near it, not once alone, but many times. I do not think that there was
any man who could have seen her day after day, as I did, and not have
fallen in love with her, unless there were some barrier in the way. Mine
was fragile as a reed, but it proved in the end to be strong enough. It
arose in the days when I was a green young hobble-de-hoy of nineteen,
dragging along in my freshman year, and she was a bright little gipsy
four years younger. At a juvenile tea-party at the Days' we were playing
games, and one--I don't know what it was, except that it demanded some
familiarity with historical characters and readiness in using one's
knowledge. The little wit I had was soon hopelessly knocked out of me,
while Katie, quick and alert, was equally ready at showing all she knew,
and shielded herself by repartee when she knew nothing. I made some
absurd blunder, perhaps more in my awkward way of putting things than in
what I really meant, between the two celebrated Cromwells, giving the
impression that I thought the great Oliver a Catholic. I might have made
some confused explanation, but was silenced by Katie's ringing laugh, a
peal of irresistible girlish gayety, such as worldly prudence is rarely
strong enough to check at fifteen. Perhaps she was excited and could not
help it, but I thought she laughed more than she need, and there was
something scornful in the tone that jarred on me painfully. I could not
be so foolish as to resent it, but I could not forget it, and often when
she has looked most lovely, and the star of love has shone most
propitious, some sharper cadence than usual in her voice, or a hint at
harder lines under the soft curves of her face, or a contemptuous ring
in her musical laugh, has withered the words on my lips, and the hour
has passed with them unspoken. It was, I dimly felt, only a question of
time; the flood must some day rise high enough to sweep the frail
barrier away.
Katie and Eleanor had but little in common on the surface, nor were
there ever any deeper sympathies of thought and feeling between them.
Still, they were girls, living near together, and with all the others
much farther off. It was impossible that there should not be some
intercourse of business or pleasure, though never intimate and always
irregular; and one pleasant September it came about that we spent a good
many hours together, playing lawn tennis on my court. There was another
young man hanging about; an admirer of Katie's, he might be called,
though he was not very forward to try his chances, thinking, as I
plainly saw, that they were not worth much. Herbert Riddell was not much
cleverer than I was, and, though not poor, had no wealth to give him
importance. He was a thoroughly good fellow, and felt no jealousy of me,
and it was pleasant for him to loiter away the golden autumn days with
beauty on the tennis court, even if both were another's property. We
were well enough matched, for, though Herbert and Katie were very fair
players, while Eleanor was a perfect stick, yet I played so much better
than the others that I generally pulled her through. She really tried
her best, but somehow the more she tried the more blunders she made,
perhaps from nervousness, and one afternoon they were especially
remarkable. We were hurrying to finish our match, as it was getting late
and nearly time for "high tea" at the Days', to which we were all asked,
though Eleanor, as usual, had declined, and Katie, as usual, had not
pressed her. It was nothing to either Herbert or me, for we both found
Mrs. Day a much more lively _pis aller_ in conversation than Eleanor.
Katie was serving, and sent one of her finest, swiftest balls at
Eleanor, who struck at it with all her force, and did really hit it, but
unfortunately and mysteriously sent it straight up into the air. We all
watched it breathlessly, as it came down--down--and fell on our side of
the net. Katie, warm and excited, laughed loud and long. I thought that
there was a little affection of superiority in her mirth, just like
there was in the high, clear, scornful music that woke the echoes of
long ago, and I in turn lost my self-possession, and returned my next
ball with such nervous strength that it flew far beyond the lawn and
over the clumps of laurels into the wood beyond. We had lost the set.
"Really, Mr. Greenway," cried Katie, "you must have tried to do that; or
have you been taking private lessons of Eleanor?" She stopped, her fine
ear perhaps detecting something strained and hard in her own voice. I
see her still as she looked then, poised like Mercury on one slender
foot, one arm thrown back and holding her racket behind her head,
framing it in, the little dimples quivering round her mouth, ready to
melt into smiles at a word, while from under her dark eyelashes she shot
out a long, bright look, half saucy defiance, half pleading for pardon.
It was enough to madden any man who saw her, and it struck home to
Riddell. Poor fellow! it was never aimed at him, and it fell short of
its mark:
"My heart's cold ashes vainly would she stir,
The light was quenched she looked so lovely in."
