81. CHAPTER LXXXI.
MRS. ALFRED DINKS AT HOME.
A new element had forced itself into the life of Hope
Wayne, and that was the fate of Abel Newt. There was
something startling in the direct, passionate, personal appeal
he had made to her. She put on her bonnet and furs, for it
was Christmas time, and passed the Bowery into the small,
narrow street where the smell of the sewer was the chief
odor and the few miserable trees cooped up in perforated
boxes had at last been released from suffering, and were
placidly, rigidly dead.
The sloppy servant girl was standing upon the area steps
with her apron over her head, and blowing her huge red fingers,
staring at every thing, and apparently stunned when
Hope Wayne stopped and went up the steps. Hope rang,
entered the little parlor and seated herself upon the haircloth
sofa. Her heart ached with the dreariness of the house;
but while she was resolving that she would certainly raise
her secret allowance to her Cousin Alfred, whether her good
friend Lawrence Newt approved of it or not, she saw that the
dreariness was not in the small room or the hair sofa, nor in
the two lamps with glass drops upon the mantle, but in the
lack of that indescribable touch of feminine taste, and tact,
and tenderness, which create comfort and grace wherever
they fall, and make the most desolate chambers to blossom
with cheerfulness. Hope felt as she glanced around her that
money could not buy what was wanting.
Mrs. Alfred Dinks presently entered. Hope Wayne had
rarely met her since the season at Saratoga when Fanny had
captured her prize. She saw that the black-eyed, clever, resolute
girl of those days had grown larger and more pulpy, and
was wrapped in a dingy morning wrapper. Her hair was not
smooth, her hands were not especially clean; she had that
dull carelessness, or unconsciousness of personal appearance,
which seemed to Hope only the parlor aspect of the dowdiness
that had run entirely to seed in the sloppy servant girl
upon the area steps.
Hope Wayne put out her hand, which Fanny listlessly took.
There was nothing very hard, or ferocious, or defiant in her
manner, as Hope had expected—there was only a weariness
and indifference, as if she had been worsted in some kind of
struggle. She did not even seem to be excited by seeing
Hope Wayne in her house, but merely said, “Good-morning,”
and then sank quietly upon the sofa, as if she had said every
thing she had to say.
“I came to ask you if you know any thing about Abel?”
said Hope.
“No; nothing in particular,” replied Fanny; “I believe
he's going to Congress; but I never see him or hear of him.”
“Doesn't Alfred see him?”
“He used to meet him at Thiel's; but Alfred doesn't go
there much now. It's too fine for poor gentlemen. I remember
some time ago I saw he had a black eye, and he said that
he and my `d— brother Abel,' as he elegantly expressed it,
had met somewhere the night before, and Abel was drunk and
gave him the lie, and they fought it out. I think, by-the-way,
that's the last I've heard of brother Abel.”
There was a slight touch of the old manner in the tone with
which Fanny ended her remark; after which she relapsed into
the previous half-apathetic condition.
“Fanny, I wish I could do something for Abel.”
Fanny Dinks looked at Hope Wayne with an incredulous
smile, and said,
“I thought once you would marry him; and so did he, I
fancy.”
“What does he do? and how can I reach him?” asked
Hope, entirely disregarding Fanny's remark.
“He lives at the old place in Grand Street, I believe; the
Lord knows how; I'm sure I don't. I suppose he gambles
when he isn't drunk.”
“But about Congress?” inquired Hope.
“I don't know any thing about that. Abel and father used
to say that no gentleman would ever have any thing to do
with politics; so I never heard any thing, and I'm sure I don't
know what he's going to do.”
Fanny apparently supposed her last remark would end the
conversation. Not that she wished to end it—not that she
was sorry to see Hope Wayne again and to talk with her—
not that she wanted or cared for any thing in particular, no,
not even for her lord and master, who burst into the room
with an oath, as usual, and with his small, swinish eyes heavy
with drowsiness.
The master of the house was evidently just down. He wore
a dirty morning-gown, and slippers down at the heel, displaying
his dirty stockings. He came in yawning and squeezing
his eyes together.
