resolve upon her firm lip.

“It is over. He is gone,” said she in answer to the
inquiring look of Mr. Parke. She then informed him in a
whisper what had been the nature and result of the interview.
This was hardly done, before the servant announced
another visitor—Mr. Job Mallex!

“Oh, ma, do be engaged this time!” said Alice. “We
are so happy. Do, pray, stay with us!”

“No, Alice. I will soon return, and then I will be done
with them. There will be no others to dispose of,” she
added, glancing at Mr. Parke.

“Upon my life, madam,” said the lawyer, recovering
from a slight paroxysm of his asthma, “I am decidedly of
the opinion that you have done enough in disposing of one
visitor; and I must add my entreaties to those of your
daughter, that you will deny this suitor—”

Mrs. Dimple nodded her head in acquiescence—and Mr.
Parke comprehended her true meaning.

“I mean that you will deny him an audience,” said he,
“I am apprehensive that your nerves will not suffice to
carry you through two—”

“Never fear!” said she, with her proud lip curled in
immovable determination. “I have no agitation, no misgivings;
and feel altogether equal to the undertaking.
But I will not detain him so long as I did his partner.”
And she prepared to obey the summons immediately.

Mallex, unlike Bainton, had not entered the mansion
with the premeditated purpose of tendering his hand and
fortune to the widow. Upon leaving his own house he
had merely intended to pass the evening with Eugene.
But upon finding his partner and rival had gone out to
spend the evening, and not doubting, upon learning from
a servant the particular care he had bestowed upon his
dress, that he had sought the society of the widow, he resolved
to follow him thither. Although neither of the
partners in iniquity, as well as in business, had hitherto
expressed an intention to seek the hand of Mrs. Dimple,
but on the contrary had sought to conceal any such purpose,
yet each began to entertain a suspicion that the
other had designs of that nature, and they were mutually
watchful. It was therefore the especial purpose of Mallex
to prevent, by the embarrassment of his presence, his
rival from obtaining any advantage over him. But when
he found himself alone in the parlor, and ascertained from
the servant that his mistress was at home, and would
doubtless grant him the pleasure of an interview, the
thought flashed upon him that there could never be a better
opportunity than the present for him to take advantage
of the absence of his rival. In military phrase, he resolved
to steal a march upon his friend.

Again Mrs. Dimple entered with a smile, which the deluded
suitor too eagerly seized upon as an encouraging
omen. He was as usual ardent in his salutations. He
spoke fluently and boldly on all occasions; and very
greatly admiring the sound of his own voice, and supposing
it was equally admired by others, there was generally
an incessant flow of words from his mouth.

“Ah, madam!” cried he, “I am disappointed and delighted!”

“Indeed! I pity and congratulate you.”

“But let me explain—”

“Oh, no explanation is necessary.”

Mallex might now add surprise or astonishment to his
emotions. It was not usually easy for any one to interpose
a word until his first speech was fully delivered. But
the ladies, and Mrs. Dimple particularly, had generally
waited in patient silence for him to indicate a desire to be
responded to, by a decided closure of his wordy floodgate.

“Certainly an explanation is necessary, else I have
uttered an absurdity.”

“Ha, ha, ha! And is it possible you conceive yourself
to be incapable of that?”

“I beg your pardon, madam; but I would not do so
deliberately in the presence of the lady whom—”

“In the presence of a lady! Why, I supposed such
things were uttered more frequently in their presence than
elsewhere. But, proceed, I pray you; I will not interrupt
you again.”

“It was merely that I was disappointed in not finding
Mr. Bainton here; and delighted—hem! in meeting with
you alone.” This was not uttered so glibly as it would
have been, had he not met with an interruption. His confident
volubility had evidently suffered a check. Nor did
the silence and gravity which followed heighten his hopes.

“Go on, sir: I have said I would not interrupt you
again.”

“But the manner in which it is repeated, has interrupted
me most confoundedly. I almost forget what else
I intended to say!”

“Pause a moment. Perhaps you can recollect it.”

“Then without further preamble or circumlocution,”
said he, touching the floor with one knee, “I love you,
madam, and ask your hand in marriage!”

This was so aprupt; the manner of it so unexpected;
the point so precise, and the impudence so complete, that
the lady was under the necessity of inserting her handkerchief
in her mouth, and averting her head, to avoid a
hearty fit of laughter. It would have been impossible to
behold his face and attitude without giving vent to such
an impulse. But her resolution prevailed.

“Enough, sir, rise.” He sprang up. “But do not
misunderstand me! You have not succeeded—you never
will succeed.”

“That is plain enough not to be misunderstood. But,
really, madam, what I propose is seriously, earnestly
done.”

“And what I say is very soberly considered.”

“Inexorable, then?”

“If you can find more decisive words than I have
spoken, to signify my settled and irrevocable purpose to
decline any such honor, I beseech you to be my prompter,
or rather consider them spoken, and apply them to your
case.”

“Upon my soul, I cannot do it! Words seem hateful
to me now! I shall, in my contempt for them, grow
taciturn hereafter. I never was more disappointed in my
life! Madam, if my affair with your coachman is the
cause of this let me refer you to Mr. Persever for an explanation.
If you have supposed me culpable in the harmless
project to remove the little bastard boy to save my
friend Bainton from the annoyance of a counterfeit nephew,
claiming a share of his fortune, you have only to mention
that matter to my friend Mr. D. L. Parke, who will exculpate
me—”

“Cease, sir. It is unnecessary. The answer I have
given you is final.”

“Then, finally, madam, I have the honor to bid you
adieu.”

And the off-hand suitor bowed, and departed—without
exhibiting any evidences that his heart had been deeply
concerned in his matrimonial project.