There is an idea prevalent that the young women of our land welcome
addresses which the golden youth of the opposite sex urge upon their
consideration, and that a girl’s happiness augments in proportionate
ratio as the number of the proposals bestowed upon her increases.
This, however, is merely a supposition, and there are unfortunately no
statistics to which an historian, anxious to be accurate in statement,
may turn in order to substantiate or overthrow this almost universally
held opinion. It is to be regretted that the census, which gathers
together in tabulated form so many interesting facts pertaining to the
race, gives no attention to this particular subdivision of human data;
and that, so far from being able to form any definite estimate of
the feeling with which a girl welcomes the undoubted compliment of a
marriage offer, we are left in the dark as to the average number of
proposals a woman receives, say, between the ages of seventeen and
thirty-seven. An inquisitive government which does not hesitate to ask
a woman every ten years to set down her age in black and white seems,
strangely enough, to shrink from inquiring into a vital question on
which the future well-being of a nation largely depends; thus no one can
positively state that matrimonial advances are held in high estimation
by their recipients, clinching the proposition by referring the doubter
to Blue Book such a number and such a page.
It being thus impossible to generalize, the careful writer is compelled
to fall back on individual instances, and it must be set down that Edna
Sartwell, so far from being happy or elated over the fact that two
young men within one week had asked her to share their varying fortunes,
walked hurriedly back to the school, filled with terror and dismay. On
the very threshold of womanhood she had suddenly and unexpectedly been
brought face to face with a state of things which made her wish to
shrink back into the untroubled tranquillity of the life she had
hitherto led. These two disquieting events, following one so closely
on the other, loomed up in undue proportion to their importance, and
threatened to overshadow the future. It seemed an appalling thing
that the fate of two men should be placed at her disposal; that on her
shoulders should be cast the great responsibility of deciding, unaided,
a momentous question with far-reaching consequences. And if the first
two young men with whom she became acquainted acted thus, what was to be
expected from the numerous host she was still likely to meet? A pathway
strewn with broken hearts offered no allurements to the feet of the
young traveller; a life lived in an atmosphere of deep sighs was
intolerable. The girl was frightened at the outlook, which was all
the more bewildering because only partly understood. “It is often as
important to classify your problem as to solve it,” her father had once
said to her; but solution or classification appeared equally difficult
to her.
Barney had taken his rejection badly. He made no attempt to conceal
the fact that his life was blighted; that he would re-enter the world
a changed man, but heroically determined to make the most out of the
wreck. The austere, rugged road that now lay before him, unbrightened by
love or human sympathy, he would walk with grim, if sombre, resolution;
brushing aside the frivolities of existence; setting his face with
sullen but dogged persistence towards the cheerless journey of
life; hoping for no recompense except that perhaps he might have the
consolation of knowing that he left the world a trifle better for having
lived in it.
Inexperienced as she was, Edna could not help contrasting the actions
of Hope and Marsten, not altogether to the disadvantage of the latter.
There was no question in her mind that Marsten had in reality an up-hill
road to travel; yet he had gone into no heroics about it, and he asked
nothing but that she should remember him. She had been sorry she could
give no encouraging word to Marsten; but Barney made her feel somehow
that she was to blame in his case, and that he was an ill-used man.
Then, it was difficult to realize the serious nature or hardship of
Barney’s future career, when every one knew he had more money than was
good for him. Some thought of this seemed to occur to Barney himself at
the time, for he spoke bitterly and contemptuously of his wealth, and of
how it handicapped him; however, he was going to give it all away when
he came into his full fortune, and start the world afresh, winning his
laurels and what little cash would suffice for his frugal needs, with
his good right arm, assisted presumably by his paintbrushes; so in the
face of this noble resolution it would have been unfair to censure him
for the possession of riches he had had no hand in accumulating.
Edna hurried towards the school, thinking little of the reprimand in
store for her, and much of the contrary conditions of this world. She,
like Barney, needed advice, yet had no one in whom she might confide.
She thought of writing fully to her father, remembering her promise to
tell him everything that troubled her; but she shrank from the thought
almost as soon as it took form in her mind. Besides, both complications
were settled finally and forever, so why worry him unnecessarily about a
page of her life on which was written the word “Finis”? There surged up
in her heart a deep, passionate yearning for the mother she had never
known, and whom she now missed as she had never missed her before. As
she thought of the portrait of the beautiful, sweet-looking woman in her
father’s office, whose pathetic eyes shone so tenderly and lovingly upon
her, the tears which had been near the surface suddenly blinded her, and
she sobbed:
“I am alone--alone!”