“Why the h— don't that slut of a waiter have my coffee
ready?” he said to his wife, who paid no more attention to
him than to the lamp on the mantle, but, on the contrary, appeared
to Hope to be a little more indifferent than before.
“I say, why the h—” Mr. Dinks began again, and had advanced
so far when he suddenly saw his cousin.
“Hallo! what are you doing here?” he said to her abruptly,
and in the half-sycophantic, half-bullying tone that indicates
the feeling of such a man toward a person to whom he is under
immense obligation. Alfred Dinks's real feeling was that
Hope Wayne ought to give him a much larger allowance.
Hope was inexpressibly disgusted; but she found an excitement
in encountering this boorishness, which served to
stimulate her in the struggle going on in her own soul. And
she very soon understood how the sharp, sparkling, audacious
Fanny Newt had become the inert, indifferent woman before
her. A clever villain might have developed her, through admiration
and sympathy, into villainy; but a dull, heavy brute
merely crushed her. There is a spur in the prick of a rapier;
only stupidity follows the blow of a club.
After sitting silently for some minutes, during which Alfred
Dinks sprawled in a chair, and yawned, and whistled insolently
to himself, while Fanny sat without looking at him, as if
she were deaf and dumb, Hope Wayne said to the husband
and wife:
“Abel Newt is ruining himself, and he may harm other
people. If there is any thing that can be done to save him
we ought to do it. Fanny, he is your own flesh and blood.”
She spoke with a kind of despairing earnestness, for Hope
herself felt how useless every thing would probably be. But
when she had ended Alfred broke out into uproarious laughter,
“Ho! ho! ho! Ho! ho! ho!”
He made such a noise that even his wife looked at him with
almost a glance of contempt.
“Save Abel Newt!” cried he. “Convert the Devil! Yes,
yes; let's send him some tracts! Ho! ho! ho!”
And he roared again until the water oozed from his eyes.
Hope Wayne scarcely looked at him. She rose to go; but
it seemed to her pitiful to leave Fanny Newt in such utter
desolation of soul and body, in which she seemed to her to be
gradually sinking into idiocy. She went to Fanny and took
her hand. Fanny listlessly rose, and when Hope had done
shaking hands Fanny crossed them before her inanely, but in
an unconsciously appealing attitude, which Hope saw and felt.
Alfred still sprawled in his chair, laughing at intervals; and
Hope left the room, followed by Fanny, who shuffled after
her, her slippers, evidently down at the heel, pattering on the
worn oil-cloth in the entry as she shambled toward the front
door. Hope opened it. The morning was pleasant, though
cool, and the air refreshing after the odor of mingled grease
and stale tobacco-smoke which filled the house.
As they passed out, Fanny quietly sat down upon the step,
leaned her chin upon one hand, and looked up and down
the street, which, it seemed to Hope, offered a prospect that
would hardly enliven her mind. There was something more
touching to Hope in this dull apathy than in the most positive
grief.
“Fanny Newt!” she said to her, suddenly.
Fanny lifted her lazy eyes.
“If I can do nothing for your brother, can I do nothing for
you? You will rust out, Fanny, if you don't take care.”
Fanny smiled languidly.
“What if I do?” she answered.
Thereupon Hope sat down by her, and told her just what
she meant, and what she hoped, and what she would do if she
would let her. And the eager young woman drew such pleasant
pictures of what was yet possible to Fanny, although she
was the wife of Alfred Dinks, that, as if the long-accumulating
dust and ashes were blown away from her soul, and it began
to kindle again in a friendly breath, Fanny felt herself
moved and interested. She smiled, looked grave, and finally
laid her head upon Hope's shoulder and cried good, honest
tears of utter weariness and regret.
“And now,” said Hope, “will you help me about Abel?”
“I really don't see that you can do any thing,” said Fanny,
“nor any body else. Perhaps he'll get a new start in Congress,
though I don't know any thing about it.”
Hope Wayne shook her head thoughtfully.
