A VIGOROUS ASSAULT.
The home of Patrick Morain was in one of the many small lumbering
towns that line the eastern shore of Lake Michigan. It was--or rather
is, for it has grown very little in the meantime--a very small town,
scarcely more than a village, in fact; but, with the ambitious energy
characterizing the pioneer, it had already assumed the name and some of
the graces of a city.
There was nothing attractive about the place. It might be described as
a city of sand and sawdust, for you never succeeded in getting out of
the one without finding yourself floundering through the other.
Looking toward the lake, there was nothing visible but docks and
sand-breaks, the latter being immense structures of rough boards,
erected at the most exposed points to prevent the fine sand of the lake
shore from blowing over and covering the town from view. Back along the
little river, that emptied its dark-brown waters into the lake, there
were huge piles of sawed lumber, diversified here and there by equally
large piles of shingles or lath. For the rest there were sawmills and
sawdust, the former lining the little river aforesaid, and the latter
covering everything not already covered by the drifting sand.
There was nothing beautiful about the place. But then, as old Pat
wisely observed, the town was not there for beauty, but for business.
And considered strictly in the light of business, the town was
undoubtedly a success, it being the proud boast of its citizens that
they made more lumber and drank more whisky than any town in northern
Michigan.
“Business” was the watchword of everybody. And everything about the
place was rushed at a headlong pace, that brought either success or
failure, and brought it quick.
There were two unfailing subjects of conversation that the poor and
the rich were alike interested in. In the summer they talked learnedly
about the “cut” of the several mills, while during the winter the
“output” of the various lumbering camps was the topic of conversation
that all were expected to feel an absorbing interest in.
As for the actual home of the Morains, it was a square,
comfortable-looking frame house, situated halfway between sand and
sawdust; or, in other words, in about the centre of the town. And here
the fair Fanny Morain spent the greater part of her time in bewailing
the hard lot in life that excluded her, by her position, from society.
There were two things most earnestly craved by Miss Fanny: First, the
grand tour of Europe; and second, a residence in some city where there
was _refined_ society; her idea of the latter having been obtained by
the perusal of certain novels wherein the hero and all the principal
characters spent their time dawdling about drawing-rooms and making
feeble love to each other in a languid manner.
Miss Fanny could not truthfully be described as beautiful, or even
pretty, yet she had every confidence in her own powers of captivation.
She was healthy, and nature had endowed her with a fair skin and a
pair of large, almost staring blue eyes. And if her hair was _almost_
red, it was abundant. She dressed with more regard to fashion than
good taste, and affected a girlishness hardly compatible with her
seven-and-twenty years.
James Elwell found her very entertaining, and she was devotedly
thankful for the society of this handsome, well-bred young man. They
were soon on a familiar footing, and passed the time very pleasantly
together, flirting in the most approved manner, riding, walking, and
boating together in a way that made the time pass rapidly for both.
James Elwell, by the way, was making a more protracted stay in this
city of sand and sawdust than he had anticipated. He had only expected
to stay a few days, unless he ran on to a good speculation. And here it
was six weeks since he arrived home with Patrick Morain, and he had no
thought of leaving yet.
As for the speculation, he had apparently forgotten all about it, for
he devoted himself to the fair Fanny assiduously. It is possible that
he considered this charming creature in the light of a speculation,
for he was evidently making a vigorous assault on her affections, and
apparently with a fair prospect of success.
Old Pat was fully aware of what was transpiring at his house. I
doubt that he could help being aware of it, for Elwell, with the most
charming audacity, made love to his daughter under his very nose. And
if Pat had any objections to this proceeding, he carefully disguised
them, for he would only grin contentedly at some open demonstration
of affection, and take himself off to the mills, in the meantime
introducing Elwell among his friends as a young friend of his who was
looking for a business opening.
By this means, Elwell soon acquired the reputation of being a wealthy
speculator, who was backed by Morain, and as Morain’s backing
represented something over a million dollars, there was never any doubt
expressed as to the solvency of Mr. James Elwell.
