14. CHAPTER XIV.
A NEW YORK MERCHANT.
Mr. Lawrence Newt, the brother of Boniface, sat in his
office. It was upon South Street, and the windows looked
out upon the shipping in the East River—upon the ferry-boats
incessantly crossing—upon the lofty city of Brooklyn opposite,
with its spires. He heard the sailors sing—the oaths of
the stevedores—the bustle of the carts, and the hum and
scuffle of the passers-by. As he sat at his table he saw the
ships haul into the stream—the little steamers that puffed
alongside bringing the passengers; then, if the wind were not
fair, pulling and shoving the huge hulks into a space large
enough for them to manage themselves in.
Sometimes he watched the parting of passengers at the
wharf when the wind was fair, and the ship could sail from
her berth. The vast sails were slowly unfurled, were shaken
out, hung for a few moments, then shook lazily, then filled
round and full with the gentle, steady wind. Mr. Lawrence
Newt laughed as he watched, for he thought of fine ladies
taking their hair out of curl-papers, and patting and smoothing
and rolling it upon little sticks and over little fingers until the
curls stood round and full, and ready for action.
Then the ship moved slowly, almost imperceptibly, from the
wharf—so slowly, so imperceptibly, that the people on board
thought the city was sliding away from them. The merchant
saw the solid, trim, beautiful vessel turn her bow southward
and outward, and glide gently down the river. Her hull was
soon lost to his eyes, but he could see the streamer fluttering
at the mast-head over the masts of the other vessels. While
he looked it vanished—the ship was gone.
Often enough Mr. Lawrence Newt stood leaning his head
against the window-frame of his office after the ship had disappeared,
and seemed to be looking at the ferry-boats or at
the lofty city of Brooklyn. But he saw neither. Faster than
ship ever sailed, or wind blew, or light flashed, the thought
of Lawrence Newt darted, and the merchant, seemingly leaning
against his office-window in South Street, was really sitting
under palm-trees, or dandling in a palanquin, or chatting
in a strange tongue, or gazing in awe upon snowier summits
than the villagers of Chamouni have ever seen.
And what was that dark little hand he seemed to himself to
press?—and what were those eyes, soft depths of exquisite
darkness, into which through his own eyes his soul seemed to
be sinking?
There were clerks busily writing in the outer office. It was
dark in that office when Mr. Newt first occupied the rooms,
and Thomas Tray, the book-keeper, who had the lightest
place, said that the eyes of Venables, the youngest clerk, were
giving out. Young Venables, a lad of sixteen, supported a
mother and sister and infirm father upon his five hundred dollars
a year.
“Eyes giving out in my service, Thomas Tray! I am
ashamed of myself.”
And Lawrence Newt hired the adjoining office, knocked
down all the walls, and introduced so much daylight that it
shone not only into the eyes of young Venables, but into those
of his mother and sister and infirm father.
It was scratch, scratch, scratch, all day long in the clerks'
office. Messengers were coming and going. Samples were
brought in. Draymen came for orders. Apple-women and
pie-men dropped in about noon, and there were plenty of
cheap apples and cheap jokes when the peddlers were young
and pretty. Customers came and brother merchants, who
went into Mr. Lawrence Newt's room. They talked China
news, and South American news, and Mediterranean news.
Their conversation was full of the names of places of which
poems and histories have been written. The merchants joked
complacent jokes. They gossiped a little when business had
been discussed. So young Whitloe was really to marry Magot's
daughter, and the Doolittle money would go to the Magots
after all! And old Jacob Van Boozenberg had actually
left off knee-breeches and white cravats, and none of his directors
knew him when he came into the Bank in modern costume.
And there was no doubt that Mrs. Dagon wore cotton
lace at the Orrys', for Winslow's wife said she saw it with her
own eyes.
Mr. Lawrence Newt's talk ceased with that about business.
When the scandal set in, his mind seemed to set out. He
stirred the fire if it were winter. He stepped into the outer
office. He had a word for Venables. Had Miss Venables
seen the new novel by Mr. Bulwer? It is called “Pelham,”
and will be amusing to read aloud in the family. Will Mr.
Venables call at Carville's on his way up, have the book
charged to Mr. Lawrence Newt, and present it, with Mr.
Newt's compliments, to his sister? If it were summer he
opened the window, when it happened to be closed, and stood
by it, or drew his chair to it and looked at the ships and the
streets, and listened to the sailors swearing when he might
have heard merchants, worth two or three hundred thousand
dollars apiece, talking about Mrs. Dagon's cotton lace.
One day he sat at his table writing letters. He was alone
in the inner room; but the sun that morning did not see a
row of pleasanter faces than were bending over large books
in odoriferous red Russia binding, and little books in leather
covers, and invoices and sheets of letter paper, in the outer
office of Lawrence Newt.
A lad entered the office and stood at the door, impressed by
the silent activity he beheld. He did not speak; the younger
clerks looked up a moment, then went on with their work.
It was clearly packet-day.
The lad remained silent for so long a time, as if his profound
respect for the industry he saw before him would not
allow him to speak, that Thomas Tray looked up at last, and
said,
“Well, Sir?”
“May I see Mr. Newt, Sir?”
“In the other room,” said Mr. Tray, with his goose-quill in
his mouth, nodding his head toward the inner office, and turning
over with both hands a solid mass of leaves in his great,
odoriferous red Russia book, and letting them gently down—
proud of being the author of that clearly-written, massive
work, containing an accurate biography of Lawrence Newt's
business.
The youth tapped at the glass door. Mr. Newt said, “Come
in,” and, when the door opened, looked up, and still holding
his pen with the ink in it poised above the paper, he said,
kindly, “Well, Sir? Be short. It's packet-day.”
[ILLUSTRATION]
A School-Boy No Longer.
[Description: 538EAF. Page 080. In-line Illustration. Image of a young boy sitting on a stool watching a man in the background working at a desk.]
“I want a place, Sir.”
“What kind of a place?”
“In a store, Sir.”
“I'm sorry I'm all full. But sit down while I finish these
letters; then we'll talk about it.”
