One afternoon early in September, Miss Billy Breeze, her cheeks pink,
her gentle eyes excited, entered the principal store of Asheville, the
establishment of Messrs. Pinkham & Bebb. "Kid gloves, if you please, Mr.
Bebb. Delicate shades. No. 6." The box of gloves having been produced,
Miss Billy selected quickly twelve pairs. "I will take these. And please
add twelve pairs of white."
Mr. Bebb was astounded, the order seemed to him reckless. Everybody in
Asheville knew that Miss Billy's income was six hundred dollars a year.
He made up the parcel slowly, in order to give her time to change her
mind. But Miss Billy paid for the twenty-four pairs without a quiver,
and, with the same excited look, took the package and went out. She
walked down the main street to its last houses; she came back on the
other side. Turning to the right, she traversed all the cross-roads in
that direction. When this was done, she re-entered the main street
again, and passed through its entire length a second time. It was
Saturday, the day when the country people came to town. Ten mountaineers
in a row were sitting on their heels in front of the post-office.
Mountain women on horseback, wearing deep sun-bonnets, rode up and down
the street, bartering. Wagons passed along, loaded with peaches heaped
together as though they were potatoes. Miss Billy was now traversing all
the cross-roads to the left. When this was accomplished she came back to
the main street, and began over again. It took about an hour to make the
entire circuit. At half-past five, on her fourth round, still walking
quickly and always with an air of being bound to some especial point,
she met Achilles Larue. "Oh--really--is this _you_, Mr. Larue? Such a
_surprise_ to see you! Lovely day, isn't it? I've been buying gloves."
She opened the package and turned over the gloves hastily. "Light
shades, you see. I--I thought I'd better."
Larue, slightly lifting his hat, was about to pass on.
But Miss Billy detained him. "Of course you are interested in the news,
Mr. Larue? Weren't you surprised? I was. I am afraid she is a little too
young for him. I think it is rather better when they are of _about_ the
same age--don't you?" She had no idea that she had been walking, and at
twice her usual speed, for more than four hours. But her slender body
knew; it trembled from fatigue.
Larue made another move, as if about to continue his course.
"But do tell me--weren't you surprised?" Billy repeated, hastily. (For,
oh! he _must_ not go so soon.)
"I don't think I am ever surprised, Miss Breeze."
Here Anthony Etheridge came by, and stopped. He looked sternly at Miss
Billy. "But what do you _think_ of it, Mr. Larue?" Billy was inquiring.
"I have not thought of it," Larue responded, coldly.
"Are you selling gloves?" inquired Etheridge. For the paper having
fallen to the ground, the two dozen pairs were visible, lying in
confusion over Billy's arm.
"To Mr. Larue?" (Giggle.) "Oh, I couldn't." (Giggle.) "They're only No.
6." For poor Billy had one humble little pride--her pretty hand.
There was a sound of horses' feet, and Ruth Franklin rode round the
corner, on Kentucky Belle, giving them a gay nod as she passed. Horace
Chase and Malachi Hill were with her, both mounted on beautiful
horses--one black, one chestnut; and at some distance behind followed
Chase's groom. "How _happy_ she looks!" murmured Miss Billy, with an
involuntary sigh.
"Yes. She has obtained what she likes," commented Larue. "Hers is a
frivolous nature; she requires gayety, change, luxury, and now she will
have them. Her family are very wise to consent. For they have, I
suspect, but little money. Her good looks will soon disappear; at thirty
she will be plain." And this time, decidedly, he walked away.
Miss Billy, her eyes dimmed by unshed tears, looked after him. "Such
a--such a _worldly_ view of marriage!" she managed to articulate.
"What can you expect from a fish?" answered Etheridge, secretly glad of
his opportunity. "Achilles Larue is as cold-blooded as a mackerel, and
always was. I don't say he will never marry again; but if he does, the
woman he selects will have to go down on her knees and stay there" (Miss
Billy's eyes looked hopeful); "and bring him, also, a good big sum of
money in her hand." Here, noticing that one of the pairs of gloves had
slipped down so far that it was held by the tips of its fingers only, he
turned away with a sudden "Good-afternoon." For he had had rheumatism
all night in the small of his back; he could walk, but he could not
stoop.