Eleanor, meanwhile, was bidding her usual good-by, nothing in her manner
showing that she was at all offended. She need not be, for of course
Katie could not seriously intend any slight to her, any more than to a
stray tennis ball to which she might give a random hit. But I could not
let a lady go home alone from my own ground in just this way, and I had
a sort of fellow-feeling with her, which I wanted to show.
"I will see Miss Beecher home, and then come back," I said, and hastened
after her, although I had seen, by the prompt manner in which she had
walked off, that she did not intend, and very likely did not wish, I
should. I was glad to leave the ground and get away from them. I kept
saying to myself that after all Katie was not much to blame; girls would
be thoughtless, and Katie was so pretty and so petted that she might
well be a little spoiled; and then I asked myself what right I had to
set myself up as a judge of her conduct? None at all; only I wished that
women, who can so easily and lightly touch on the raw places of others,
would use their power to heal and not to wound. I could picture to
myself some girl with an eagerness to share the overflowing gifts of
fortune with others, a respectful tenderness for those who had but
little, a yearning sweetness of sympathy that should disarm even envy,
and give the very inequalities of life their fitness and significance.
We men have rougher ways to hurt or heal; and though I tried
desperately hard, I could not hit on anything pleasant or consolatory to
say to Eleanor.
She had got pretty well ahead of me, and was out of sight already. Her
way home was by a long roundabout walk through our place, and then by a
short one along the public road. When I turned into the winding, shady
path which led through the thick barrier of trees hiding the Beecher
wall, she was loitering slowly along before me; and though she quickened
her pace when she heard me behind her, as a hint that I need not follow,
I soon caught up with her, and then I was sorry I had tried to, for I
saw that she was crying most undisguisedly and unbecomingly.
"Miss Beecher--Eleanor," I stammered out, "you mustn't mind it--she
didn't mean it--it was too bad--I was a little provoked myself--but
don't feel so about it."
"Oh, it's not that," said Eleanor, stopping short, and steadying her
trembling voice, so that it seemed as if she were practised in stifling
her emotions. The very tears stopped rolling down her cheeks.
"It's--it's everything. You don't know what it is," she went on more
rapidly; "you never can know--how should you--but if you were I, to see
another girl ahead of you in everything--to have nothing, not one single
thing, that you could feel any satisfaction in--and no matter how hard
you tried, to have her do everything better without taking any trouble,
and to know that if you worked night and day for people, you could not
please them as well as she can without a moment's care or thought, just
by being what she is--you would not like it. And the worst of it all is
that I know I am mean and selfish and hateful to feel so about it, for
it's not one bit Katie's fault."
"Oh, come!" I said; "don't look at it so seriously. You exaggerate
matters."
"I should not mind it," said Eleanor, gravely, "if I did not feel so
badly about it. Now, I know that's nonsense. I mean that if I could only
keep from having wrong feelings about it myself, it would not matter
much if she were ever so superior in every way."
"Are you not a little bit morbid? If you were really as selfish as you
think, you would not be so much concerned about it. It seems to me that
we all have our own peculiar place in this world, and that if we fill it
properly, we must have our own peculiar advantages; no one else can do
just what we can, any more than we could do what they could; we must
just try to do well what we have to do."
"It is very well for you to talk in that way," said Eleanor, simply.
"I?"--a little bitterly. "I am a very idle fellow, who has made but
little effort to better himself or others. But we won't talk of efforts,
for I am sure your conscience must acquit you there. I suppose you were
thinking more of natural gifts--of pleasing, which is after all only
another way of helping. One pleases one, and one another, and it is as
well, perhaps, to be loved by a few as liked by a great many. Don't
doubt, my dear Miss Beecher, that any man who truly loves you will find
you more charming even than Katie Day."
What there was in this harmless and well-meant speech to excite
Eleanor's anger I could not imagine; but girls are queer creatures. She
grew, if possible, redder than before, and her eyes fairly flashed. "No
one--" she began, and stopped, unable to speak a word. I went on, as
much for a sort of curious satisfaction I had in hearing my own words,
as for any consolation they might be to her. "Beautiful as she is, she
only pleases my eye; she does not touch my heart. I am not one particle
in love with her, and sometimes I scarcely even like her."
