University of Virginia Library

32. CHAPTER XXXII.
MRS. THEODORE KINGFISHER AT HOME. On dansera.

Society stared when it beheld Miss Hope Wayne entering
the drawing-room of Mrs. Theodore Kingfisher.

“Really, Miss Wayne, I am delighted,” said Mrs. Kingfisher,
with a smile that might have been made at the same shop
with the flowers that nodded over it.

Mrs. Kingfisher's friendship for Miss Wayne and her charming
aunt consisted in two pieces of pasteboard, on which was
printed, in German text, “Mrs. Theodore Kingfisher, St. John's
Square,” which she had left during the winter; and her pleasure

at seeing her was genuine—not that she expected they
would solace each other's souls with friendly intercourse, but
that she knew Hope to be a famous beauty who had held herself
retired until now at the very end of the season, when she
appeared for the first time at her ball.

This reflection secured an unusually ardent reception for
Mrs. Dagon, who followed Mrs. Dinks's party, and who, having
made her salutation to the hostess, said to Mr. Boniface
Newt, her nephew, who accompanied her,

“Now I'll go and stand by the pier-glass, so that I can rake
the rooms. And, Boniface, mind, I depend upon your getting
me some lobster salad at supper, with plenty of dressing—
mind, now, plenty of dressing.”

Perehed like a contemplative vulture by the pier, Mrs. Dagon
declined chairs and sofas, but put her eye-glass to her
eyes to spy out the land. She had arrived upon the scene of
action early. She always did.

“I want to see every body come in. There's a great deal
in watching how people speak to each other. I've found out
a great many things in that way, my dear, which were not
suspected.”

Presently a glass at the other end of the room that was bobbing
up and down and about at every body and thing—at the ceiling,
and the wall, and the carpet—discovering the rouge upon
cheeks whose ruddy freshness charmed less perceptive eyes—reducing
the prettiest lace to the smallest terms in substance and
price—detecting base cotton with one fell glance, and the part
of the old dress ingeniously furbished to do duty as new—this
philosophic and critical glass presently encountered Mrs. Dagon's
in mid-career. The two ladies behind the glasses glared
at each other for a moment, then bowed and nodded, like two
Chinese idols set up on end at each extremity of the room.

“Good-evening, dear, good Mrs. Winslow Orry,” said the
smiling eyes of Mrs. Dagon to that lady. “How doubly
scraggy you look in that worn-out old sea-green satin!” said
the smiling old lady to herself.

[ILLUSTRATION]

Aunt Dagon Raking The Room.

[Description: 538EAF. Page 191. In-line Illustration. Image of a woman in a ball gown peering through spectacles. The room behind her is crowded with figures of men and women. She holds an ostrich-feather fan in her hand.]

“How do, darling Mrs. Dagon?” said the responsive glance
of Mrs. Orry, with the most gracious effulgence of aspect, as
she glared across the room—inwardly thinking, “What a silly
old hag to lug that cotton lace cape all over town!”

People poured in. The rooms began to swarm. There was
a warm odor of kid gloves, scent-bags, and heliotrope. There
was an incessant fluttering of fans and bobbing of heads.

One hundred gentlemen said, “How warm it is!” One hundred
ladies of the highest fashion answered, “Very.” Fifty
young men, who all were coats, collars, and waistcoats that
seemed to have been made in the lump, and all after the same
pattern, stood speechless about the rooms, wondering what
under heaven to do with their hands. Fifty older married
men, who had solved that problem, folded their hands behind
their backs, and beamed vaguely about, nodding their heads
whenever they recognized any other head, and saying, “Good-evening,”
and then, after a little more beaming, “How are
yer?” Waiters pushed about with trays covered with little
glasses of lemonade and port-sangaree, which offered favorable
openings to the unemployed young men and the married
gentlemen, who crowded along with a glass in each hand,
frightening all the ladies and begging every body's pardon.

All the Knickerbocker jewels glittered about the rooms.
Mrs. Bleecker Van Kraut carried not less than thirty thousand
dollars' worth of diamonds upon her person—at least that
was Mrs. Orry's deliberate conclusion after a careful estimate.
Mrs. Dagon, when she heard what Mrs. Orry said, merely exclaimed,
“Fiddle! Anastatia Orry can tell the price of lutestring
a yard because Winslow Orry failed in that business,
but she knows as much of diamonds as an elephant of good
manners.”

