Trumps

CHAPTER XIV. — A NEW YORK MERCHANT.

Mr. Lawrence Newt, the brother of Boniface, sat in his office. It was upon South Street, and the windows looked out upon the shipping in the East River—upon the ferry-boats incessantly crossing—upon the lofty city of Brooklyn opposite, with its spires. He heard the sailors sing—the oaths of the stevedores—the bustle of the carts, and the hum and scuffle of the passers-by. As he sat at his table he saw the ships haul into the stream—the little steamers that puffed alongside bringing the passengers; then, if the wind were not fair, pulling and shoving the huge hulks into a space large enough for them to manage themselves in.

Sometimes he watched the parting of passengers at the wharf when the wind was fair, and the ship could sail from her berth. The vast sails were slowly unfurled, were shaken out, hung for a few moments, then shook lazily, then filled round and full with the gentle, steady wind. Mr. Lawrence Newt laughed as he watched, for he thought of fine ladies taking their hair out of curl-papers, and patting and smoothing and rolling it upon little sticks and over little fingers until the curls stood round and full, and ready for action.

Then the ship moved slowly, almost imperceptibly, from the wharf—so slowly, so imperceptibly, that the people on board thought the city was sliding away from them. The merchant saw the solid, trim, beautiful vessel turn her bow southward and outward, and glide gently down the river. Her hull was soon lost to his eyes, but he could see the streamer fluttering at the mast-head over the masts of the other vessels. While he looked it vanished—the ship was gone.

Often enough Mr. Lawrence Newt stood leaning his head against the window-frame of his office after the ship had disappeared, and seemed to be looking at the ferry-boats or at the lofty city of Brooklyn. But he saw neither. Faster than ship ever sailed, or wind blew, or light flashed, the thought of Lawrence Newt darted, and the merchant, seemingly leaning against his office-window in South Street, was really sitting under palm-trees, or dandling in a palanquin, or chatting in a strange tongue, or gazing in awe upon snowier summits than the villagers of Chamouni have ever seen.

And what was that dark little hand he seemed to himself to press?—and what were those eyes, soft depths of exquisite darkness, into which through his own eyes his soul seemed to be sinking?

There were clerks busily writing in the outer office. It was dark in that office when Mr. Newt first occupied the rooms, and Thomas Tray, the book-keeper, who had the lightest place, said that the eyes of Venables, the youngest clerk, were giving out. Young Venables, a lad of sixteen, supported a mother and sister and infirm father upon his five hundred dollars a year.

“Eyes giving out in my service, Thomas Tray! I am ashamed of myself.”

And Lawrence Newt hired the adjoining office, knocked down all the walls, and introduced so much daylight that it shone not only into the eyes of young Venables, but into those of his mother and sister and infirm father.

It was scratch, scratch, scratch, all day long in the clerks’ office. Messengers were coming and going. Samples were brought in. Draymen came for orders. Apple-women and pie-men dropped in about noon, and there were plenty of cheap apples and cheap jokes when the peddlers were young and pretty. Customers came and brother merchants, who went into Mr. Lawrence Newt’s room. They talked China news, and South American news, and Mediterranean news. Their conversation was full of the names of places of which poems and histories have been written. The merchants joked complacent jokes. They gossiped a little when business had been discussed. So young Whitloe was really to marry Magot’s daughter, and the Doolittle money would go to the Magots after all! And old Jacob Van Boozenberg had actually left off knee-breeches and white cravats, and none of his directors knew him when he came into the Bank in modern costume. And there was no doubt that Mrs. Dagon wore cotton lace at the Orrys’, for Winslow’s wife said she saw it with her own eyes.

Mr. Lawrence Newt’s talk ceased with that about business. When the scandal set in, his mind seemed to set out. He stirred the fire if it were winter. He stepped into the outer office. He had a word for Venables. Had Miss Venables seen the new novel by Mr. Bulwer? It is called “Pelham,” and will be amusing to read aloud in the family. Will Mr. Venables call at Carville’s on his way up, have the book charged to Mr. Lawrence Newt, and present it, with Mr. Newt’s compliments, to his sister? If it were summer he opened the window, when it happened to be closed, and stood by it, or drew his chair to it and looked at the ships and the streets, and listened to the sailors swearing when he might have heard merchants, worth two or three hundred thousand dollars apiece, talking about Mrs. Dagon’s cotton lace.

One day he sat at his table writing letters. He was alone in the inner room; but the sun that morning did not see a row of pleasanter faces than were bending over large books in odoriferous red Russia binding, and little books in leather covers, and invoices and sheets of letter paper, in the outer office of Lawrence Newt.

A lad entered the office and stood at the door, impressed by the silent activity he beheld. He did not speak; the younger clerks looked up a moment, then went on with their work. It was clearly packet-day.

The lad remained silent for so long a time, as if his profound respect for the industry he saw before him would not allow him to speak, that Thomas Tray looked up at last, and said,

“Well, Sir?”

