AT DELMONICO'S.
Lawrence Newt had watched with the warmest sympathy the rapid development
of the friendship between Amy Waring and Hope Wayne. He aided it in every
way. He called in the assistance of Arthur Merlin, who was in some doubt
whether his devotion to his art would allow him to desert it for a
moment. But as the doubt only lasted while Lawrence Newt was unfolding a
plan he had of reading books aloud with the ladies--and--in fact, a great
many other praiseworthy plans which all implied a constant meeting with
Miss Waring and Miss Wayne, Mr. Merlin did not delay his co-operation
in all Mr. Newt's efforts.
And so they met at Amy Waring's house very often and pretended to read,
and really did read, several books together aloud. Ostensibly poetry was
pursued at the meetings of what Lawrence Newt called the Round Table.
"Why not? We have our King Arthur, and our Merlin the Enchanter," he
said.
"A speech from Mr. Merlin," cried Amy, gayly, while Hope looked up from
her work with encouraging, queenly eyes. Arthur looked at them eagerly.
"Oh, Diana! Diana!" he thought, but did not say. That was the only speech
he made, and nobody heard it.
The meetings of the Round Table were devoted to poetry, but of a very
practical kind. It was pure romance, but without any thing technically
romantic. Mrs. Waring often sat with the little party, and, as she
worked, talked with Lawrence Newt of earlier days--"days when you were
not born, dears," she said, cheerfully, as if to appropriate Mr. Newt.
And whenever she made this kind of allusion Amy's work became very
intricate indeed, demanding her closest attention. But Hope Wayne,
remembering her first evening in his society, raised her eyes again with
curiosity, and as she did so Lawrence smiled kindly and gravely, and his
eyes hung upon hers as if he saw again what he had thought never to see;
while Hope resolved that she would ask him under what circumstances he
had known Pinewood. But the opportunity had not yet arrived. She did
not wish to ask before the others. There are some secrets that we
involuntarily respect, while we only know that they are secrets.
The more Arthur Merlin saw of Hope Wayne the more delighted he was to
think how impossible it was for him, in view of his profound devotion to
his art, to think of beautiful women in any other light than that of
picturesque subjects.
"Really, Mr. Newt," Arthur said to him one evening as they were dining
together at Delmonico's--which was then in William Street--"if I were to
paint a picture of Diana when she loved Endymion--a picture, by-the-by,
which I intend to paint--I should want to ask Miss Wayne to sit to me for
the principal figure. It is really remarkable what a subdued splendor
there is about her--Diana blushing, you know, as it were--the moon
delicately veiled in cloud. It would be superb, I assure you."
Lawrence Newt smiled--he often smiled--as he wiped his mouth, and asked,
"Who would you ask to sit for Endymion?"
"Well, let me see," replied Arthur, cheerfully, and pondering as if to
determine who was exactly the man. It was really beautiful to see his
exclusive enthusiasm for his art. "Let me see. How would it do to paint
an ideal figure for Endymion?"
"No, no," said Lawrence Newt, laughing; "art must get its ideal out of
the real. I demand a good, solid, flesh-and-blood Endymion."
"I can't just think of any body," replied Arthur Merlin, musingly,
looking upon the floor, and thinking so intently of Hope, in order to
image to himself a proper Endymion, that he quite forgot to think of the
candidates for that figure.
"How would my young friend Hal Battlebury answer?" asked Lawrence Newt.
"Oh, not at all," replied Arthur, promptly; "he's too light, you know."
"Well, let me see," continued the other, "what do you think of that young
Southerner, Sligo Moultrie, who was at Saratoga? I used to think he had
some of the feeling for Hope Wayne that Diana wanted in Endymion, and he
has the face for a picture."
"Oh, he's not at all the person. He's much too dark, you see," answered
Arthur, at once, with remarkable readiness.
"There's Alfred Dinks," said Lawrence Newt, smiling.
"Pish!" said Arthur, conclusively.
"Really, I can not think of any body," returned his companion, with a
mock gravity that Arthur probably did not perceive. The young artist was
evidently very closely occupied with the composition of his picture. He
half-closed his eyes, as if he saw the canvas distinctly, and said,
"I should represent her just lighting upon the hill, you see, with a
rich, moist flush upon her face, a cold splendor just melting into
passion, half floating, as she comes, so softly superior, so queenly
scornful of all the world but him. Jove! it would make a splendid
picture!"
Lawrence Newt looked at his friend as he imagined the condescending
Diana. The artist's face was a little raised as he spoke, as if he saw
a stately vision. It was rapt in the intensity of fancy, and Lawrence
knew perfectly well that he saw Hope Wayne's Endymion before him. But at
the same moment his eye fell upon his nephew Abel sitting with a choice
company of gay youths at another table. There was instantly a mischievous
twinkle in Lawrence Newt's eye.