The Van Kraut property had been bowing about the drawing-rooms
of New York for a year or two, watched with palpitating
hearts and longing eyes. Until that was disposed of,
nothing else could win a glance. There were several single
hundreds of thousands openly walking about the same rooms,
but while they were received very politely, they were made
to feel that two millions were in presence and unappropriated,
and they fell humbly back.

Fanny Newt, upon her début in society, had contemplated
the capture of the Van Kraut property; but the very vigor
with which she conducted the campaign had frightened the
poor gentleman who was the present member for that property,

[ILLUSTRATION]

"Society."

[Description: 538EAF. Page 193. In-line Illustration. Image of a crowd. In front are a man and woman in fancy dress.] in society, so that he shivered and withdrew on the dizzy
verge of a declaration; and when he subsequently encountered
Lucy Slumb, she was immediately invested with the family
jewels.

“Heaven save me from a smart woman!” prayed Bleecker
Van Kraut; and Heaven heard and kindly granted his prayer.

Presently, while the hot hum went on, and laces, silks,

satins, brocades, muslins, and broadcloth intermingled and
changed places, so that Arthur Merlin, whom Lawrence Newt
had brought, declared the ball looked like a shot silk or a
salmon's belly—upon overhearing which, Mrs. Bleecker Van
Kraut, who was passing with Mr. Moultrie, looked unspeakable
things—the quick eyes of Fanny Newt encountered the
restless orbs of Mrs. Dinks.

Alfred had left town for Boston on the very day on which
Hope Wayne had learned the story of her engagement. Neither
his mother nor Hope, therefore, had had an opportunity
of asking an explanation.

“I am glad to see Miss Wayne with you to-night,” said
Fanny.

“My niece is her own mistress,” replied Mrs. Dinks, in a
sub-acid tone.

Fanny's eyes grew blacker and sharper in a moment. An
Indian whose life depends upon concealment from his purseur
is not more sensitive to the softest dropping of the lightest
leaf than was Fanny Newt's sagacity to the slightest indication
of discovery of her secret. There is trouble, she said to
herself, as she heard Mrs. Dinks's reply.

“Miss Wayne has been a recluse this winter,” remarked
Fanny, with infinite blandness.

“Yes, she has had some kind of whim,” replied Mrs. Dinks,
shaking her shoulders as if to settle her dress.

“We girls have all suspected, you know, of course, Mrs.
Dinks,” said Miss Newt, with a very successful imitation of
archness and a little bend of the neck.

“Have you, indeed!” retorted Mrs. Dinks, in almost a bellicose
manner.

“Why, yes, dear Mrs. Dinks; don't you remember at Saratoga—you
know?” continued Fanny, with imperturbable composure.

“What happened at Saratoga?” asked Mrs. Dinks, with
smooth defiance on her face, and conscious that she had never
actually mentioned any engagement between Alfred and Hope.

“Dear me! So many things happen at Saratoga,” answered
Fanny, bridling like a pert miss of seventeen. “And when a
girl has a handsome cousin, it's very dangerous.” Fanny
Newt was determined to know where she was.

“Some girls are very silly and willful,” tartly remarked Mrs.
Dinks.

“I suppose,” said Fanny, with extraordinary coolness, continuing
the rôle of the arch maid of seventeen—“I suppose, if
every thing one hears is true, we may congratulate you, dear
Mrs. Dinks, upon an interesting event?” And Fanny raised
her bouquet and smelled at it vigorously—at least, she seemed
to be doing so, because the flowers almost covered her face,
but really they made an ambush from which she spied the
enemy, unseen.

The remark she had made had been made a hundred times
before to Mrs. Dinks. In fact, Fanny herself had used it, under
various forms, to assure herself, by the pleased reserve of
the reply which Mrs. Dinks always returned, that the lady had
no suspicion that she was mistaken. But this time Mrs. Dinks,
whose equanimity had been entirely disturbed by her discovery
that Hope was not engaged to Alfred, asked formally, and
not without a slight sneer which arose from an impatient suspicion
that Fanny knew more than she chose to disclose—

“And pray, Miss Newt, what do people hear? Really, if
other people are as unfortunate as I am, they hear a great deal
of nonsense.”

