"Will You Give Me Your Daughter?"
"Papa," said Virgie, putting a flushed, beautiful face inside the room
where her father was sitting, and all unconscious of the very serious
considerations that were agitating his mind: "I have invited Mr. Heath to
take tea with us. A basket of the loveliest peaches came to us this
afternoon from some mysterious source, which, however, I am inclined to
think, he could tell us something about if he chose. So, if you entertain
him for a little while, I will go and prepare a dish of them for him to
share with us."
"Yes, yes. Come in, Mr. Heath. I was waiting to see you. Run away, Virgie,
and attend to your peaches, and I will see that our friend is properly
entertained until tea is ready," the invalid responded, with unusual
animation.
Virgie tripped lightly up to her chamber, where she removed her hat, and
stopped a moment before her glass to rearrange the locks that lay lightly
upon her forehead, and blushed a conscious rosy red as she looked into her
eyes and read the strangely happy expression that lay in their clear
depths. Then she tied a long white apron around her slim waist, and went
down to pare her peaches, never suspecting the vital questions that were
being discussed in the little parlor so near her.
"Mr. Heath," Mr. Abbot began, as the young man had seated himself, "I was
thinking of you just as you entered, and had resolved to ask you a couple
of very plain, and to me, important questions."
"Which, no doubt, I shall be very glad to answer if I can do so," his
companion responded, smiling, yet flushing lightly as he began to suspect
what the nature of the invalid's inquiries might be.
"Thank you," responded Mr. Abbot, courteously, and then added, gravely: "I
do not need to remind you, I am sure, that as a father I am often anxious
regarding my daughter's future, and for this reason I feel compelled to
ask you that which, under other circumstances I should not feel at liberty
to ask. Will you tell me who you are?"
"My name, Mr. Abbot, is—William Heath," the young man began, looking
thoughtful; then seemed to hesitate to go on.
"Is that all that you have to tell me about yourself?" the invalid
inquired, with some dignity, and attentively studying the face opposite
him. "I knew that before," he went on, a suspicion of sarcasm in his tone,
"but I have long felt that there was something of mystery connected with
the circumstances of your being here. It is rather extraordinary that a
young man of your talent and culture should desire to locate in a rough
place like this. It has been evident to me for some time that your mining
operations were of secondary importance to you, for you cannot reap much
if any profit. It must take nearly all you realize to pay the two men you
hire to work your claim, while you lead, comparatively, a life of leisure.
My second question was regarding this—why are you here?"
William Heath lifted his frank, dark eyes, and looked straight into the
face of his host, and said, in a low tone, but with an earnestness which
betrayed that he felt he had much at stake:
"Mr. Abbot, I will answer your last question first, as frankly as you have
asked it, though, no doubt, you will be greatly surprised, and perhaps
startled, by my reply. I am here simply and solely to try and win Virginia
Abbot for my wife."
Mr. Abbot sat erect, looking astonished indeed at this astounding
statement, and a spot of deep red settled in each hollow cheek.
"What can you mean? You never saw her until three months ago!" he said,
excitedly.
"True, I never saw her until that wild, stormy night when I came to you a
weary, dripping traveler and you so kindly extended to me your
hospitality. But I began to love your daughter that very evening. I do not
need to tell you that she is beautiful, for you know it; but to me she
seemed the fairest woman that I had ever seen; her presence moved me as I
had never been moved before, and I felt as if I could hardly go on to join
my friends and leave her. But I suddenly found a pretext for returning
when you mentioned that you desired to dispose of your claim. I resolved
that I would become the purchaser. I would come here and remain to study
the character of your daughter, and if she proved all that I fancied her,
I would strive to win her for my wife. This, my dear sir, is why I am
here; and now—will you give her to me?"
"Have you said anything to Virgie about this?" Mr. Abbot asked, looking
very grave.
"No, sir; I have not breathed a word of my intentions to her; but I
accepted her invitation to tea this evening with the determination to tell
you this, if I could make the opportunity, and ask your sanction to my
suit before speaking to her."
Mr. Abbot looked gratified.
"That was honorable of you," he said. "It meets my estimate of your
character."
"Thank you, sir," Mr. Heath returned, flushing slightly, then continued:
"I am not given much to rhapsody or extravagances of language, but I know
that I can never be a happy man unless I win Virgie, and if you will give
her to me, I promise most solemnly to devote my life to her happiness."
"Is William Heath your true name?" Mr. Abbot questioned, determined to
know all about him before committing himself.
"Yes, sir. I hope you do not think I have been masquerading under a false
name," returned the young man, a quick flush mantling his cheek.
