43. CHAPTER XLIII.
WALKING HOME.
“Miss Amy,” said Lawrence Newt, as they walked slowly
toward Fulton Street, “I hope that gradually we may overcome
this morbid state of mind in your aunt, and restore her
to her home.”
Amy said she hoped so too, and walked quietly by his side.
There was something almost humble in her manner. Her secret
was her own no longer. Was it Lawrence Newt's? Had
she indeed betrayed herself?
“I didn't say why I was going out of town. Yet I ought
to tell you,” said he.
“Why should you tell me?” she answered, quickly.
“Because it concerns our friend Hope Wayne,” said Lawrence.
“See, here is the note which I received this morning.”
As he spoke he opened it, and read aloud:
“My dear Mr. Newt,—Mrs. Simcoe writes me that grandfather
has had a stroke of paralysis, and lies very ill. Aunt
Dinks has, therefore, resolved to leave on Monday, and I shall
go with her. She seems very much affected, indeed, by the
news. Mrs. Simcoe writes that the doctor says grandfather
will hardly live more than a few days, and she wishes you
could go on with us. I know that you have some kind of
association with Pinewood—you have not told me what. In
this summer weather you will find it very beautiful; and you
know how glad I shall be to have you for my guest. My
guest, I say; for while grandfather lies so dangerously ill I
must be what my mother would have been—mistress of the
house. I shall hardly feel more lonely than I always did when
he was active, for we had but little intercourse. In case of his
death, which I suppose to be very near, I shall not care to live
at the old place. In fact, I do not very clearly see what I am
to do. But there is One who does; and I remember my dear
old nurse's hymn, `On Thee I cast my care.' Come, if you can.
“Your friend,
Hope Wayne.”
Lawrence Newt and Amy walked on for some time in silence.
At length Amy said,
“It is just one of the cases in which it is a pity she is not
married or engaged.”
“Isn't that always a pity for a young woman?” asked Lawrence,
shooting entirely away from the subject.
“Theoretically, yes,” replied Amy, firmly, “but not actually.
It may be a pity that every woman is not married; but it
might be a greater pity that she should marry any of the men
who ask her.”
“Of course,” said Lawrence Newt, dryly, “if she didn't love
him.”
“Yes, and sometimes even if she did.”
Amy Waring was conscious that her companion looked at
her in surprise as she said this, but she fixed her eyes directly
before her, and walked straight on.
“Oh yes,” said Mr. Newt; “I see. You mean when he
does not love her.”
“No, I mean sometimes even when they do love each other,”
said the resolute Amy.
Lawrence Newt was alarmed. “Does she mean to convey
to me delicately that there may be cases of true mutual love
where it is better not to marry?” thought he. “Where, for
instance, there is a difference of age perhaps, or where there
has been some other and earlier attachment?”
“I mean,” said Amy, as if answering his thoughts, “that
there may sometimes be reasons why even lovers should not
marry—reasons which every noble man and woman understand;
and therefore I do not agree with you that it is always
a pity for a girl not to be married.”
Lawrence Newt said nothing. Amy Waring's voice almost
trembled with emotion, for she knew that her companion
might easily misunderstand what she said; and yet there was
no way to help it. At any rate, thought she, he will see that
I do not mean to drop into his arms.
They walked silently on. The people in the street passed
them like spectres. The great city hummed around them unheard.
Lawrence Newt said to himself, half bitterly, “So
you have waked up at last, have you? You have found that
because a beautiful young woman is kind to you, it does not
follow that she will one day be your wife.”
Neither spoke. “She sees,” thought Lawrence Newt, “that
I love her, and she wishes to spare me the pain of hearing that
it is in vain.”
“At least,” he thought, with tenderness and longing toward
the beautiful girl that walked beside him—“at least, I was not
mistaken. She was nobler and lovelier than I supposed.”
At length he said,
“I have written to ask Hope Wayne to go and hear my
preacher to-morrow. Miss Amy, will you go too?”
She looked at him and bowed. Her eyes were glistening
with tears.
“My dearest Miss Amy,” said Lawrence Newt, impetuously,
seizing her hand, as her face turned toward him.
“Oh! please, Mr. Newt—please—” she answered, hastily,
in a tone of painful entreaty, withdrawing her hand from his
grasp, confused and very pale.
The words died upon his lips.
“Forgive me—forgive me!” he said, with an air of surprise
and sadness, and with a voice trembling with tenderness and
respect. “She can not bear to give me the pain of plainly
saying that she does not love me,” thought Lawrence; and he
[ILLUSTRATION]
Farewell!
[Description: 538EAF. Page 266. In-line Illustration. Image of a man bowing over a woman's hand. His back is to the reader. Her face does not reveal any strong emotion.]
gently took her hand and laid her arm in his, as if to show that
now they understood each other perfectly, and all was well.
“At least, Miss Amy,” he said, by-and-by, tranquilly, and
with the old cheerfulness, “at least we shall be friends.”
Amy Waring bent her head and was silent. It seemed to
her that she was suffocating, for his words apprised her how
strangely he had mistaken her meaning.
They said nothing more. Arm in arm they passed up
Broadway. Every moment Amy Waring supposed the merchant
would take leave of her and return to his office. But
every moment he was farther from doing it. Abel Newt and
Grace Plumer passed them, and opened their eyes; and Grace
said to Abel,
“How long has Amy Waring been engaged to your Uncle
Lawrence?”
When they reached Amy's door Lawrence Newt raised her
hand, bent over it with quaint, courtly respect, held it a
moment, then pressed it to his lips. He looked up at her.
She was standing on the step; her full, dark eyes, swimming
with moisture, were fixed upon his; her luxuriant hair curled
over her clear, rich cheeks—youth, love, and beauty, they were
all there. Lawrence Newt could hardly believe they were not
all his. It was so natural to think so. Somehow he and Amy
had grown together. He understood her perfectly.
“Perfectly?” he said to himself. “Why you are holding
her hand; you are kissing it with reverence; you are looking
into the face which is dearer and lovelier to you than all other
human faces; and you are as far off as if oceans rolled between.”