“May I see Mr. Newt, Sir?”

“In the other room,” said Mr. Tray, with his goose-quill in his mouth, nodding his head toward the inner office, and turning over with both hands a solid mass of leaves in his great, odoriferous red Russia book, and letting them gently down—proud of being the author of that clearly-written, massive work, containing an accurate biography of Lawrence Newt’s business.

The youth tapped at the glass door. Mr. Newt said, “Come in,” and, when the door opened, looked up, and still holding his pen with the ink in it poised above the paper, he said, kindly, “Well, Sir? Be short. It’s packet-day.”

“I want a place, Sir.”

“What kind of a place?”

“In a store, Sir.”

“I’m sorry I’m all full. But sit down while I finish these letters; then we’ll talk about it.”

CHAPTER XV. — A SCHOOL-BOY NO LONGER.

The lad seated himself by the window. Scratch—scratch—scratch. The sun sparkled in the river. The sails, after yesterday’s rain, were loosened to dry, and were white as if it had rained milk upon them instead of water. Every thing looked cheerful and bright from Lawrence Newt’s window. The lad saw with delight how much sunshine there was in the office.

“I don’t believe it would hurt my health to work here,” thought he. Mr. Lawrence Newt rang a little bell. Venables entered quietly.

“Most ready out there?” asked Mr. Newt.

“Most ready, Sir.”

“Brisk’s the word this morning, you know. Please to copy these letters.”

Venables said nothing, took the letters, and went out.

“Now, young man,” said the merchant, “tell me what you want.”

The lad’s heart turned toward him like a fallow-field to the May sun.

“My father’s been unfortunate, Sir, and I want to do something for myself. He advised me to come to you.”

“Why?”

“Because he said you would give me good advice if you couldn’t give me employment.”

“Well, Sir, you seem a strong, likely lad. Have you ever been in a store?”

“No, Sir. I left school last week.”

Mr. Newt looked out of the window.

“Your father’s been unfortunate?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“How’s that? Has he told a lie, or lost his eyes, or his health, or has his daughter married a drunkard?” asked Mr. Lawrence Newt, looking at the lad with a kindly humor in his eyes.

“Oh no, Sir,” replied the boy, surprised. “He’s lost his money.”

“Oh ho! his money! And it is the loss of money which you call 'unfortunate.’ Now, my boy, think a moment. Is there any thing belonging to your father which he could so well spare? Has he any superfluous boy or girl? any useless arm or leg? any unnecessary good temper or honesty? any taste for books, or pictures, or the country, that he would part with? Is there any thing which he owns that it would not be a greater misfortune to him to lose than his money? Honor bright, my boy. If you think there is, say so!”

The youth smiled.

“Well, Sir, I suppose worse things could happen to us than poverty,” said he.

Mr. Lawrence Newt interrupted him by remarks which were belied by his beaming face.

“Worse things than poverty! Why, my boy, what are you thinking of? Do you not know that it is written in the largest efforts upon the hearts of all Americans, ‘Resist poverty, and it will flee from you?’ If you do not begin by considering poverty the root of all evil, where on earth do you expect to end? Cease to be poor, learn to be rich. I’m afraid you don’t read the good book. So your father has health”—the boy nodded—“and a whole body, a good temper, an affectionate family, generous and refined tastes, pleasant relations with others, a warm heart, a clear conscience”—the boy nodded with an increasing enthusiasm of assent—“and yet you call him unfortunate—ruined! Why, look here, my son; there’s an old apple-woman at the corner of Burling Slip, where I stop every day and buy apples; she’s sixty years old, and through thick and thin, under a dripping wreck of an umbrella when it rains, under the sky when it shines—warming herself by a foot-stove in winter, by the sun in summer—there the old creature sits. She has an old, sick, querulous husband at home, who tries to beat her. Her daughters are all out at service—let us hope, in kind families—her sons are dull, ignorant men; her home is solitary and forlorn; she can not read much, nor does she want to; she is coughing her life away, and succeeds in selling apples enough to pay her rent and buy food for her old man and herself. She told me yesterday that she was a most fortunate woman. What does the word mean? I give it up.”

The lad looked around the spacious office, on every table and desk and chair of which was written Prosperity as plainly as the name of Lawrence Newt upon the little tin sign by the door. Except for the singular magnetism of the merchant’s presence, which dissipated such a suggestion as rapidly as it rose, the youth would have said aloud what was in his heart.

“How easy ‘tis for a rich man to smile at poverty!”

The man watched the boy, and knew exactly what he was thinking. As the eyes of the younger involuntarily glanced about the office and presently returned to the merchant, they found the merchant’s gazing so keenly that they seemed to be mere windows through which his soul was looking. But the keen earnestness melted imperceptibly into the usual sweetness as Lawrence Newt said,

“You think I can talk prettily about misfortune because I know nothing about it. You make a great mistake. No man, even in jest, can talk well of what he doesn’t understand. So don’t misunderstand me. I am rich, but I am not fortunate.”