Miss Billy went home much depressed. The night before, after her usual
devotions and an hour's perusal of _The Blue Ridge in the Glacial
Period_ (she read the volume through regularly once a month), she had
attempted a thought-transferrence. She had, indeed, made many such
experiments since Maud Muriel's explanation of the process. But last
night she had for the first time succeeded in keeping her mind strictly
to the subject; for nearly ten minutes, with her face screwed up by the
intensity of the effort, she had willed continuously, "Like me,
Achilles, like me!" (She was too modest even to _think_ "love" instead
of "like.") "You must! You _shall_!" And now, when at last she had
succeeded in meeting him, this was the result! She put away the gloves
mechanically: she had bought them not from any need, but simply because
she had felt the wish to go out and _do_ something when the exciting
news of Ruth Franklin's engagement had reached her at noon. Stirred as
she already was by her own private experiment of the previous night, the
thought in her heart was: "Well, it isn't extravagance, for light gloves
are always useful. And then in case of--of anything happening to _me_,
they'd be all ready."
When Anthony Etheridge left her, he went to L'Hommedieu, where he found
Dolly in the parlor with Petie Trone, Esq. Trone's basket had been
established by Ruth under the pedestal which now held his own likeness.
For Chase had kept his word; Maud Muriel's clever work had been
reproduced in bronze. The squirrel also was present; he was climbing up
the window-curtain. "So _you_ have to see to the pets, do you?" remarked
the visitor as he seated himself. He had known of the engagement for
several days; he had already made what he called "the proper speeches"
to Mrs. Franklin and Ruth, and to Chase himself. "I have just seen
her--on Kentucky Belle," he went on. "Well, he will give her everything,
that's one certainty. On the whole, she's a lucky girl."
"It is Mr. Chase who is lucky," answered Dolly, stiffly. She was
finishing off the toe of a stocking, and did not look up. "I consider
Mr. Chase a miraculously fortunate man."
"Miraculously? How do you mean? Because she is young? The good-fortune,
as regards that, is for the wife, not the husband; for she will always
be so much his junior that he will have to consider her--he will never
dare to neglect her. Well, Dolly, all Asheville has heard the news this
morning; the town is ringing with it. And it is such an amiable
community that it has immediately given its benediction in the most
optimistic way. Of course, though, there are some who maintain that she
is marrying him for his money."
Dolly knitted more rapidly.
"And so she is," Etheridge added. "Though not in their sense, for she
has never reflected, never thought about it, never made a plan. All the
same, it is his wealth, you know, which has fascinated her--his wealth
and his liberality. She has never seen anything like it. No one she
knows has ever done such things--flowers, jewels, journeys, her brother
lifted out of his troubles as if by magic, a future sparkling and
splendid opening before her; no wonder she is dazzled. In addition, she
herself has an ingrained love of ease--"
Dolly dropped her stocking. "Do you think I intend to sit here and
listen to you?" she demanded, with flashing eyes.
"Wait, wait," answered Etheridge, putting out his hand as if to explain;
"you don't see what I am driving at, Dolly. As Mrs. Chase, your sister
will have everything she wishes for; all her tastes and fancies
gratified to the full; and that is no small affair! Chase will be fond
of her; in addition, he will be excessively indulgent to her in every
way. With her nature and disposition, her training, too (for you have
spoiled her, all of you), it is really an ideal marriage for the girl,
and that is what I am trying to tell you. You might search the world
over, and you could not find a better one."
"I don't like it; I never shall like it," answered Dolly, implacably.
"And mother in her heart agrees with me, though she has, somehow, a
higher idea of the man than I have. As for Ruth--Ruth is simply swept
away--"
"Exactly; swept into her proper sphere," interrupted Etheridge. "Don't
interfere with the process."
"She doesn't understand--" Dolly began.
"She understands immensely well what she likes! Give Ruth indulgence,
amusement, pleasure, and she will be kind-hearted, amiable, generous; in
short, good and happy. On the other hand, there might be another story.
