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 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 bureau 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.
CHAPTER XXXVII. — ABEL NEWT, vice SLIGO MOULTRIE REMOVED.
The Plumers were at Bunker’s. The gay, good-hearted Grace, full of fun and flirtation, vowed that New York was life, and all the rest of the world death.
“You do not compliment the South very much,” said Sligo Moultrie, smiling.
“Oh no! The South is home, and we don’t compliment relations, you know,” returned Miss Grace.
“Yes, thank Heaven! the South is home, Miss Grace. New York is like a foreign city. The tumult is fearful; yet it is only a sea-port after all. It has no metropolitan repose. It never can have. It is a trading town.”
“Then I like trading towns, if that is it,” returned Miss Grace, looking out into the bustling street.
Mr. Moultrie smiled—a quiet, refined, intelligent, and accomplished smile.
He smiled confidently. Not offensively, but with that half-shy sense of superiority which gave the high grace of self-possession to his manner—a languid repose which pervaded his whole character. The symmetry of his person, the careless ease of his carriage, a sweet voice, a handsome face, were valuable allies of his intellectual accomplishments; and when all the forces were deployed they made Sligo Moultrie very fascinating. He was not audacious nor brilliant. It was a passive, not an active nature. He was not rich, although Mrs. Boniface Newt had a vague idea that every Southern youth was ex-officio a Croesus. Scion of a fine old family, like the Newts, and Whitloes, and Octoynes of New York, Mr. Sligo Moultrie, born to be a gentleman, but born poor, was resolved to maintain his state.
Miss Grace Plumer, as we saw at Mrs. Boniface Newt’s, had bright black eyes, profusely curling black hair, olive skin, pouting mouth, and pearly teeth. Very rich, very pretty, and very merry was Miss Grace Plumer, who believed with enthusiastic faith that life was a ball, but who was very shrewd and very kindly also.
Sligo Moultrie understood distinctly why he was sitting at the window with Grace Plumer.
“The roses are in bloom at your home, I suppose, Miss Grace?” said he.
“Yes, I suppose they are, and a dreadfully lonely time they’re having of it. Southern life, of course, is a hundred times better than life here; but it is a little lonely, isn’t it, Mr. Moultrie?”
Grace said this turning her neck slightly, and looking an arch interrogatory at her companion.
“Yes, it is lonely in some ways. But then there is so much going up to town and travelling that, after all, it is only a few months that we are at home; and a man ought to be at home a good deal—he ought not to be a vagabond.”
“Thank you,” said Grace, bowing mockingly.
“I said ‘a man,’ you observe, Miss Grace.”
“Man includes woman, I believe, Mr. Moultrie.”
“In two cases—yes.”
“What are they?”
“When he holds her in his arms or in his heart.”
Here was a sudden volley masked in music. Grace Plumer was charmed. She looked at her companion. He had been “a vagabond” all winter in New York; but there were few more presentable men. Moreover, she felt at home with him as a compatriot. Yes, this would do very well.
Miss Grace Plumer had scarcely mentally installed Mr. Sligo Moultrie as first flirter in her corps, when a face she remembered looked up at the window from the street, more dangerous even than when she had seen it in the spring. It was the face of Abel Newt, who raised his hat and bowed to her with an admiration which he concealed that he took care to show.
The next moment he was in the room, perfectly comme il faut, sparkling, resistless.
“My dear Miss Plumer, I knew spring was coming. I felt it as I approached Bunker’s. I said to Herbert Octoyne (he’s off with the Shrimp; Papa Shrimp was too much, he was so old that he was rank)—I said, either I smell the grass sprouting in the Battery or I have a sensation of spring. I raise my eyes—I see that it is not grass, but flowers. I recognize the dear, delicious spring. I bow to Miss Plumer.”
He tossed it airily off. It was audacious. It would have been outrageous, except that the manner made it seem persiflage, and therefore allowable. Grace Plumer blushed, bowed, smiled, and met his offered hand half-way. Abel Newt knew perfectly what he was doing, and raised it respectfully, bowed over it, kissed it.
“Moultrie, glad to see you. Miss Plumer, ‘tis astonishing how this man always knows the pleasant places. If I want to know where the best fruits and the earliest flowers are, I ask Sligo Moultrie.”
Mr. Moultrie bowed.
“The first rose of the year blooms in Mr. Moultrie’s button-hole,” continued Abel, who galloped on, laughing, and seating himself upon an ottoman, so that his eyes were lower than the level of Grace Plumer’s.