“I declare, Mr. Elwell,” said Fanny one day, when he had returned from
a trip to the mills of almost an hour’s duration; “you are getting
almost as bad as papa,” and she pouted affectedly.
“I wish I were as good,” replied Elwell truthfully. “But how have I
displeased you?”
“Oh, you have not displeased me, but if you find anything interesting
about that horrid mill, I pity your taste, that’s all,” and she looked
as if she thought he might find something vastly more interesting not
far from herself.
“But this is a matter of business,” protested Elwell, with a tender
glance.
“Oh!” cried Fanny, with a little scream of horror. “You do not mean to
say that you are going into business here?”
“Why not?” inquired Elwell, to get his cue.
“I just think it a shame if papa inveigles you into that horrid
business! It will just doom you to perpetual exile in this horrid
place!”
“I do not find it horrid;” and he glanced at her, as if he thought any
place was pleasant where she was.
Fanny blushed and simpered at his open look of affection.
“You have not answered my question, sir,” she said. “Do you intend to
go into business here?”
“That depends. I am much more likely to leave here soon,” and he sighed
heavily.
“But surely you would not be content to live here forever?”
“Oh, no,” he replied quickly. “I should not live here. I would make my
home in Chicago or New York, and should only come here often enough to
superintend the business; but I do not think I am very likely to enter
into business here.”
Perhaps now that the question of his future home was settled, Fanny was
less averse to his entering into the lumber business, which she knew to
be very profitable. She said nothing more against it, only complimented
him with a sigh on being at liberty to choose his own residence.
“You should be very happy,” she said.
“But I am not at liberty,” protested Elwell; “nor am I very happy.”
“Why not?” inquired Miss Fanny, knowing perfectly well what was to
follow. “Why are you not at liberty?”
“You know why,” replied Elwell, taking possession of her willing hand,
and speaking very softly. “You know it is because I love you, and
because I fear that I can never win your love in return.”
Fanny blushed and simpered.
“Tell me, Fanny, dearest Fanny,” he cried passionately, “am I too
presumptuous? Can I hope?”
Fanny looked at him without speaking; but it was evident that she did
not consider him too presumptuous, and that he might hope.
Elwell, with one arm around her waist, and getting up a very fair
amount of enthusiasm, protested his love, spoke feelingly of his lone
condition, and despairingly of his prospects in life without her.
“Dear, dear Fanny,” he concluded, “I know I am not worthy of you, but I
love you, and I want your love in return. You do love me a little, do
you not?”
“A little perhaps,” said Fanny archly. “Is that enough?”
“Say that you will be my wife,” he replied rapturously, “and that will
be enough. More than I deserve.”
Fanny murmured:
“Ask papa.”
She knew that was the proper answer, for the society heroines always
used it. And then Elwell clasped her in his arms, and swore he was
the happiest man on earth. And after Fanny had run, blushing and
palpitating, from the room, he started for the mill, to communicate his
great happiness to his expected father-in-law.
Strange that the memory of that other love-making should obtrude itself
on him now. And stranger still, that, for all his protestations a
moment ago, he was not happy.
Why should he think of _her_ now? She had forgotten him long ago, no
doubt; and why should the memory of her arise to trouble him now?
With this question still unsolved, he stopped at one of the numerous
saloons and drank a glass of brandy. Somewhat farther on, he stopped
again for the same purpose; probably it was ineffectual, for he
muttered a curse on the haunting memory as he strode on to the mill.
“Mr. Morain,” he said, going into Pat’s private office, and speaking
very rapidly, “I love your daughter, and I think she loves me, and I
have come to ask your consent to our marriage.”
Pat looked up and grinned.
“I’m sorry for you, my boy,” he said. “I did not expect this when I
brought you from Chicago.”
“Do I understand that you refuse?” inquired Elwell, drawing himself up.
“Refuse? The devil, no,” replied Pat quickly. “Take her if you want
her, and good luck to you both.” And he slapped his future son-in-law
heartily on the shoulder, and declared him “too good a fellow to come
to so bad an end.”
And then old Pat grinned as contentedly as if he, too, had an object to
be gained by this unexpected love match.