Come, I am going to be brutal; I don't know how much money your mother
has; but I suspect very little, with the possibility, perhaps, of less.
And I can't imagine, Dolly, any one more unhappy than your sister would
be, ten years hence, say, if shut up here in Asheville, poor, her good
looks gone, to face a life of dull sameness forever. I think it would
kill her! She is not at all the girl to accept monotony with resignation
or heroism; to settle down to mending and reading, book-clubs and
whist-clubs, puddings and embroidery, gossip and good works."
Here the house-door opened; Mrs. Franklin and Genevieve came in
together, and entered the parlor. When Dolly heard Genevieve's step, she
rose. Obliged to walk slowly, she could not slip out; but she made a
progress which was almost stately, as, without speaking to her
sister-in-law, or looking at her, she left the room.
Genevieve, however, required no notice from Dolly. Her face was radiant
with satisfaction. She shook hands with Etheridge warmly. "I have not
seen you since it happened, commodore. I know you are with us in our
pleasure? I know you congratulate us?"
Etheridge had always thought the younger Mrs. Franklin a beautiful
woman; she reminded him of the Madonna del Granduca at Florence. Now she
held his hand so long, and looked at him with such cordial friendliness,
that he came out with the gallant exclamation, "Chase is the one I
congratulate, by Jove!--on getting such a sister-in-law!"
"Think of all Ruth will now be able to do--all the good! I seem to see
even my hospital," added Genevieve, gayly.
"Hum--yes," added Etheridge. Walking away a step or two, he put his
hands in the pockets of his trousers and looked towards his legs
reflectively for a moment, as though surveying the pattern of the
garments--a convenient gesture to which a (slender) man can resort when
he wishes to cover a silence.
"For dear mamma, too, it is so delightful," continued Genevieve. She had
seated herself, and she now drew her mother-in-law down beside her.
"Ruth will never permit mamma to have another care."
"Yes--I think I'll just run up and take off my bonnet," said Mrs.
Franklin, disengaging herself. And she left the room.
Genevieve was not disturbed by this second departure; she was never
disturbed by any of the actions or the speeches of her husband's family.
She did her own duty regarding them regularly and steadily, month after
month; it was part of her rule of conduct. But what they did or said to
her in return was less important. "Ruth is a fortunate girl," she went
on, as she drew off her gloves with careful touches. "And she
appreciates it, commodore--I am glad to tell you that; I have been
talking to her. She is very happy. Horace is such an able and splendidly
successful man--a man whom every one must respect and admire most
warmly."
"Yes, a clever speculator indeed!" commented Etheridge, ungratefully,
throwing over his drive with the bays.
"Speculator? Oh no; it is all genuine business; I can assure you of
that," answered Genevieve, seriously. "And now perhaps you can help us a
little. Horace is anxious to have the marriage take place this fall. And
I am on his side. For why, indeed, should they wait? The usual delays
are prudential, or for the purpose of making preparations. But in this
case there are no such conditions; he already has a house in New York,
for he has always preferred home life. Ruth is willing to have it so.
But mamma decidedly, almost obstinately, opposes it."
"Dolly too, I suppose?"
"Oh, I never count Dolly; her temper is so uncertain. But it is very
natural that it should be so, and one always excuses her, poor dear!
Couldn't _you_ say a word or two to mamma, commodore? You have known her
so long; I am sure you have influence. But my chief dependence, of
course, is upon Jay. Mamma always yields to Jay."
"Franklin, then, is pleased with the engagement?" said Etheridge,
walking about the room, taking up books, looking at them vaguely, and
laying them down again.
"How could he _not_ be! As it happens, however, we have not yet heard
from him, for when our letters reached Charleston he had just started
for New York on one of their steamers; some business errand. But he was
to return by train, and I am expecting to hear from him to-morrow."
There was a sound outside. "Here they come," said Etheridge, looking
out.