He said it in the same tone as before.

“If you wanted a rose and got only a butter-cup, should you think yourself fortunate?” asked Mr. Newt.

“Why, yes, Sir. A man can’t expect to have every thing precisely as he wants it,” replied the boy.

“My young friend, you are of opinion that a half loaf is better than no bread. True—so am I. But never make the mistake of supposing a half to be the whole. Content is a good thing. When the man sent for cake, and said, ‘John, if you can’t get cake, get smelts,’ he did wisely. But smelts are not cake for all that. What’s your name?” asked Mr. Newt, abruptly.

“Gabriel Bennet,” replied the boy.

“Bennet—Bennet—what Bennet?”

“I don’t know, Sir.”

Lawrence Newt was apparently satisfied with this answer. He only said:

“Well, my son, you do wisely to say at once you don’t know, instead of going back to somebody a few centuries ago, of whose father you have to make the same answer. The Newts, however, you must be aware, are a very old family.” The merchant smiled. “They came into England with the Normans; but who they came into Normandy with I don’t know. Do you?”

Gabriel laughed, with a pleasant feeling of confidence in his companion.

“Have you been at school in the city?” asked the merchant.

Gabriel told him that he had been at Mr. Gray’s.

“Oh ho! then you know my nephew Abel?”

“Yes, Sir,” replied Gabriel, coloring.

“Abel is a smart boy,” said Mr. Newt.

Gabriel made no reply.

“Do you like Abel?”

Gabriel paused a moment; then said,

“No, Sir.”

The merchant looked at the boy for a few moments.

“Who did you like at school?”

“Oh, I liked Jim Greenidge and Little Malacca best,”, replied Gabriel, as if the whole world must be familiar with those names.

At the mention of the latter Lawrence Newt looked interested, and, after talking a little more, said,

“Gabriel, I take you into my office.”

He called Mr. Tray.

“Thomas Tray, this is the youngest clerk, Gabriel Bennet. Gabriel, this is the head of the outer office, Mr. Thomas Tray. Thomas, ask Venables to step this way.”

That young man appeared immediately.

“Mr. Venables, you are promoted. You have seven hundred dollars a year, and are no longer youngest clerk. Gabriel Bennet, this is Frank Venables. Be friends. Now go to work.”

There was a general bowing, and Thomas Tray and the two young men retired.

As they went out Mr. Newt opened a letter which had been brought in from the Post during the interview.

“DEAR SIR,—I trust you will pardon this intrusion. It is a long time since I have had the honor of writing to you; but I thought you would wish to know that Miss Wayne will be in New York, for the first time, within a day or two after you receive this letter. She is with her aunt, Mrs. Dinks, who will stay at Bunker’s.

“Respectfully yours,

“JANE SIMCOE.”

Lawrence Newt’s head drooped as he sat. Presently he arose and walked up and down the office.

Meanwhile Gabriel was installed. That ceremony consisted of offering him a high stool with a leathern seat. Mr. Tray remarked that he should have a drawer in the high desk, on both sides of which the clerks were seated. The installation was completed by Mr. Tray’s formally introducing the new-comer to the older clerks.

The scratching began again. Gabriel looked curiously upon the work in which he was now to share. The young men had no words for him. Mr. Newt was engaged within. The boy had a vague feeling that he must shift for himself—that every body was busy—that play in this life had ended and work begun. The thought tasted to him much more like smelts than cake. And while he was wisely left by Thomas Tray to familiarize himself with the entire novelty of the situation his mind flashed back to Delafield with an aching longing, and the boy would willingly have put his face in his hands and wept. But he sat quietly looking at his companions—until Mr. Tray said,

“Gabriel, I want you to copy this invoice.”

And Gabriel was a school-boy no longer.

CHAPTER XVI. — PHILOSOPHY.

Abel Newt believed in his lucky star. He had managed Uncle Savory—couldn’t he manage the world?

“My son,” said Mr. Boniface Newt, “you are now about to begin the world.” (Begin? thought Abel.) “You are now coming into my house as a merchant. In this world we must do the best we can. It is a great pity that men are not considerate, and all that. But they are not. They are selfish. You must take them as you find them. You, my son, think they are all honest and good.”—Do I? quoth son, in his soul.—“It is the bitter task of experience to undeceive youth from its romantic dreams. As a rule, Abel, men are rascals; that is to say, they pursue their own interests. How sad! True; how sad! Where was I? Oh! men are scamps—with some exceptions; but you must go by the rule. Life is a scrub-race—melancholy, Abel, but true. I talk plainly to you, but I do it for your good. If we were all angels, things would be different. If this were the Millennium, every thing would doubtless be agreeable to every body. But it is not—how very sad! True, how very sad! Where was I? Oh! it’s all devil take the hindmost. And because your neighbors are dishonest, why should you starve? You see, Abel?”

