A LOVER'S PLEA
With all her gentleness, Dorothy Lawton was not without spirit, and she
might have resented the unauthorized announcement made by Leslie Galt
had she not been reduced to helpless terror by the prompt reappearance
of William Henry Bulkley, pompously claiming the privilege of "restoring
her to her home and her parents."
Trembling like a leaf, she lifted pleading eyes to Galt, who, reading
with deep gratitude their prayer, answered it by turning to the old
beau, and coldly remarking that "the doctor had placed his carriage at
Miss Lawton's service, and together they were about to escort her home."
"You will do nothing of the kind, sir!" blustered the bombastic William
Henry. "This young lady was placed under my care. I have been made
responsible for her safety; therefore, she will return home under my
escort, sir!"
"Safety?" sneered Galt. "That word does not come gracefully from your
lips! Safety? Your utter irresponsibility is amply illustrated by the
injuries Miss Lawton has received while under your thoughtful care!"
"Anyone," hotly interrupted Mr. Bulkley, "anyone may be the victim of an
act of Providence, of--of a catastrophe!"
"Act of Providence!" cried Galt; "act of bad temper--act of stupid
discourtesy! No man has the right to take a woman out behind a tricky
horse, even when he exercises every caution in handling him! And no one
but a madman or a man in an unspeakably bad temper would think of
leaving a woman alone and utterly at the mercy of a shying, nervous
brute! The wonder is that we have been spared a tragedy to-day! And this
young lady can scarcely be blamed for not wishing to trust herself to
such doubtful protection again!"
"You will let the young lady speak for herself, you young upstart!"
answered the now furious Mr. Bulkley. "She will do well to remember she
is still in tutelage to her parents, and that by a parent she was given
to my care!" Then, turning to the girl, he went on: "I have obtained a
buggy from the livery man, and we can start at once!"
"Oh, Mr. Bulkley," quavered Dorothy, "I can't! I am afraid of that
horse! Please--please don't ask me to ride behind him again!"
She trembled so violently that the doctor interposed, saying, curtly: "I
must disallow your claim, sir! My patient's nerves are to be considered,
and, really, though you were acting as the young lady's escort for this
unfortunate drive, it seems to me her fiance is the proper person to
look after her now!"
William Henry Bulkley's eyes stood out like a crab's. His red face
purpled. He breathed in loud gasps. "Her--her what?" he exclaimed. "Her
fiance! Who the devil are you talking about? She has no fiance!"
The doctor had raised Dorothy and given her his arm, but now he turned
in astonishment from the white, set face of Galt to the red fury of
Bulkley, and back again. When, with a little tremulous laugh, Dorothy,
with surprised blue eyes, said: "Why, Mr. Bulkley, were you not told,
then? Now, had you been a woman," she held out her hand, the third
finger all brave with flashing solitaire, "you would not have needed
telling. See?"
And Leslie, bending to draw down her veil and hide the wounded cheek,
whispered: "Ah! my love! my love!"
And then they were in the doctor's carriage and on the way to Woodsedge,
while William Henry Bulkley, in a black devil's rage, followed.
John Lawton had returned from his walk, and, as a hen-mother frets over
her ducklings in the water, so he fretted over the absence of both his
girls. He wandered aimlessly about, instead of piling up the wood in the
shed, as he had intended doing, while the lengthening absence of Dorothy
filled Mrs. Lawton with secret satisfaction. They were taking a drive,
just as she had intended they should, and Mr. Bulkley was undoubtedly
making the most of his opportunity. She hoped he might not make the
mistake of being too--too impulsively ardent. "Very young girls
sometimes take alarm so easily!" she thought. "And Dorrie is the merest
baby in such matters!"
And then confusion reigned, when, with helpless arm, bruised, cut face,
and yet such curiously shining eyes, Dorothy, who had gone forth with
Mr. Bulkley, was assisted into the house by a strange doctor and young
Galt. Then came tender greetings, hurried footsteps, and curt
explanations. The doctor, aided by the temporarily German-speaking Lena,
whose fright had strangled English in her very throat, was attending the
injured girl in her own room. Letitia was weeping hysterically, and John
Lawton, the father, was struggling hard to maintain the composure
expected of Mr. Lawton, the man. For the calm indifference of a doctor's
attitude toward a simple fracture, especially when young bones are in
question, is rarely emulated by anxious relatives. Even within the
ordinary family circle a broken limb is regarded as a serious mishap;
but in this abode of genteel poverty, where yet there was such wealth of
family love, a daughter's broken arm was a terrifying disaster, a
grievous catastrophe.
Mrs. Lawton was piteously inquiring of heaven, which she seemingly
located in the far corner of the ceiling, near the biggest stain: "Why
had she permitted Sybil to leave her alone, to face the contretemps that
was sure to occur in her most desolate hour?" ignoring the fact that her
"desolate hour" had been carefully contrived by herself.