On reaching the school, Edna went directly to her room, where she found
a letter from her step-mother awaiting her; and this helped more than
anything else to drive away the sad thoughts which filled her mind. The
letter ran thus:
“My Poor Dear Edna:”
“You will doubtless have heard of the dreadful calamity that has
overtaken the business of Monkton & Hope, a calamity from which I fear
it may never recover; although your father, as usual, scoffs at what
I predict, and says they are fully insured--as if an insurance policy
could cover the far-reaching effects of such a disaster! There seems
little doubt that the fire was caused by some of the disaffected men,
exasperated, probably, by the treatment they have received, although
that is no excuse tor the crime. But we are all short-seeing, misguided
creatures here below, with the taint of original sin in each of us;
unable, unless directed by a Higher Power, to take even the slightest
action that will be acceptable; and prone ever to slip and stumble if
we neglect those warnings which for our benefit are showered on the just
and the unjust alike: but if warnings are passed by--or, worse still,
scoffed at--how can we hope to profit by them and mend our ways, as an
ever-indulgent Providence--eager to forgive, if we but exhibit a desire
for forgive-ness--intended they should?--and when I asked your father
in a most gentle and respectful (I hope I know my duty as a wife by this
time!) way if the fire had not pointed a great moral to him, he said
with most regrettable flippancy--which I have sometimes attempted to
correct in you, my poor child!--that it pointed the moral to be well
insured and to have fire-escapes from the upper floors; as if ribaldry
like that was not very much out of place in speaking of a solemn event
where two immortal souls went to their last account without a moment’s
warning--going, for aught we know, through perishable fire to flames
that are never quenched! The usefulness of this thought makes no
impression on your father, who is as stubborn as ever, and I fear no
more just to his men than before all this happened. A poor young man
named Marsten has been ruthlessly discharged by your father, and may now
be wandering about the streets, looking for work and starving, for all
any one knows or cares. Ask your father why he was discharged if you
want to know, but don’t ask me. It is nothing but pride--pride--pride!
My child, take warning while there is yet time, for the night cometh.
Harden not your heart.
“I shall continue to petition for you both, for the mercy is unfailing
and unlimited.
“Your loving but sorrowing mother,
“Sarah Sartwell.”
The benevolent intentions of this letter were in no wise frustrated, and
Mrs. Sartwell would doubtless have been pleased had she known that the
reading of, it did the recipient a world of good. It acted as a
tonic, and gave Edna something to think about, preventing any morbid
reflections on the wreck she had made of Barney’s life.
The discharge of Marsten was a great shock to the girl, and for the
first time in her life she thought her father had acted unjustly. At
first, in pondering over the unexpected bit of information, she
thought her father had, in some way, heard of the young man’s visit to
Eastbourne; but as she turned the subject over in her mind she came to
the conclusion that his dismissal was the result of their meeting in
the garden at home and the finding of Marsten there by her father. The
reason, then, the young man had time to come to Eastbourne, was because
his time was now his own. And yet he had said nothing about it, even
when she asked him how he got away from duty. He had spoken well of her
father, although he must have felt he had been unjustly treated. She had
thought nothing of his good words at the time, but now they came back
to her. She determined to write to her father, and tell him all about
Marsten’s visit and its result; but when she sat down with the paper
before her, she found she did not know how to begin. She wished to ask
him to repair the unnecessary wrong he had done Marsten, for there
was not the slightest chance of her ever marrying the young man; but
somehow, when she came to put this all down on paper, the task seemed
very difficult. The difficulty was increased by the knowledge that her
father must at that moment have as much on his mind as any one should
be called upon to bear, and she pictured the silent man sitting at home,
tired out with the work and worry of the day, while the monotonous
voice of his wife drew moral lessons from every new obstacle he had to
surmount. No; she would not add a single care to those already on his
shoulders.
The girl sat with her elbows on the desk, her chin in her hands, gazing
with troubled eyes into vacancy, as if the problems that beset her
were in the air before her and could be hypnotized into solution. A
bewildering feature of the case was that she had continually, of late,
to readjust her ideas, and bring them into correct relationship with
some new fact which came within her cognizance. All the conversations
she had held with her father, many of his actions, bore quite a new
significance when she learned that he knew Marsten loved her. Again, the
fact of Mars-ten’s dismissal lent a sharp poignancy to her remembrance
of his fervent declaration that, for her sake, he would strive to please
any master placed over him, as no man had ever striven before. Edna did
not share her step-mother’s fear that the young man was starving; but
her imagination kindled at the thought of his impassioned words, his
resolute determination to succeed, addressed to the daughter of the man
who a day or two before had turned him into the streets. The more she
thought about her father’s action, the more unjust it seemed. A dozen
times she began a letter, and as often relapsed again into reverie.
