University of Virginia Library

25. CHAPTER XXV.
A STATESMAN—AND STATESWOMAN.

In the same twilight Mrs. Dinks and Alfred sat together in
her room.

“Alfred, my dear, I see that Bowdoin Beacon drives out
your Cousin Hope a good deal.”

Mrs. Dinks arranged her cap-ribbon as if she were at present
mainly interested in that portion of her dress.

“Yes, a good deal,” replied Mr. Alfred, in an uncertain
tone, for he always felt uncomfortably at the prospect of a
conversation with his mother.

“I am surprised he should do so,” continued Mrs. Dinks,
with extraordinary languor, as if she should undoubtedly fall
fast asleep before the present interview terminated. And yet
she was fully awake.

“Why shouldn't he drive her out if he wants to?” inquired
Alfred.

“Now, Alfred, be careful. Don't expose yourself even to
me. It is too hot to be so absurd. I suppose there is some
sort of honor left among young men still, isn't there?”

And the languid mamma performed a very well-executed
yawn.

“Honor? I suppose there is. What do you mean?” replied
Alfred.

Mamma yawned again.

“How drowsy one does feel here! I am so sleepy! What
was I saying? Oh I remember. Perhaps, however, Mr.
Beacon doesn't know. That is probably the reason. He
doesn't know. Well, in that case it is not so extraordinary.
But I should think he must have seen, or inferred, or heard.
A man may be very stupid; but he has no right to be so
stupid as that. How many glasses do you drink at the spring

in the morning, Alfred? Not more than six at the outside, I
hope. Well, I believe I'll take a little nap.”

She played with her cap string, somehow as if she were an
angler playing a fish. There is capital trouting at Saratoga—
or was, thirty years ago. You may see to this day a good
many fish that were caught there, and with every kind of line
and bait.

Alfred bit again.

“I wish you wouldn't talk in such a puzzling kind of way,
mother. What do you mean about his knowing, and hearing,
and inferring?”

“Come, come, Alfred, you are getting too cunning. Why,
you sly dog, do you think you can impose upon me with an
air of ignorance because I am so sleepy. Heigh-ho.”

Another successful yawn. Sportsmen are surely the best
sport in the world.

“Now, Alfred,” continued his mother, “are you so silly as
to suppose for one moment that Bowdoin Beacon has not seen
the whole thing and known it from the beginning?”

“Why,” exclaimed Alfred, in alarm, “do you?”

“Of course. He has eyes and ears, I suppose, and every
body understood it.”

“Did they?” asked Alfred, bewildered and wretched; “I
didn't know it.”

“Of course. Every body knew it must be so, and agreed
that it was highly proper—in fact the only thing.”

“Oh, certainly. Clearly the only thing,” replied Alfred,
wondering whether his mother and he meant the same thing.

“And therefore I say it is not quite honorable in Beacon to
drive her out in such a marked manner. And I may as well
say at once that I think you had better settle the thing immediately.
The world understands it already, so it will be a
mere private understanding among ourselves, much more agreeable
for all parties. Perhaps this evening even—hey, Alfred?”

Mrs. Dinks adjusted herself upon the sofa in a sort of final
manner, as if the affair were now satisfactorily arranged.

“It's no use talking that way, mother; it's all done.”

Mrs. Dinks appeared sleepy no longer. She bounced like
an India-rubber ball. Even the cap-ribbons were left to shift
for themselves. She turned and clasped Alfred in her arms.

“My blessed son!”

Then followed a moment of silent rapture, during which she
moistened his shirt-collar with maternal tears.

“Alfred,” whispered she, “are you really engaged?”

“Yes'm.”

She squeezed him as if he were a bag of the million dollars
of which she felt herself to be henceforth mistress.

“You dear, good boy! Then you are sly after all!”

“Yes'm, I'm afraid I am,” rejoined Alfred very uncomfortably,
and with an extremely ridiculous and nervous impression
that his mother was congratulating him upon something she
knew nothing about.

“Dear, dear, DEAR boy!” said Mrs. Dinks, with a crescendo
affection and triumph. While she was yet embracing him,
his father, the unemployed statesman, the Honorable Budlong
Dinks, entered.

To the infinite surprise of that gentleman, his wife rose, came
to him, put her arm affectionately in his, and leaning her head
upon his shoulder, whispered exultingly, and not very softly,

“It's done without the wagon. Our dear boy has justified
our fondest hopes, Budlong.”

The statesman slipped his shoulder from under her head.
If there were one thing of which he was profoundly persuaded
it was that a really great man—a man to whom important
public functions may be properly intrusted—must, under no
circumstances, be wheedled by his wife. He must gently, but
firmly, teach her her proper sphere. She must not attempt to
bribe that judgment to which the country naturally looks in
moments of difficulty.

Having restored his wife to an upright position, the honorable
gentleman looked upon her with distinguished consideration;
and, playing with the seals that hung at the end of his

[ILLUSTRATION]

Io Triumphe.

