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Trumps: A Novel, a novel by George William Curtis |
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Chapter 36. The Back Window |
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_ 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. _ |
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