11. CHAPTER XI.
A VERDICT AND A SENTENCE.
Hope Wayne did not agree with Abel Newt that life was
so much better in books. There was nothing better in any
book she had ever read than the little conversation with the
handsome youth which she had had that morning upon the
lawn. When she went into the house she found no one until
she knocked at Mrs. Simcoe's door.
“Aunty, did you call me?”
“Yes, Hope.”
“I was on the lawn, Aunty.”
“I know it, Hope.”
The young lady did not ask her why she had not sought
her there, but she asked, “What do you want, Aunty?”
The older woman looked quietly out of the window. Neither
spoke for a long time.
“I saw you talking with Abel Newt on the lawn. Why
did he strike that boy?” asked Mrs. Simcoe at length, still
gazing at the distant hills.
“He had to defend himself,” said Hope, rapidly.
“Couldn't a young man protect himself against a boy without
stunning him? He might easily have killed him,” said
Mrs. Simcoe, in the same dry tone.
“It was very unfortunate, and Mr. Newt says so; but I
don't think he is to bear every thing.”
“What did the other do?”
“He insulted him.”
“Indeed!”
The tone in which the elderly woman spoke was trying.
Hope was flushed, and warm, and disconcerted. There was
so much skepticism and contempt in the single word “indeed!”
as Mrs. Simcoe pronounced it, that Hope was really
angry with her.
“I don't see why you should treat Mr. Newt in that manner,”
said she, haughtily.
“In what manner, Hope?” asked the other, calmly, fixing
her eyes upon her companion.
“In that sneering, contemptuous manner,” replied Hope,
loftily. “Here is a young man who falls into an unfortunate
quarrel, in which he happens to get the better of his opponent,
who chances to be younger. He helps him carefully into the
carriage. He explains upon the spot as well as he can, and
to-day he comes to explain further; and you will not believe
him; you misunderstand and misrepresent him. It is unkind,
Aunty—unkind.”
Hope was almost sobbing.
“Has he once said he was sorry?” asked Mrs. Simcoe.
“Has he told you so this morning?”
“Of course he is sorry, Aunty. How could he help it? Do
you suppose he is a brute? Do you suppose he hasn't ordinary
human feeling? Why do you treat him so?”
Hope asked the question almost fiercely.
Mrs. Simcoe sat profoundly still, and said nothing. Her face
seemed to grow even more rigid as she sat. But suddenly
turning to the proud young girl who stood at her side, her
bosom heaving with passion, she drew her toward her by both
hands, pulled her face down close to hers, and kissed her.
Hope sank on her knees by the side of Mrs. Simcoe's chair.
All the pride in her heart was melted, and poured out of her
eyes. She buried her face upon Mrs. Simcoe's shoulder, and
her passion wept and sobbed itself away. She did not understand
what it was, nor why. A little while before, upon the
lawn, she had been so happy. Now it seemed as if her heart
were breaking. When she grew calmer, Mrs. Simcoe, holding
the fair face between her hands, and tenderly kissing it once
more, said, slowly,
“Hope, my child, we must all walk the path alone. But
you, too, will learn that our human affections are but tents of
a night.”
“Aunty, Aunty, what do you mean?” asked Hope, who had
risen as the other was speaking, and now stood beside her,
pale and proud.
“I mean, Hope, that you are in love with Abel Newt.”
Hope's hands dropped by her side. She stepped back a little.
A feeling of inexpressible solitude fell upon her—of alienation
from her grandfather, and of an inexplicable separation
from her old nurse—a feeling as if she suddenly stood alone
in the world—as if she had ceased to be a girl.
“Aunty, is it wrong to love him?”
Before Mrs. Simcoe could answer there was a knock at the
door. It was Hiram, who announced the victim of yesterday's
battle, waiting in the parlor to say a word to Miss Wayne.
“Yes, Hiram.” He bowed and withdrew. Hope Wayne
stood at the window silent for a little while, then, with the
calm, lofty air—calmer and loftier than ever—she went down
and found Gabriel Bennet. He had come to thank her—to
say how much better he was—how sorry that he should have
been so disgraced as to have been fighting almost before her
very eyes.
“I suppose I was very foolish and furious,” said he. “Abel
ran against me, and I got very angry and struck him. It was
wrong; I know it was, and I am very sorry. But, ma'am, I
hope you won't—ch—ch—I mean, won't—”
That unlucky “ma'am” had choked all his other words.
Hope was so lofty and splendid in his eyes as she stood before
him that he was impressed with a kind of awe. But the
moment he had spoken to her as if he were only a little boy
and she a woman, he was utterly confused. He staggered
and stumbled in his sentence until Hope graciously said,
“I blame nobody.”
But poor Gabriel's speech was gone. His mouth was
parched and his mind dry. He could not think of a word to
say; and, twisting and fumbling his cap, did not know how
to go.