She smiled, and joined the hunt.
“He talks nothing but ‘ladies’ delights,’” said she.
“Yes—two other things, please, Miss Grace,” said Moultrie.
“What, Mr. Moultrie, two other cases? You always have two more.”
“Better two more than too much,” struck in Abel, who saw that Miss Plumer had put out her darling little foot from beneath her dress, and therefore had fixed his eyes upon it, with an admiration which was not lost upon the lady.
“Heavens!” cried Moultrie, laughing and looking at them. “You are both two more and too much for me.”
“Good, good, good for Moultrie!” applauded Abel; “and now, Miss Plumer, I submit that he has the floor.”
“Very well, Mr. Moultrie. What are the two other things that you talk?”
“Pansies and rosemary,” said the young man, rising and bowing himself out.
“Miss Plumer, you have been the inspiration of my friend Sligo, who was never so brilliant in his life before. How generous in you to rise and shine on this wretched town! It is Sahara. Miss Plumer descends upon it like dew. Where have you been?”
“At home, in Louisiana.”
“Ah! yes. Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle—I have never been there; but it comes to me here when you come, Miss Plumer.”
Still the slight persiflage to cover the audacity.
“And so, Mr. Newt, I have the honor of seeing the gentleman of whom I have heard most this winter.”
“What will not our enemies say of us, Miss Plumer?”
“You have no enemies,” replied she, “except, perhaps—no, I’ll not mention them.”
“Who? who? I insist,” said Abel, looking at Grace Plumer earnestly for a moment, then dropping his eyes upon her very pretty and very be-ringed white hands, where the eyes lingered a little and worshipped in the most evident manner.
“Except, then, your own sex,” said the little Louisianian, half blushing.
“I do them no harm,” replied Abel.
“No; but you make them jealous.”
“Jealous of what?” returned the young man, in a lower tone, and more seriously.
“Oh! it’s only of—of—of—of what I hear from the girls,” said Grace, fluttering a little, as she remembered the conservatory at Mrs. Boniface Newt’s, which also Abel had not forgotten.
“And what do you hear, Miss Grace?” he asked, in pure music.
Grace blushed, and laughed.
“Oh! only of your success with poor, feeble women,” said she.
“I have no success with women,” returned Abel Newt, in a half-serious way, and in his most melodious voice. “Women are naturally generous. They appreciate and acknowledge an honest admiration, even when it is only honest.”
“Only honest! What more could it be, Mr. Newt?”
“It might be eloquent. It might be fascinating and irresistible. Even when a man does not really admire, his eloquence makes him dangerous. If, when he truly admires, he were also eloquent, he would be irresistible. There is no victory like that. I should envy Alexander nothing and Napoleon nothing if I thought I could really conquer one woman’s heart. My very consciousness of the worth of the prize paralyzes my efforts. It is musty, but it is true, that fools rush in where angels fear to tread.”
He sat silent, gazing abstractedly at the two lovely feet of Miss Grace Plumer, with an air that implied how far his mind had wandered in their conversation from any merely personal considerations. Miss Grace Plumer had not made as much progress as Mr. Newt since their last meeting. Abel Newt seemed to her the handsomest fellow she had ever seen. What he had said both piqued and pleased her. It pleased her because it piqued her.
“Women are naturally noble,” he continued, in a low, rippling voice. “If they see that a man sincerely admires them they forgive him, although he can not say so. Yes, and a woman who really loves a man forgives him every thing.”
He was looking at her hands, which lay white, and warm, and glittering in her lap. She was silent.
“What a superb ruby, Miss Grace! It might be a dew-drop from a pomegranate in Paradise.”
She smiled at the extravagant conceit, while he took her hand as he spoke, and admired the ring. The white, warm hand remained passive in his.
“Let me come nearer to Paradise,” he said, half-abstractedly, as if he were following his own thoughts, and he pressed his lips to the fingers upon which the ruby gleamed.
Miss Grace Plumer was almost frightened. This was a very different performance from Mr. Sligo Moultrie’s—very different from any she had known. She felt as if she suggested, in some indescribable way, strange and beautiful thoughts to Abel Newt. He looked and spoke as if he addressed himself to the thoughts she had evoked rather than to herself. Yet she felt herself to be both the cause and the substance. It was very sweet. She did not know what she felt; she did not know how much she dared. But when he went away she knew that Abel Newt was appointed first flirter, vice Sligo Moultrie removed.