Upon which Mrs. Budlong Dinks sniffed the air like a
charger.

“I know it—it is really dreadful,” returned Fanny Newt.
“People do say the most annoying and horrid things. But
this time, I am sure, there can be nothing very vexatious.”
And Miss Newt fanned herself with persistent complacency,
as if she were resolved to prolong the pleasure which Mrs.
Dinks must undoubtedly have in the conversation.

Hitherto it had been the policy of that lady to demur and
insinuate, and declare how strange it was, and how gossipy

people were, and finally to retreat from a direct reply under
cover of a pretty shower of ohs! and ahs! and indeeds! and
that policy had been uniformly successful. Everybody said,
“Of course Alfred Dinks and his cousin are engaged, and Mrs.
Dinks likes to have it alluded to—although there are reasons
why it must be not openly acknowledged.” So Field-marshal
Mrs. Dinks outgeneraled Everybody. But the gallant
young private, Miss Fanny Newt, was resolved to win her
epaulets.

As Mrs. Dinks made no reply, and assumed the appearance
of a lady who, for her own private and inscrutable reasons,
had concluded to forego the prerogative of speech for evermore,
while she fanned herself calmly, and regarded Fanny
with a kind of truculent calmness that seemed to say, “What
are you going to do about that last triumphant move of
mine?” Fanny proceeded in a strain of continuous sweetness
that fairly rivaled the smoothness of the neck, and the eyes,
and the arms of Mrs. Bleecker Van Kraut:

“I suppose there can be nothing very disagreeable to Miss
Wayne's friends in knowing that she is engaged to Mr. Alfred
Dinks?”

Alas! Mrs. Dinks, who knew Hope, knew that the time for
dexterous subterfuges and misleadings had passed. She resolved
that people, when they discovered what they inevitably
soon must discover, should not suppose that she had been deceived.
So, looking straight into Fanny Newt's eyes without
flinching—and somehow it was not a look of profound affection—she
said,

“I was not aware of any such engagement.”

“Indeed!” replied the undaunted Fanny, “I have heard that
love is blind, but I did not know that it was true of maternal
love. Mr. Dinks's mother is not his confidante, then, I presume?”

The bad passions of Mr. Dinks's mother's heart were like
the heathen, and furiously raged together at this remark. She
continued the fanning, and said, with a sickly smile,

“Miss Newt, you can contradict from me the report of any
such engagement.”

That was enough. Fanny was mistress of the position. If
Mrs. Dinks were willing to say that, it was because she was
persuaded that it never would be true. She had evidently
discovered something. How much had she discovered? That
was the next step.

As these reflections flashed through the mind of Miss Fanny
Newt, and her cold black eye shone with a stony glitter, she
was conscious that the time for some decisive action upon her
part had arrived. To be or not to be Mrs. Alfred Dinks was
now the question; and even as she thought of it she felt what
must be done. She did not depreciate the ability of Mrs.
Dinks, and she feared her influence upon Alfred. Poor Mr.
Dinks! he was at that moment smoking a cigar upon the forward
deck of the Chancellor Livingston steamer, that plied
between New York and Providence. Mr. Bowdoin Beacon
sat by his side.

“She's a real good girl, and pretty, and rich, though she is
my cousin, Bowdoin. So why don't you?”

Mr. Beacon, a member of the upper sex, replied, gravely,
“Well, perhaps!”

They were speaking of Hope Wayne.

At the same instant also, in Mrs. Kingfisher's swarming
drawing-rooms, looking on at the dancers and listening to the
music, stood Hope Wayne, Lawrence Newt, Amy Waring, and
Arthur Merlin. They were chatting together pleasantly, Lawrence
Newt usually leading, and Hope Wayne bending her
beautiful head, and listening and looking at him in a way to
make any man eloquent. The painter had been watching for
Mr. Abel Newt's entrance, and, after he saw him, turned to
study the effect produced upon Miss Wayne by seeing him.

But Abel, who saw as much in his way as Mrs. Dagon in
hers, although without the glasses, had carefully kept in the
other part of the rooms. He had planted his batteries before
Mrs. Bleecker Van Kraut, having resolved to taste her, as

Herbert Octoyne had advised, notwithstanding that she had
no flavor, as Abel himself had averred.