[Description: 538EAF. Page 145. In-line Illustration. Image of a man with crazy hair and a woman who is resting her head on the man's shoulder.] watch-ribbon, asked her, with the most protective kindness in
the world, what she was talking about.

She laid her cap-ribbons properly upon her shoulder, smoothed
her dress, and began to fan herself in a kind of complacent
triumph, as she answered,

“Alfred is engaged as we wished.”

The honorable gentleman beamed approval with as much

cordiality as statesmen who are also fathers of private families,
as well as of the public, ought to indulge toward their children.
Shaking the hand of his son as if his shoulder wanted oiling,
he said,

“Marriage is a most important relation. Young men can
not be too cautious in regard to it. It is not an affair of the
feelings merely; but common sense dictates that when new
relations are likely to arise, suitable provision should be made.
Hence every well-regulated person considers the matter from
a pecuniary point of view. The pecuniary point of view is indispensable.
We can do without sentiment in this world, for
sentiment is a luxury. We can not dispense with money, because
money is a necessity. It gives me, therefore, great pleasure
to hear that the choice of my son has evinced the good
sense which, I may say without affectation, I hope he has inherited,
and has justified the pains and expense which I have
been at in his education. My son, I congratulate you. Mrs.
Dinks, I congratulate you.”

The honorable gentleman thereupon shook hands with his
wife and son, as if he were congratulating them upon having
such an eloquent and dignified husband and father, and then
blew his nose gravely and loudly. Having restored his handkerchief,
he smiled in general, as it were—as if he hung out
signals of amity with all mankind upon condition of good behavior
on their part.

Poor Alfred was more speechless than ever. He felt very
warm and red, and began to surmise that to be engaged was
not necessarily to be free from carking care. He was sorely
puzzled to know how to break the real news to his parents:

“Oh! dear me,” thought Alfred; “oh! dear me, I wonder
if Fanny wouldn't do it. I guess I'd better ask her. I wonder
if Hope would have had me! Oh! dear me. I wonder
if old Newt is rich. How'd I happen to do it? Oh! dear
me.”

He felt very much depressed indeed.

“Well, mother, I'm going down,” said he.

“My dear, dear son! Kiss me, Alfred,” replied his mother.

He stooped and kissed her cheek.

“How happy we shall all be!” murmured she.

“Oh, very, very happy!” answered Alfred, as he opened
the door.

But as he closed it behind him, the best billiard-player at
the Trimountain billiard-rooms said, ruefully, in his heart,
while he went to his beloved,

“Oh! dear me! Oh!—dear—me! How'd I happen to do
it?”

Fanny Newt, of course, had heard from Alfred of the interview
with his mother on the same evening, as they sat in Mrs.
Newt's parlor before going into the ball. Fanny was arrayed
in a charming evening costume. It was low about the neck,
which, except that it was very white, descended like a hard,
round beach from the low shrubbery of her back hair to the
shore of the dress. It was very low tide; but there was a
gentle ripple of laces and ribbons that marked the line of division.
Mr. Alfred Dinks had taken a little refreshment since
the conversation with his mother, and felt at the moment quite
equal to any emergency.

“The fact is, Fanny dear,” said he, “that mother has always
insisted that I should marry Hope Wayne. Now Hope
Wayne is a very pretty girl, a deuced pretty girl; but, by
George! she's not the only girl in the world—hey, Fanny?”

At this point Mr. Dinks made free with the lips of Miss
Newt.

“Pah! Alfred, my dear, you have been drinking wine,” said
she, moving gently away from him.

“Of course I have, darling; haven't I dined?” replied Alfred,
renewing the endearment.

Now Fanny's costume was too careful, her hair too elaborately
arranged, to withstand successfully these osculatory onsets.

“Alfred, dear, we may as well understand these little matters
at once,” said she.

“What little matters, darling?” inquired Mr. Dinks, with
interest. He was unwontedly animated, but, as he explained
—he had dined.

“Why, this kissing business.”

“You dear!” cried Alfred, impetuously committing a fresh
breach of the peace.

“Stop, Alfred,” said Fanny, imperiously. “I won't have
this. I mean,” said she, in a mollified tone, remembering that
she was only engaged, not married—“I mean that you tumble
me dreadfully. Now, dear, I'll make a little rule. You
know you don't want your Fanny to look mussed up, do you,
dear?” and she touched his cheek with the tip of one finger.
Dinks shook his head negatively. “Well, then, you shall only
kiss me when I am in my morning-dress, and one kiss, with
hands off, when we say good-night.”

She smiled a little cold, hard, black smile, smoothing her
rumpled feathers, and darting glances at herself in the large
mirror opposite, as if she considered her terms the most reasonable
in the world.

“It seems to me very little,” said Alfred Dinks, discontentedly;
“besides, you always look best when you are dressed.”

