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.