University of Virginia Library

49. CHAPTER XLIX.
A SELECT PARTY.

On a pleasant evening in the same month of June Mr. Abel
Newt entertained a few friends at supper. The same June
air, with less fragrance, perhaps, blew in at the open windows,
which looked outside upon nothing but the street and the
house walls opposite, but inside upon luxury and ease.

It mattered little what was outside, for heavy muslin curtains
hung over the windows; and the light, the beauty, the
revelry, were all within.

The boyish look was entirely gone now from the face of
the lord of the feast. It was even a little sallow in hue and
satiated in expression. There was occasionally that hard,
black look in his eyes which those who had seen his sister
Fanny intimately had often remarked in her—a look with
which Alfred Dinks, for instance, was familiar. But the companions
of his revels were not shrewd of vision. It was not
Herbert Octoyne, nor Corlaer Van Boozenberg, nor Bowdoin
Beacon, nor Sligo Moultrie, nor any other of his set, who especially
remarked his expression; it was, oddly enough, Miss
Grace Plumer, of New Orleans.

She sat there in the pretty, luxurious rooms, prettier and
more luxurious than they. For, at the special solicitation of
Mr. Abel Newt, Mrs. Plumer had consented to accept an invitation
to a little supper at his rooms—very small and very
select; Mrs. Newt, of course, to be present.

The Plumers arrived, and Laura Magot; but a note from
mamma excused her absence—papa somewhat indisposed, and
so forth; and Mr. Abel himself so sorry—but Mrs. Plumer
knows what these husbands are! Meanwhile the ladies have
thrown off their shawls.

The dinner is exquisite, and exquisitely served. Prince

[ILLUSTRATION]

A Bachelor's Supper.

[Description: 538EAF. Page 295. In-line Illustration. Image of men and women around a fancy dinner table.] Abel, with royal grace, presides. By every lady's plate a
pretty bouquet; the handsomest of all not by Miss, but by
Mrs. Plumer. Flowers are every where. It is Grand Street,
indeed, in the city; but the garden at Pinewood, perhaps, does
not smell more sweetly.

“There is, indeed, no perfume of the clover, which is the
very breath of our Northern June, Mrs. Plumer; but clover
does not grow in the city, Miss Grace.”

Prince Abel begins the little speech to the mother, but his
voice and face turn toward the daughter as it ends.

Flowers are in glasses upon the mantle, and in vases of
many-colored materials and of various shapes upon tables
about the room. The last new books, in English editions often,
and a few solid classics, are in sight. Pictures also.

“What a lovely Madonna!” says Miss Plumer, as she raises
her eyes to a beautiful and costly engraving that hangs opposite
upon the wall; which, indeed, was intended to be observed
by her.

“Yes. It is the Sistine, you know,” says the Prince, as he
sees that the waiter pours wine for Mrs. Plumer.

The Prince forgets to mention that it is not the engraving
which usually hangs there. Usually it is a pretty-colored
French print representing “Lucille,” a young woman who has
apparently very recently issued from the bath. Indeed there
is a very choice collection of French prints which the young
men sometimes study over their cigars, but which are this
evening in the port-folio, which is not in sight.

The waiters move very softly. The wants of the guests are
revealed to them by being supplied. Quiet, elegance, luxury
prevail.

“Really, Mr. Newt”—it is Mrs. Plumer, of New Orleans,
who speaks—“you have created Paris in Grand Street!”

“Ah! madame, it is you who graciously bring Versailles
and the Tuileries with you!”

He speaks to the mother; he looks, as he ends, again at the
daughter.

The daughter for the first time is in the sanctuary of a
bachelor—of a young man about town. It is a character
which always interests her—which half fascinates her. Miss
Plumer, of New Orleans, has read more French literature of
the lighter sort—novels and romances, for instance—than
most of the young women whom Abel Newt meets in society.
Her eyes are very shrewd, and she is looking every where to
see if she shall not light upon some token of bachelor habits—

something that shall reveal the man who occupies those pretty
rooms.

Every where her bright eyes fall softly, but every where
upon quiet, elegance, and luxury. There is the Madonna; but
there are also the last winner at the Newmarket, the profile of
Mr. Bulwer, and a French landscape. The books are good,
but not too good. There is an air of candor and honesty in
the room, united with the luxury and elegance, that greatly
pleased Miss Grace Plumer. The apartment leads naturally
up to that handsome, graceful, dark-haired, dark-eyed gentleman
whose eye is following hers, while she does not know it;
but whose mind has preceded hers in the very journey around
the room it has now taken.

