BURT TELLS HIS LOVE AGAIN
Webb appeared at the supper-table the personification of quiet geniality,
but Amy thought she had never seen him look so hollow-eyed. The long
strain was beginning to tell on him, decidedly, and to-night he felt as
if he had received a mortal blow. But with indomitable courage he hid his
wound, and seemed absorbed in a conversation with Leonard and his father
about the different varieties of apples, and their relative value. Amy
saw that his mother was looking at him anxiously, and she did not wonder.
He was growing thin even to gauntness.
Burt also was an arrant dissembler, and on rising from the table remarked
casually that he was going over to bid Miss Hargrove good-by, as she
would return to town on the morrow.
"She'll surely come and see us before she goes," Mrs. Clifford remarked.
"It seems to me she hasn't been very sociable of late."
"Certainly," said Amy. "She'll be over in the morning. She told me she
was coming to say good-by to us all, and she has asked me to visit her.
Come, Webb, you look all tired out to-night. Let me read to you. I'll
stumble through the dryest scientific treatise you have if I can see you
resting on the sofa."
"That's ever so kind of you, Amy, and I appreciate it more than you
imagine, but I'm going out this evening."
"Oh, of course, sisters are of no account. What girl are _you_ going
to see?"
"No girl whatever. I am too old and dull to entertain the pretty
creatures."
"Don't be fishing. You know one you could entertain if she isn't a pretty
creature, but then she's only a sister who doesn't know much."
"I'm sorry--I must go," he said, a little abruptly, for her lovely,
half-laughing, half-reproachful face, turned to his, contained such
mocking promise of happiness that he could not look upon it. What was his
urgent business? His rapid steps as he walked mile after mile indicated
that the matter was pressing indeed; but, although it was late before he
returned, he had spoken to no one. The house was dark and silent except
that a light was burning in Burt's room. And his momentous fortunes the
reader must now follow.
Miss Hargrove, with a fluttering heart, heard the rapid feet of his horse
as he rode up the avenue. Truly, he was coming at a lover's pace. The
door-bell rang, she heard him admitted, and expected the maid's tap at
her door to follow. Why did it not come? Were the tumultuous throbs of
her heart so loud that she could not hear it? What had become of him? She
waited and listened in vain. She opened her door slightly; there was no
sound. She went to her window. There below, like a shadow, stood a
saddled horse. Where was the knight? Had the stupid girl shown him into
the drawing-room and left him there? Surely the well-trained servant had
never been guilty of such a blunder before. Could it have been some one
else who had come to see her father on business? She stole down the
stairway in a tremor of apprehension, and strolled into the parlor in the
most nonchalant manner imaginable. It was lighted, but empty, and her
expression suddenly became one of troubled perplexity. She returned to
the hall, and started as if she had seen an apparition. There on the rack
hung Burt's hat, as natural as life. Voices reached her ear from her
father's study. She took a few swift steps toward it, then fled to her
room, and stood panting before her mirror, which reflected a young lady
in a costume charmingly ill adapted to "packing."
How flow swiftly the minutes passed! how eternally long they were! Would
she be sent for? _When_ would she be sent for? "It was honorable in
him to speak to papa first, and papa would not, could not, answer him
without consulting me. I cannot be treated as a child any longer," she
muttered, with flashing eyes. "Papa loves me," she murmured, in swift
alternation of gentle feeling. "He could not make my happiness secondary
to a paltry sum of money."
Meanwhile Burt was pleading his cause. Mr. Hargrove had greeted him with
no little surprise. The parting of the young people had not promised any
such interview.
"Have you spoken to my daughter on this subject?" Mr. Hargrove asked,
gravely, after the young fellow had rather incoherently made known his
errand.
"No, sir," replied Burt, "I have not secured your permission. At the same
time," he added, with an ominous flash in his blue eyes, "sincerity
compels me to say that I could not take a final refusal from any lips
except those of your daughter, and not readily from hers. I would not
give up effort to win her until convinced that any amount of patient
endeavor was useless. I should not persecute her, but I would ask her to
reconsider an adverse answer as often as she would permit, and I will try
with all my soul to render myself more worthy of her."