Galt, catching sight of Mr. Lawton, went to him, and, taking his arm,
led him out across the porch and drive down to the great old willow,
whose mighty drooping made a gray green tent of privacy. Then he seated
him, and, taking off his own hat, he stood before the older man, who,
though looking at him with anxious eyes, yet noted the erect figure, the
clear gaze, and rather stern, well-featured face, and thought him a
goodly sight.
A moment of silence, then Leslie said, slowly: "Mr. Lawton, you have
shown me great kindness, and I----"
The old man held up his hand, saying, with quick deprecation: "No! no!
Without power, one can show kindness to no man! I like you, my lad! I
shall be grateful to you all my life, but I have done you no kindness!"
Leslie moistened his lips as might a nervous girl: "I--you--" he
stammered, then went on eagerly--"How well do you like me, sir? Well
enough to trust me with--oh, good God!" he cried, "what's the use of
beating about the bush? If you don't know it already, you ought to know
that I love your daughter with all my heart, and--don't look at me like
that, Mr. Lawton! I know I don't deserve her! But--I'd be true to her,
as my father was true to his choice before me! If--if Dorothy tells you
that she wishes it so, will you then give her to me, for my wife?"
Two slow tears crept into the pale blue eyes. Again there came that
piteous, silent movement of the lips, that had so touched Leslie on the
day he had rescued the girls from the tunnel accident.
"What is it?" asked Galt, gently. "You know who I am--who my father was.
You know personally one, at least, of the firm of Gordon, Stone &
Wheatleigh, in whose offices I have read and worked, and who have
promised--but never mind that now. What troubles you so, sir? My past is
an open book for you. Is it a question of age?"
John Lawton shook his head, and just then Mr. Bulkley drove through the
farthest gate and on up to the house.
They paid no heed to that; Galt went on questioning the silent,
distressed, old man: "Is it that you cannot trust me--that you doubt the
sincerity of my love?" A faint, reproachful smile accompanied a second
shake of the head.
"Is it----" started Leslie.
"It's poverty!" gasped John Lawton. Then, having regained his power of
speech, he went on: "Don't ask me to condemn my girl to poverty for
life. Love sweetens the draught, but the bitterness is there all the
time! Wait, my boy, wait! It is not for her alone I speak! Spare
yourself the torment, the shame, the pain of denying to the woman that
you love the little fripperies and follies and small luxuries that she
craves as a flower craves sunshine! There's no pain like it in the
world! And," his lips writhed as he spoke, "I ought to know, for--for
ten years past it has so pierced my heart that there can be but a
shapeless pulp there now! No! no! you can't afford to marry my
daughter!"
"It's hard to think of you as a lover of mammon--a seeker after mere
wealth!" frowned Leslie.
"Don't be unjust, my lad. The joy of counting one's dollars in seven
figures is a joy without savor for me. Very great wealth is either a
great trust or a greater temptation. I neither seek for nor desire it
for our girls; but I cannot calmly face for them a future of such
poverty as they are enduring now. You should be able, positively able,
to provide at least a modest home; be able to make both of these
inelastic ends not only meet but lap over a bit. The poor working-man
has a right to marry a poor girl, but a poor gentleman has no right to
condemn a girl with the training, tastes, and requirements of a lady to
a lifelong struggle with ways and means. Then, remember, when a man
marries he not only doubles his joys but his responsibilities as well.
Oh, my boy! if only you had a few thousands in hand--a wall to plant
your back against if the fight went against you for awhile! But--but, I
dare not give my child into empty hands! Why--why--boy? What in heaven's
name?"
Galt was flinging his hat high in the autumn sunlight, catching it and
flinging it again, like a boy at boisterous play! Then, with dancing
eyes, he made apology for his antics, adding: "I have no father, as you
know. So I think I'll follow the fashion of the Japanese and adopt one!"
taking a chill, veiny old hand in his firm, warm ones. "You, sir, by
your leave? So, Father Lawton, listen! I have not deceived you at any
time, but I may have been a trifle more reticent than was necessary, for
I hate talking of myself. But now I'll tell you what, I see, should have
been told before, and, when I've done, I'll ask again for Dorothy! No!
no! adopted father, you may only answer yea or nay when you have earned
the right by listening!"
And just then both men fancied they heard a sort of screech from the
house, and glanced up toward it. But old John said, indifferently: "An
owl, I guess. Lena disturbs them when she's rooting about that tumbling
barn behind the cedars. Go on!"
But, up in the sitting-room, William Henry Bulkley, rampant and blindly
furious while charging Mrs. Lawton with insincerity and bad faith, had
flung the engagement of Dorothy in her astonished face, and it was the
screech of the stricken Letitia that faintly reached them. But Mr.
