PRO AND CON.
On a pleasant May morning, in the spring succeeding the events narrated
in the last chapter, the door of Dr. Clayton’s office was locked against
all intruders. The shutters were closed; while within, with his feet
upon a table and his hands clasped over his head, the doctor himself was
revolving the all-important question—whether it were better to offer
himself at once to Dell Thompson “and have it done with,” or to wait a
few years for a _little girl_, who had recently crossed his pathway,
leaving on his memory footprints he could not easily efface. For the
benefit of any young men who may be similarly situated, we give a
portion of his reasoning, as follows:
“Now, I am as positive as a man need be that I can have either of them
for the asking; therefore, in a case which involves the happiness of
one’s whole life, it behooves me to consider the matter well. To be
sure, if I follow the bent of my inclination, I am decided at once; but
then, marriages of convenience sometimes prove just as pleasant as those
of pure love; and so I’ll go over with the _pros_ and _cons_ of both,
deciding upon the one which has the most of the former!
“First, then, there’s _Rose_, a most beautiful name. Only think how
refreshing it would be after riding ten or twelve miles, visiting farmer
Stubbs or widow Grubbs, to know there was a _Rose_ watching for your
return. Yes, her name is in her favor.”
Here the hands came down from the head, and wrote one pro against the
name of Rose, after which they resume their former position, and the
doctor goes on with his soliloquy:
“She is frank, artless, unassuming, means what she says—in short, she is
perfectly natural, and I always feel refreshed after a talk with her.”
(Makes _pro_ number 2.) “Then she is so wholly unselfish in her
affection for me—loves me so devotedly—sees no fault in me
whatever—thinks me handsome, I dare say, and all that.”
Here glancing at himself in a little mirror opposite, and smoothing his
shining moustache, the doctor waxes eloquent on said Rose’s supposed
admiration for him, writing down, in the heat of his excitement two
_pros_, making in all _four_! Verily, Rosa Lee, your prospect of
becoming Mrs. Dr. Clayton is brightening fast. But to proceed:
“She is smart, intelligent, talented, writes poetry—and, with proper
training, would perhaps make a distinguished writer. Were I sure on this
point, I should not hesitate; but you can’t tell what these precocious
children will make; frequently they come to a stand-still.”
And here, to make the matter sure, he writes against her name one _pro_
for what she possibly may be, and one _con_ for what she probably will
not be!
“Then I love her better than anything else in the known world. I do,
that’s a fact; but she’s young—only fourteen—and before she’s old enough
to marry she may change forty times, and that would kill me dead.”
Puts down one pro for his own love, and one _con_ for Rose’s possible
inconstancy.
“But she is poor—or, her father, they say, is worth only about $5,000!
He already has nine children, and there’s time enough for three or four
more:—_thirteen_ into _five thousand_ makes—_Long Division_, a rule I
never fancied; too poor altogether!”
And against Rose’s name there is _con_ No. 3, _long_ and _black_, with
the shadow of her four unborn brothers, who, by the way, never came in
for a share of the $5,000.
“Then her family connections, I do not suppose, are such as would add
anything to my influence. Good, respectable people, no doubt, but not
known in the world like the Hungerfords, Dell Thompson’s maternal
relatives. To be sure, I once heard Rose speak of an uncle who resides
in Boston, but I dare say he’s some grocer or mechanic, living on a back
street; while Dell’s uncle, from the same city, must be a man of wealth
and importance, judging by the figure his wife cuts when she visits the
captain.”
Here Dell received a _pro_ for the Hungerford blood flowing in her
veins, while Rose had a _con_ for the want of said Hungerford blood.
“Dell, too, has $10,000 of her own, or rather will have, when her
grandmother dies; and there are not many young men who can jump into
that fortune every day. Yes, $10,000 is a decided temptation.”
And lest Rose, who already numbered six, should come out in the
majority, three long marks were put down against the $10,000 to be
inherited at the death of a grandmother, whose name Dell bore.
“Then Dell has an air, which shows at once what she is, and no man need
be ashamed of her in any place.” (Mark No. 5.) “Then, again, she’s
handsome—decidedly so—such beautiful eyes! such small feet! and curls!”
Here a vague remembrance of certain long shoes, with wads of cotton,
_versus_ French slippers and silken hose, arose before the man of the
world, resulting in a _pro_ for the slippers, and a _con_ for the
cotton!