It was in Mr. Boniface Newt’s counting-room that he preached this gospel. A boy entered and announced that Mr. Hadley was outside looking at some cases of dry goods.

“Now, Abel,” said his father, “I’ll return in a moment.”

He stepped out, smiling and rubbing his hands. Mr. Hadley was stooping over a case of calicoes; Blackstone, Hadley, & Merrimack—no safer purchasers in the world. The countenance of Boniface Newt beamed upon the customer as if he saw good notes at six months exuding from every part of his person.

“Good-morning, Mr. Hadley. Charming morning, Sir—beautiful day, Sir. What’s the word this morning, Sir?”

“Nothing, nothing,” returned the customer. “Pretty print that. Just what I’ve been looking for” (renewed rubbing of hands on the part of Mr. Newt)—“very pretty. If it’s the right width, it’s just the thing. Let me see—that’s about seven-eighths.” He shook his head negatively. “No, not wide enough. If that print were a yard wide, I should take all you have.”

“Oh, that’s a yard,” replied Mr. Newt; “certainly a full yard.” He looked around inquiringly, as if for a yard-stick.

“Where is the yard-stick?” asked Mr. Hadley.

“Timothy!” said Mr. Newt to the boy, with a peculiar look.

The boy disappeared and reappeared with a yard-stick, while Mr. Newt’s face underwent a series of expressions of subdued anger and disgust.

“Now, then,” said Mr. Hadley, laying the yard-stick upon the calicoes; “yes, as I thought, seven-eighths; too narrow—sorry.”

There were thirty cases of those goods in the loft. Boniface Newt groaned in soul. The unconscious small boy, who had not understood the peculiar look, and had brought the yard-stick, stood by.

“Mr. Newt,” said Hadley, stopping at another case, “that is very handsome.”

“Very, very; and that is the last case.”

“You have no other cases?”

“No.”

“Oh! well, send it round at once; for I am sure—”

“Mr. Newt,” said the unconscious boy, smiling with the satisfaction of one who is able to correct an error, “you are mistaken, Sir. There are a dozen more cases just like that up stairs.”

“Ah! then I don’t care about it,” said Mr. Hadley, passing on. The head of the large commission-house of Boniface Newt & Co. looked upon the point of apoplexy.

“Good-morning, Mr. Newt; sorry that I see nothing farther,” said Mr. Hadley, and he went out.

Mr. Newt turned fiercely to the unconscious boy.

“What do you mean, Sir, by saying and doing such things?” asked he, sharply.

“What things, Sir?” demanded the appalled boy.

“Why, getting the yard-stick when I winked to you not to find it, and telling of other cases when I said that one was the last.”

“Why, Sir, because it wasn’t the last,” said the boy.

“For business purposes it was the last, Sir,” replied Mr. Newt. “You don’t know the first principles of business. The tongue is always the mischief-maker. Hold your tongue, Sir, hold your tongue, or you’ll lose your place, Sir.”

Mr. Boniface Newt, ruffled and red, went into his office, where he found Abel reading the newspaper and smoking a cigar. The clerks outside were pale at the audacity, of Newt, Jun. The young man was dressed extremely well. He had improved the few weeks of his residence in the city by visits to Frost the tailor, in Maiden Lane; and had sent his measure to Forr, the bootmaker in Paris, artists who turned out the prettiest figures that decorated the Broadway of those days. Mr. Abel Newt, to his father’s eyes, had the air of a man of superb leisure; and as he sat reading the paper, with one leg thrown over the arm of the office-chair, and the smoke languidly curling from his lips, Mr. Boniface Newt felt profoundly, but vaguely, uncomfortable, as if he had some slight prescience of a future of indolence for the hope of the house of Newt.

As his father entered, Mr. Abel dropped by his side the hand still holding the newspaper, and, without removing the cigar, said, through the cloud of smoke he blew,

“Father, you were imparting your philosophy of life.”

