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Trumps: A Novel, a novel by George William Curtis |
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Chapter 57. Dining With Lawrence Newt |
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_ CHAPTER LVII. DINING WITH LAWRENCE NEWT Gabriel Bennett was not confident that Edward Wynne would be at the birthday dinner given in his honor by Lawrence Newt, but he was very sure that May Newt would be there, and so she was. It was at Delmonico's; and a carriage arrived at the Bennets' just in time to convey them. Another came to Mr. Boniface Newt's, to whom brother Lawrence explained that he had invited his daughter to dinner, and that he should send a young friend--in fact, his confidential clerk, to accompany Miss Newt. Brother Boniface, who looked as if he were the eternally relentless enemy of all young friends, had nevertheless the profoundest confidence in brother Lawrence, and made no objection. So the hero of the day conducted Miss May Newt to the banquet. The hero of the day was so engaged in conversation with Miss May Newt that he said very little to his neighbor upon the other side, who was no other than Hope Wayne. She had been watching very curiously a young man with black curls and eyes, who seemed to have words only for his neighbor, Miss Ellen Bennet. She presently turned and asked Gabriel if she had never seen him before. "I have, surely, some glimmering remembrance of that face," she said, studying it closely. Her question recalled a day which was strangely remote and unreal in Gabriel's memory. He even half blushed, as if Miss Wayne had reminded him of some early treason to a homage which he felt in the very bottom of his heart for his blue-eyed neighbor. But the calm, unsuspicious sweetness of Hope Wayne's face consoled him. He looked at her for a moment without speaking. It was really but a moment, yet, as he looked, he lay in a heavily-testered bed--he heard the beating of the sea upon the shore--he saw the sage Mentor, the ghostly Calypso putting aside the curtain--for a moment he was once more the little school-boy, bruised and ill at Pinewood; but this face--no longer a girl's face--no longer anxious, but sweet, serene, and tender--was this the half-haughty face he had seen and worshipped in the old village church--the face whose eyes of sympathy, but not of love, had filled his heart with such exquisite pain? "That young man, Miss Wayne, is Edward Wynne," he said, in reply to the question. It did not seem to resolve her perplexity. "I don't recall the name," she answered. "I think he must remind me of some one I have known." "He is as black as Abel Newt," said Gabriel, looking with his clear eyes at Hope Wayne. "But much handsomer than Mr. Newt now is," she answered, with perfect unconcern. "His eyes are softer; and, in fact," she said, smiling pleasantly, "I am not surprised to see what a willing listener his neighbor is. I wish I could recall him. I don't think that he resembles Mr. Newt at all, except in complexion." Arthur Merlin heard every word, and watched every movement, and marked every expression of Hope Wayne's, at whose other hand he sat, during this little remark. Gabriel said, in reply to it, "The truth is, Miss Wayne, you have seen him before. The first time you ever saw me he was with me." The clear eyes of the young man were turned full upon her again. "Oh, yes, I remember now!" she answered. "He was your friend in that terrible battle with Abel Newt. It seems long ago, does it not?" However far away it may have seemed, it was apparently a remembrance that roused no especial emotion in Miss Hope Wayne's heart. Having satisfied herself, she released the attention of Gabriel, who had other subjects of conversation with May Newt than his quarrel with her brother for the favor of Hope Wayne. But Arthur Merlin observed that while Hope Wayne listened with her ears to him, with her eyes she listened to Lawrence Newt. His simple, unselfish, and therefore unconscious urbanity--his genial, kindly humor--and the soft, manly earnestness of his face, were not unheeded--how could they be?--by her. Since the day the will was read he had been a faithful friend and counselor. It was he who negotiated for her house. It was he who daily called and gave her a thousand counsels in the details of management, of which every woman who comes into a large property has such constant need. And in all the minor arrangements of business she found in him the same skill and knowledge, combined with a womanly reserve and softness, which had first so strongly attracted her. Yet his visits as financial counsel, as he called himself, did not destroy, they only heightened, the pleasure of the meetings of the Round Table. For the group of friends still met. They talked of poetry still. They talked of many things, and perhaps thought of but a few. The pleasure to all of them was evident enough; but it seemed more perplexed than formerly. Hope Wayne felt it. Amy Waring felt it. Arthur Merlin felt it. But not one of them could tell whether Lawrence Newt felt it. There was a vague consciousness of something which nearly concerned them all, but not one of them could say precisely what it was--except, possibly, Amy Waring; and except, certainly, Lawrence Newt. For Aunt Martha's question had drawn from Amy's lips what had lain literally an unformed suspicion in her mind, until it leaped to life and rushed armed from her mouth. Amy Waring saw how beautiful Hope Wayne was. She knew how lovely in character she was. And she was herself beautiful and lovely; so she said in her mind at once, "Why have I never seen this? Why did I not know that he must of course love her?" Then, if she reminded herself of the conversation she had held with Lawrence Newt about Arthur Merlin and Hope Wayne, she was only perplexed for a moment. She knew that he could not but be honest; and she said quietly in her soul, "He did not know at that time how well worthy his love she was." _ |
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