40. CHAPTER XL.
AT THE ROUND TABLE.
Mrs. Dinks had informed Hope that she was going home.
That lady was satisfied, by her conversation with Mrs. Newt,
that it would be useless for her to see Mr. Newt—that it was
one of the cases in which facts and events plead much more
persuasively than words. She was sure the rich merchant
would not allow his daughter to suffer. Fathers do so in
novels, thought she. Of course they do, for it is necessary to
the interest of the story. And old Van Boozenberg does in
life, thought she. Of course he does. But he is an illiterate,
vulgar, hard old brute. Mr. Newt is of another kind. She
had herself read his name as director of at least seven different
associations for doing good to men and women.
But Mrs. Dinks still delayed her departure. She knew that
there was no reason for her staying, but she staid. She loved
her son dearly. She was unwilling to leave him while his
future was so dismally uncertain; and every week she informed
Hope that she was on the point of going.
Hope Wayne was not sorry to remain. Perhaps she also
had her purposes. At Saratoga, in the previous summer,
Arthur Merlin had remarked her incessant restlessness, and
had connected it with the picture and the likeness of somebody.
But when afterward, in New York, he cleared up the
mystery and resolved who the somebody was, to his great
surprise he observed, at the same time, that the restlessness of
Hope Wayne was gone. From the months of seclusion which
she had imposed upon herself he saw that she emerged older,
calmer, and lovelier than he had ever seen her. The calmness
was, indeed, a little unnatural. To his sensitive eye—
for, as he said to Lawrence Newt, in explanation of his close
observation, it is wonderful how sensitive an exclusive devotion
to art will make the eye—to his eye the calmness was
still too calm, as the gayety had been too gay.
In the solitude of his studio, as he drew many pictures upon
the canvas, and sang, and smoked, and scuffled across the
floor to survey his work from a little distance—and studied its
progress through his open fist—or as he lay sprawling upon
his lounge in a cotton velvet Italian coat, illimitably befogged
and bebuttoned — and puffed profusely, following the intervolving
smoke with his eye—his meditations were always the
same. He was always thinking of Hope Wayne, and befooling
himself with the mask of art, actually hiding himself from
himself: and not perceiving that when a man's sole thought
by day and night is a certain woman, and an endless speculation
about the quality of her feeling for another man, he is
simply a lover thinking of his mistress and a rival.
The infatuated painter suddenly became a great favorite in
society. He could not tell why. Indeed there was no other
secret than that he was a very pleasant young gentleman who
made himself agreeable to young women, because he wished
to know them and to paint them—not, as he wickedly told
Lawrence Newt, who winked and did not believe a word of
it, because the human being is the noblest subject of art—but
only because he wished to show himself by actual experience
how much more charming in character, and sprightly in intelligence,
and beautiful in person and manner, Hope Wayne
was than all other young women.
He proved that important point to his perfect satisfaction.
He punctually attended every meeting of the Round Table,
as Lawrence called the meetings at which he and Arthur read
and talked with Hope Wayne and Amy Waring, that he might
lose no opportunity of pursuing the study. He found Hope
Wayne always friendly and generous. She frankly owned
that he had shown her many charming things in poetry that
she had not known, and had helped her to form juster opinions.
It was natural she should think it was Arthur who had
helped her. She did not know that it was a very different
person who had done the work—a person whose name was
Abel Newt. For it was her changing character—changing in
consequence of her acquaintance with Abel—which modified
her opinions; and Arthur arrived upon her horizon at the moment
of the change.
She was always friendly and generous with him. But somehow
he could not divest himself of the idea that she must be
the Diana of his great picture. There was an indescribable
coolness and remoteness about her. Has it any thing to do
with that confounded sketch at Saratoga, and that—equally
confounded Abel Newt? thought he.
For the conversation at the Round Table sometimes fell
upon Abel.
“He is certainly a handsome fellow,” said Amy Waring.
“I don't wonder at his success.”
“It's beauty that does it, then, Miss Waring?” asked Arthur.
“Does what?” said she.
“Why, that gives what you call social success.”
“Oh! I mean that I don't wonder such a handsome, bright,
graceful, accomplished young man, who lives in fine style,
drives pretty horses, and knows every body, should be a great
favorite with the girls and their mothers. Don't you see,
Abel Newt is a sort of Alcibiades?”
Lawrence Newt laughed.
“You don't mean Pelham?” said he.
“No, for he has sense enough to conceal the coxcomb. But
you ought to know your own nephew, Mr. Newt,” answered
Amy.
“Perhaps; but I have a very slight acquaintance with him,”
said Mr. Newt.
“I don't exactly like him,” said Arthur Merlin, with perfect
candor.
“I didn't know you knew him,” replied Amy, looking up.
Arthur blushed, for he did not personally know him; but
he felt as if he did, so that he unwittingly spoke so.
“No, no,” said he, hastily; “I don't know him, I believe;
but I know about him.”
As he said this he looked at Hope Wayne, who had been
sitting, working, in perfect silence. At the same moment she
raised her eyes to his inquiringly.
“I mean,” said Arthur, quite confused, “that I don't—
somehow—that is to say, you know, there's a sort of impression
you get about people—”
Lawrence Newt interposed—
“I suppose that Arthur doesn't like Abel for the same reason
that oil doesn't like water; for the same reason that you,
Miss Amy, and Miss Wayne, would probably not like such a
man.”
Arthur Merlin looked fixedly at Hope Wayne.
“What kind of man is Mr. Newt?” asked Hope, faintly
coloring. She was trying herself.
“Don't you know him?” asked Arthur, abruptly and keenly.
“Yes,” replied Hope, as she worked on, only a little more
rapidly.
“Well, what kind of man do you think him to be?” continued
Arthur, nervously.
“That is not the question,” answered Hope, calmly.
Lawrence Newt and Amy Waring looked on during this
little conversation. They both wanted Hope to like Arthur.
They both doubted how Abel might have impressed her.
Lawrence Newt had not carelessly said that neither Amy nor
Hope would probably like Abel.
“Miss Hope is right, Arthur,” said he. “She asks what
kind of man my nephew is. He is a brilliant man—a fascinating
man.”
“So was Colonel Burr,” said Hope Wayne, without looking
up.
“Exactly, Miss Hope. You have mentioned the reason
why neither you nor Amy would like my nephew.”
Hope and Amy understood. Arthur Merlin was bewildered.
“I don't quite understand,” said he; “I am such a great
fool.”
Nobody spoke.
“I am sorry for that poor little Grace Plumer,” Lawrence
Newt gravely said.
“Don't you be troubled about little Grace Plumer. She
can take proper care of herself,” answered Arthur, merrily.
Hope Wayne's busy fingers did not stop. She remembered
Miss Grace Plumer, and she did not agree with Arthur Merlin.
Hope did not know Grace; but she knew the voice, the
manner, the magnetism to which the gay girl was exposed.
“If Mr. Godefroi Plumer is really as rich as I hear,” said
Lawrence, “I think we shall have a Mrs. Abel Newt in the
autumn. Poor Mrs. Abel Newt!”
He shook his head with that look, mingled of feeling and
irony, which was very perplexing. The tone in which he
spoke was really so full of tenderness for the girl, that Hope,
who heard every word and felt every tone, was sure that
Lawrence Newt pitied the prospective bride sincerely.
“I beg pardon, Mr. Newt, and Miss Wayne,” said Arthur
Merlin; “but how can a man have a high respect for women
when he sees his sister do what Fanny Newt has done?”
“Why should a man complain that his sister does precisely
what he is trying to do himself?” asked Lawrence.
