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.