WALKING HOME.
"Miss Amy," said Lawrence Newt, as they walked slowly toward Fulton
Street, "I hope that gradually we may overcome this morbid state of mind
in your aunt, and restore her to her home."
Amy said she hoped so too, and walked quietly by his side. There was
something almost humble in her manner. Her secret was her own no longer.
Was it Lawrence Newt's? Had she indeed betrayed herself?
"I didn't say why I was going out of town. Yet I ought to tell you," said
he.
"Why should you tell me?" she answered, quickly.
"Because it concerns our friend Hope Wayne," said Lawrence. "See, here is
the note which I received this morning."
As he spoke he opened it, and read aloud:
"MY DEAR MR. NEWT,--Mrs. Simcoe writes me that grandfather has had a
stroke of paralysis, and lies very ill. Aunt Dinks has, therefore,
resolved to leave on Monday, and I shall go with her. She seems very much
affected, indeed, by the news. Mrs. Simcoe writes that the doctor says
grandfather will hardly live more than a few days, and she wishes you
could go on with us. I know that you have some kind of association with
Pinewood--you have not told me what. In this summer weather you will find
it very beautiful; and you know how glad I shall be to have you for my
guest. My guest, I say; for while grandfather lies so dangerously ill I
must be what my mother would have been--mistress of the house. I shall
hardly feel more lonely than I always did when he was active, for we had
but little intercourse. In case of his death, which I suppose to be very
near, I shall not care to live at the old place. In fact, I do not very
clearly see what I am to do. But there is One who does; and I remember my
dear old nurse's hymn, 'On Thee I cast my care.' Come, if you can.
"Your friend,
"HOPE WAYNE."
Lawrence Newt and Amy walked on for some time in silence. At length Amy
said,
"It is just one of the cases in which it is a pity she is not married or
engaged."
"Isn't that always a pity for a young woman?" asked Lawrence, shooting
entirely away from the subject.
"Theoretically, yes," replied Amy, firmly, "but not actually. It may be
a pity that every woman is not married; but it might be a greater pity
that she should marry any of the men who ask her."
"Of course," said Lawrence Newt, dryly, "if she didn't love him."
"Yes, and sometimes even if she did."
Amy Waring was conscious that her companion looked at her in surprise as
she said this, but she fixed her eyes directly before her, and walked
straight on.
"Oh yes," said Mr. Newt; "I see. You mean when he does not love her."
"No, I mean sometimes even when they do love each other," said the
resolute Amy.
Lawrence Newt was alarmed. "Does she mean to convey to me delicately that
there may be cases of true mutual love where it is better not to marry?"
thought he. "Where, for instance, there is a difference of age perhaps,
or where there has been some other and earlier attachment?"
"I mean," said Amy, as if answering his thoughts, "that there may
sometimes be reasons why even lovers should not marry--reasons which
every noble man and woman understand; and therefore I do not agree
with you that it is always a pity for a girl not to be married."
Lawrence Newt said nothing. Amy Waring's voice almost trembled with
emotion, for she knew that her companion might easily misunderstand what
she said; and yet there was no way to help it. At any rate, thought she,
he will see that I do not mean to drop into his arms.
They walked silently on. The people in the street passed them like
spectres. The great city hummed around them unheard. Lawrence Newt said
to himself, half bitterly, "So you have waked up at last, have you? You
have found that because a beautiful young woman is kind to you, it does
not follow that she will one day be your wife."
Neither spoke. "She sees," thought Lawrence Newt, "that I love her, and
she wishes to spare me the pain of hearing that it is in vain."
"At least," he thought, with tenderness and longing toward the beautiful
girl that walked beside him--"at least, I was not mistaken. She was
nobler and lovelier than I supposed."
At length he said,
"I have written to ask Hope Wayne to go and hear my preacher to-morrow.
Miss Amy, will you go too?"
She looked at him and bowed. Her eyes were glistening with tears.
"My dearest Miss Amy," said Lawrence Newt, impetuously, seizing her hand,
as her face turned toward him.
"Oh! please, Mr. Newt--please--" she answered, hastily, in a tone of
painful entreaty, withdrawing her hand from his grasp, confused and very
pale.
The words died upon his lips.
"Forgive me--forgive me!" he said, with an air of surprise and sadness,
and with a voice trembling with tenderness and respect. "She can not bear
to give me the pain of plainly saying that she does not love me," thought
Lawrence; and he gently took her hand and laid her arm in his, as if to
show that now they understood each other perfectly, and all was well.
"At least, Miss Amy," he said, by-and-by, tranquilly, and with the old
cheerfulness, "at least we shall be friends."
Amy Waring bent her head and was silent. It seemed to her that she was
suffocating, for his words apprised her how strangely he had mistaken her
meaning.
They said nothing more. Arm in arm they passed up Broadway. Every moment
Amy Waring supposed the merchant would take leave of her and return to
his office. But every moment he was farther from doing it. Abel Newt and
Grace Plumer passed them, and opened their eyes; and Grace said to Abel,
"How long has Amy Waring been engaged to your Uncle Lawrence?"
When they reached Amy's door Lawrence Newt raised her hand, bent over it
with quaint, courtly respect, held it a moment, then pressed it to his
lips. He looked up at her. She was standing on the step; her full, dark
eyes, swimming with moisture, were fixed upon his; her luxuriant hair
curled over her clear, rich cheeks--youth, love, and beauty, they were
all there. Lawrence Newt could hardly believe they were not all his. It
was so natural to think so. Somehow he and Amy had grown together. He
understood her perfectly.
"Perfectly?" he said to himself. "Why you are holding her hand; you are
kissing it with reverence; you are looking into the face which is dearer
and lovelier to you than all other human faces; and you are as far off as
if oceans rolled between."