Sligo Moultrie sits beyond Miss Plumer, who is at the left
of Mr. Newt. Upon his right sits Mrs. Plumer. The friendly
relations of Abel and Sligo have not been disturbed. They
seem, indeed, of late to have become even strengthened. At
least the young men meet oftener; not infrequently in Mrs.
Plumer's parlor. Somehow they are aware of each other's
movements; somehow, if one calls upon the Plumers, or drives
with them, or walks with them alone, the other knows it.
And they talk together freely of all people in the world, except
the Plumers of New Orleans. In Abel's room of an evening,
at a late hour, when a party of youth are smoking, there
are many allusions to the pretty Plumer—to which it happens
that Newt and Moultrie make only a general reply.

As the dinner proceeds from delicate course to course, and
the wines of varying hue sparkle and flow, so the conversation
purls along—a gentle, continuous stream. Good things are
said, and there is that kind of happy appreciation which makes
the generally silent speak and the clever more witty.

Mrs. Godefroi Plumer has traveled much, and enjoys the
world. She is a Creole, with the Tropics in her hair and complexion,
and Spain in her eyes. She wears a Parisian head-dress,
a brocade upon her ample person, and diamonds around
her complacent neck and arms. Diamonds also flash in the

fan which she sways gently, admiring Prince Abel. Diamonds
—huge solitaires—glitter likewise in the ears of Miss Grace.
She wears also a remarkable bracelet of the same precious
stones; for the rest, her dress is a cloud of Mechlin lace. She
has quick, dark eyes, and an olive skin. Her hands and feet
are small. She has filbert nails and an arched instep. Prince
Abel, who hangs upon his wall the portrait of the last Newmarket
victor, has not omitted to observe these details. He
thinks how they would grace a larger house, a more splendid
table.

Sligo Moultrie remembers a spacious country mansion, surrounded
by a silent plantation, somewhat fallen from its state,
whom such a mistress would superbly restore. He looks a
man too refined to wed for money, perhaps too indolently luxurious
to love without it.

Half hidden under the muslin drapery by the window hangs
a cage with a canary. The bird sits silent; but as the feast
proceeds he pours a shrill strain into the murmur of the guests.
For the noise of the golden-breasted bird Sligo Moultrie can
not hear something that is said to him by the ripe mouth between
the solitaires. He asks pardon, and it is repeated.

Then, still smiling and looking toward the window, he says,
and, as he says it, his eyes—at which he knows his companion
is looking—wander over the room,

“A very pretty cage!”

The eyes drop upon hers as they finish the circuit of the
room. They say no more than the lips have said. And Miss
Grace Plumer answers,

“I thought you were going to say a very noisy bird.”

“But the bird is not very noisy,” says the young man, his
dark eyes still holding hers.

There is a moment of silence, during which Miss Plumer
may have her fancy of what he means. If so, she does not
choose to betray it. If her eyes are clear and shrewd, the
woman's wit is not less so. It is with an air of the utmost
simplicity that she replies,

“It was certainly noisy enough to drown what I was saying.”

There is a sound upon her other side as if a musical bell
rang.

“Miss Plumer!”

Her head turns. This time Mr. Sligo Moultrie sees the
massive dark braids of her hair behind. The ripe mouth half
smiles upon Prince Abel.

He holds a porcelain plate with a peach upon it, and a silver
fruit-knife in his hand. She smiles, as if the music had melted
into a look. Then she hears it again:

“Here is the sunniest side of the sunniest peach for Miss
Plumer.”

Sligo Moultrie can not help hearing, for the tone is not low.
But, while he is expecting to catch the reply, Miss Magot,
who sits beyond him, speaks to him. The Prince Abel, who
sees many things, sees this; and, in a tone which is very low,
Miss Plumer hears, and nobody else in the room hears:

“May life always be that side of a sweet fruit to her!”

It is the tone and not the words which are eloquent.

The next instant Sligo Moultrie, who has answered Miss
Magot's question, hears Miss Plumer say:

“Thank you, with all my heart.”

It seems to him a warm acknowledgment for a piece of
fruit.

“I did not speak of the bird; I spoke of the cage,” are the
words that Miss Plumer next hears, and from the other side.

She turns to Sligo Moultrie and says, with eyes that expect
a reply,

“Yes, you are right; it is a very pretty cage.”

“Even a cage may be a home, I suppose.”

“Ask the canary.”

“And so turned to the basest uses,” says Mr. Moultrie, as
if thinking aloud.

He is roused by a little ringing laugh:

“A pleasant idea of home you suggest, Mr. Moultrie.”

He smiles also.

“I do not wonder you laugh at me; but I mean sense, for
all that,” he says.

“You usually do,” she says, sincerely, and eyes and solitaires
glitter together.

