36. CHAPTER XXXVI.
THE BACK WINDOW.
Lawrence Newt was not unmindful of the difference of
age between Amy Waring and himself; and instinctively he
did nothing which could show to others that he felt more for
her than for a friend. Younger men, who could not help
yielding to the charm of her presence, never complained of
him. He was never “that infernal old bore, Lawrence Newt,”
to them. More than one of them, in the ardor of young feeling,
had confided his passion to Lawrence, who said to him,
bravely, “My dear fellow, I do not wonder you feel so. God
speed you—and so will I, all I can.”
And he did so. He mentioned the candidate kindly to
Miss Waring. He repeated little anecdotes that he had heard
to his advantage. Lawrence regarded the poor suitor as a
painter does a picture. He took him up in the arms of his
charity and moved him round and round. He put him upon
his sympathy as upon an easel, and turned on the kindly lights
and judiciously darkened the apartment.
His generosity was chivalric, but it was unavailing. Beautiful
flowers arrived from the aspiring youths. They were so
lovely, so fragrant! What taste that young Hal Battlebury
has! remarks Lawrence Newt, admiringly, as he smells the
flowers that stand in a pretty vase upon the centre-table. Amy
Waring smiles, and says that it is Thorburn's taste, of whom
Mr. Battlebury buys the flowers. Mr. Newt replies that it is
at least very thoughtful in him. A young lady can not but
feel kindly, surely, toward young men who express their good
feeling in the form of flowers. Then he dexterously leads the
conversation into some other channel. He will not harm the
cause of poor Mr. Battlebury by persisting in speaking of him
and his bouquets, when that persistence will evidently render
the subject a little tedious.
Poor Mr. Hal Battlebury, who, could he only survey the Waring
mansion from the lower floor to the roof, would behold his
handsome flowers that came on Wednesday withering in cold
ceremony upon the parlor-table—and in Amy Waring's bureau-drawer
would see the little book she received from “her
friend Lawrence Newt” treasured like a priceless pearl, with
a pressed rose laid upon the leaf where her name and his are
written—a rose which Lawrence Newt playfully stole one
evening from one of the ceremonious bouquets pining under
its polite reception, and said gayly, as he took leave, “Let this
keep my memory fragrant till I return.”
But it was a singular fact that when one of those baskets
without a card arrived at the house, it was not left in superb
solitary state upon the centre-table in the parlor, but bloomed
as long as care could coax it in the strict seclusion of Miss
Waring's own chamber, and then some choicest flower was
selected to be pressed and preserved somewhere in the depths
of the bureau.
Could the bureau drawers give up their treasures, would
any human being longer seem to be cold? would any maiden
young or old appear a voluntary spinster, or any unmarried
octogenarian at heart a bachelor?
For many a long hour Lawrence Newt stood at the window
of the loft in the rear of his office, and looked up at the window
where he had seen Amy Waring that summer morning.
He was certainly quite as curious about that room as Hope
about his early knowledge of her home.
“I'll just run round and settle this matter,” said the merchant
to himself.
But he did not stir. His hands were in his pockets. He
was standing as firmly in one spot as if he had taken root,
“Yes—upon the whole, I'll just run round,” thought Lawrence,
without the remotest approach to motion of any kind.
But his fancy was running round all the time, and the fancies
of men who watch windows, as Lawrence Newt watched this
window, are strangely fantastic. He imagined every thing in
that room. It was a woman with innumerable children, of
course—some old nurse of Amy's—who had a kind of respectability
to preserve, which intrusion would injure. No, no,
by Heaven! it was Mrs. Tom Witchet, old Van Boozenberg's
daughter! Of course it was. An old friend of Amy's, half-starving
in that miserable lodging, and Amy her guardian angel.
Lawrence Newt mentally vowed that Mrs. Tom Witchet
should never want any thing. He would speak to Amy at
the next meeting of the Round Table.
Or there were other strange fancies. What will not an
India merchant dream as he gazes from his window? It was
some old teacher of Amy's—some music-master, some French
teacher—dying alone and in poverty, or with a large family.
