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Updated: May 6, 2025
It seemed to him that if he were a younger man about the age of Battlebury, say full of hope, and faith, and earnest endeavor a glowing and generous youth it would be the very thing he should do to fall in love with Amy Waring. How could any man see her and not love her? His reflections grew dreamy at this point.
He is so suitable in every way; in age, in figure, in tastes in sympathy altogether. Then he is so manly and modest, so simple and true. It is really very very " And so he mused, and asked and answered, and thought of Hal Battlebury and Amy Waring together.
"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."
A young lady can not but feel kindly, surely, toward young men who express their good feeling in the form of flowers. Then he dexterously leads the conversation into some other channel. He will not harm the cause of poor Mr. Battlebury by persisting in speaking of him and his bouquets, when that persistence will evidently render the subject a little tedious. Poor Mr.
A curious silence follows this effusion. Corlaer Van Boozenberg is slightly flown with wine. Hal Battlebury, who sits near him, looks troubled. Herbert Octoyne and Mellish Whitloe exchange meaning glances. The young ladies Mrs. Plumer is the only matron, except Mrs. Dagon, who sits below smile pleasantly. Sligo Moultrie eats grapes.
For how could Lawrence know of the book that was kept in the bureau drawer of the rose whose benediction lay forever fragrant upon those united names? "I am really sorry for Hal Battlebury," said the merchant to himself. "He is such a good, noble fellow! I should have supposed that Miss Waring would have been so very happy with him.
What taste that young Hal Battlebury has! remarks Lawrence Newt, admiringly, as he smells the flowers that stand in a pretty vase upon the centre-table. Amy Waring smiles, and says that it is Thorburn's taste, of whom Mr. Battlebury buys the flowers. Mr. Newt replies that it is at least very thoughtful in him.
Hal Battlebury, who, could he only survey the Waring mansion from the lower floor to the roof, would behold his handsome flowers that came on Wednesday withering in cold ceremony upon the parlor-table and in Amy Waring's bureau-drawer would see the little book she received from "her friend Lawrence Newt" treasured like a priceless pearl, with a pressed rose laid upon the leaf where her name and his are written a rose which Lawrence Newt playfully stole one evening from one of the ceremonious bouquets pining under its polite reception, and said gayly, as he took leave, "Let this keep my memory fragrant till I return."
As he reached this satisfactory conclusion Lawrence Newt paced up and down before the window, with his hands still buried in his pockets, thinking of Hal Battlebury thinking of the foreign youth with the large, melancholy eyes pining upon a bed of pain, and reciting Petrarch's sonnets, in the miserable room opposite thinking also of that strange coldness of virgin hearts which not the ardors of youth and love could melt.
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