"In other words," began Mr. Hargrove, severely, "if I should decline this
honor, I should count for nothing."
"No, sir, I do not mean that, and I hope I haven't said it, even by
implication. Your consent that I should have a fair field in which to do
my best would receive from me boundless gratitude. What I mean to say is,
that I could not give her up; I should not think it right to do so. This
question is vital to me, and I know of no reason," he added, a little
haughtily, "why I should be refused a privilege which is considered the
right of every gentleman."
"I have not in the slightest degree raised the question of your being a
gentleman, Mr. Clifford. Your course in coming to me before revealing
your regard to my daughter proves that you are one. But you should
realize that you are asking a great deal of me. My child's happiness is
my first and only consideration. You know the condition of life to which
my daughter has been accustomed. It is right and natural that I should
also know something of your prospects, your ability to meet the
obligations into which you wish to enter."
Poor Burt flushed painfully, and hesitated. After a moment he answered,
with a dignity and an evident sincerity which won golden opinions from
Mr. Hargrove: "I shall not try to mislead you in the least on this point.
For my own sake I wish that your daughter were far poorer than I am. I
can say little more than that I could give her a home now and every
comfort of life. I could not now provide for her the luxury to which she
has been accustomed. But I am willing to wait and eager to work. In youth
and health and a fair degree of education I have some capital in addition
to the start in life which my father has promised to his sons. What could
not Miss Hargrove inspire a man to do?"
The man of experience smiled in spite of himself at Burt's frank
enthusiasm and naivete. The whole affair was so different from anything
that he had ever looked forward to! Instead of a few formalities between
himself and a wealthy suitor whom his wife, and therefore all the world,
would approve of, here he was listening to a farmer's son, with the
consciousness that he must yield, and not wholly unwilling to do so.
Moreover, this preposterous young man, so far from showing any awe of
him, had almost defied him from the start, and had plainly stated that
the father's wealth was the only objection to the daughter. Having seen
the drift of events, Mr. Hargrove had long since informed himself
thoroughly about the Clifford family, and had been made to feel that the
one fact of his wealth, which Burt regretted, was almost his only claim
to superiority. Burt was as transparent as a mountain brook, and quite as
impetuous. The gray-haired man sighed, and felt that he would give all
his wealth in exchange for such youth. He knew his daughter's heart, and
felt that further parleying was vain, although he foresaw no easy task in
reconciling his wife to the match. He was far from being heartbroken
himself, however, for there was such a touch of nature in Burt, and in
the full, strong love waiting to reward the youth, that his own heart was
stirred, and in the depths of his soul he knew that this was better than
giving his child to a jaded millionaire. "I have money enough for both,"
he thought. "As she said, she is rich enough to follow her heart. It's a
pity if we can't afford an old-fashioned love-match."
Burt was respectfully impatient under Mr. Hargrove's deep thought and
silence.
At last the father arose and gave him his hand, saying: "You have been
honest with me, and that, with an old merchant, counts for a great deal.
I also perceive you love my daughter for herself. If she should ever
inform me that you are essential to her happiness I shall not withhold my
consent."
Burt seized his hand with a grasp that made it ache, as he said, "Every
power I have, sir, shall be exerted that you may never regret this
kindness."
"If you make good that promise, Mr. Clifford, I shall become your friend
should your wooing prove successful. If you will come to the parlor I
will tell Miss Hargrove that you are here."
He went up the stairs slowly, feeling that he was crossing the threshold
of a great change. How many thoughts passed through his mind as he took
those few steps! He saw his child a little black-eyed baby in his arms;
she was running before him trundling her hoop; she came to him with
contracted brow and half-tearful eyes, bringing a knotty sum in
fractions, and insisting petulantly that they were very "vulgar" indeed;
she hung on his arm, a shy girl of fifteen, blushingly conscious of the
admiring eyes that followed her; she stood before him again in her first
radiant beauty as a _debutante_, and he had dreamed of the proudest
alliance that the city could offer; she looked into his eyes, a pale,
earnest woman, and said, "Papa, he saved my life at the risk of his own."