“But Dell is deceitful—high-tempered—artificial—selfish superficial—and
all that! The other picture suits me best, or would, were it not for the
Hungerford blood, and the $10,000. Let me see how it foots up:—Six
_pros_ for Dell, and the same number for Rose.”
Here was a dilemma; but anon he remembered how awkwardly the last
mentioned young lady looked, when she fell at his feet—and this decides
the matter. He is sensitive to ridicule, very, and he could not endure
the sneering remarks which an avowed attachment to her might call forth
from the world of fashion; so he crosses one of the _pros_ which he had
written against her name, when he thought how much she admired him—and
then it stands, Dell 6; Rose 5!
Thus was the die cast. Alas! for the young girl, who, that same spring
morning, stole away to her accustomed haunt, the old grape-vine, whose
swelling buds were not an unfit symbol of the bright hopes now springing
in her glad heart. As she sits there alone, with the running brook at
her feet, she thinks of him who has grown so strongly into her love; and
though, in words, he has never said so, by ten thousand little acts he
has told her that her affection was returned, and for his sake she
wishes she was older. He has wished so too, in her presence, many a
time; but as that cannot be, she resolves to spend the season of her
childhood in making herself what she knows he would wish her to be, were
she to share his lot in life; and then, when the lapse of years shall
have ripened her into womanhood, she thinks how she can, without shame,
put her hand in his, and go forth into the world satisfied, though it
brought her naught but care, if he were only with her.
Alas, for thee, Rosa! A few miles to the southward, and the same sun
which now shines softly down on you, looks in through a richly curtained
window, and its golden rays fall on the queenly form of your rival; who,
with a look of exultation on her finely cast features, listens to the
words she has long waited to hear, and which have now been spoken; while
he, of whom you dream, bends gently over her, _his own—his betrothed_!
And still, in the very moment of his triumph, there comes up before him
a pale, childish face, which, with its dreamy eyes of blue, looks
reproachfully upon him. But pride and ambition weave together a veil
with which hides the image from his view, bidding him forget that any
other save the peerless Dell, e’er stirred the fountain of his love.
* * * * *
Would it be well for us always to know what is passing in the minds of
our friends, whether present or absent? I think not; and still, could
Rosa Lee have known what had transpired, methinks she would not have
darted away so quickly as she did, when told that Dr. Clayton was coming
through the gate one afternoon, about six weeks after his engagement
with Dell. _Why_ she ran, she could not tell, except it were, as her
brother Charlie said, that “gals always run off and _spit on their
hair_, when they saw their beaux coming.”
Homely as this expression is, there was in this case some truth in it;
for, though Rose did not _spit_ upon her hair, she went to her room and
brushed it, winding one or two of the rougher curls about her finger,
then taking from its hiding-place the ring, his gift, she placed it upon
her finger, and with heightened color went down to greet the doctor, who
had come to make his farewell visit—for, four weeks from that night,
Dell Thompson would be his wife. Long had he debated the propriety of
seeing Rose again, conscience bidding him leave her alone, while
inclination clamored loudly for one more quiet talk with her, one more
walk by moonlight, one more look into her childish face, and then he
would leave her forever; never again suffering a thought of her to come
between him and the bride of his choice.
And for this purpose he had come; but when he saw how joyfully Rose met
him, and how the bloom deepened on her usually pale cheek, his heart
misgave him, and for the first time, he began to realize the wrong he
had done her. But it was now too late to remedy it, he thought; and as
if bent upon making matters still worse, he asked her to accompany him
in a walk down the green lane, to the haunts he knew she loved the best,
and where they had more than once been before. Oh, that walk!—how long
it lingered in the memory of Rose, for never before had the doctor’s
manner been so marked, or his words so kind as when together they sat
upon the moss-grown bank, beneath the spreading vine, while he talked to
her of the past, of the happiness he had experienced in her society, and
which he said would be one of the few green spots, to which, in the
years to come, he should look back with pleasure. Then drawing her so
closely to him that her head almost rested upon his shoulder, he asked
of her the privilege of “once kissing her before they parted”——he did
not say _forever_, but the rustling leaves and the murmuring brook
whispered it in her ear as she granted his request, shuddering the
while, and wondering at the strangeness of his manner. Possibly he had
it in his mind to tell her, but if so, he found himself unequal to the
task, and he left her without a word of the coming event, of which she
had not the slightest suspicion.