Lawton, whose mind moved slowly, and who, though undoubtedly American,
was yet no "guesser," being all at sea as to the meaning of Galt's
sudden change from bitter disappointment to an exuberance of spirits he
had not thought the grave young man capable of, repeated, more urgently:
"Go on, please, go on!"
And, in the handsome weak old face and piteous faded eyes raised to him,
Galt saw again the likeness to Dorothy, and, with a pang, he thought:
"This is what years of sorrow and privation might put into her fair
face," and swiftly prayed, "protect, defend her, Lord, in part at least,
through my poor human agency," and then plunged into the simple story,
whose telling might change the color of the sky for him and make the old
world new for his young sweetheart and himself.
"You remember, sir, I told you before, that it was through Mr.
Wheatleigh's friendship for my dead father that I was first taken into
the office where so many wished to secure a berth. He advanced me, too,
as rapidly as he could, because he knew the mother I worked so hard for
would not be with me long. Well, the only property my father left me,
besides a small cottage, was an extensive sweep of swamp, over in our
neighboring State. This inheritance was considered a great jest, and was
continually referred to as my 'mosquito foundry.' The only harvest ever
gathered from its acres was a harvest of poor and pointless jokes. My
mother and I used to spend two or three months in the cottage during the
summer, and the rest of the year an old couple used it rent free, save
for keeping the small shell in repair. That my father had twice refused,
when the neighboring town was making spasmodic spurts of growth, to sell
portions of his swampy holdings, made people think him quite off his
head. But my mother told me he had once declared the time would come
when thousands of dollars would be offered eagerly where hundreds were
then spoken of grudgingly. She had said, 'Why, do you believe these
swamps can ever be made healthy enough to attract the wealthy?' and he
had answered, 'My dear wife, wealthy people often have other uses for
property than the making of homes. Nor do I anticipate a sudden fad
among millionnaires for personally cultivating cranberries.
Nevertheless, there's money lying in those mud-flats and out there in
the meadows--money waiting for a Galt; and if we don't gather it up,
Leslie will.'
"Every word," the young man continued, "I treasured, and while I was yet
a lad I used to rack my brain to find a cause for my father's faith, and
though I found it not I yet resolved to follow his plan and--wait. So
silently, tenaciously I kept my hold upon my 'mosquito foundry,' and
endured many things in the name of wit from my companions, who sought
information as to proper 'treatment of stings,' as to the usual period
'for mating among the young birds,' as to the 'outlook for cranberries,'
etc. As years went by the subject dropped, thank heaven! I had worked
desperately for my mother's needs. Then--well, when I found myself
alone, I worked desperately still, to prove to Mr. Wheatleigh that I was
grateful. The firm noticed me. They tested my discretion. Then one day
old Mr. Gordon said to Mr. Stone: 'A young fellow who can so lock his
lips, and give the combination to no one is wanted in this office for
confidential work.' It was a big step they offered me, and--and, Father
Lawton, I did not have a soul to rejoice with me or say 'well done!' I
was so desolately alone in my good fortune that when I locked my room
door behind me I buried my face in my mother's old crepe shawl, and
talked to it, and yet," he laughed a little, "upon my soul I quite
expect people to consider me a man!
"Well, one day I was mildly surprised to receive a letter making an
offer for a small portion of my land. The price was modest--I declined
it, briefly. But before I had mailed my note another letter and another
offer to purchase reached me. I declined both, and dropped the matter
from my mind, when lo! my correspondents renewed their efforts to buy,
doubling the price first offered, at a single bound. I had heard of no
boom in town lots--no sudden growth outward in my direction, yet both
letters expressly stated that 'simple cottage homes were to be built.'
Homes out there on those dreary flats? Builders of simple cottages were
rarely able to double an offered price for the ground alone. I
astonished Mr. Wheatleigh by asking for half a day's absence. The old
pair at the cottage could only tell me that two or three of the widely
scattered residents had recently sold out and all but one had gone away.
These people had lived along the river. I walked out in that direction,
and stopped at the small truck garden, that had been sold but was not
yet vacated. I questioned the woman--a dull creature--from whom I gained
no information beyond her joy at going to live in the town. Her little
girl was teasing for a penny to spend for that childish solace--gum.
Being refused, I told her if she would walk along with me for company I
would give her a nickel; I paid in advance, and we went out together.
She was a sharp little monkey, as keen as her mother was dull. Inquiring
about what had been going on, I learned of the advent of six puppies
down the road a bit; of the lamentable fate of old Tom Hale, a local
ne'er-do-weel, and also of the presence of the 'queer men,' who used to
get dinner at her house. 'Why were they queer?' 'Why, because they did
funny things, and were squintin' along the road and across the meadows,'
'Squinting?' I repeated. 'Yes,' she explained; 'they had three wooden
legs, that had a funny brass and glass fixin' on top, that they
squinched through, and then they'd make marks in books and stick sticks
in the ground.' Surveyors, I thought. 'And,' went on the child, 'they
used to say, before they came into dinner, "don't talk!"'
