Part 3 (1/2)

XI.

f.a.n.n.y AT THE TREMONT HOUSE.

Good John Walter is f.a.n.n.y's man-at-arms. He is the last and most faithful of her servants. She needs some person in that capacity, and shrewdly manages never to be without such a champion. She was fortunate, after many trials, in falling upon so choice an acquisition as John Walter.

f.a.n.n.y cannot be accused of choosing her champion from any such motive as personal beauty. John isn't alarmingly handsome--not half so beautiful as he is good. Of tall and gaunt figure, with a lean-and-hungry-Ca.s.sius look, bran-like eyes, an oyster-like open to his mouth, fiery hair, an incendiary whisker, a windy manner of talking, and a gaseous atmosphere pervading his person generally--oh, no! f.a.n.n.y couldn't have chosen John for his beauty.

John's champions.h.i.+p never shone with more dazzling l.u.s.tre, than on his visit to Boston, in her train, last summer. He came like the very Napoleon of sn.o.bs. Boston was to be taken by storm. ”The three-hilled city,” said John, ”shall bow down at our coming.” ”John,” answered f.a.n.n.y, ”I regard you as a prophet. You are a man of sense. The three hills shall bow down.”

They fortified themselves in the Sebastopol of the Tremont House,--that stronghold so formidable to turkey,--and sent forth their proclamations. But, somehow, there was no movement of the three-hilled city. Not a block trembled. Not a brick stirred. f.a.n.n.y began to chafe.

In vain she searched the columns of the daily papers, to find complimentary notices of her arrival. Not a word on the subject. She, who expected a triumph equal to Jenny Lind's, found herself of no more account in the three-hilled city, whose duty it was to bow down, than the wife of John Smith, the joiner, who went on at the same time to hunt up a second cousin.

Meanwhile good John Walter exerted himself. In his windiest manner, he thrust that lank figure of his into every nook and corner, where he hoped to generate a little interest in his famous _protegee_.

”She's come!” whispered John mysteriously, in the ear of an influential editor.

”Ha!” said the editor, ”has she?” and went on with his writing.

”She is at the Tremont House,” resumed John, with an air of vast importance, ”where she receives her friends. The rush to see her is very great, and we have to resort to every means to keep the mult.i.tude at bay. You, of course, would be a privileged one, and I should be happy to introduce you.”

”Thank you,” said the editor, as he dipped his pen.

”Do you know,”--John began to bl.u.s.ter--”there are vipers in human form, in this city, who have dared to sting that woman's reputation?”

”I know nothing of the kind,” replied the editor.

”You ought to know it; and I am authorized to say this: f.a.n.n.y expects her friends to vindicate her character, and crush these vipers. There is that rascal, Mr. Blank----”

”Mr. Blank is a friend of mine, sir.”

”But”--John waxed bombastic--”You cannot be a friend of his and a friend of f.a.n.n.y Fern's. He said, in his paper, that she has a husband living----”

”Which is true, I believe,” remarked the editor, quietly.

”But sir”--here John choked--”she is a _woman_, and no _gentleman_ will make remarks of the kind about a WOMAN,--a woman, sir, is sacred; and f.a.n.n.y Fern is one of the n.o.blest of her s.e.x. From your character as an editor and a man, I had every reason to believe that you would not hesitate to espouse her cause----”

”Mr. Walter,” interrupted the editor, ”your a.s.sumption is somewhat astounding, but it has not quite taken away my breath--I have still a modest word to say. I do not see that it is my duty to go and cudgel Mr. Blank, nor do I consider the inducement you hold out, quite sufficient to authorize me to engage in any quarrels except my own. I will not trouble you to introduce me to Miss Fern. I wish you a good morning, sir!”

John varied his manner with different people. To some he was insinuating and smooth; to others, bluff and lowering; but all his efforts were unsuccessful. n.o.body would go and whip Mr. Blank; n.o.body cared much about meeting f.a.n.n.y Fern. And here let us not be misunderstood. It was no fault of John's, that he did not succeed. He was zealous to the last degree. Still less was it f.a.n.n.y's fault. She was, as he expressed it, ”the n.o.blest of her s.e.x.” The truth is,--and to the shame of that city be it spoken,--there was no Don Quixote in Boston! If Boston could have boasted of so much chivalry, Mr. Blank would have been cudgelled, and f.a.n.n.y avenged.

Having utterly failed to create any kind of a sensation,--having waited in vain to ”receive friends” at the Tremont,--it was judged expedient to make a grand sally upon the town. An open barouche was accordingly ordered, and f.a.n.n.y, richly attired, and attended by n.o.ble John Walter, rode ostentatiously through the streets. A kind of sensation was produced,--but not the right kind. People looked, and laughed, and winked. Some said, ”Lucky John Walter!” Others, who knew f.a.n.n.y, said, ”Poor John Walter!” Still f.a.n.n.y was let alone; n.o.body troubled her; the world turned round, and Boston turned with it, the same; and Mr. Blank remains uncudgelled to this day.

And so f.a.n.n.y and the redoubtable John made haste to evacuate their Sebastopol, withdrawing their forces quietly, and returned, inglorious, to New York.

XII.

A KEY TO ”RUTH HALL.”