"Eureka! I have Endymion."
Arthur started and felt a half pang, as if Lawrence Newt had suddenly
told him of Miss Wayne's engagement. He came instantly out of the clouds
on Latinos, where he was dreaming.
"What did you say?" asked he.
"Why, of course, how dull I am! Abel will be your Endymion, if you can
get him."
"Who is Abel?" inquired Arthur.
"Why, my nephew, Abel Don Juan Pelham Newt, of Grand Street, and Boniface
Newt, Son, & Company, Dry Goods on Commission, Esquire," replied Lawrence
Newt, with perfect gravity.
Arthur looked at him bewildered.
"Don't you know my nephew, Abel Newt?"
"No, not personally. I've heard of him, of course."
"Well, he's a very handsome young man; and though he be dark, he may
also be Endymion. Why not? Look at him; there he sits. 'Tis the one just
raising the glass to his lips."
Lawrence Newt bent his head as he spoke toward the gay revelers, who sat,
half a dozen in number, and the oldest not more than twenty-five, all
dandies, all men of pleasure, at a neighboring table spread with a
profuse and costly feast. Abel was the leader, and at the moment Arthur
Merlin and Lawrence Newt turned to look he was telling some anecdote to
which they all listened eagerly, while they sipped the red wine of
France, poured carefully from a bottle reclining in a basket, and
delicately coated with dust. Abel, with his glass in his hand and the
glittering smile in his eye, told the story with careless grace, as if
he were more amused with the listeners' eagerness than with the anecdote
itself. The extreme gayety of his life was already rubbing the boyish
bloom from his face, but it developed his peculiar beauty more strikingly
by removing that incongruous innocence which belongs to every boyish
countenance.
As he looked at him, Arthur Merlin was exceedingly impressed by the air
of reckless grace in his whole appearance, which harmonized so entirely
with his face. Lawrence Newt watched his friend as the latter gazed at
Abel. Lawrence always saw a great deal whenever he looked any where.
Perhaps he perceived the secret dissatisfaction and feeling of sudden
alarm which, without any apparent reason, Arthur felt as he looked at
Abel.
But the longer Arthur Merlin looked at Abel the more curiously
perplexed he was. The feeling which, if he had not been a painter so
utterly devoted to his profession that all distractions were impossible,
might have been called a nascent jealousy, was gradually merged in a
half-consciousness that he had somewhere seen Abel Newt before, but
where, and under what circumstances, he could not possibly remember.
He watched him steadily, puzzling himself to recall that face.
Suddenly he clapped his hand upon the table. Lawrence Newt, who was
looking at him, saw the perplexity of his expression smooth itself away;
while Arthur Merlin, with an "oh!" of surprise, satisfaction, and alarm,
exclaimed--and his color changed--
"Why, it's Manfred in the Coliseum!"
Lawrence Newt was confounded. Was Arthur, then, not deceiving himself,
after all? Did he really take an interest in all these people only as a
painter, and think of them merely as subjects for pictures?
Lawrence Newt was troubled. He had seen in Arthur with delight what he
supposed the unconscious beginnings of affection for Hope Wayne. He had
pleased himself in bringing them together--of course Amy Waring must be
present too when he himself was, that any _tête-à-tête_ which arose might
not be interrupted--and he had dreamed the most agreeable dreams. He knew
Hope--he knew Arthur--it was evidently the hand of Heaven. He had even
mentioned it confidentially to Amy Waring, who was profoundly interested,
and who charitably did the same offices for Arthur with Hope Wayne that
Lawrence Newt did for the young candidates with her. The conversation
about the picture of Diana had only confirmed Lawrence Newt in his
conviction that Arthur Merlin really loved Hope Wayne, whether he himself
knew it or not.
And now was he all wrong, after all? Ridiculous! How could he be?
He tried to persuade himself that he was not. But he could not forget
how persistently Arthur had spoken of Hope only as a fine Diana; and how,
after evidently being struck with Abel Newt, he had merely exclaimed,
with a kind of suppressed excitement, as if he saw what a striking
picture he would make, "Manfred in the Coliseum!"
Lawrence Newt drank a glass of wine, thoughtfully. Then he smiled
inwardly.
"It is not the first time I have been mistaken," thought he. "I shall
have to take Amy Waring's advice about it."
As he and his friend passed the other table, on their way out, Abel
nodded to his uncle; and as Arthur Merlin looked at him carefully, he was
very sure that he saw the person whose face so singularly resembled that
of Manfred's in the picture he had given Hope Wayne.
"I am all wrong," thought Lawrence Newt, ruefully, as they passed out
into the street.
"Abel Newt, then, is Hope Wayne's somebody," thought Arthur Merlin, as he
took his friend's arm.