The older gentleman, somewhat discomposed, answered,

“Yes, I was saying what a pity it is that men are such d——d rascals, because they force every body else to be so too. But what can you do? It’s all very fine to talk, but we’ve got to live. I sha’n’t be such an ass as to run into the street and say, ‘I gave ten cents a yard for those goods, but you must pay me twenty.’ Not at all. It’s other men’s business to find that out if they can. It’s a great game, business is, and the smartest chap wins. Every body knows we are going to get the largest price we can. People are gouging, and shinning, and sucking all round. It’s give and take. I am not here to look out for other men, I’m here to take care of myself—for nobody else will. It’s very sad, I know; it’s very sad, indeed. It’s absolutely melancholy. Ah, yes! where was I? Oh! I was saying that a lie well stuck to is better than the truth wavering. It’s perfectly dreadful, my son, from some points of view—Christianity, for instance. But what on earth are you going to do? The only happy people are the rich people, for they don’t have this eternal bother how to make money. Don’t misunderstand me, my son; I do not say that you must always tell stories. Heaven forbid! But a man is not bound always to tell the whole truth. The very law itself says that no man need give evidence against himself. Besides, business is no worse than every other calling. Do you suppose a lawyer never defends a man whom he knows to be guilty? He says he does it to give the culprit a fair trial. Fiddle-de-dee! He strains every nerve to get the man off. A lawyer is hired to take the side of a company or a corporation in every quarrel. He’s paid by the year or by the case. He probably stops to consider whether his company is right, doesn’t he? he works for justice, not for victory? Oh, yes! stuff! He works for fees. What’s the meaning of a retainer? That if, upon examination, the lawyer finds the retaining party to be in the right, he will undertake the case? Fiddle! no! but that he will undertake the case any how and fight it through. So ‘tis all round. I wish I was rich, and I’d be out of it.”

Mr. Boniface Newt discoursed warmly; Mr. Abel Newt listened with extreme coolness. He whiffed his cigar, and leaned his head on one side as he hearkened to the wisdom of experience; observing that his father put his practice into words and called it philosophy.

CHAPTER XVII. — OF GIRLS AND FLOWERS.

Mr. Abel Newt was not a philosopher; he was a man of action.

He told his mother that he could not accompany her to the Springs, because he must prepare himself to enter the counting-room of his father. But the evening before she left, Mrs. Newt gave a little party for Mrs. Plumer, of New Orleans. So Miss Grace, of whom his mother had written Abel, and who was just about leaving school, left school and entered society, simultaneously, by taking leave of Madame de Feuille and making her courtesy at Mrs. Boniface Newt’s.

Madame de Feuille’s was a “finishing” school. An extreme polish was given to young ladies by Madame de Feuille. By her generous system they were fitted to be wives of men of even the largest fortune. There was not one of her pupils who would not have been equal to the addresses of a millionaire. It is the profound conviction of all who were familiar with that seminary that the pupils would not have shrunk from marrying a crown-prince, or any king in any country who confined himself to Christian wedlock with one wife, or even the son of an English duke—so perfect was the polish, so liberal the education.

Mrs. Newt’s party was select. Mrs. Plumer, Miss Grace Plumer and the Magots, with Mellish Whitloe, of course; and Mrs. Osborne Moultrie, a lovely woman from Georgia, and her son Sligo, a slim, graceful gentleman, with fair hair and eyes; Dr. and Mrs. Lush, Rev. Dr. and Mrs. Maundy, who came only upon the express understanding that there was to be no dancing, and a few other agreeable people. It was a Summer party, Abel said—mere low-necked muslin, strawberries and ice-cream.

The eyes of the strangers of the gentler sex soon discovered the dark, rich face of Abel, who moved among the groups with the grace and ease of an accomplished man of society, smiling brightly upon his friends, bowing gravely to those of his mother’s guests whom he did not personally know.

“Who is that?” asked Mrs. Whetwood Tully, who had recently returned with her daughter, one of Madame de Feuille’s finest successes, from a foreign tour.

“That is my brother Abel,” replied Miss Fanny.

“Your brother Abel? how charming! How very like he is to Viscount Tattersalls. You’ve not been in England, I believe, Miss Newt?”

Fanny bowed negatively.

“Ah! then you have never seen Lord Tattersalls. He is a very superior young man. We were very intimate with him indeed. Dolly, dear!”

“Yes, ma.”

“You remember our particular friend Lord Viscount Tattersalls?”

“Was he a bishop?” asked Miss Fanny Newt.

“Law! no, my dear. He was a—he was a—why, he was a Viscount, you know—a Viscount.”

“Oh! a Viscount?”

“Yes, a Viscount.”

“Ah! a Viscount.”

“Well, Dolly dear, do you see how much Mr. Abel Newt resembles Lord Tattersalls?”

“Yes, ma.”

“It’s very striking, isn’t it?”

“Yes, ma.”

“Or now I look, I think he is even more like the Marquis of Crockford. Don’t you think so?”

“Yes, ma?”

“Very like indeed.”

“Yes, ma.”

“Dolly, dear, don’t you think his nose is like the Duke of Wellington’s? You remember the Wellington nose, my child?”

“Yes, ma.”

“Or is it Lord Brougham’s that I mean?”

“Yes, ma.”

“Yes, dear.”

“May I present my brother Abel, Miss Tally?” asked Fanny Newt.

“Yes, I’m sure,” said Miss Tully.

Fanny Newt turned just as a song began in the other room, out of which opened the conservatory.

The rooms were hushed as the merry song rang out. The voice of the singer was arch, and her eye flashed slyly on Abel Newt as she finished, and a murmur of pleasure rose around her.

