34. CHAPTER XXXIV.
HEAVEN'S LAST BEST GIFT.
“My dear Alfred, I am glad to see you. You may kiss
me—carefully, carefully!”
Mr. Alfred Dinks therewith kissed lips upon his return
from Boston.
“Sit down, Alfred, my dear, I wish to speak to you,” said
Fanny Newt, with even more than her usual decision. The
eyes were extremely round and black. Alfred seated himself
with vague trepidation.
“My dear, we must be married immediately,” remarked
Fanny, quietly.
The eyes of the lover shone with pleasure.
“Dear Fanny!” said he, “have you told mother?”
“No,” answered she, calmly.
“Well, but then you know—” rejoined Alfred. He would
have said more, but he was afraid. He wanted to inquire
whether Fanny thought that her father would supply the sinews
of matrimony. Alfred's theory was that he undoubtedly
would. He was sure that a young woman of Fanny's calmness,
intrepidity, and profound knowledge of the world would
not propose immediate matrimony without seeing how the
commissariat was to be supplied. She has all her plans laid,
of course, thought he—she is so talented and cool that 'tis all
right, I dare say. Of course she knows that I have nothing,
and hope for nothing except from old Burt, and he's not sure
for me, by any means. But Boniface Newt is rich enough.
And Alfred consoled himself by thinking of the style in
which that worthy commission merchant lived, and especially
of his son Abel's expense and splendor.
“Alfred, dear—just try not to be trying, you know, but
think what you are about. Your mother has found out that
something has gone wrong—that you are not engaged to
Hope Wayne.”
“Yes—yes, I know,” burst in Alfred; “she treated me like
a porcupine this morning—or ant-eater, which is it, Fanny—
the thing with quills, you know?”
Miss Fanny Newt patted the floor with her foot. Alfred
continued:
“Yes, and Hope sent down, and she wanted to see me alone
some time to-day.”
Fanny's foot stopped.
“Alfred, dear,” said she, “you are a good fellow, but you
are too amiable. You must do just as I want you to, dearest,
or something awful will happen.”
“Pooh! Fanny; nothing shall happen. I love you like any
thing.”
Smack! smack!
“Well, then, listen, Alfred! Your mother doesn't like me.
She would do any thing to prevent your marrying me. The
reasons I will tell you at another time. If you go home and
talk with her and Hope Wayne, you can not help betraying
that you are engaged to me; and—you know your mother,
Alfred—she would openly oppose the marriage, and I don't
know what she might not say to my father.”
Fanny spoke clearly and rapidly, but calmly. Alfred looked
utterly bewildered.
“It's a great pity, isn't it?” said he, feebly. “What do
you think we had better do?”
“We must be married, Alfred, dear!”
“Yes; but when, Fanny?”
“To-day,” said Fanny, firmly, and putting out her hand to
her beloved.
He seized it mechanically.
“To-day, Fanny?” asked he, after a pause of amazement.
“Certainly, dear—to-day. I am as ready now as I shall be
a year hence.”
“But what will my mother say?” inquired Alfred, in alarm.
“It will be too late for her to say any thing. Don't you
see, Alfred, dear!” continued Fanny, in a most assuring tone,
“that if we go to your mother and say, `Here we are, married!'
she has sense enough to perceive that nothing can be
done; and after a little while all will be smooth again?”
Her lover was comforted by this view. He was even
pleased by the audacity of the project.
“I swear, Fanny,” said he, at length, in a more cheerful and
composed voice, “I think it's rather a good idea!”
“Of course it is, dear. Are you ready?”
Alfred gasped a little at the prompt question, despite his
confidence.
“Why, Fanny, you don't mean actually now — this very
day? Gracious!”
“Why not now? Since we think best to be married immediately
and in private, why should we put it off until to-night,
or next week, when we are both as ready now as we
can be then?” asked Fanny, quietly; “especially as something
may happen to make it impossible then.”
Alfred Dinks shut his eyes.
“What will you father say?” he inquired, at length, without
raising his eyelids.
“Do you not see he will have to make up his mind to it,
just as your mother will?” replied Fanny.
“And my father!” said Alfred, in a state of temporary
blindness continued.
“Yes, and your father too,” answered Fanny, both she and
Alfred treating the Honorable Budlong Dinks as a mere tender
to that woman-of-war his wife, in a way that would have
been incredible to a statesman who considered his wife a
mere domestic luxury.
There was a silence of several minutes. Then Mr. Dinks
opened his eyes, and said,
“Well, Fanny, dear!”
“Well, Alfred, dear!” and Fanny leaned toward him, with
her head poised like that of a black snake. Alfred was fascinated.
Perhaps he was sorry he was so; perhaps he wanted
to struggle. But he did not. He was under the spell.
There was still a lingering silence Fanny waited patiently.
At length she asked again, putting her hand in her lover's:
“Are you ready?”
“Yes!” said Alfred, in a crisp, resolute tone.
Fanny raised her hand and rang the bell. The waiter appeared.
“John, I want a carriage immediately.”
“Yes, Miss.”
“And, John, tell Mary to bring me my things. I am going
out.”
“Yes, Miss.” And hearing nothing farther, John disappeared.
It was perhaps a judicious instinct which taught Fanny not
to leave Alfred alone by going up to array herself in her own
chamber. The intervals of delay between the coming of the
maid and the coming of the carriage the young woman employed
in conversing dexterously about Boston, and the friends
he had seen there, and in describing to him the great Kingfisher
ball.
Presently she was bonneted and cloaked, and the carriage
was at the door.
Her home had not been a Paradise to Fanny Newt—nor
were Aunt Dagon, Papa and Mamma Newt, and brother Abel
altogether angels. She had no superfluous emotions of any
kind at any time; but as she passed through the hall she saw
her sister May—the youngest child—a girl of sixteen—Uncle
Lawrence's favorite—standing upon the stairs.
She said nothing; the hall was quite dim, and as the girl
stood in the half light her childlike, delicate beauty seemed to
Fanny more striking than ever. If Uncle Lawrence had seen
her at the moment he would have thought of Jacob's ladder
and the angels ascending and descending.
“Good-by, May!” said Fanny, going up to her sister, taking
her face between her hands and kissing her lips.
The sisters looked at each other, each inexplicably conscious
that it was not an ordinary farewell.
“Good-by, darling!” said Fanny, kissing her again, and still
holding her young, lovely face.
Touched and surprised by the unwonted tenderness of her
sister's manner, May threw her arms around her neck and
burst into tears.
“Oh! Fanny.”
Fanny did not disengage the arms that clung about her, nor
raise the young head that rested upon her shoulder. Perhaps
she felt that somehow it was a benediction.
May raised her head at length, kissed Fanny gently upon
the lips, smoothed her black hair for a moment with her delicate
hand, half smiled through her tears as she thought that
after this indication of affection she should have such a pleasant
intercourse with her sister, and then pushed her softly
away, saying,
“Mr. Dinks is waiting for you, Fanny.”
Fanny said nothing, but drew her veil over her face, and
Mr. Dinks handed her into the carriage.