Genevieve rose quickly to join him at the window. Chase and Malachi Hill
were dismounting. Then Chase lifted Ruth from Kentucky Belle. "Those are
two new horses, you know," explained Genevieve, in a low tone; "Horrie
sent for them. And he lets Mr. Hill ride one of them every day."
"Yes; _horses_ enough!" grumbled Etheridge, discontentedly.
Ruth, holding up the skirt of her habit, was coming towards the house,
talking to her two escorts. When she entered the parlor, Genevieve went
forward and put her arm round her. "I know you have enjoyed your ride,
dear?"
"Of course I have. How do you do, commodore? I have just been planning
another excursion with Horace." (The name came out happily and
securely.) "To Caesar's Head this time; you to drive the four-in-hand,
and I to ride Kentucky Belle."
"Yes, that's right; arrange it with him," said Chase. "For I must go; I
have letters to write which can be postponed no longer. You have had
enough of me for to-day, I guess? May I come in to-morrow
afternoon--early?"
"Come to lunch," said Ruth, giving him her hand. He held it out for a
moment, looking at her with kindly eyes. "You don't know how much I
enjoyed my ride," said the girl, heartily. "It is such a joy to be on
Kentucky Belle; she is so beautiful, and she moves so lightly! It was
the nicest ride I have ever had in my life!"
This seemed to please Chase. He took leave of the others and went away.
"I will wait here, if you will allow it, Miss Ruth, until he is out of
sight," said Malachi Hill. "For I may as well confess to you--I have
already told Miss Dolly--that I seem fairly to lose my head when I find
myself with Mr. Chase alone! I am so haunted by the idea of all he could
do for the Church in these mountains that in spite of the generous gifts
he has already made, I keep hankering after more--like a regular
_gorilla_ of covetousness!"
"I shall have to see that he is never left alone with you," said Ruth,
laughing.
"There! he has turned the corner. Now _I'll_ go the other way,"
continued the missionary, his seriousness unbroken.
"Mr. Hill is such a _good_ man," remarked Genevieve as she closed the
window.
"Miss Billy thinks him full of the darkest evil," commented Ruth. "Why
do you shut the window?"
"You were in a draught. After your ride you must be warm."
"I'm a precious object, am I?"
"Yes, dear, you certainly are," replied Genevieve, with all the
seriousness of Malachi Hill.
"If that simpleton of a Billy could see the parson eat apples, she would
change her opinion about him," remarked Etheridge. "A man who can devour
with relish four, five, and even six, cold raw apples (and the Asheville
apples are sixteen inches round) late in the evening, cores, seeds, and
all, _must_ be virtuous--as virtuous as mutton!" He was looking at Ruth
as he spoke. The girl was leaning back in an easy-chair; Petie Trone,
Esq., had lost no time, he was already established in her lap, and the
squirrel had flown to her shoulder. She had taken off her gauntlets, and
as she lifted her hands to remove her hat, he saw a flash. "Trinkets?"
he said.
"Oh--you haven't seen it?" She drew off a ring and tossed it across to
him.
"Take care!" said Genevieve.
But Etheridge had already caught it. It was a solitaire diamond ring,
the stone of splendid beauty, large, pure, brilliant.
"It came yesterday," Genevieve explained. Then she folded her
hands--this with Genevieve was always a deliberate motion. "There will
be diamonds--yes. But there will be other things also; surely our dear
Ruth will remember the duties of wealth as well as its pleasures."
Ruth paid no heed to this; put on her ring again, using the philopena
circlet as a guard; then she said, "Petie Trone, Esq., there will be
just time before dinner for your Saturday scrubbing."
Half an hour later when she returned, the little dog trotting behind
her, his small body pinned up in a hot towel, Genevieve cried in alarm,
"Where are your rings?"
"Oh," said Ruth, looking at her hands, "I didn't miss them; they must
have come off in the tub. Since then I have been in my room, dressing."
"And Rinda may have thrown away the water!" exclaimed her sister-in-law,
rushing up the stairs in breathless haste.
But Rinda was never in a hurry to perform any of her duties, and the
wooden tub devoted to Mr. Trone still stood in its place. Genevieve,
baring her white arms, plunged both her hands into the water, her heart
beating with anxiety. But the rings, very soapy, were there.