Abel leaned upon the piano, with his eyes fixed upon the singer. He was fully conscious of the surprise he had betrayed to sister Fanny when she spoke suddenly of Mrs. Alfred Dinks. It was necessary to remove any suspicion that she might entertain in consequence. If Mr. Abel Newt had intentions in which Miss Hope Wayne was interested, was there any reason why Miss Fanny Newt should mingle in the matter?

As Miss Plumer finished the song Abel saw his sister coming toward him through the little crowd, although his eyes seemed to be constantly fixed upon the singer.

“How beautiful!” said he, ardently, in a low voice, looking Grace Plumer directly in the eyes.

“Yes, it is a pretty song.”

“Oh! you mean the song?” said Abel.

The singer blushed, and took up a bunch of roses that she had laid upon the piano and began to play with them.

“How very warm it is!” said she.

“Yes,” said Abel. “Let us take a turn in the conservatory—it is both darker and cooler; and I think your eyes will give light and warmth enough to our conversation.”

“Dear me! if you depend upon me it will be the Arctic zone in the conservatory,” said Miss Grace Plumer, as she rose from the piano. (Mrs. Newt had written Abel she was fourteen! She was seventeen in May.)

“No, no,” said Abel, “we shall find the tropics in that conservatory.”

“Then look out for storms!” replied Miss Plumer, laughing.

Abel offered his arm, and the young couple moved through the humming room. The arch eyes were cast down. The voice of the youth was very low.

He felt a touch, and turned. He knew very well who it was. It was his sister.

“Abel, I want to present you to Miss Whetwood Tully.”

“My dear Fanny, I can not turn from roses to violets. Miss Tully, I am sure, is charming. I would go with you with all my heart if I could,” said he, smiling and looking at Miss Plumer; “but, you see, all my heart is going here.”

Grace Plumer blushed again. He was certainly a charming young man.

Fanny Newt, with lips parted, looked at him a moment and shook her head gently. Abel was sure she would happen to find herself in the conservatory presently, whither he and his companion slowly passed. It was prettily illuminated with a few candles, but was left purposely dim.

“How lovely it is here! Oh! how fond I am of flowers!” said Miss Plumer, with the prettiest little rapture, and such a little spring that Abel was obliged to hold her arm more closely.

“Are you fond of flowers, Mr. Newt?”

“Yes; but I prefer them living.”

“Living flowers—what a poetic idea! But what do you mean?” asked Grace Plumer, hanging her head.

Abel saw somebody on the cane sofa under the great orange-tree, almost hidden in the shade. Dear Fanny! thought he.

“My dear Grace,” began Abel, in his lowest, sweetest voice; but the conservatory was so still that the words could have been easily heard by any one sitting upon the sofa.

Some one was sitting there—some one did hear. Abel smiled in his heart, and bent more closely to his companion. His manner was full of tender devotion. He and Grace came nearer. Some one not only heard, but started. Abel raised his eyes smilingly to meet Fanny’s. Somebody else started then; for under the great orange-tree, on the cane sofa, sat Lawrence Newt and Hope Wayne.

CHAPTER XVIII. — OLD FRIENDS AND NEW.

Lawrence Newt had called at Bunker’s, and found Mrs. Dinks and Miss Hope Wayne. They were sitting at the window upon Broadway watching the promenaders along that famous thoroughfare; for thirty years ago the fashionable walk was between the Park and the Battery, and Bunker’s was close to Morris Street, a little above the Bowling Green.

When Mr. Newt was announced Hope Wayne felt as if she were suffocating. She knew but one person of that name. Her aunt supposed it to be the husband of her friend, Mrs. Nancy Newt, whom she had seen upon a previous visit to New York this same summer. They both looked up and saw a gentleman they had never seen before. He bowed pleasantly, and said,

“Ladies, my name is Lawrence Newt.”

There was a touch of quaintness in his manner, as in his dress.

“You will find the city quite deserted,” said he. “But I have called with an invitation from my sister, Mrs. Boniface Newt, for this evening to a small party. She incloses her card, and begs you to waive the formality of a call.”

That was the way that Lawrence Newt and Hope Wayne came to be sitting on the cane sofa under the great orange-tree in Boniface Newt’s conservatory.

They had entered the room and made their bows to Mrs. Nancy; and Mr. Lawrence, wishing to talk to Miss Hope, had led her by another way to the conservatory, and so Mr. Abel had failed to see them.

As they sat under the tree Lawrence Newt conversed with Hope in a tone of earnest and respectful tenderness that touched her heart. She could not understand the winning kindliness of his manner, nor could she resist it. He spoke of her home with an accuracy of detail that surprised her.

“It was not the same house in my day, and you, perhaps, hardly remember much of the old one. The house is changed, but nothing else; no, nothing else,” he added, musingly, and with the same dreamy expression in his eyes that was in them when he leaned against his office window and watched the ships—while his mind sailed swifter and farther than they.