But who eats merely for the flavor of the food?

That lady clicked smoothly as Abel, metaphorically speaking,
touched her. Louis Wilkottle, her cavalier, slipped away
from her he could not tell how: he merely knew that Abel
Newt was in attendance, vice Wilkottle, disappeared. So Wilkottle
floated about the rooms upon limp pinions for some
time, wondering where to settle, and brushed Fanny Newt in
flying.

“Oh! Mr. Wilkottle, you are just the man. Mr. Whitloe,
Laura Magot, and I were just talking about Batrachian reptiles.
Which are the best toads, the fattest?”

“Or does it depend upon the dressing?” asked Mr. Whitloe.

“Or the quantity of jewelry in the head?” said Laura Magot.

Mr. Wilkottle smiled, bowed, and passed on.

If they had called him an ass—as they were ladies of the
best position—he would have bowed, smiled, and passed on.

“An amiable fellow,” said Fanny, as he disappeared; “but
quite a remarkable fool.”

Mr. Zephyr Wetherley, still struggling with the hand problem,
approached Miss Fanny, and remarked that it was very
warm.

“You're cool enough in all conscience, Mr. Wetherley,” said
she.

“My dear Miss Newt, 'pon honor,” replied Zephyr, beginning
to be very red, and wiping his moist brow.

“I call any man cool who would have told St. Lawrence
upon the gridiron that he was frying,” interrupted Fanny.

“Oh! — ah! — yes! — on the gridiron! Yes, very good!
Ha! ha! Quite on the gridiron—very much so! 'Tis very
hot here. Don't you think so? It's quite confusing, like—
sort of bewildering. Don't you think so, Miss Newt?”

Fanny was leveling her black eyes at him for a reply, but
Mr. Wetherley, trying to regulate his hands, said, hastily,

“Yes, quite on the gridiron—very!” and rapidly moved off
it by moving on.

“Good evenin', Mrs. Newt,” said a voice in another part of
the room. “Good-evenin', marm. I sez to ma, Now ma, sez
I, you'd better go to Mrs. Kingfisher's ball. Law, pa, sez she,
I reckon 'twill be so werry hot to Mrs. Kingfisher's that I'd
better stay to home, sez she. So she staid. Well, 'tis dreadful
hot, Mrs. Newt. I'm all in a muck. As I was a-puttin' on
my coat, I sez, Now, ma, sez I, I hate to wear that coat, sez I.
A man does git so nasty sweaty in a great, thick coat, sez I.
Whew! I'm all sticky.”

And Mr. Van Boozenberg worked himself in his garments
and stretched his arms to refresh himself.

Mrs. Boniface Newt, to whom he made this oration, had been
taught by her husband that Mr. Van Boozenberg was an oaf,
but an oaf whose noise was to be listened to with the utmost
patience and respect. “He's a brute, my dear; but what can
we do? When I am rich we can get rid of such people.”

On the other hand, Jacob Van Boozenberg had his little
theory of Boniface Newt, which, unlike that worthy commission
merchant, he did not impart to his ma and the partner of
his bosom, but locked up in the vault of his own breast. Mr.
Van B. gloried in being what he called a self-made man. He
was proud of his nasal twang and his want of grammar, and
all amenities and decencies of speech. He regarded them as
inseparable from his success. He even affected them in the
company of those who were peculiarly elegant, and was secretly
suspicious of the mercantile paper of all men who were
unusually neat in their appearance, and who spoke their native
language correctly. The partner of his bosom was the constant
audience of his self-glorification.

A little while before, her lord had returned one day to dinner,
and said, with a tone of triumph,

“Well, ma, Gerald Bennet & Co. have busted up—smashed
all to pieces. Always knew they would. I sez to you, ma, a
hundred times—don't you remember?—Now, ma, sez I, 'tain't

no use. He's been to college, and he talks grammar, and all
that; but what's the use? What's the use of talkin' grammar?
Don't help nothin'. A man feels kind o' stuck up
when he's been to college. But, ma, sez I, gi' me a self-made
man—a man what knows werry well that twice two's four.
'A self-made man ain't no time for grammar, sez I. If a man
expects to get on in this world he mustn't be too fine. This
is the second time Bennet's busted. Better have no grammar
and more goods, sez I. You remember—hey, ma?”