Sligo Moultrie is happy—for one moment. The next he
hears the musical bell of that other voice again. Miss Plumer
turns in the very middle of a word which she has begun to
address to him.

“Miss Grace?”

“Well, Mr. Newt.”

“You observe the engraving of the Madonna?”

“Yes.”

“You see the two cherubs below looking up?”

“Yes.”

“You see the serene sweetness of their faces?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know what it is?”

Grace Plumer looks as if curiously speculating. Sligo
Moultrie can not help hearing every word, although he pares
a peach and offers it to Miss Magot.

“Miss Grace, do you remember what I said once of honest
admiration—that if it were eloquent it would be irresistible?”

Grace Plumer bows an assent.

“But that its mere consciousness—a sort of silent eloquence
—is pure happiness to him who feels it?”

She thinks she remembers that too, although the Prince apparently
forgets that he never said it to her before.

“Well, Miss Plumer, it seems to me the serene sweetness
of that picture is the expression of the perfect happiness of entire
admiration—that is to say, of love; whoever loves is like
those cherubs—perfectly happy.”

He looks attentively at the picture, as if he had forgotten
his own existence in the happiness of the cherubs. Grace
Plumer glances at him for a few moments with a peculiar expression.
It is full of admiration, but it is not the look with

which she would say, as she just now said to Sligo Moultrie,
“You always speak sincerely.”

She is still looking at the Prince, when Mr. Moultrie begins
again:

“I ought to be allowed to explain that I only meant that as
a cage is a home, so it is often used as a snare. Do you know,
Miss Grace, that the prettiest birds are often put into the prettiest
cages to entice other birds? By-the-by, how lovely Laura
Magot is this evening!”

He cuts a small piece of the peach with his silver knife and
puts it into his mouth.

“Peaches are luxuries in June,” he says, quietly.

This time it is at Sligo Moultrie that Miss Grace Plumer
looks fixedly.

“What kind of birds, Mr. Moultrie?” she says, at length.

“Miss Grace, do you know the story of the old Prince of
Este?” answers he, as he lays a bunch of grapes upon her
plate. She pulls one carelessly and lets it drop again. He
takes it and puts it in his mouth.

“No; what is the story?”

“There was an old Prince of Este who had a beautiful villa
and a beautiful sister, and nothing else in the world but a fiery
eye and an eloquent tongue.”

Sligo Moultrie flushes a little, and drinks a glass of wine.
Grace Plumer is a little paler, and more serious. Prince Abel
plies Madame Plumer with fruit and compliments, and hears
every word.

“Well.”

“Well, Miss Grace, she was so beautiful that many a lady
became her friend, and many of those friends sighed for the
brother's fiery eyes and blushed as they heard his honeyed
tongue. But he was looking for a queen. At length came
the Princess of Sheba—”

“Are you talking of King Solomon?”

“No, Miss Plumer, only of Alcibiades. And when the
Princess of Sheba came near the villa the Prince of Este entreated

her to visit him, promising that the sister should be
there. It was a pretty cage, I think; the sister was a lovely
bird. And the Princess came.”

He stops and drinks more wine.

“Very well! And then?”

“Why, then, she had a very pleasant visit,” he says, gayly.

“Mr. Moultrie, is that the whole of the story?”

“No, indeed, Miss Plumer; but that is as far as we have
got.”

“I want to hear the rest.”

“Don't be in such a hurry; you won't like the rest so well.”

“Yes; but that is my risk.”

“It is your risk,” says Sligo Moultrie, looking at her; “will
you take it?”

“Of course I will,” is the clear-eyed answer.

“Very well. The Princess came; but she did not go
away.”

“How curious! Did she die of a peach-stone at the banquet?”

“Not at all. She became Princess of Este instead of Sheba.”

“Oh-h-h,” says Grace Plumer, in a long-drawn exclamation.
“And then?”

“Why, Miss Grace, how insatiable you are!—then I came
away.”

“You did? I wouldn't have come away.”

“No, Miss Grace, you didn't.”

“How—I didn't? What does that mean, Mr. Moultrie?”

“I mean the Princess remained.”

“So you said. Is that all?”

“No.”

“Well.”

“Oh! the rest is nothing. I mean nothing new.”

“Let me hear the old story, then, Mr. Moultrie.”

“The rest is merely that the Princess found that the fiery
eyes burned her and the eloquent tongue stung her, and truly

that is the whole. Isn't it a pretty story? The moral is that
cages are sometimes traps.”

Sligo Moultrie becomes suddenly extremely attentive to
Miss Magot. Grace Plumer ponders many things, and among
others wonders how, when, where, Sligo Moultrie learned to
talk in parables. She does not ask herself why he does so.
She is a woman, and she knows why.