17. CHAPTER XVII.
OF GIRLS AND FLOWERS.
Mr. Abel Newt was not a philosopher; he was a man of
action.
He told his mother that he could not accompany her to the
Springs, because he must prepare himself to enter the counting-room
of his father. But the evening before she left, Mrs.
Newt gave a little party for Mrs. Plumer, of New Orleans.
So Miss Grace, of whom his mother had written Abel, and
who was just about leaving school, left school and entered society,
simultaneously, by taking leave of Madame de Feuille
and making her courtesy at Mrs. Boniface Newt's.
Madame de Feuille's was a “finishing” school. An extreme
polish was given to young ladies by Madame de Feuille. By
her generous system they were fitted to be wives of men of
even the largest fortune. There was not one of her pupils
who would not have been equal to the addresses of a millionaire.
It is the profound conviction of all who were familiar
with that seminary that the pupils would not have shrunk from
marrying a crown-prince, or any king in any country who confined
himself to Christian wedlock with one wife, or even the
son of an English duke—so perfect was the polish, so liberal
the education.
Mrs. Newt's party was select. Mrs. Plumer, Miss Grace
Plumer and the Magots, with Mellish Whitloe, of course; and
Mrs. Osborne Moultrie, a lovely woman from Georgia, and
her son Sligo, a slim, graceful gentleman, with fair hair and
eyes; Dr. and Mrs. Lush. Rev. Dr. and Mrs. Maundy, who
came only upon the express understanding that there was to
be no dancing, and a few other agreeable people. It was a
Summer party, Abel said—mere low-necked muslin, strawberries
and ice-cream.
The eyes of the strangers of the gentler sex soon discovered
the dark, rich face of Abel, who moved among the groups
with the grace and ease of an accomplished man of society,
smiling brightly upon his friends, bowing gravely to those of
his mother's guests whom he did not personally know.
“Who is that?” asked Mrs. Whetwood Tully, who had recently
returned with her daughter, one of Madame de Feuille's
finest successes, from a foreign tour.
“That is my brother Abel,” replied Miss Fanny.
“Your brother Abel? how charming! How very like he
is to Viscount Tattersalls. You've not been in England, I believe,
Miss Newt?”
Fanny bowed negatively.
“Ah! then you have never seen Lord Tattersalls. He is a
very superior young man. We were very intimate with him
indeed. Dolly, dear!”
“Yes, ma.”
“You remember our particular friend Lord Viscount Tattersalls?”
“Was he a bishop?” asked Miss Fanny Newt.
“Law! no, my dear. He was a—he was a—why, he was a
Viscount, you know—a Viscount.”
“Oh! a Viscount?”
“Yes, a Viscount.”
“Ah! a Viscount.”
“Well, Dolly dear, do you see how much Mr. Abel Newt
resembles Lord Tattersalls?”
“Yes, ma.”
“It's very striking, isn't it?”
“Yes, ma.”
“Or now I look I think he is even more like the Marquis
of Crockford. Don't you think so?”
“Yes, ma?”
“Very like indeed.”
“Yes, ma.”
“Dolly, dear, don't you think his nose is like the Duke of
Wellington's? You remember the Wellington nose, my
child?”
“Yes, ma.”
“Or is it Lord Brougham's that I mean?”
“Yes, ma.”
“Yes, dear.”
“May I present my brother Abel, Miss Tully?” asked Fanny
Newt.
“Yes, I'm sure,” said Miss Tully.
Fanny Newt turned just as a song began in the other room,
out of which opened the conservatory.
“Last May a braw wooer cam down the lang glen,
And sair wi' his love he did deave me:
I said there was naething I hated like men—
The deuce gae wi'm to believe me, believe me,
The deuce gae wi'm to believe me.”
The rooms were hushed as the merry song rang out. The
voice of the singer was arch, and her eye flashed slyly on Abel
Newt as she finished, and a murmur of pleasure rose around
her.
Abel leaned upon the piano, with his eyes fixed upon the
singer. He was fully conscious of the surprise he had betrayed
to sister Fanny when she spoke suddenly of Mrs. Alfred
Dinks. It was necessary to remove any suspicion that she might
entertain in consequence. If Mr. Abel Newt had intentions
in which Miss Hope Wayne was interested, was there any
reason why Miss Fanny Newt should mingle in the matter?
As Miss Plumer finished the song Abel saw his sister coming
toward him through the little crowd, although his eyes
seemed to be constantly fixed upon the singer.
“How beautiful!” said he, ardently, in a low voice, looking
Grace Plumer directly in the eyes.
“Yes, it is a pretty song.”
“Oh! you mean the song?” said Abel.
The singer blushed, and took up a bunch of roses that she
had laid upon the piano and began to play with them.
“How very warm it is!” said she.
“Yes,” said Abel. “Let us take a turn in the conservatory—it
is both darker and cooler; and I think your eyes
will give light and warmth enough to our conversation.”
“Dear me! if you depend upon me it will be the Arctic
zone in the conservatory,” said Miss Grace Plumer, as she rose
from the piano. (Mrs. Newt had written Abel she was fourteen!
She was seventeen in May.)
“No, no,” said Abel, “we shall find the tropics in that conservatory.”
“Then look out for storms!” replied Miss Plumer, laughing.
Abel offered his arm, and the young couple moved through
the humming room. The arch eyes were cast down. The
voice of the youth was very low.
He felt a touch, and turned. He knew very well who it
was. It was his sister.
“Abel, I want to present you to Miss Whetwood Tully.”
“My dear Fanny, I can not turn from roses to violets. Miss
Tully, I am sure, is charming. I would go with you with all
my heart if I could,” said he, smiling and looking at Miss
Plumer; “but, you see, all my heart is going here.”
Grace Plumer blushed again. He was certainly a charming
young man.
Fanny Newt, with lips parted, looked at him a moment
and shook her head gently. Abel was sure she would happen
to find herself in the conservatory presently, whither he and
his companion slowly passed. It was prettily illuminated with
a few candles, but was left purposely dim.
“How lovely it is here! Oh! how fond I am of flowers!”
said Miss Plumer, with the prettiest little rapture, and such
a little spring that Abel was obliged to hold her arm more
closely.
“Are you fond of flowers, Mr. Newt?”
“Yes; but I prefer them living.”
“Living flowers—what a poetic idea! But what do you
mean?” asked Grace Plumer, hanging her head.
Abel saw somebody on the cane sofa under the great orange-tree,
almost hidden in the shade. Dear Fanny! thought he.
“My dear Grace,” began Abel, in his lowest, sweetest voice;
but the conservatory was so still that the words could have
been easily heard by any one sitting upon the sofa.
Some one was sitting there—some one did hear. Abel
smiled in his heart, and bent more closely to his companion.
His manner was full of tender devotion. He and Grace came
nearer. Some one not only heard, but started. Abel raised
his eyes smilingly to meet Fanny's. Somebody else started
then; for under the great orange-tree, on the cane sofa, sat
Lawrence Newt and Hope Wayne.
