SERIOUS THOUGHTS
The young people at The Cedars had taken Garry Knapp right into the
heart of their social life. He knew he was welcome and the hospitality
shown him was a most delightful experience for the young Westerner.
But “business was business.” He could not see wherein he had any right
to accept a favor from Major Dale because Dorothy wished her father to
aid him. That was not Garry’s idea of a manly part—to use the father of
the girl you love as a staff in getting on in the world.
There was no conceit in Garry’s belief that he had tacit permission,
was it right to accept it, to try to win Dorothy Dale’s heart and hand.
He was just as well assured in his soul that Dorothy had been attracted
to him as he was that she had gained his affection. “Love like a
lightning bolt,” Tavia had called Dorothy’s interest in Garry Knapp. It
was literally true in the young man’s case. He had fallen in love with
Dorothy Dale almost at first sight.
Every time he saw her during that all too brief occasion in New York
his feeling for the girl had grown. By leaps and bounds it increased
until, just as Tavia had once said, if Dorothy had been in Tavia’s
financial situation Garry Knapp would never have left New York without
first learning whether or not there was any possible chance of his
winning the girl he knew he loved.
Now it was revealed to him that he had that chance—and bitterly did he
regret the knowledge. For he gained it at the cost of his peace of mind.
It is one thing to long for the object forbidden us; it is quite
another thing to know that we may claim that longed-for object if honor
did not interfere. To Garry Knapp’s mind he could not meet what was
Dorothy Dale’s perfectly proper advances, and keep his own self-respect.
Were he more sanguine, or a more imaginative young man, he might have
done so. But Garry Knapp’s head was filled with hard, practical common
sense. Young men and more often young girls allow themselves to become
engaged with little thought for the future. Garry was not that kind.
Suppose Dorothy Dale did accept his attentions and was willing to wait
for him until he could win out in some line of industrial endeavor that
would afford the competence that he believed he should possess before
marrying a girl used to the luxuries Dorothy was used to, Garry Knapp
felt it would be wrong to accept the sacrifice.
The chances of business life, especially for a young man with the small
experience and the small capital he would have, were too great. To
“tie a girl up” under such circumstances was a thing Garry could not
contemplate and keep his self-respect. He would not, he told himself,
be led even to admit by word or look that he desired to be Dorothy’s
suitor.
To hide this desire during the few days he remained at The Cedars was
the hardest task Garry Knapp had ever undertaken. If Dorothy was demure
and modest she was likewise determined. Her happiness, she felt, was at
stake and although she could but admire the attitude Garry held upon
this momentous question she did not feel that he was right.
“Why, what does it matter about money—mere money?” she said one night
to Tavia, confessing everything when her chum had crept into her bed
with her after the lights were out. “I believe I care for money less
than he does.”
“You bet you do!” ejaculated Tavia, vigorously. “Just at present that
young cowboy person is caring more for money than Ananias did. Money
looks bigger to him than anything else in the world. With money he
could have you, Doro Doodlekins—don’t you see?”
“But he can have me without!” wailed Dorothy, burying her head in the
pillow.
“Oh, no he can’t,” Tavia said wisely and quietly. “You know he can’t.
If you could tempt him to throw up his principles in the matter, you
know very well, Doro, that you would be heartbroken.”
“What?”
“Yes you would. You wouldn’t want a young man dangling after you who
had thrown aside his self-respect for a girl. Now, would you?” And
without waiting for an answer she continued: “Not that I approve of his
foolishness. Some men _are_ that way, however. Thank heaven I am not a
man.”
“Oh! I’m glad you’re not, either,” confessed Dorothy with her soft lips
now against Tavia’s cheek.
“Thank you, ma’am. I have often thought I’d like to be of the hemale
persuasion; but never, no more!” declared Tavia, with vigor. “Suppose
_I_ should then be afflicted with an ingrowing conscience about taking
money from the woman I married? Whe-e-e-ew!”
“He wouldn’t have to,” murmured Dorothy, burying her head again and
speaking in a muffled voice. “I’d give up the money.”
“And if he had any sense or unselfishness at all he wouldn’t let you do
_that_,” snapped Tavia. “No. You couldn’t get along without much money
now, Dorothy.”
“Nonsense——”
“It is the truth. I know I should be hopelessly unhappy myself if I had
to go home and live again just as they do there. I have been spoiled,”
said Tavia, her voice growing lugubrious. “I want wealth—luxuries—and
everything good that money buys. Yes, Doro, when it comes _my_ time to
become engaged, I must get a wealthy man or none at all. I shall be put
up at auction——”
“Tavia! How you talk! Ridiculous!” exclaimed Dorothy. “You talk like a
heathen.”
“Am one when it comes to money matters,” groaned the girl. “I have got
to marry money——”
“If Nat White were as poor as a church mouse, you’d marry him in a
minute!”
“Oh—er—well,” sighed Tavia, “Nat is not going to ask me, I am afraid.”
“He would in a minute if you’d tell him about those Lance Petterby
letters.”
“Don’t you dare tell him, Dorothy Dale!” exclaimed Tavia, almost in
fear. “You must not. Now, promise.”
“I have promised,” her friend said gloomily.
“And see that you stick to it. I know,” said Tavia, “that I could
bring Nat back to me by explaining. But there should be no need of
explaining. He should know that—that—oh, well, what’s the use of
talking! It’s all off!” and Tavia flounced around and buried her nose
in the pillow.
Dorothy’s wits were at work, however. In the morning she “put a flea
in Ned’s ear,” as Tavia would have said, and Ned hurried off to the
telegraph office to send a day letter to his brother. Dorothy did not
censor that telegraph despatch or this section of it would never have
gone over the wire:
“Come back home and take a squint at the cowboy D. has picked out for
herself.”