“They can not touch the waving outline of the hills that you see from the lawn, nor the pine-trees that shade the windows. Does the little brook still flow in the meadow below? And do you understand the pine-trees? Do they tell any tales?”

He asked it with a half-mournful gayety. He asked as if he both longed and feared that she should say, “Yes, they have told me: I know all.”

The murmurs of the singing came floating out to them as they sat. Hope was happy and trustful. She was in the house of Abel—she should see him—she should hear him! And this dear gentleman—not exactly like a father nor an uncle—well, yes, perhaps a young uncle—he is brother of Abel’s mother, and he mysteriously knows so much about Pinewood, and his smiling voice has a tear in it as he speaks of old days. I love him already—I trust him entirely—I have found a friend.

“Shall we go in again?” said Lawrence Newt. But they saw some one approaching, and before they arose, while they were still silent, and Hope’s heart was like the dawning summer heaven, she suddenly heard Abel Newt’s words, and watched him, speechlessly, as he and his companion glided by her into the darkness. It was the vision of a moment; but in the attitude, the tone, the whole impression, Hope Wayne instinctively felt treachery.

“Yes, let us go in!” she said to Lawrence Newt, as she rose calmly.

Abel had passed. He could no more have stopped and shaken hands with Hope Wayne than he could have sung like a nightingale. He could not even raise his head erect as he went by—something very stern and very strong seemed to hold it down.

Miss Plumer’s head was also bent; she was waiting to hear the end of that sentence. She thought society opened beautifully. Such a handsome fellow in such a romantic spot, beginning his compliments in such a low, rich voice, with his hair almost brushing hers. But he did not finish. Abel Newt was perfectly silent. He glided away with Grace Plumer into grateful gloom, and her ears, exquisitely apprehensive, caught from his lips not a word further.

Lawrence Newt rose as Hope requested, and they moved away. She found her aunt, and stood by her side. The young men were brought up and presented, and submitted their observations upon the weather, asked her how she liked New York—were delighted to hear that she would pass the next winter in the city—would show her then that New York had some claim to attention even from a Bostonian—were charmed, really, with Mr. Bowdoin Beacon and—and—Mr. Alfred Dinks; at mention of which name they looked in her face in the most gentlemanly manner to see the red result, as if the remark had been a blister, but they saw only an unconscious abstraction in her own thoughts, mingled with an air of attention to what they were saying.

“Miss Hope,” said Lawrence Newt, who approached her with a young woman by his side, “I want you to know my friend Amy Waring.”

The two girls looked at each other and bowed. Then they shook hands with a curious cordiality.

Amy Waring had dark eyes—not round and hard and black—not ebony eyes, but soft, sympathetic eyes, in which you expect to see images as lovely as the Eastern traveler sees when he remembers home and looks in the drop held in the palm of the hand of the magician’s boy. They had the fresh, unworn, moist light of flowers early in June mornings, when they are full of sun and dew. And there was the same transparent, rich, pure darkness in her complexion. It was not swarthy, nor black, nor gloomy. It did not look half Indian, nor even olive. It was an illuminated shadow.

The two girls—they were women, rather—went together to a sofa and sat down. Hope Wayne’s impulse was to lay her head upon her new friend’s shoulder and cry; for Hope was prostrated by the unexpected vision of Abel, as a strong man is unnerved by sudden physical pain. She felt the overwhelming grief of a child, and longed to give way to it utterly.

“I am glad to know you, Miss Wayne!” said Amy Waring, in a cordial, cheerful voice, with a pleasant smile.

Hope bowed, and thanked her.

“I find that Mr. Newt’s friends always prove to be mine,” continued Amy.

“I am glad of it; but I don’t know why I am his friend,” said Hope. “I never saw him until to-day. He must have lived in Delafield. Do you know how that is?”

She found conversation a great relief, and longed to give way to a kind of proud, indignant volubility.

“No; but he seems to have lived every where, to have seen every thing, and to have known every body. A very useful acquaintance, I assure you!” said Amy, smiling.

“Is he married?” asked Hope.

There was the least little blush upon Amy’s cheek as she heard this question; but so slight, that if any body had thought he observed it, he would have looked again and said, “No, I was mistaken,” Perhaps, too, there was the least little fluttering of a heart otherwise unconscious. But words are like breezes that blow hither and thither, and the leaves upon the most secluded trees in the very inmost covert of the wood may sometimes feel a breath, and stir with responsive music before they are aware.

Amy Waring replied, pleasantly, that he was not married. Hope Wayne said, “What a pity!” Amy smiled, and asked,

“Why a pity?”

“Because such a man would be so happy if he were married, and would make others so happy! He has been in love, you may be sure.”

“Yes,” replied Amy; “I have no doubt of that. We don’t see men of forty, or so, who have not been touched—”

“By what?” asked Lawrence Newt, who had come up silently, and now stood beside her.