That evening, at nine o'clock, Mrs. Franklin was galloping through the
latest tale of Anthony Trollope. For she always read a novel with racing
speed to get at the story, skipping every description; then, if she had
been interested, she went back and reperused it in more leisurely
fashion. It was unusual to have a book fresh from the press; the
well-fingered volumes which Miss Billy borrowed for her so industriously
were generally two or three years old. Horace Chase, learning from Ruth
the mother's liking for novels, had sent a note to New York, ordering in
his large way "all the latest articles in fiction;" a package to be sent
to L'Hommedieu once a month. The first parcel had just arrived, and Mrs.
Franklin, opening it, much surprised, had surveyed the gift with mixed
feelings. She was alone; Dolly was upstairs. Ruth, seized with a sudden
fancy for a glass of cream, had gone, with Rinda as protector, to a
house at some distance, where cream was sold; for with Ruth fancies were
so vivid that it always seemed to her absolutely necessary to follow
them instantly. The mother turned over the volumes. "It doesn't make me
like him a bit better!" she said to herself. But her easy-chair was
comfortable; the reading-lamp was burning brightly at her elbow. For
fourteen years novels had been her opiates; she put on her glasses, took
up the Trollope, and began. She had not been reading long, when her
attention suddenly jumped back to the present, owing to a sound outside.
For the window was open, somebody was coming up the path from the gate,
and she recognized--yes, she recognized the step. Letting the book drop,
she ran to the house-door. "Jared! Why--how did you get here? The stage
came in long ago."
"I drove over from Old Fort," answered her son as he entered.
"And you did not find Genevieve? She has gone with Mr. Hill to--"
"I haven't been to the Cottage yet; I came directly here. Where is
Ruth?"
"Out. But she will be in soon. Dolly isn't well to-night; she has gone
to bed."
"The coast is clear, then, and we can talk," said Jared. "So much the
better." They were now in the parlor; before seating himself he closed
the door. "I have come up, mother, about this affair of Ruth's. As soon
as I got back to Charleston and read your letters, I started at once.
You have been careless, I fear; but at least I hope that nothing has
been said, that no one knows?"
"Everybody knows, Jared. At least, everybody in Asheville."
"Who has told? Chase?" asked Jared, angrily.
"Oh no; he left that to us. I have said nothing, and Dolly has said
nothing. But--but--"
"But what?"
"Genevieve has announced it everywhere," answered Mrs. Franklin, her
inward feeling against her daughter-in-law for once getting the better
of her.
"I will speak to Genevieve. But she is not the one most in fault,
mother; she could not have announced it unless _you_ had given your
consent. And how came you to do that?"
"I don't think I have consented. I have been waiting for you."
"Very well, then; we can act together. Now that _I_ have come, Horace
Chase will find that there's some one on hand to look after you; he will
no longer be able to do as he pleases!"
"Our difficulty is, Jared, that it is not so much a question of his
doing as he pleases as it is of Ruth's doing as _she_ pleases; she
thinks it is all enchanting; and she is headstrong, you know."
"Yes. That is the very reason why I think you have been careless,
mother. You were here and I was not; you, therefore, were the one to
act. You should have taken Ruth out of town at once; you should have
taken her north, if necessary, and kept her there; you should have done
this at any sacrifice."
"It is not so easy--" began his mother. Then she stopped. For she was
living on credit; she owed money everywhere, and there were still ten
days to elapse before any remittances could reach her. But she would
have borne anything, and resorted to everything, rather than let Jared
know this. "It took me so completely by surprise," she said, beginning
again. "I am sure that you yourself had no suspicion of any such
possibility when we took that French Broad drive?"
"No, I had not. And it enrages me to think how blind I was! He was
laying his plans even then; the whole trip, and all those costly things
he did--that was simply part of it." And leaving his chair, the brother
walked up and down the room, his face darkly flushed with anger.
"Ruth--a child! And he--thirty years older!"
"Not that, dear. He is thirty-eight; and she was nineteen last week."