“There, Miss Wayne!” suddenly said a voice at the door.
Hope and Gabriel turned at the same moment, and beheld
Abel Newt entering the room gayly, with a sketch in his hand.
He nodded to Gabriel without speaking, but went directly to
Hope and showed her the drawing.
“There, that will do for a beginning, will it not?”
It was a bold, dashing sketch. The pine-trees, the windows,
the piazzas—yes, she saw them all. They had a new charm
in her eyes.
“That tree comes a little nearer that window,” said she.
“How do you know it does?” he replied. “You, who only
draw from books?”
“I think I ought to know the tree that I see every day at
my own window!”
“Oh! that is your window!”
Gabriel was confounded at this sudden incursion and apparent
resumption of a previous conversation. As he ran up
the avenue he had not remarked Abel sketching on the lawn.
But Abel, sketching on the lawn, had observed Gabriel running
up the avenue, and therefore happened in to ask Miss
Wayne's opinion of his drawing. He chatted merrily on:
“Why, there's your grandpapa when he was a little grand-baby
and had an old grandpapa in his turn,” said he, pointing
at the portrait he had remarked upon his previous visit in that
parlor. “What a funny little old fellow! Let me see. Gracious!
'twas before the Revolution. Ah! now, if he could
only speak and tell us just what he saw in the room where
they were painting him—what he had for breakfast, for instance—what
those dear little ridiculous waistcoats, with all
their flowery embroidery, cost a yard, say—yes, yes, and what
book that is—and who gave him the hoop—”
He rattled on. Never in Hope's lifetime had such sounds
of gay speech been heard in that well-arranged and well-behaved
parlor. They seemed to light it up. The rapid talk
bubbled like music.
“Hoop and book—book and hoop! Oh yes. Good boy,
very good boy,” said Abel, laughing. “I should think it was
a portrait of the young Dr. Peewee—the wee Peewee, Miss
Hope,” said the audacious youth, sliding, as it were, unconsciously
and naturally into greater familiarity. “Ah! I know
you know all his sermons by heart, for you never look away
from him. What on earth are they all about?”
What a contrast to Gabriel's awkward silence of the moment
before! Such a handsome face! such a musical voice!
In the midst of it all Hiram was heard remonstrating outside:
“Don't, Sir, don't! You'll — you'll — something will happen,
Sir.”
There was a moment's scuffling and trampling, and Christopher
Burt, restrained by Hiram, burst into the room. The
old man was white with wrath. He had his cane in one hand,
and Hiram held the other hand and arm.
He had come in from the garden, and as he stopped in the
dining-room to take a little trip to the West Indies, he had
heard voices in the drawing-room. Summoning Hiram to
know if they were visitors, he had learned the awful truth
which apprised him that his Hesperidian wall was down, and
that the robbers at that very moment might be shaking his
precious fruit from the boughs. To be sure he had himself
left the gate open. Do you think, then, it helps a man's temper
to be as furious with himself as with other people? He
burst into the room.
There stood Hope: Abel at her side, in the merry midst of
his talk, with his sketch in his hand, his port-folio under his
arm, and his finger pointed toward the portrait; Gabriel, at a
little distance, confounded and abashed by an acquaintance between
Hope and Abel of which he had no previous suspicion.
The poor boy! forgotten by Hope, and purposely trampled
down by the eager talk of Abel.
“Hope, go up stairs!” shouted the old gentleman. “And
what are you doing in my house, you scamps?”
He lifted his cane as he came toward them. “I knew all
this fighting business yesterday was a conspiracy—a swindling
cheat to get into this house! I've a mind to break your
impudent bones!”
“Why, Sir,” said Abel, “you gave me leave to come here
and sketch.”
“Did I give you leave to come into my parlor and bring
boys with you, Sir, and take up the time of my grand-daughter?
Hope, I say, go up stairs!”
“I only thought, Sir—” began Abel.
“Now, in Heaven's name, don't make me angry, Sir!” burst
in the old gentleman, almost foaming at the mouth. “Why
should you think, Sir: What business have you to think,
Sir? You're a boy, Sir—a school-boy, Sir! Are you going
to dispute with me in my own house? I take back my permission.
Go, both of you! and never let me see your faces
again!”
The old man stood pointing with his cane toward the door.
“Go, both of you!” repeated he, fiercely. It was impossible
to resist; and Abel and Gabriel moved slowly toward the
door. The former was furious at finding himself doomed in
company with Gabriel. But he betrayed nothing. He was
preternaturally calm. Hope, dismayed and pale, stood looking
on, but saying nothing. Gabriel went quietly out of the
room. Abel turned to the door, and bowed gravely to Hope.
“Remember, Sir,” cried the old man, “I take back my permission!”
“I understand, Sir,” replied Abel, bowing to him also.
He closed the door; and as he did so it seemed to Hope
Wayne as if the sunshine were extinguished.