When, a little while afterward, Mr. Bennet applied for a
situation as book-keeper in the bank of which Mr. Van Boozenberg
was president, that officer hung, drew, and quartered
the English language, before the very eyes of Mr. Bennet, to
show him how he despised it, and to impress him with the
great truth that he, Jacob Van Boozenberg, a self-made man,
who had no time to speak correctly, nor to be comely or
clean, was yet a millionaire before whom Wall Street trembled—while
he, Gerald Bennet, with all his education, and
polish, and care, and scrupulous neatness and politeness, was
a poverty-stricken, shiftless vagabond; and what good had
grammar done him? The ruined gentleman stood before
the president — who was seated in his large arm-chair at
the bank — holding his hat uncertainly, the nervous smile
glimmering like heat lightning upon his pale, anxious face,
in which his eyes shone with that singular, soft light of
dreams.

“Now, Mr. Bennet, I sez to ma this very mornin'—sez I,
`Ma, I s'pose Mr. Bennet 'll be wantin' a place in our bank.
If he hadn't been so wery fine,' sez I, `he might have got on.
He talks be-youtiful grammar, ma,”' said the worthy President,
screwing in the taunt, as it were; “`but grammar ain't good
to eat,' sez I. `He ain't a self-made man, as some folks is,' sez
I; `but I suppose I'll have to stick him in somewheres,' sez I
—that's all of it.”

Gerald Bennet winced. Beggars mustn't be choosers, said
he, feebly, in his sad heart, and he thankfully took the broken

victuals Jacob Van Boozenberg threw him. But he advised
Gabriel, as we saw, to try Lawrence Newt.

Mrs. Newt agreed with Mr. Van Boozenberg that it was
very warm.

“I heerd about you to Saratogy last summer, Mrs. Newt;
but you ain't been to see ma since you come home. `Ma,' sez
I, `why don't Mrs. Newt call and see us?' `Law, pa,' sez
she, `Mrs. Newt can't call and see such folks as we be!' sez
she. `We ain't fine enough for Mrs. Newt,”' said the great
man of Wall Street, and he laughed aloud at the excellent joke.

“Mrs. Van Boozenberg is very much mistaken,” replied
Mrs. Newt, anxiously. “I am afraid she did not get my card.
I am very sorry. But I hope you will tell her.”

The great Jacob knew perfectly well that Mrs. Newt had
called, but he liked to show himself how vast his power was.
He liked to see fine ladies in splendid drawing-rooms bowing
down before his ungrammatical throne, and metaphorically
kissing his knobby red hand.

“Your son, Abel, seems to enjoy himself werry well, Mrs.
Newt,” said Mr. Van Boozenberg, as he observed that youth,
in sumptuous array, dancing devotedly with Mrs. Bleecker Van
Kraut.

“Oh dear, yes,” replied Mrs. Newt. “But you know what
young sons are, Mr. Van Boozenberg.”

The conversation was setting precisely as that gentleman
wished, and as he had intended to direct it.

“Mercy, yes, Mrs. Newt! Ma sez to me, `Pa, what a boy
Corlear is! how he does spend money!' And I sez to ma,
`Ma, he do.' Tut, tut! The bills I have to pay for that
boy—! I s'pose, now, your Abel don't lay up no money—ha!
ha!”

Mr Van Boozenberg laughed again, and Mrs. Newt joined,
but in a low and rather distressed way, as if it were necessary
to laugh, although nothing funny had been said.

“It's positively dreadful the way he spends money,” replied
she. “I don't know where it will end.”

“Oh ho! it's the way with all young men, marm. I always
sez to ma she needn't fret her gizzard. Young men will sow
their wild oats. Oh, 'tain't nothin'. Mr. Newt knows that
werry well. Every man do.”

He watched Mrs. Newt's expression as he spoke. She
answered,

“I don't know about that; but Mr. Newt shakes his head
dismally nowadays about something or other, and he's really
grown old.”

In uttering these words Mrs. Newt had sealed the fate of a
large offering for discount made that very day by Boniface
Newt, Son, & Co.