No, upon the whole, thought Lawrence Newt, he's not old
enough to have a large family—he is not married—he has too
delicate a nature to struggle with the world—he was a gentleman
in his own country; and he has, of course, it's only natural—how
could he possibly help it?—he has fallen in love with
Miss Waring. These music-masters and Italian teachers are
such silly fellows. I know all about it, thought Mr. Newt;
and now he lies there forlorn, but picturesque and very handsome,
singing sweetly to his guitar, and reciting Petrarch's
sonnets with large, melancholy eyes. His manners refined
and fascinating. His age? About thirty. Poor Amy! Of
course common humanity requires her to come and see that
he does not suffer. Of course he is desperately in love, and
she can only pity. Pity? pity? Who says something about
the kinship of pity? I really think, says Lawrence Newt to
himself, that I ought to go over and help that unfortunate
young man. Perhaps he wishes to return to his native
country. I am sure he ought to. His native air will be
[ILLUSTRATION]
Lawernce Newt Sees The Reason Why.
[Description: 538EAF. Page 219. In-line Illustration. Image of a man looking out of a window. His back is to the reader. He is leaning on one elbow and is resting his chin in his hand.]
balm to him. Yes, I'll ask Miss Waring about it this very
evening.
He did not. He never alluded to the subject. They had
never mentioned that summer noontide exchange of glance
and gesture which had so curious an effect on Lawrence Newt
that he now stood quite as often at his back window, looking
up at the old brick house, as at his front window, looking out
over the river and the ships, and counting the spires—at least
it seemed so—in Brooklyn.
For how could Lawrence know of the book that was kept
in the burean drawer—of the rose whose benediction lay forever
fragrant upon those united names?
“I am really sorry for Hal Battlebury,” said the merchant
to himself. “He is such a good, noble fellow! I should
have supposed that Miss Waring would have been so very
happy with him. He is so suitable in every way; in age,
in figure, in tastes—in sympathy altogether. Then he is so
manly and modest, so simple and true. It is really very—
very—”
And so he mused, and asked and answered, and thought of
Hal Battlebury and Amy Waring together.
It seemed to him that if he were a younger man—about the
age of Battlebury, say—full of hope, and faith, and earnest endeavor—a
glowing and generous youth—it would be the very
thing he should do—to fall in love with Amy Waring. How
could any man see her and not love her? His reflections
grew dreamy at this point.
“If so lovely a girl did not return the affection of such a
young man, it would be—of course, what else could it be?—it
would be because she had deliberately made up her mind that,
under no conceivable circumstances whatsoever, would she
ever marry.”
As he reached this satisfactory conclusion Lawrence Newt
paced up and down before the window, with his hands still
buried in his pockets, thinking of Hal Battlebury—thinking
of the foreign youth with the large, melancholy eyes pining
upon a bed of pain, and reciting Petrarch's sonnets, in the
miserable room opposite—thinking also of that strange coldness
of virgin hearts which not the ardors of youth and love
could melt.
And, stopping before the window, he thought of his own
boyhood—of the first wild passion of his young heart—of the
little hand he held—of the soft darkness of eyes whose light
mingled with his own—again the palm-trees—the rushing
river—when, at the very window upon which he was unconsciously
gazing, one afternoon a face appeared, with a black
silk handkerchief twisted about the head, and looking down
into the court between the houses.
Lawrence Newt stared at it without moving. Both windows
were closed, nor was the woman at the other looking
toward him. He had, indeed, scarcely seen her fully before
she turned away. But he had recognized that face. He had
seen a woman he had so long thought dead. In a moment
Amy Waring's visit was explained, and a more heavenly light
shone upon her character as he thought of her.
“God bless you, Amy dear!” were the words that unconsciously
stole to his lips; and going into the office, Lawrence
Newt told Thomas Tray that he should not return that afternoon,
wished his clerks good-day, and hurried around the corner
into Front Street.
