85. CHAPTER LXXXV.
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 turn-about
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.
