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