15. CHAPTER XV.
A SCHOOL-BOY NO LONGER.
The lad seated himself
by the window.
Scratch — scratch —
scratch. The sun sparkled
in the river. The
sails, after yesterday's
rain, were loosened to
dry, and were white as
if it had rained milk
upon them instead of
water. Every thing
looked cheerful and
bright from Lawrence
Newt's window. The
lad saw with delight
how much sunshine
there was in the office.
“I don't believe it
would hurt my health
to work here,” thought
he.
Mr. Lawrence Newt
rang a little bell. Venables
entered quietly.
“Most ready out there?” asked Mr. Newt.
“Most ready, Sir.”
“Brisk's the word this morning, you know. Please to copy
these letters.”
Venables said nothing, took the letters, and went out.
“Now, young man,” said the merchant, “tell me what you
want.”
The lad's heart turned toward him like a fallow-field to the
May sun.
“My father's been unfortunate, Sir, and I want to do something
for myself. He advised me to come to you.”
“Why?”
“Because he said you would give me good advice if you
couldn't give me employment.”
“Well, Sir, you seem a strong, likely lad. Have you ever
been in a store?”
“No, Sir. I left school last week.”
Mr. Newt looked out of the window.
“Your father's been unfortunate?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“How's that? Has he told a lie, or lost his eyes, or his
health, or has his daughter married a drunkard?” asked Mr.
Lawrence Newt, looking at the lad with a kindly humor in
his eyes.
“Oh no, Sir,” replied the boy, surprised. “He's lost his
money.”
“Oh ho! his money! And it is the loss of money which
you call `unfortunate.' Now, my boy, think a moment. Is
there any thing belonging to your father which he could so
well spare? Has he any superfluous boy or girl? any useless
arm or leg? any unnecessary good temper or honesty? any
taste for books, or pictures, or the country, that he would part
with? Is there any thing which he owns that it would not
be a greater misfortune to him to lose than his money? Honor
bright, my boy. If you think there is, say so!”
The youth smiled.
“Well, Sir, I suppose worse things could happen to us than
poverty,” said he.
Mr. Lawrence Newt interrupted him by remarks which were
belied by his beaming face.
“Worse things than poverty! Why, my boy, what are you
thinking of? Do you not know that it is written in the largest
efforts upon the hearts of all Americans, `Resist poverty,
and it will flee from you?' If you do not begin by considering
poverty the root of all evil, where on earth do you expect
to end? Cease to be poor, learn to be rich. I'm afraid
you don't read the good book. So your father has health”—
the boy nodded—“and a whole body, a good temper, an affectionate
family, generous and refined tastes, pleasant relations
with others, a warm heart, a clear conscience”—the boy
nodded with an increasing enthusiasm of assent—“and yet
you call him unfortunate—ruined! Why, look here, my son;
there's an old apple-woman at the corner of Burling Slip,
where I stop every day and buy apples; she's sixty years old,
and through thick and thin, under a dripping wreck of an
umbrella when it rains, under the sky when it shines—warming
herself by a foot-stove in winter, by the sun in summer—
there the old creature sits. She has an old, sick, querulous
husband at home, who tries to beat her. Her daughters are
all out at service—let us hope, in kind families—her sons are
dull, ignorant men; her home is solitary and forlorn; she can
not read much, nor does she want to; she is coughing her life
away, and succeeds in selling apples enough to pay her rent
and buy food for her old man and herself. She told me yesterday
that she was a most fortunate woman. What does the
word mean? I give it up.”
The lad looked around the spacious office, on every table
and desk and chair of which was written Prosperity as plainly
as the name of Lawrence Newt upon the little tin sign by the
door. Except for the singular magnetism of the merchant's
presence, which dissipated such a suggestion as rapidly as it
rose, the youth would have said aloud what was in his heart.
“How easy 'tis for a rich man to smile at poverty!”