"He looks much more than thirty-eight. But that isn't the point. You
don't seem to see, mother, what makes it so insufferable; he has bribed
her about _me_, bribed her with that place in Charleston; that's the
whole story! She is so happy about that, that she forgets all else."
"I don't like the idea of an engagement between them any better than you
do, Jared. But I ought to say two things. One is, that I don't believe
he made any plot as to the Charleston place; I think he likes to help
people--"
"Yes, our family!" interrupted the son, hotly. "No, mother, you don't
understand him in the least. Horace Chase is purely a business man, a
long-headed, driving, money-making fellow; all his ambition (and he has
plenty of it) is along that one line. It's the only line, in fact, which
he thinks important. But the idea of his being a philanthropist would
make any one who has ever had business dealings with him laugh for a
week!"
"Well, have that as you like. But even if he first gave you the place on
Ruth's account (for he has fallen very much in love with her, there is
no doubt of that), I don't see that he has any need to be a benefactor
in keeping you there. They are no doubt delighted to have you; he says
so himself, in fact. A navy officer, a gentleman--they may well be!"
added Mrs. Franklin, looking for the moment very much like her father,
old Major Seymour, with his aristocratic notions.
"Why, mother, don't you know that people with that brutal amount of
money--Chaise and the Willoughbys, for instance--don't you know that
they look upon the salaries of army and navy officers simply as genteel
poverty?" said Jared, forgetting for the moment his anger in amusement
over her old-fashioned mistake.
But he could not have made Mrs. Franklin believe this in ten years of
repetition, much less in ten minutes. "And the other thing I had to
say," she went on, "is that I don't think Ruth is marrying him on _your_
account solely."
"Oh yes, she is, though she may not be conscious of it. But when I have
given up the Charleston place, which I shall do to-morrow, then she will
be free again. The moment she sees that she can do _me_ no good, all
will look different to her. I'd rather do anything--sell the Cottage,
and live on a crust all the rest of my days--than have a sister of mine
help me along in that way!"
His mother watched him as he paced to and fro. He looked ill; there were
hollows at his temples and dark circles under his eyes; his tall figure
had begun to stoop. He was the dearest of all her children; his
incurable, unspoken regrets, his broken life, were like a dagger in her
heart at all times. He would give up his place, and then he would have
nothing; and she, his mother, could not help him with a penny. He would
give up his place and sell the Cottage, and then--Genevieve! It all came
back to that; it would always come back to that--Genevieve! She
swallowed hard to keep down the sob in her throat. "He is very much in
love with her," she repeated, vaguely, in order to say something.
"Who cares if he is! I almost begin to think you like it, after all?"
"No, dear, no; neither Dolly nor I like it in the least. But Ruth is not
easy to manage. And Genevieve was sure that you--"
"This is not Genevieve's affair. It is mine!" thundered Jared.
His mother jumped up, ran to him, and gave him a kiss. For the moment
she forgot his illness, his uncertain future, her own debts, all her
troubles, in the joy of hearing him at last assert his will against
that of his wife. But it was only for a moment; she knew--knew far
better than he did--that the even-tempered feminine pertinacity would
always in the end have its way. Jared, impulsive, generous,
affectionate, was no match for Genevieve. In a contest of this sort it
is the nobler nature, always, that yields; the self-satisfied, limited
mind has an obstinacy that never gives way. She leaned her head against
her son's breast, and all the bitterness of his marriage came over her
afresh like a flood.
"Why, mother, what is it?" asked Jared, feeling her tremble. He put his
arm round her, and smoothed her hair tenderly. "Tell me what it is that
troubles you so?"
The gate swung to. Mrs. Franklin lifted her head. "Ruth is coming," she
whispered. "Say what you like to her. But, under all circumstances,
remember to be kind. I will come back presently." She hurried out.
Rinda and Ruth entered. Rinda went to the kitchen, and Ruth, after
taking off her hat, came into the parlor, carrying her glass of cream.
"Jared!" She put down the glass on the table, and threw her arms round
her brother's neck. "Oh, I am _so_ glad you have come!"