True, true, Mr. Clifford had not spoken of that, and Mr. Hargrove had not
thought of it in the interview so crowded with considerations. His heart
relented toward the youth as it had not done before. Well, well, since it
was inevitable, he was glad to be the one who should first bring the
tidings of this bold wooer's purpose. "Trurie will never forget this
moment," he mattered, as he knocked at her door, "nor my part in her
little drama." O love, how it craves even the crumbs that fall from the
table of its idol!
"Trurie," he began, as he entered, "you had better dress. Bless me, I
thought you were packing!"
"I--I was."
"You were expecting some one?"
"Mr. Clifford said he would call--to bid me good-by, I suppose."
"Was that all you supposed, Trurie?"
"Indeed, papa, I told him I was going to town to-morrow, and he asked if
he might call."
"Did he speak of his object?"
"No, papa. I'm sure it's quite natural he should call, and I have been
packing."
"Well, I can assure you that he has a very definite object. He has asked
me if he might pay his addresses to you, and in the same breath assured
me that he would in any event."
"Oh, papa," she said, hiding her face on his shoulder, "he was not so
unmannerly as that!"
"Indeed, he went much further, declaring that he would take no refusal
from you, either; or, rather, that he would take it so often as to wear
out your patience, and secure you by proving that resistance was useless.
He had one decided fault to find with you, also. He much regrets that you
have wealth."
"Oh, papa, tell me what he did say;" and he felt her heart fluttering
against his side like that of a frightened bird.
"Why, Trurie, men have offered you love before."
"But I never loved before, nor knew what it meant," she whispered.
"Please don't keep me in suspense. This is all so strange, so sacred to
me."
"Well, Trurie, I hope your match may be one of those that are made in
heaven. Your mother will think it anything but worldly wise. However, I
will reconcile her to it, and I'm glad to be the one with whom you will
associate this day. Long after I am gone it may remind you how dear your
happiness was to me, and that I was willing to give up my way for yours.
Mr. Clifford has been straightforward and manly, if not conventional, and
I've told him that if he could win you and would keep his promise to do
his best for you and by you, I would be his friend, and that, you know,
means much. Of course, it all depends upon whether you accept him. You
are not committed in the least."
"Am I not, papa? Here is an organ"--with her hand upon her heart--"that
knows better. But I shall not throw myself at him. Must I go down now?"
"Oh, no, I can excuse you," he said, with smiling lips but moist eyes.
"Dear papa, I will, indeed, associate you with this hour and every
pleasant thing in life. You will find that you have won me anew instead
of losing me;" and looking back at him with her old filial love shining
in her eyes, she went slowly away to meet the future under the sweet
constraint of Nature's highest law.
If Burt had been impatient in the library, he grew almost desperate in
the parlor. Horrible doubts and fears crossed his mind. Might not Miss
Hargrove's pride rise in arms against him? Might she not even now be
telling her father of his fickleness, and declaring that she would not
listen to a "twice-told tale"? Every moment of delay seemed ominous, and
many moments passed. The house grew sepulchral in its silence, and the
wind without sighed and moaned as if Nature foreboded and pitied him in
view of the overwhelming misfortune impending. At last he sprang up and
paced the room in his deep perturbation. As he turned toward the entrance
he saw framed in the doorway a picture that appeared like a radiant
vision. Miss Hargrove stood there, looking at him so intently that, for a
second or two, he stood spell-bound. She was dressed in some white,
clinging material, and, with her brilliant eyes, appeared in the
uncertain light too beautiful and wraith-like to be human. She saw her
advantage, and took the initiative instantly. "Mr. Clifford," she
exclaimed, "do I seem an apparition?"
"Yes, you do," he replied, coming impetuously toward her. She held out
her hand, proposing that their interview should at least begin at arm's
length. Nevertheless, the soft fire in his eyes and the flush on his
handsome face made her tremble with a delicious apprehension. Even while
at a loss to know just how to manage the preliminaries for a decorous
yielding, she exulted over the flame-like spirit of her lover.
