A Romantic Young Lady. Grant Robert
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to soothe me, and finally induced me to sit down. He sat beside me, holding my hand and urging me to calm myself. At last I turned to him and said with a sudden transport of new happiness, and smiling through my tears, —
"I promised to remain true to you, Roger, and I have."
"Yes, dear, I know. When you are a little more composed, we will talk the matter over seriously."
There was something in his tone that chilled me; he was so calm, and I so carried away by excitement.
"Do not think of my father's words," I said. "Forget them. I shall be perfectly happy so long as you love me."
"He will never relent," he answered gloomily. "He is known down town as a man who makes up his mind once for all time."
"I would rather disobey my father than be false to you," I responded firmly.
"Yes. But how are we to live?" he asked, rising from the sofa and promenading the room nervously, with his hands in his pockets.
"Live?" I echoed.
"Unfortunately we should have to eat and drink, like everybody else. It was a pity," he continued reflectively, "that you flung that money overboard; we might have been very comfortable with that."
"Yes," I replied in a dazed sort of way.
"Was it the whole?" He stood looking at me with his head on one side.
"The whole of what?"
"Was all the property your father gave you in that box?"
"Certainly: I wonder you ask, Roger."
He walked up and down a few times and then took a seat beside me.
"Let us look at this matter in a common-sense way, Virginia. Heaven knows I love you, and that I am as romantic in my feelings as any one could desire. But suppose we were to marry without your father's consent, what would be the result? We should starve. To speak frankly, I find it difficult enough to make both ends meet as a single man. You are used to every luxury and comfort, and have not been accustomed to economize. Do not misunderstand me, Virginia," he continued, speaking quickly, struck perhaps by my expression, which if my emotions were adequately reflected therein must have made him uneasy. "I know that you are capable of any sacrifice; it is I who am unwilling to permit you to give up your fortune and your family for my sake. If there were any chance of your father's relenting, if I thought there was a possibility that time would make a difference in his views, I would not speak so. But as it is, I see no alternative for us but an unsuccessful struggle with poverty, that would end in unhappiness. It breaks my heart to come to this conclusion, but justice to you, as well as common-sense, will not let me suffer you to commit a folly which after the glamour of the moment was over, you would regret."
It was the manner even more than the matter of his speech that stabbed me to the heart. Had he spoken less calmly and deliberately, I might have believed that he shrank from accepting my self-sacrifice, and have regarded his dampening words as a mere cloak for his own generosity. But his unconcerned and dispassionate air left no doubt in my mind that it was he who was unwilling to face the romantic but desperate circumstances in which my father's decree had placed us. Instinct told me that he in whose constancy and in whose devotion to ideality I had believed with all the ardor and trust of which I was capable, was false, and ready to subordinate a love like ours to temporal considerations.
Yet with the persistence of one who clutches at any semblance of hope however slender, I refused to believe the truth without further evidence.
"I should not be a burden to you, Roger. People can live on much less than they suppose. We could both work, I as well as you."
He shrugged his shoulders, and taking both my hands in his looked into my face with a trivial smile, so little in accord with the intensity of my feelings that I almost shrieked with pain.
"Do you think I would allow my dear girl to demean herself in any such way as that? No, no! Love in a cottage is a delightful theory, but put into practice it becomes terribly disappointing."
I drew away my hands from him and sat for some moments in silence.
"I think it is best that our engagement should come to an end," I said presently.
He made a sigh of resignation. "That is for you to decide. It rests with you, of course."
"I agree with you that it would be very foolish of us to marry without my father's consent, Mr. Dale."
He drew himself up a little, and looked at me as if hurt. "Are you angry with me, Virginia?"
"Angry? Why should I be angry?"
"Then why call me Mr. Dale?"
"Because," I answered quietly and firmly, though I felt my anger rising, "unless you are to be my husband, you must be Mr. Dale."
"Can we not be friends?" he asked in a dejected tone.
"We can never be anything else," I answered with some ambiguity; and I rose and rang the bell.
The servant entered. "Tell Mr. Harlan, please, that I would like to speak to him."
"I think we are acting for the best," he said, after an awkward pause.
"I am sure we are, Mr. Dale." It was undignified, it may be, to betray my feelings, but my love was too strong to die without a murmur.
My father looked inquiringly at us as he entered. His face seemed to me almost haggard.
I said at once, "Father, we have made up our minds that you are right. It would be madness in us to marry without your consent. The credit of our decision belongs to Mr. Dale. He has proved to me that our engagement should come to an end."
My father turned toward him with a scornful smile, appreciating, I think, the gentle sarcasm of my words. But I doubt if Roger did, for he added immediately, —
"Yes, sir; I cannot consent to the sacrifice your daughter is prepared to make."
"I am glad that she as well as you have come to your senses, and I thank you for making the only amends possible for having endeavored to enter my family contrary to my desire, by teaching my daughter her duty. I have no doubt that we shall both be very grateful to you in the future."
This time Roger perceived that he was being laughed at, for his cheeks flushed. But he recovered his composure, and looking at me, said, —
"I trust I may continue to come to see you as usual."
I trembled all over at his words, but I controlled myself, and answered, —
"If you wish."
After a few moments of awkward hesitancy he left us.
When I knew that he was really gone, I could restrain myself no longer. Sinking into a chair, I covered my face with my hands and burst into a flood of tears. "Oh, father, he has deceived me! He has broken my heart!"
BOOK II.
SOPHISTICATION
I
In the bitterness of my humiliation and distress at the perfidy of Roger Dale I came near running away from home. My youthful imaginations, as I have already mentioned, were of a realistic order, and it had been a favorite scheme with me to become a shop-girl. So when this sorrow overwhelmed me, I thought seriously of going out into the world to seek my fortune in some such capacity. It was only my father's kindness during those dreadful first days that deterred me from carrying out some romantic plan of escape. I felt sore and mortified, and ready to take any steps that would separate me from my old surroundings.
Aunt Helen did her best to comfort me, but I was in no frame of mind to talk it all over, which was, I knew, her main idea of solace, – that and frequent offers of tempting food. On the other hand, my father made no allusion to the wretched incident during the fortnight he remained at Tinker's Reach. He treated me exactly as if nothing had happened, except that every morning after breakfast he proposed a walk through the woods or up the mountain. Indifferent to everything as I was at the moment, I had a consciousness that this exercise was beneficial to me, and I was grateful at heart. Anything was better than harping over and over again on the same