"Stop!" cried Eleanor; "you must not say such things--I did very wrong
to speak to you as I did. You mean to be kind, but you don't know how
every word you say humiliates me. Surely, you can't think me so mean as
to let it please me, and yet, perhaps, you know me better than I do
myself. There is a wretched little bit of a feeling that I would not own
if I could help it, that--that--" She was trembling like a leaf now, and
so pale that I thought she was going to faint away. I did not know
whether to feel more sorry for her or angry with myself for having made
things worse instead of better by my awkwardness. There was only one way
to get out of the scrape. I threw my arm around her shaking form, took
her cold hand in mine, and said with what was genuine feeling at the
time, "Dearest Eleanor!" Of course there was no going back after that.
Eleanor, equally of course, made her escape at once from my arm, but I
still held her hand as I went on. "Do--do believe me. I love you and no
one else." She seemed too much astonished to say anything. "Could you
not love me a little?"
She looked at me still surprised and incredulous. "You can't mean
it--you don't know what you are saying."
I remember feeling well satisfied with myself, for doing the thing so
exactly according to the models in all dramas of polite society; but
Eleanor, it must be owned, was terribly astray in her part. I went on
with increasing energy. "Plainly, Eleanor, will you be my wife? Will
you let me show what it is to be loved?"
Poor Eleanor twisted her damp little handkerchief round and round in her
restless fingers without speaking for a moment, and then said in a
frightened whisper, "I--I don't know."
I tried to take her hand again, but she drew it away, and said shyly,
"Indeed I don't know. I never dreamed of any one's loving me, much less
you. I don't know how I ought to feel."
"Have you never thought how you would feel if you loved anyone?" I
asked, her childish simplicity making me smile, and I felt as if I were
talking to a little girl; but, to my surprise, she blushed deeply, and
then answered firmly, as if bound to be truthful, "Yes! I have felt--all
girls have their dreams"; here a something in her tone made her seem to
have grown a woman in a moment; "I thought I should never find any real
person to make my romance about, and so for a long time I have loved Sir
Philip Sidney."
"What?"
"Because he would have been too much of a gentleman to mind how plain
and insignificant I was; it isn't likely he would have loved me--but I
should not have minded his knowing that I loved him."
"And do you think that there are no gentlemen now?"
As I looked at her, the surprise and interest roused by her words making
me forget for a moment the position in which we stood, I saw a sudden
eager look rise in her eyes, then fade away as quickly as it came; but
it showed that if no one could call Eleanor beautiful, it might be
possible to forget that she was plain. She walked along slowly under the
broad fir boughs, and I by her side, both silent. She was frightened at
having said so much. But as we drew near the gate which opened to the
public road, I said, "Will you not give me my answer, Eleanor?"
"I cannot," she murmured, "it is so sudden. Can you not give me a little
time to think about it?"
"Till this evening?"
"No--no. I have no time before then. Come to-morrow morning--after
church begins, and I will be at home--that is," she added
apologetically, "if it is just as convenient to you."
Poor child! she did not know what it was to use her power, in caprice or
earnest, over a lover. Every word she said was like a fresh appeal to
me. I told her it should be as she wished, and but little else passed
till we reached her father's door, which closed between us, to our
common relief.
Instead of appearing at the Days' tea-table, which indeed I forgot, I
walked straight to the darkest and remotest nook in the fir-wood, flung
myself flat on the ground, and tried to face my utterly amazing
position, and to realise what I had been about. It was evident that I
had irrevocably pledged myself to marry Eleanor Beecher, but still I
could hardly believe it. It seemed too absurd that I, who had been proof
against the direct attacks of so many pretty girls, and the more
delicate allurements of the prettiest one I knew, should have been such
a fool as to blurt out a proposal because a plain one had shed a few
tears, which, to do her justice, were shed utterly without the design of
producing any effect on me.
In this there lay a ray of hope. Eleanor, I had fully recognised, was
transparently sincere; if she did not love me, I was sure she would tell
me so frankly; and, after all, should I not be a conceited fool to think
that every girl I saw must fall in love with me? If she refused me, as
she very likely would, I should be very glad to have given her the
chance; it would give her a little self-esteem, of which she seemed more
destitute than a girl ought to be, and it would not diminish mine. I
felt more interest in her than I could have thought possible two hours
ago, but I did not love her, and did not want to marry her. I did not
feel that we were at all suited to each other, and I hoped that she
would have the good sense to see it too; and yet, would she--would she?