“Yes, by what?” interposed Miss Fanny, who had been very busy during the whole evening, trying to get into her hands the threads of the various interests that she saw flying and streaming all around her. She had seen Mr. Alfred Dinks devoted to Miss Wayne, and was therefore confirmed in her belief that they were engaged. She had seen Abel flirting with Grace, and was therefore satisfied that he cared nothing about her. She had done the best she could with Alfred Dinks, but was extremely dissatisfied with her best; and, seeing Hope and Amy together, she had been hovering about them for a long time, anxious to overhear or to join in.

“Really,” said Amy, looking up with a smile, “I was making a very innocent remark.”

“Perfectly innocent, I’m sure!” replied Fanny, in her sweetest manner. It was such a different sweetness from Amy Waring’s, that Hope turned and looked very curiously at Miss Fanny.

“There are few men of forty who have not been in love,” said Amy, calmly. “That is what I was saying.”

As there was only one man of forty, or near that age, in the little group, the appeal was evidently to him. Lawrence Newt looked at the three girls, with the swimming light in his eyes, half crushing them and smiling, so that every one of them felt, each in her own way, that they were as completely blinded by that smile as by a glare of sunlight—which also, like that smile, is warm, and not treacherous.

They could not see beyond the words, nor hope to.

“Miss Amy is right, as usual,” said he.

“Why, Uncle Lawrence, tell us all about it!” said Fanny, with a hard, black smile in her eyes.

Uncle Lawrence was not in the slightest degree abashed.

“Fanny,” said he, “I will speak to you in a parable. Remember, to you. There was a farmer whose neighbor built a curious tower upon his land. It was upon a hill, in a grove. The structure rose slowly, but public curiosity rose with fearful rapidity. The gossips gossiped about it in the public houses. Rumors of it stole up to the city, and down came reporters and special correspondents to describe it with an unctuous eloquence and picturesque splendor of style known only to them. The builder held his tongue, dear Fanny. The workmen speculated upon the subject, but their speculations were no more valuable than those of other people. They received private bribes to tell; and all the great newspapers announced that, at an enormous expense, they had secured the exclusive intelligence, and the exclusive intelligence was always wrong. The country was in commotion, dear Fanny, about a simple tower that a man was building upon his land. But the wonder of wonders, and the exasperation of exasperations, was, that the farmer whose estate adjoined never so much as spoke of the tower—was never known to have asked about it—and, indeed, it was not clear that he knew of the building of any tower within a hundred miles of him. Of course, my dearest Fanny, a self-respecting Public Sentiment could not stand that. It was insulting to the public, which manifested so profound an interest in the tower, that the immediate neighbor should preserve so strict a silence, and such a perfectly tranquil mind. There are but two theories possible in regard to that man, said the self-respecting Public Sentiment: he is either a fool or a knave—probably a little of each. In any case he must be dealt with. So Public Sentiment accosted the farmer, and asked him if he were not aware that a mysterious tower was going up close to him, and that the public curiosity was sadly exercised about it? He replied that he was blessed with tolerable eyesight, and had seen the tower from the very first stone upward. Tell us, then, all about it! shrieked Public Sentiment. Ask the builder, if you want to know, said the farmer. But he won’t tell us, and we want you to tell us, because we know that you must have asked him. Now what, in the name of pity!—what is that tower for? I have never asked, replies the farmer. Never asked? shrieked Public Sentiment. Never, retorted Rusticus. And why, in the name of Heaven, have you never asked? cried the crowd. Because, said the farmer—”

Lawrence Newt looked at his auditors. “Are you listening, dear Fanny?”

“Yes, Uncle Lawrence.”

“—because it’s none of my business.”

Lawrence Newt smiled; so did all the rest, including Fanny, who remarked that he might have told her in fewer words that she was impertinent.

“Yes, Fanny; but sometimes words help us to remember things. It is a great point gained when we have learned to hoe the potatoes in our own fields, and not vex our souls about our neighbor’s towers.”

Hope Wayne was not in the least abstracted. She was nervously alive to every thing that was said and done; and listened with a smile to Lawrence Newt’s parable, liking him more and more.

The general restless distraction that precedes the breaking up of a party had now set in. People were moving, and rustling, and breaking off the ends of conversation. They began to go. A few said good-evening, and had had such a charming time! The rest gradually followed, until there was a universal departure. Grace Plumer was leaning upon Sligo Moultrie’s arm. But where was Abel?

Hope Wayne’s eyes looked every where. But her only glimpse of him during the evening had been that glimmering, dreadful moment in the conservatory. There he had remained ever since. There he still stood gazing through the door into the drawing-room, seeing but not seen—his mind a wild whirl of thoughts.

“What a fool I am!” thought Abel, bitterly. He was steadily asking himself, “Have—I—lost—Hope Wayne—before—I—had—won—her?”