"Ah! I pricked up my ears! Surveyors doing work that was not to be
talked of. I dropped another nickel into the child's hand. 'Tell me,' I
asked, 'what the funny men said outside the house, when they were
squinting through the meadows.' The child's face clouded. 'They didn't
say nothin'! Must I give back the nickel now?' 'Oh,' I urged, 'they must
have talked among themselves, and you must have heard a word now and
then, when you were watching them or playing. Come, think a bit! Perhaps
I have another nickel.' Her eyes shone--she knit her brows and bit her
lips. 'Well,' she said, doubtfully, 'I 'spose just words without no
sense to 'em ain't no use? But they did use to say things about "the
shops," and they said, too, "beds" many times.' 'Beds?' I repeated. 'Are
you sure?' 'Yes, beds, 'cause I thought it was a funny thing for a man
to say! And--oh, yes! Once, over by that mud flat, they said that their
"beds" would cost lots of money, and one man said they might be glad
there wasn't snakes here to cost more. And I told 'em there was snakes
in some places, and they laughed at me, they did.' I caught her hand,
and said: 'Lou, think again. Did not the men talk of "road-beds"?' I
held my breath till the answer came. 'Well, my ma says I'm a fool, and I
guess I am. That is just the kind of beds they said, "road-beds."' 'Oh,
thank you, thank you!' I replied, for, like a cheap modern god, I
showered my small Danae, not with gold, but with nickels and with
dimes.
"I understood at last the possible value of my property. Mosquito stock
went up! This child had given me the clew to what was going on. At once
I laid the facts before Mr. Wheatleigh. He chuckled. 'Leave this matter
with us, my boy. Railroads are bulldozers! They pay low to the poor, but
high to the rich and strong. If this thing works out as it should, and
you should care to enter our firm as its youngest member in, say another
year, I think it can be arranged.' Well, Father Lawton, it has been
arranged, and the day that made me independent of money worries was the
very day of the railroad accident in the tunnel. And as the crash came I
was looking at Dorothy with all my heart in my eyes, for I had seen her
twice before, and I knew quite well that I loved her, and that I should
marry her, if we both lived long enough. You, sir, can have full details
of my financial situation whenever you may desire. 'Tis true I have no
splendor to offer. My only Aladdin's lamp is the partnership, but in
such a firm that means rare opportunity, and good work brings good pay.
But even Aladdin had to rub his lamp before his wish was granted. So,
never doubt my willingness to rub my lamp hard. I may not promise both
town and country houses; and butler, coachman, and groom may be
conspicuous by their absence--just at first. But a home, a pretty one of
her very own, a few maids inside, a man to potter about a bit of lawn,
and a jewel-box not quite empty--so much I can safely and reasonably
promise to my wife, if you will trust your little girl to my honor and
my love! Once more, Mr. Lawton, will you give me your daughter Dorothy
for wife?"
Lawton closed his eyes, and in that moment he recalled the day when she
was gurgling on his clasping arm, the yellow, downy covering of her baby
head so like a wee new chick's coat that he had laughed, and when, at
the sound, her blue eyes opened wide at him, and with a thrill he noted
her likeness to himself. Then, half proud, half pitiful, he had kissed
her many times--why! that was only yesterday--surely but little more!
Yet, here was this man, almost a stranger, asking her for his wife. He
opened his eyes, and asked, piteously: "D-o-e-s, does Dorrie wish this?"
"I think she will tell you so, sir," Leslie answered, gently.
"Have you spoken to Leti--to Mrs. Lawton?"
"N-no, sir," said the young man. "I--I thought I should speak first to
you."
"Dear me! I'm afraid you've made a mistake, my boy," murmured the old
man, innocently. "Letitia thinks that, in the case of daughters, you
understand, the mother is in authority--is the head, so to speak--of the
family. You--er, you should have spoken to her, but--now----"
"Yes, sir, now?" eagerly repeated Galt.
The old man rose. He held out his hand, which the younger man grasped
tightly. "I believe you are an honest man, and since you have the power
to care for and protect her I give you my Dorothy, than whom a truer,
sweeter, purer girl God never gave to undeserving father or adoring
lover!"
The two men stood eye to eye a long moment, then Leslie Galt said,
slowly: "Thank you, sir!" dropped Lawton's hand, and, turning, walked
rapidly away, leaving the shaken, excited, and confused old man in his
gray green tent, trying to straighten things out and prepare himself for
the meeting with his Letitia.