“Thank you, love,” returned Fanny; “just remember the
morning-dress, please, for I shall; and now tell me all about
your conversation with your mother.”

Alfred told the story. Fanny listened with alarm. She
had watched Mrs. Dinks closely during the whole summer,
and she was sure—for Fanny knew herself thoroughly, and
reasoned accordingly—that the lady would stop at nothing in
the pursuit of her object.

“What a selfish woman it is!” thought Fanny. “Not
content with Alfred's share of the inheritance, she wants to
bring the whole Burt fortune into her family. How insatiable
some people are!”

“Alfred, has your mother seen Hope since she talked with
you?”

“I'm sure I don't know.”

“Why didn't you warn her not to?”

“I didn't think of it.”

“But why didn't you think of it? If you'd only have put
her off, we could have got time,” said Fanny, a little pettishly.

“Got time for what?” asked Alfred, blankly.

“Alfred,” said Fanny, coaxing herself to speak gently,
“I'm afraid you will be trying, dear. I am very much afraid
of it.”

The lover looked doubtful and alarmed.

“Don't look like a fool, Alfred, for Heaven's sake!” cried
Fanny; but she immediately recovered herself, and said, with
a smile, “You see, dear, how I can scold if I want to. But
you'll never let me, I know.”

Mr. Dinks hoped certainly that he never should. “But I
sha'n't be a very hard husband, Fanny. I shall let you do
pretty much as you want to.”

“Dearest, I know you will,” rejoined his charmer. “But
the thing is now to know whether your mother has seen
Hope Wayne.”

“I'll go and ask her,” said Alfred, rising.

“My dear fellow,” replied Fanny, with her mouth screwed
into a semblance of smiling, “you'll drive me distracted. I
must insist on common sense. It is too delicate a question
for you to ask.”

Mr. Dinks grinned and look bewildered. Then he assumed
a very serious expression.

“It doesn't seem to me to be hard to ask my mother if she
has seen my cousin.”

“Pooh! you silly—I mean, my precious darling, your mother's
too smart for you. She'd have every thing out of you in
a twinkling.”

“I suppose she would,” said Alfred, meekly.

Fanny Newt wagged her foot very rapidly, and looked fixedly
upon the floor. Alfred gazed at her admiringly—thought
what a splendid Mrs. Alfred Dinks he had secured, and smacked
his lips as if he were tasting her. He kissed his hand to her

as he sat. He kissed the air toward her. He might as well
have blown kisses to the brown spire of Trinity Church.

“Alfred, you must solemnly promise me one thing,” she
said, at length.

“Sweet,” said Alfred, who began to feel that he had dined
very much, indeed—“sweet, come here!”

Fanny flushed and wrinkled her brow. Mr. Dinks was
frightened.

“Oh no, dear—no, not at all,” said he.

“My love,” said she, in a voice as calm but as black as her
eyes, “do you promise or not? That's all.”

Poor Dinks! He said Yes, in a feeble way, and hoped she
wouldn't be angry. Indeed—indeed, he didn't know how much
he had been drinking. But the fellers kept ordering wine, and
he had to drink on; and, oh! dear, he wouldn't do so again if
Fanny would only forgive him. Dear, dear Fanny, please to
forgive a miserable feller! And Miss Newt's betrothed sobbed,
and wept, and half writhed on the sofa in maudlin woe.

Fanny stood erect, patting the floor with her foot and looking
at this spectacle. She thought she had counted the cost.
But the price seemed at this instant a little high. Twenty-two
years old now, and if she lived to be only seventy, then forty-eight
years of Alfred Dinks! It was a very large sum, indeed.
But Fanny bethought her of the balm in Gilead. Forty-eight
years of married life was very different from an engagement
of that period. Courage, ma chère!

“Alfred,” said she, at length, “listen to me. Go to your
mother before she goes to bed to-night, and say to her that
there are reasons why she must not speak of your engagement
to any body, not even to Hope Wayne. And if she begins to
pump you, tell her that it is the especial request of the lady—
whom you may call `she,' you needn't say Hope—that no question
of any kind shall be asked, or the engagement may be
broken. Do you understand, dear?”

Fanny leaned toward him coaxingly as she asked the question.

“Oh yes, I understand,” replied Alfred.

“And you'll do just as Fanny says, won't you, dear?” said
she, even more caressingly.

“Yes, I will, I promise,” answered Alfred.

“You may kiss me, dear,” said Fanny, leaning toward him,
so that the operation need not disarrange her toilet.

Alfred Dinks kept his word; and his mother was perfectly
willing to do as she was asked. She smiled with intelligence
whenever she saw her son and his cousin together, and remarked
that Hope Wayne's demeanor did not in the least betray
the engagement. And she smiled with the same intelligence
when she remarked how devoted Alfred was to Fanny
Newt.

“Can it possibly be that Alfred knows so much?” she asked
herself, wondering at the long time during which her son's cunning
had lain dormant.