Barney and his mythical woes faded entirely from her memory. Gradually
she came to the conclusion that, if she did not intervene in Marsten’s
interests, she would be making herself responsible for the continuance
of the injustice; and, although she wished to relieve her father from
all anxiety regarding her feelings towards the young man, still she was
ashamed to touch upon that part of the subject. It might be possible
some time, when she sat at her father’s knee, to tell him about it, with
averted face; but to write it, she could not.
At last she succeeded in drafting a letter, which she hurriedly posted,
fearing that longer meditation upon the question might result in its not
being sent at all.
“Dear Father:
“I am sure you must be very busy, and perhaps very much worried at the
present moment. You know I do not wish to add to your burden, and would
rather lighten it if I could; but in that I am as helpless as you
are strong. We made a compact a while since, and that is why I write.
Something has happened for which I feel partly responsible. In a letter
received to-day from my step-mother she says you have discharged Mr.
Marsten, and she thinks he may now be looking in vain for employment.
I am afraid you were not pleased at finding him talking to me in our
garden, but that was my fault and not his. If that was the reason, won’t
you please reconsider and invite him back?
“Your loving daughter,
“Edna.”
The answer came almost before she thought her letter had time to reach
London.
“My Dear Little Girl:
“I should have written days ago, but unfortunately I cannot dictate an
affectionate letter through my shorthand clerk, and the older I grow
the more I dislike writing with my own hand. Worried? Oh, dear no! Why
should one worry? I’m afraid your belligerent old father still loves a
fight, whether with circumstances or with men. Before the fire was
out, telegraphic orders were despatched to three machinery firms in the
North. While the fire-engines were still flinging water on the ruins,
I had secured a lease of the four houses that adjoin the works, had
compounded with the tenants, and sent them packing. That night men were
at work knocking doorways through the partitions and strengthening the
floors. Happily the engines and boilers were not injured, being in a
separate building, and already such machinery as we could get is in
place, and a long, sagging, wobbling iron rope carries the power across
the yard. The new secretary of the Union proposed a conference with me
to discuss what the firm was willing to do for the men thrown out of
work by the fire. I refused to discuss anything with the new secretary,
he not being an employee of mine. He is a shrewder man than Gibbons;
so he at once got up a deputation of my own men and sent them to me. I
received them, of course, and they asked me if I would give them fifteen
per cent of their wages while out of work. ‘No,’ said I, ‘I can always
do better than the Union. There will be paid one hundred per cent of
the wages, not fifteen; I expect you all back at the works on Monday.’
I fancy I made the men open their eyes a bit. Work will be going on as
usual within a week, and we won’t be behind with a single order. The
new factory which is now begun will be built in accordance with modern
ideas, and I expect to be able to increase our business so that the
four houses leased will be retained when the new building is ready for
occupation. Forgive this patting of myself on the shoulder, but a man
must brag now and then to some one, and you, my dear Edna, are the only
one to whom I can boast.
“Yes, the compact is still in operation, and I’m glad you wrote about
your step-mother’s letter, although I hope you will not take too
seriously any half-hysterical comments on my tyrannical conduct, A
man must act, and one who acts is bound to make mistakes. Perhaps the
discharge of Marsten was a mistake. I don’t think so, but of course your
step-mother does, and, as facts always embarrass her, she sees instant
starvation and all the rest of it. Everything, Edna, depends on the
point of view. A lighted match is dropped by accident or design, and,
falling on inflammable material, certain chemical changes take place;
carbonic acid gas is produced, and a factory goes down in ruins to
supply the materials for combustion. All this seems perfectly natural
to me, and in accordance with established scientific research. But
your stepmother’s point of view is different. She sees the finger of
Providence, and because I don’t, I’m a scoffer. Now, I’ve as great a
belief and trust in Providence as any one, but to me Providence works
sanely. It doesn’t destroy a factory and kill two men merely to show
me I’m in error, because it could accomplish its purpose at much less
expense and trouble. I can’t think that Providence is less sensible
than my little girl, and she takes the right method. She says in kindly
fashion, ‘Father, I think you are wrong, and I want you to reconsider.’
She doesn’t try to prove me a heartless despot. I would at once
reconsider, and would invite Marsten back, but it is not necessary. He
is the new secretary of the Union, with a salary larger than the
wages he had here, with his time practically his own, and with ample
opportunity for mischief if he chooses to exercise his power. I feel it
in my bones that in one or two or three years I shall have to fight him.
It will be an interesting struggle, but I shall win. So with this final
bit of brag I close my long letter. I hope to run down and see you on
Saturday, and meanwhile all the sympathy you have to spare, lavish on
that iron-handed tyrant,
“Your Father.”