"Ah, Mr. Clifford," she cried, "you ought to know that you are not
crushing a ghost's hand."
"Pardon me. What I meant was that I thought I had seen you before, but
you are a new revelation every time I see you."
"I can't interpret visions."
"Please don't say that, for I must ask you to interpret one to-night.
What does Shakespeare say about those who have power? I hope you will use
yours mercifully. Oh, Miss Hargrove, you are so beautiful that I believe
I should lose my reason if you sent me away without hope."
"Mr. Clifford, you are talking wildly," was her faint response.
"I fear I am. I am almost desperate from fear, for I have a terribly hard
duty to perform."
"Indeed!" she said, withdrawing her hand, which he relinquished most
reluctantly, dreading that he might never receive it again.
"Do not assume that attitude, Miss Hargrove, or I shall lose courage
utterly."
"Truly, Mr. Clifford," she said, a little satirically, seating herself on
a sofa, "I never imagined you deficient in courage. Is it a terrible duty
to entertain me for a half-hour, and say good-by?"
"Yes. Nothing could be worse than that, if that were all;" and he looked
at her appealingly and in such perplexed distress that she laughed
outright.
"I am very much in earnest, Miss Hargrove."
"You are very enigmatical, Mr. Clifford. Must I be present while you
perform this terrible duty?"
"I think you know what I must confess already, and have a world of scorn
in store for me. Do not judge me harshly. Whatever the end may be, and my
sense of ill-desert is heavy indeed, I shall begin on the basis of
absolute truth. You shall know the worst. I've asked your father for the
privilege of winning your love;" and then he hesitated, not knowing how
to go on.
"Is that the worst?" she asked, demurely.
"No, I fear it will be the best, for he kindly gave his consent, and I
know it would be hard for him to do as much for any man, much more so for
one not wholly to his mind. Miss Hargrove, I must appear awkwardness and
incoherency personified. I hardly know how to go on. I shall appear to
you fickle and unmanly. How can I excuse myself to you when I have no
excuse except the downright truth that I love you better than my life,
better than my own soul, better than all the world and everything in it.
I never knew what love was until you became unconscious in my arms on the
mountain. Forgive me for referring to it. I'm only trying to explain
myself; and yet I had thought that I knew, and had spoken words of love
to your friend, Amy Winfield, who is worthy of the love of the best and
noblest man that ever breathed. She did not welcome my words--they only
wounded her--and she has never eared for me except as a true and gentle
sister cares. But I promised to wait till she did care. I can't keep that
promise. You fascinated me from the first hour of our meeting. I feel now
that I cherished an unworthy purpose toward you. I thought that, by
attentions to you, I could make Amy care; I thought that you were but a
brilliant society girl; but every hour I spent with you increased my
admiration, my respect; I saw that you were better and stronger than I
was. On the first day we went into camp on the mountain I saw whither my
heart was leading me, and from that hour until to-day I have tried to
conquer my love, feeling that I had no right to give it, that you would
despise it if I did. You can't have any confidence in me now. All my hope
is that you will give me a chance to prove that I am not a fickle wretch.
I will accept of any probation, I will submit to any terms. I can't take
an absolute refusal now, for I feel you are seeing me at my worst, and I
know that you could do with me anything you pleased."
Her head bowed lower and lower as he poured out these words like a
torrent. "Does Amy--have you told her that you cannot keep your promise
to her?" she faltered, in a low tone.
"Oh, yes, I told her so a few hours ago--since I met you this afternoon.
I was going away to the West, like a coward, to escape from my dilemma,
for I felt you would never listen to me after you knew that I had broken
my word to Amy. I feared that I had already become a by-word between you
for all that was weak and fickle. But after I saw you I could not go till
I spoke. I determined to reveal the whole truth, and if you ever gave me
a chance to retrieve myself, gratitude would be no name for my deep
feeling.