"Sit down. Here, by me. I wish to speak to you, Ruth."
"Yes--about my engagement. It's very good of you to come so soon;" and
she put her hand through his arm in her old affectionate way.
"I do not call it an engagement when you have neither your mother's
consent nor mine," answered her brother. "Whatever it is, however, you
must make an end of it."
"An end of it? Why?"
"Because we all dislike the idea. You are too young to comprehend what
you are doing."
"I am nineteen; that is not so very young. I comprehend that I am going
to be happy. And I _love_ to be happy! I have never seen any one half so
kind as Mr. Chase. If there is anything I want to do, he arranges it. He
doesn't wait, and hesitate, and consider; he _does_ it. He thinks of
everything; it is perfectly beautiful! Why, Jared--what he did for you,
wasn't that kind?"
"Exactly. That is what he has bribed you with!"
"Bribed?" repeated Ruth, surprised, as she saw the indignation in his
eyes. Then comprehending what he meant, she laughed, coloring a little
also. "But I am not marrying him on your account; I am marrying him on
my own. I am marrying because I like it, because I want to. You don't
believe it? Why--look at me." She rose and stood before him. "I am the
happiest girl in the world as I stand here! I should think you could see
it for yourself?" And in truth her face was radiant. "If I have ever had
any dreams of what I should like my life to be (and I have had plenty),
they have all come true," she went on, with her hands behind her,
looking at him reflectively. "Think of all I shall have! And of where I
can go! And of what I can do! Why--there's no end of it!"
"That is not the way to talk of marriage."
"How one talks of it is not important. The important point is to be
happy _in_ it, and that I shall be to the full--yes, to the full. His
Grand shall have whatever she likes; and Dolly too. First of all, Dolly
shall have a phaeton, so that she can drive to the woods every day. The
house shall be put in order from top to bottom. And--oh, everything!"
"Is that the way you talk to _him_?"
But the sarcasm fell to the ground. "Precisely. Word for word," answered
Ruth, lightly. And he saw that she spoke the truth.
"He is much too old for you. If there were no other--"
But Ruth interrupted him with a sort of sweet obstinacy. "That is for me
to judge, isn't it?"
"He is not at all the person you fancy he is."
"I don't care what he is generally, what he is to other people; all I
care for is what he is to me. And about that you know nothing; I am the
one to know. He is nicer to me, and he always will be nicer, than
Genevieve has ever been to _you_!" And turning, the girl walked across
the room.
"If I have been unhappy, that is the very reason I don't want you to
be," answered her brother, after a moment's pause.
His tone touched her. She ran back to him, and seated herself on his
knee, with her cheek against his. "I didn't mean it, dear; forgive me,"
she whispered, softly. "But please don't be cross. You are angry because
you believe I am marrying to help _you_. But you are mistaken; I am
marrying for myself. You might be back in the navy, and mother and Dolly
might have more money, and I should still marry him. It would be because
I want to, because I like him. If you had anything to say against him
personally, it would be different, but you haven't. He is waiting to
tell you about himself, to introduce you to his family (he has only
sisters), and to his partners, the Willoughbys. Your only objections
appear to be that I am marrying him on your account, and I have told you
that I am not; and that he is older than I am, and _that_ I like; and
that he has money, while we are poor. But he gets something in getting
me," she added, in a lighter tone, as she raised her head and looked at
him gayly. "Wait till you see how pretty I shall be in fine clothes."
The door opened, and Mrs. Franklin came in.
Ruth rose. "Here is mother. Now I must say the whole. Listen, mother;
and you too, Jared. I intend to marry Horace Chase. If not with your
consent, then without it. If you will not let me be married at home,
then I shall walk out of the house, go to Horace, and the first
clergyman or minister he can find shall marry us. There! I have said it.
But _why_ should you treat me so? Don't make me so dreadfully unhappy."
She had spoken wilfully, determinedly. But now she was pleading--though
it was pleading to have her own way. Into her beautiful eyes came two
big tears as she gazed at them. Neither Mrs. Franklin nor Jared could
withstand those drops.