79. CHAPTER LXXIX.
THE LAST THROW.
While Arthur and Lawrence were conversing in the office
of the latter, Abel Newt, hat in hand, stood in Hope Wayne's
parlor. His hair was thinner and grizzled; his face bloated,
and his eyes dull. His hands had that dead, chalky color in
which appetite openly paints its excesses. The hand trembled
as it held the hat; and as the man stood before the mirror, he
was straining his eyes at his own reflection, and by some secret
magic he saw, as if dimly traced beside it, the figure of
the boy that stood in the parlor of Pinewood—how many
thousand years ago?
He heard a step, and turned.
Hope Wayne stopped, leaving the door open, bowed, and
looked inquiringly at him. She was dressed simply in a morning
dress, and her golden hair clustered and curled around the
fresh beauty of her face—the rose of health.
“Did you wish to say something to me?” she asked, observing
that Abel merely stared at her stupidly.
He bowed his head in assent.
“What do you wish to say?”
Her voice was as cold and remote as if she were a spirit.
Abel Newt was evidently abashed by the reception. But
he moved toward her, and began in a tone of doubtful familiarity.
“Miss Hope, I—”
“Mr. Newt, you have no right to address me in that way.”
“Miss Wayne, I have come to—to—”
He stopped, embarrassed, rubbing his fingers upon the
palms of his hands. She looked at him steadily. He waited
a few moments, then began again in a hurried tone:
“Miss Wayne, we are both older than we once were; and
once, I think, we were not altogether indifferent to each other.
Time has taught us many things. I find that my heart, after
foolish wanderings, is still true to its first devotion. We can
both view things more calmly, not less truly, however, than
we once did. I am upon the eve of a public career. I have
outgrown morbid emotions, and I come to ask you if you
would take time to reflect whether I might not renew my addresses;
for indeed I love, and can love, no other woman.”
Hope Wayne stood pale, incredulous, and confounded while
Abel Newt, with some of the old fire in the eye and the old
sweetness in the voice, poured out these rapid words, and advanced
toward her.
“Stop, Sir,” she said, as soon as she could command herself.
“Is this all you have to say?”
“Don't drive me to despair,” he said, suddenly, in reply,
and so fiercely that Hope Wayne started. “Listen.” He
spoke with stern command.
“I am utterly ruined. I have no friends. I have bad habits.
You can save me—will you do it?”
Hope stood before him silent. His hard black eye was fixed
upon her with a kind of defying appeal for help. Her state
of mind for some days, since she had heard Mrs. Simcoe's
story, had been one of curious mental tension. She was inspired
by a sense of renunciation—of self-sacrifice. It seemed
to her that some great work to do, something which should
occupy every moment, and all her powers and thoughts, was
her only hope of contentment. What it might be, what it
ought to be, she had not conceived. Was it not offered now?
Horrible, repulsive, degrading—yes, but was it not so much
the worthier? Here stood the man she had loved in all the
prime and power of his youth, full of hope, and beauty, and
vigor—the hero that satisfied the girl's longing—and he was
bent, gray, wan, shaking, utterly lost, except for her. Should
she restore him to that lost manhood? Could she forgive
herself if she suffered her own feelings, tastes, pride, to prevent?
While the thought whirled through her excited brain:
“Remember,” he said, solemnly—“remember it is the salvation
of a human soul upon which you are deciding.”
There was perfect silence for some minutes. The low,
quick ticking of the clock upon the mantle was all they heard.
“I have decided,” she said, at last.
“What is it?” he asked, under his breath.
“What you knew it would be,” she answered.
“Then you refuse?” he said, in a half-threatening tone.
“I refuse!”
“Then the damnation of a soul rest upon your head forever,”
he said, in a loud coarse voice, crushing his hat, and
his black eyes glaring.
“Have you done?” she asked, pale and calm.
“No, Hope Wayne, I have not done; I am not deceived by
your smooth face and your quiet eyes. I have known long
enough that you meant to marry my Uncle Lawrence, although
he is old enough to be your father. The whole world
has known it and seen it. And I came to give you a chance
of saving your name by showing to the world that my uncle
came here familiarly because you were to marry his nephew.
You refuse the chance. There was a time when you would
have flown into my arms, and now you reject me. And I
shall have my revenge! I warn you to beware, Mrs. Lawrence
[ILLUSTRATION]
"The Doom Of My Soul Be Upon Yours!"
[Description: 538EAF. Page 450. In-line Illustration. Image of a man waving his arms above his head and looking angry while the woman he is talking to stands in front of him with her arms crossed.]
Newt! I warn you that my saintly uncle is not beyond
misfortune, nor his milksop partner, the Reverend Gabriel
Bennet. I am a man at bay; and it is you who put me there;
you who might save me and won't. You who will one day
remember and suffer.”
He threw up his arms in uncontrollable rage and excitement.
His thick hoarse voice, his burning, bad, black eyes,
his quivering hands, his bloated body, made him a terrible
spectacle.
“Have you done?” asked Hope Wayne, with saintly dignity.
“Yes, I have done for this time,” he hissed; “but I shall
cross you many a time. You and yours,” he sneered, “but
never so that you can harm me. You shall feel, but never see
me. You have left me nothing but despair. And the doom
of my soul be upon yours!”
He rushed from the room, and Hope Wayne stood speechless.
Attracted by the loud tone of his voice, Mrs. Simcoe
had come down stairs, and the moment he was gone she was
by Hope's side. They seated themselves together upon the
sofa, and Hope leaned her head upon her aunty's shoulder and
wept with utter surprise, grief, indignation, and weariness.