The man watched the boy, and knew exactly what he was
thinking. As the eyes of the younger involuntarily glanced
about the office and presently returned to the merchant, they
found the merchant's gazing so keenly that they seemed to be
mere windows through which his soul was looking. But the
keen earnestness melted imperceptibly into the usual sweetness
as Lawrence Newt said,
“You think I can talk prettily about misfortune because I
know nothing about it. You make a great mistake. No man,
even in jest, can talk well of what he doesn't understand. So
don't misunderstand me. I am rich, but I am not fortunate.”
He said it in the same tone as before.
“If you wanted a rose and got only a butter-cup, should
you think yourself fortunate?” asked Mr. Newt.
“Why, yes, Sir. A man can't expect to have every thing
precisely as he wants it,” replied the boy.
“My young friend, you are of opinion that a half loaf is better
than no bread. True—so am I. But never make the mistake
of supposing a half to be the whole. Content is a good
thing. When the man sent for cake, and said, `John, if you
can't get cake, get smelts,' he did wisely. But smelts are not
cake for all that. What's your name?” asked Mr. Newt, abruptly.
“Gabriel Bennet,” replied the boy.
“Bennet—Bennet—what Bennet?”
“I don't know, Sir.”
Lawrence Newt was apparently satisfied with this answer.
He only said:
“Well, my son, you do wisely to say at once you don't
know, instead of going back to somebody a few centuries ago,
of whose father you have to make the same answer. The
Newts, however, you must be aware, are a very old family.”
The merchant smiled. “They came into England with the
Normans; but who they came into Normandy with I don't
know. Do you?”
Gabriel laughed, with a pleasant feeling of confidence in his
companion.
“Have you been at school in the city?” asked the merchant.
Gabriel told him that he had been at Mr. Gray's.
“Oh ho! then you know my nephew Abel?”
“Yes, Sir,” replied Gabriel, coloring.
“Abel is a smart boy,” said Mr. Newt.
Gabriel made no reply.
“Do you like Abel?”
Gabriel paused a moment; then said,
“No, Sir.”
The merchant looked at the boy for a few moments.
“Who did you like at school?”
“Oh, I liked Jim Greenidge and Little Malacca best,” replied
Gabriel, as if the whole world must be familiar with
those names.
At the mention of the latter Lawrence Newt looked interested,
and, after talking a little more, said,
“Gabriel, I take you into my office.”
He called Mr. Tray.
“Thomas Tray, this is the youngest clerk, Gabriel Bennet.
Gabriel, this is the head of the outer office, Mr. Thomas Tray.
Thomas, ask Venables to step this way.”
That young man appeared immediately.
“Mr. Venables, you are promoted. You have seven hundred
dollars a year, and are no longer youngest clerk. Gabriel
Bennet, this is Frank Venables. Be friends. Now go
to work.”
There was a general bowing, and Thomas Tray and the two
young men retired.
As they went out Mr. Newt opened a letter which had been
brought in from the Post during the interview.
“Dear Sir,—I trust you will pardon this intrusion. It is a
long time since I have had the honor of writing to you; but I
thought you would wish to know that Miss Wayne will be in
New York, for the first time, within a day or two after you
receive this letter. She is with her aunt, Mrs. Dinks, who
will stay at Bunker's.
“Respectfully yours,
“Jane Simcoe.”
Lawrence Newt's head drooped as he sat. Presently he
arose and walked up and down the office.
Meanwhile Gabriel was installed. That ceremony consisted
of offering him a high stool with a leathern seat. Mr. Tray
remarked that he should have a drawer in the high desk, on
both sides of which the clerks were seated. The installation
was completed by Mr. Tray's formally introducing the new-comer
to the older clerks.
The scratching began again. Gabriel looked curiously upon
the work in which he was now to share. The young men had
no words for him. Mr. Newt was engaged within. The boy
had a vague feeling that he must shift for himself—that every
body was busy—that play in this life had ended and work begun.
The thought tasted to him much more like smelts than
cake. And while he was wisely left by Thomas Tray to familiarize
himself with the entire novelty of the situation his
mind flashed back to Delafield with an aching longing, and
the boy would willingly have put his face in his hands and
wept. But he sat quietly looking at his companions—until
Mr. Tray said,
“Gabriel, I want you to copy this invoice.”
And Gabriel was a school-boy no longer.