Next day at a quarter past eleven I ascended the Beecher doorsteps in
all the elegance of array that befitted the occasion, and, I hope, no
unbecoming bearing. I had had a sleepless night of it, but had reasoned
the matter out with myself, and decided that if I had done a foolish
thing, I must take the consequences like a man, and see that they ended
with me. Eleanor herself opened the door and showed me into the stiff
little drawing-room, which had to be stiff or it would have been
hopelessly shabby at once. The family were at church, and it was the
only time in the week that she could have had any chance to see me
alone. She had made, it was plain, a great effort to look well, and was
looking very well for her. She had put on a fresh, though old, white
frock, had stuck a white rose in her belt, and done up her hair in a way
I had never seen it in before. She looked very nervous and frightened,
but not unbecomingly so, I allowed, though with rather a sinking of the
heart at the way these straws drifted. We got through the few polite
nothings that people exchange on all occasions, from christenings to
funerals, and then I said:
"Dear Eleanor, I hope you have thought over what I said to you
yesterday, and that you know how you really feel, and can--that you can
love me enough to let you make me--to let me try to make you--I mean--"
I was blundering terribly now, and getting very red. Yesterday's fluency
had quite deserted me. But Eleanor was thinking too much of what she had
to say herself to heed it.
"Oh!" she began, "I am afraid--I know I am not worthy of you. It was all
so sudden and so unexpected yesterday. But I know now that I do not love
you as much as I ought--as you deserve to be loved by the woman you
love. I ought to say that I will not marry you--but--" she looked up
beseechingly--"I can't--I can't."
She paused, then went on in a trembling voice, "You don't know how hard
a time my father and mother have had. There has hardly a single pleasant
thing ever happened to them. Ever since I was a little girl I have
longed and longed to do something for them--something that would really
make them happy--and I never could. I never dreamed I should have such a
chance as this! and then all the others! I have thought so what I should
like to give them, and I never had the smallest thing; and then
myself--I don't want to make myself out more unselfish than I am--but
you don't know how little pleasure I have had in my life. I never
thought of such a chance as this--all the good things in life offered
me at once--and I cannot--cannot let them go by."
She stopped, breathless, only for a moment, but it was a bitter one for
me. I had one of those agonising sudden glimpses such as come but
seldom, of the irony of fate, when the whole tragedy of our lives lies
bare and exposed before us in all its ugliness. So then even she, for
whom I was giving up so much, could not love me, and I was going to be
married for my money after all! Then with another electric shock of
instant quick perception, it came across me that I was getting perhaps a
better, certainly a rarer, thing than love. Many women had flattered my
vanity with hints of that; but here was the only one I had ever met whom
I was sure was telling me the absolute, unflattering truth. The sting of
wounded pride grew milder as Eleanor, unconsciously swaying toward me in
her earnestness, went on:
"Will you--can you love me, and take my friendship, my gratitude and
admiration--more than I can tell you--and wait for me to love you as
well as you ought to be loved? I know I shall--how can I help it?"
* * * * *
As things in our family were always done with the strictest attention to
etiquette, I informed my mother, as was due to her, during our usual
stroll on the terrace, after our early Sunday dinner, that I was paying
my addresses to Eleanor Beecher, and intended to apply for her father's
consent that afternoon. It was a great and not a pleasant surprise for
her. My mother was celebrated for never saying anything she would be
sorry for afterwards--an admirable trait, but one which frequently
interfered with her conversational powers; and unfortunately, on this
occasion, to say nothing was almost as bad as anything she could have
said. It was rather hard for both of us, but after it was over, she
could go to her room and have a good cry by herself, while I was obliged
to set off for an interview with my intended father-in-law, whom I found
in his little garden, in shirt-sleeves and old slippers, cutting the
ripest bunches from his grape-vines. It was the blessed hour sacred to
dawdle--the only one the poor old fellow had from one week's end to the
other. He was evidently not accustomed to have it broken in upon by
young men visitors in faultless calling trim, and starting, dropped his
shears, which I picked up and handed to him; dropped them again,
shuffled about in his old slippers, and muttered something of an
apology. Evidently I must plunge at once into the subject, but I was
getting practised in this, and began boldly: "Mr. Beecher, may I have
your consent to pay my addresses to your daughter Eleanor?"
