Grace happened to have a headache next morning, and did not come down to
breakfast: but it was Saturday, and Mr. Carden always lunched at home on
that day. So did Grace, because it was one of Little's days. This gave
Mr. Carden the opportunity he wanted. When they were alone he fixed
his eyes on his daughter, and said quietly, “What is your opinion of--a
jilt?”
“A heartless, abominable creature,” replied Grace, as glibly as if she
was repeating some familiar catechism.
“Would you like to be called one?”
“Oh, papa!”
“Is there nobody who has the right to apply the term to you?”
“I hope not.” (Red.)
“You encouraged Mr. Coventry's addresses?”
“I am afraid I did not discourage them, as I wish I had. It is so hard
to foresee every thing.”
“Pray do you remember the fifth day of last December?”
“Can I ever forget it?” (Redder.)
“Is it true that Mr. Coventry proposed for you, that day?”
“Yes.”
“And you accepted him.”
“No; no. Then he has told you so? How ungenerous! All I did was, I
hesitated, and cried, and didn't say 'no,' downright--like a fool. Oh,
papa, have pity on me, and save me.” And now she was pale.
Mr. Carden's paternal heart was touched by this appeal, but he was
determined to know the whole truth. “You could love him, in time, I
suppose?”
“Never.”
“Why?”
“Because--”
“Now tell me the truth. Have you another attachment?”
“Yes, dear papa.” (In a whisper and as red as fire.)
“Somebody of whom you are not proud.”
“I AM proud of him. He is Mr. Coventry's superior. He is everybody's
superior in everything in the world.”
“No, Grace, you can hardly be proud of your attachment; if you had been,
you would not have hidden it all this time from your father.” And Mr.
Carden sighed.
Grace burst out crying, and flung herself on her knees and clung,
sobbing, to him.
“There, there,” said he, “I don't want to reproach you; but to advise
you.”
“Oh, papa! Take and kill me. Do: I want to die.”
“Foolish child! Be calm now; and let us talk sense.”
At this moment there was a peculiar ring at the door, a ring not
violent, but vigorous.
Grace started and looked terrified: “Papa!” said she, “say what you
like to me, but do not affront HIM; for you might just as well take that
knife and stab your daughter to the heart. I love him so. Have pity on
me.”
The servant announced “Mr. Little!”
Grace started up, and stood with her hand gripping the chair; her
cheek was pale, and her eyes glittered; she looked wild, and evidently
strained up to defend her lover.
All this did not escape Mr. Carden. He said gently, “Show him into the
library.” Then to Grace as soon as the servant had retired, “Come here,
my child.”
She knelt at his knees again, and turned her imploring, streaming eyes
up to him.
“Is it really so serious as all this?”
“Papa, words cannot tell you how I love. But if you affront him, and he
leaves me, you will see how I love him; you will know, by my grave-side,
how I love him.”
“Then I suppose I must swallow my disappointment how I can.”
“It shall be no disappointment; he will do you honor and me too.”
“But he can't make a settlement on his wife, and no man shall marry my
daughter till he can do that.”
“We can wait,” said Grace, humbly.
“Yes, wait--till you and your love are both worn out.”
“I shall wear out before my love.”
Mr. Carden looked at her, as she knelt before him, and his heart was
very much softened. “Will you listen to reason at all?” said he.
“From you, I will, dear papa.” She added, swiftly, “and then you will
listen to affection, will you not?”
“Yes. Promise me there shall be no formal engagement, and I will let him
come now and then.”
This proposal, though not very pleasant, relieved Grace of such terrible
fears, that she consented eagerly.
Mr. Carden then kissed her, and rose, to go to young Little; but,
before he had taken three steps, she caught him by the arm, and said,
imploringly, “Pray remember while you are speaking to him that you would
not have me to bestow on any man but for him; for he saved my life, and
Mr. Coventry's too. Mr. Coventry forgets that: but don't you: and, if
you wound him, you wound me; he carries my heart in his bosom.”
Mr. Carden promised he would do his duty as kindly as possible; and with
that Grace was obliged to content herself.
When he opened the library door, young Little started up, his face
irradiated with joy. Mr. Carden smiled a little satirically, but he was
not altogether untouched by the eloquent love for his daughter, thus
showing itself in a very handsome and amiable face. He said, “It is not
the daughter this time, sir, it is only the father.”
Little colored up and looked very uneasy.
“Mr. Little, I am told you pay your addresses to Miss Carden. Is that
so?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You have never given me any intimation.”
Little colored still more. He replied, with some hesitation, “Why, sir,
you see I was brought up amongst workmen, and they court the girl first,
and make sure of her, before they trouble the parents; and, besides, it
was not ripe for your eye yet.”
“Why not?”
“Because I'm no match for Miss Carden. But I hope to be, some day.”
“And she is to wait for you till then?”
“She says she will.”
“Well, Mr. Little, this is a delicate matter; but you are a
straightforward man, I see, and it is the best way. Now I must do my
duty as a parent, and I am afraid I shall not be able to do that without
mortifying you a little; but believe me, it is not from any dislike or
disrespect to you, but only because it IS my duty.”
“I am much obliged to you, sir; and I'll bear more from you than I would
from any other man. You are her father, and I hope you'll be mine one
day.”
“Well, then, Mr. Little, I always thought my daughter would marry a
gentleman in this neighborhood, who has paid her great attention for
years, and is a very suitable match for her. You are the cause of
that match being broken off, and I am disappointed. But although I am
disappointed, I will not be harsh nor unreasonable to you. All I say is
this: my daughter shall never marry any man, nor engage herself to any
man, who cannot make a proper settlement on her. Can YOU make a proper
settlement on her?”
“Not at present,” said Little, with a sigh.
“Then I put it to you, as a man, is it fair of you to pay her open
attentions, and compromise her? You must not think me very mercenary; I
am not the man to give my daughter to the highest bidder. But there is a
medium.”
“I understand you, sir, so far. But what am I to do? Am I to leave off
loving, and hoping, and working, and inventing? You might as well tell
me to leave off living.”
“No, my poor boy; I don't say that, neither. If it is really for her you
work, and invent, and struggle with fortune so nobly as I know you do,
persevere, and may God speed you. But, meantime, be generous, and don't
throw yourself in her way to compromise her.”
The young man was overpowered by the kindness and firmness of his
senior, who was also Grace's father. He said, in a choking voice, there
was no self-denial he would not submit to, if it was understood that he
might still love Grace, and might marry her as soon as he could make a
proper settlement on her.
Then Mr. Carden, on his part, went further than he had intended, and
assented distinctly to all this, provided the delay was not unreasonable
in point of time. “I can't have her whole life wasted.”
“Give me two years: I'll win her or lose her in that time.” He then
asked, piteously, if he might see her.
“I am sorry to say No to that,” was the reply; “but she has been already
very much agitated, and I should be glad to spare her further emotion.
You need not doubt her attachment to you, nor my esteem. You are a very
worthy, honest young man, and your conduct does much to reconcile me to
what I own is a disappointment.”
Having thus gilded the pill, Mr. Carden shook hands with Henry Little,
and conducted him politely to the street door.
The young man went away slowly; for he was disconsolate at not seeing
Grace.
But, when he got home, his stout Anglo-Saxon heart reacted, and he faced
the situation.
He went to his mother and told her what had passed. She colored with
indignation, but said nothing.
“Well, mother, of course it might be better; but then it might be worse.
It's my own fault now if I lose her. Cutlery won't do it in the time,
but Invention will: so, from this hour, I'm a practical inventor, and
nothing but death shall stop me.”