"Did--did Amy release you?"
"Yes, she was kindness itself. She told me in good plain English that she
wanted neither me nor my promise; that she didn't think that she ever
could have loved me, no matter how long I might have waited. But I could
not look into your clear eyes and say, 'I love you,' and know that you
might learn from her or any one that I had said this before. If you won't
trust me, having had the whole truth, then I must bear my hard fate as
best I can."
"How long would you be willing to wait for me?" she asked, in tones so
low that he could scarcely catch the words.
He bounded to her side, and took her unresisting hand. "Oh, Gertrude," he
pleaded, "prove me, give me a chance, let me show that I am not without
manhood and constancy. Believe me, I know the priceless gift I'm asking,
but what else can I do? I have tried for weeks to conquer the feeling you
have inspired, tried with all the help that pride and sense of duty and
honor could give, but it has been utterly useless. I now am free; I have
the right to speak. I have concealed nothing from you. I'm wholly at your
mercy."
At last she raised her downcast eyes and averted face to his, and for a
moment he was dazed at their expression. In tones sweet, low, and deep
with her strong emotion, she said, "Burt, how glad I am that you men are
blind! I found out that I loved you before we went to our mountain camp."
She sprang up and gave him her other hand as she continued: "Can love
impose such hard conditions as you suggest--months of doubtful waiting
for one who risked his life for me without a second's hesitation? That is
not my nature, Burt. If I have power over you, I shall show it in another
way."
She would never forget his look as he listened to these words, nor his
humility as he lowered his head upon her shoulder, and murmured, "I am
not worthy of this." It touched the deepest and tenderest chord in her
heart. His feeling was not the exultation of success, but a gratitude too
deep for words, and a half-conscious appeal that she would use her
woman's power to evoke a better manhood. It was not mere acknowledgment
of her beauty, or the impulse of his passion; it was homage to the best
and noblest part of her nature, the expression of his absolute trust.
Never had she received such a tribute, and she valued it more than if
Burt had laid untold wealth at her feet.
A great joy is often as sobering as a great sorrow, and they talked long
and earnestly together. Gertrude would not become engaged until she had
told her mother, and shown her the respect that was her due. "You must
not be resentful," the young girl said, "if mamma's consent is not easily
won. She has set her heart on an establishment in town, I've set my heart
on you; so there we differ, and you must give me time to reconcile her to
a different programme."
The clock on the mantel chimed eleven, and Burt started up, aghast at the
flight of time. Gertrude stole to her father's library, and found that he
was pacing the floor. "I should not have left him alone so long
to-night," she thought, with compunction. "Papa," she said, "Mr. Clifford
is going. Will you not come and speak to him?"
He looked into his daughter's flushed, happy face, and needed no further
explanation, and with her hands on his arm he went to the drawing-room.
Burt said but few and very simple words, and the keen judge of men liked
him beter than if he had been more exuberant. There was evidence of
downright earnestness now that seemed a revelation of a new trait.
"You spoke of going to the West soon," Mr. Hargrove remarked, as they
lingered in parting. "Have you any objection to telling me of your
purpose?"
Burt explained. Mr. Hargrove's face soon expressed unusual interest. "I
must talk with you further about this," he said. "I have land in the same
locality, and also an interest in the railroad to which you refer.
Perhaps I can make your journey of mutual service."
"Oh, papa," cried his daughter, "you are my good genius!" for she well
understood what that mutual service meant.
After Burt had gone, Mr. Hargrove said, "Well, well, this Western-land
business puts a new aspect on the affair, and mamma may have little
ground for complaint. It's my impression that the Cliffords will realize
a very respectable fortune out of that land."
"Papa," said the young girl, "Burt gave me something better than wealth
to-night--better even than love, in the usual sense of the word. He gave
me his faith. He acted as if he saw in me the power to help him to be a
true man, and what higher compliment can a woman receive? He did not
express it so much by word as by an unconscious manner, that was so
sincere and unpremeditated that it thrilled my very soul. Oh, papa, you
have helped me to be so very happy!"