"Eleanor at home? Oh, yes, she's in. Perhaps you'll kindly excuse me?"
and he looked helplessly toward the house door.
"I don't think you quite understand me. I spoke to Eleanor last night
about my wishes--hopes--my love for her, and she promised to give me an
answer this morning. She has consented to become my wife--of course,
with your approval."
"Lord bless my soul!" exclaimed Mr. Beecher, throwing back his head, and
looking full at me over the top of his spectacles; "who would ever have
thought it? I mean--you seem so young, such a boy."
"I am twenty-six, and Eleanor, I believe, is twenty."
"True, true; yes, she was twenty last June--but--but--why, of course,
she must decide for herself--that is, if you are sure you love her."
I felt myself growing red; but Mr. Beecher seemed to interpret this as a
sign of my ardent devotion, and anger at its being doubted, for he went
on: "Yes, yes! I beg your pardon. I never heard anything about you but
in your favour. Of course, I have nothing to say but that I am very
happy. Of course," more quickly, "it's a great honour; that is, of
course you know my daughter has no fortune to match with yours."
"I am perfectly indifferent to that."
"Of course--of course--well, it must rest with Eleanor. She is a good
girl, and I can trust her choice. Will you not go in and see my--Mrs.
Beecher?" he added with relief, as if struck with a bright idea; and I
left him slashing off green bunches and doing awful havoc among his
grape-vines. He did not appear so overwhelmed with delight at the
prospect of an alliance with me as Eleanor had seemed to expect. Mrs.
Beecher, on her part, took the tidings in rather a melancholy way; she
wept, and said Eleanor was a dear good child, and she hoped we would
make each other happy, but there was more despondency than joy in her
manner; either she was accustomed to look at every new event in that
light, or, as I suspected, this piece of good fortune was rather too
overwhelming. I thought many times in the next two months of the man who
received the gift of an elephant. I played the part of elephant in the
Beecher _menage_, and was sometimes terribly oppressed by my own
magnificence. Perhaps an engagement may be a pleasant period of one's
life under some circumstances; decidedly mine was not. I insisted on its
being as short as possible, thinking that the sooner it was over the
better for all parties. Mr. and Mrs. Beecher might have had some comfort
in getting Eleanor ready to be married to some nice young man with a
rising salary and a cottage at Roxbury; but to get her ready to be
married to me was a task which I was afraid would be the death of both
of them. Poor Eleanor herself was worn to a shadow with it all, and I
remember looking forward with some satisfaction to bringing her up again
after we were married.
My mother, of course, could not interfere with their arrangements, even
to offer help. She asked no questions, found no fault, but was
throughout unapproachably courteous and overpoweringly civil. Once, and
once only, did she speak out her mind to me. The evening after the
wedding-day was fixed, she tapped late at my door, and when I opened it,
she walked in in her white wrapper, candlestick in hand--for the whole
house was long darkened--her long, thick, still bright brown locks
hanging below her waist, and a look of determination on her
features--looking like a Lady Macbeth, who had had the advantages of a
good early education.
"Roger!" she began, and paused.
"Well."
"Roger," as I placed a chair for her, and she sat down as if she were at
the dentist's, "there is one thing I must say to you. I hope you will
not mind. I must be satisfied on one point, and then I will never
trouble you again about it."
"Anything, dearest, that I can please you in."
"Roger, did you ever--did you never care for Katie Day?"
"I always liked her."
"I mean, Roger, did you ever want to marry her? And, oh, Roger! I hope,
I do hope that if you did not, you have never let her have any reason to
think you did."
"Never! I have never given her any reason to think I cared for her more
than as a very good friend."
"I felt sure you would never wilfully deceive any girl," said my mother,
with a sigh of relief; "but I am anxious about you yourself. Did you and
Katie ever have any quarrel--any misunderstanding? I have heard of
people marrying some one else from pique after such things. Do forgive
me, Roger, dear; but I should be so glad to know." My poor mother
paused, more disconcerted than she usually allowed herself to be, and
her beautiful eyes brimming over with tears.