“No,” she said, “I see no way. I can only be ready to befriend
him if the chance offers.”
They said no more of him then, but Hope persuaded Fanny
to come to Lawrence Newt's Christmas dinner, to which
they had all been bidden. “And I will make him understand
about it,” she said, as she went down the steps.
Mrs. Dinks sat upon the door-step for some time. There
was nobody to see her whom she knew, and if there had been
she would not have cared. She did not know how long she
had been sitting there, for she was thinking of other things,
but she was roused by hearing her husband's voice:
[ILLUSTRATION]
After The Call
[Description: 538EAF. Page 460. In-line Illustration. Image of a woman sitting on some steps with her chin resting in her hands and her elbows resting on her knees.]
“Well, by G—! that's a G— d— pretty business—squatting
on a door-step like a servant girl! Come in, I tell you,
and shut the door.”
From long habit Fanny did not pay the least attention to
this order. But after some time she rose and closed the door,
and clattered along the entry and up stairs, upon the worn
and ragged carpet. Mr. Alfred Dinks returned to the parlor,
pulled the bell violently, and when the sloppy servant girl appeared,
glaring at him with the staring eyes, he immediately
damned them, and wanted to know why in h— he was kept
waiting for his boots. The staring eyes vanished, and Mr.
Dinks reclined upon the sofa, picking his teeth. Presently
there was the slop—slop—slop of the girl along the entry.
She opened the door, dropped the boots, and fled. Mr. Dinks
immediately pulled the bell violently, walking across the room
a greater distance than to his boots. Slop—slop again. The
door opened.
“Look here! If you don't bring me my boots, I'll come
and pull the hair out of your head!” roared the master of the
house.
The cowering little creature dashed at the boots with a wobegone
look, and brought them to the sofa. Mr. Dinks took
them in his hand, and turned them round contemptuously.
“G—! You call those boots blacked?”
He scratched his head a moment, enjoying the undisguised
terror of the puny girl.
“If you don't black 'em better—if you don't put a brighter
shine on to 'em, I'll—I'll—I'll put a shine on your face, you
slut!”
The girl seemed to be all terrified eye as she looked at him,
and then fled again, while he laughed.
“Ho! ho! ho! I'll teach 'em how—insolent curs! G—
d— Paddies! What business have they coming over here?
Ho! ho! ho!”
Leaving his slippers upon the parlor floor, Mr. Dinks mounted
to his room and changed his coat. He tried the door of
his wife's room as he passed out, and found it locked. He
kicked it violently, and bawled,
“Good-morning, Mrs. Dinks! If Miss Wayne calls, tell her
I've gone to tell Mr. Abel Newt that she repents, and wants
to marry him; and I shall add that, having been through the
wood, she picks up a crooked stick at last. Ho! ho! ho!
(Kick.) Good-morning, Mrs. Dinks!”
He went heavily down stairs and slammed the front door,
and was gone for the day.
When they were first married, after the bitter conviction
that there was really no hope of old Burt's wealth, Fanny
Dinks had carried matters with a high hand, domineering by
her superior cleverness, and with a superiority that stung and
exasperated her husband at every turn. Her bitter temper
had gradually entirely eaten away the superficial, stupid good-humor
of his younger days; and her fury of disappointment,
carried into the detail of life, had gradually confirmed him in
all his worst habits and obliterated the possibility of better.
But the sour, superior nature was, as usual, unequal to the
struggle. At last it spent itself in vain against the massive
brutishness of opposition it had itself developed, and the reaction
came, and now daily stunned her into hopeless apathy
and abject indifference. Having lost the power of vexing, and
beyond being really vexed by a being she so utterly despised
as her husband, there was nothing left but pure passivity and
inanition, into which she was rapidly declining.
Mr. Dinks kicked loudly and roared at the door, but Mrs.
Dinks did not heed him. She was sitting in her dingy wrapper,
rocking, and pondering upon the conversation of the morning—mechanically
rocking, and thinking of the Christmas dinner
at Uncle Lawrence's.