"Pardon me; but you must remember that I could not account for your being
here, and—and I was a little suspicious, I own, that you were not quite
what you pretended to be," said the invalid, apologetically, and yet
regarding him keenly.
The flush on William Heath's face deepened. He looked very thoughtful for
a moment, then said:
"Mr. Abbot, you have read between the lines better than I thought. I would
have preferred to remain plain William Heath to every one until after I
had won my love; but perhaps I had better be perfectly frank with you. I
am not an American."
"I thought so," returned his companion, quietly.
"Did you?" asked the young man, looking surprised. "I compliment you upon
your penetration then, for I have passed for one of your countrymen almost
everywhere since coming to this country."
"I think you are an Englishman," said Mr. Abbot.
"I am, sir. I have an estate called Heathdale in the county of Hampshire,
England. I own another in Surrey. Mr. Abbot, I am an English baronet, and
I have simply been a visitor and traveler in this country during the last
year."
"You, an English baronet!" exclaimed Mr. Abbot, excitedly, a vivid flush
suffusing his face, then quickly receding, leaving him deadly pale.
"Yes, sir; but, pray believe me, I had no intention of boasting of either
my wealth or title," observed the young man modestly.
"Oh!" sighed the sick man. "I am afraid then that you can never marry
Virgie."
"Sir! Why not? What is there in what I have told you to debar me from
making your daughter my wife? I should suppose you would feel that I have
it in my power to make her all the happier on account of it."
"But you do not know, you cannot understand, you English are so proud, so
tenacious of honor and caste. Ah, my poor child!" Mr. Abbot cried,
incoherently, and appearing greatly agitated and distressed.
"I am sure, my friend, I cannot comprehend this excessive emotion," Sir
William—as we shall call him henceforth—remarked.
"Would you be willing to marry a woman whose name is irretrievably linked
with disgrace?" Mr. Abbot asked, while cold perspiration started out upon
his forehead, and his face was almost convulsed with his anguish of mind.
He knew that Virgie had grown to love this man. He was conscious of the
pride and prejudices of the English aristocracy, and he believed that when
he should tell the story of his life, as he knew it was only right he
should do, Sir William Heath would no longer care to make his daughter his
wife, and her heart would be broken.
Sir William looked up, startled at this question, his own face paling
suddenly.
"Surely, Mr. Abbot, you cannot mean anything so bad as that," he replied,
in a low, pained tone.
"I will tell you all about it," said the sick man, "and then you must
decide for yourself whether you are still willing to wed the daughter of a
dishonored man. Of course you have seen from the beginning of your
acquaintance with us that no pleasure or profit that might accrue to us
from this kind of a life could ever reconcile us to it; that only some
terrible misfortune could have driven me and my beautiful darling into
such a wild and desolate region as this."
"Yes; I have felt that there was something mysterious in your being
here—some secret reason why you should have shut yourselves away from all
comfort and civilization," Sir William admitted, as his companion paused
for strength to go on. "But I have never attributed it to any willful
wrong on your part."
"Thank you for your faith in me," returned Mr. Abbot, gratefully. "I only
wish the world at large was as charitable; if it had been, I need not have
been here now, on the verge of the grave, nor been obliged to doom my
lonely child to a life of exile, when everything should be at the
brightest for her; neither should we have been obliged to disown a name
which, until recently had always been an honored and respected one".
"Then your name is not Abbot," said Sir William.
"Yes, but that is not the whole of it; I will, however, confide that to
you later. But of course I tell you this in strictest confidence; whatever
your decision may be after you hear my story, I charge you not to betray
me to any one."
"You may trust me," said the young man, quietly.
"Then draw your chair closer, for not even Virgie knows the very worst,
and I would not make her burden any heavier when there is no need."
The young baronet did as he was requested, but he looked both troubled and
pale, for he knew not how this story might affect his future prospects. He
was not different from his kind in some points; he belonged to an old and
honored family; no shadow had ever tarnished their fair fame; he was proud
and tenacious of honor, and his heart was heavy with apprehension as he
thought that he might be about to hear some story of crime or wrong that
would forever separate him from the woman whom he had learned to idolize.
Mr. Abbot leaned nearer his companion, and in a low voice gave him a brief
and rapid account of his life and the adverse fate that had served to
banish him to the sparsely populated mountains of Nevada. It was a
strange, sad story of sin, and wrong, and shame, in which a complication
of evidence and circumstances had permitted the real offender to escape
justice and another to suffer the consequences of his crime.
Sir William Heath never once moved or spoke during its recital, but his
fine face expressed pain, and sorrow, and sympathy throughout, and when at
length it was finished he still sat for several minutes in his chair,
exhausted and panting from weariness and excitement.
At last the young man turned to his companion, a great pity and tenderness
shining in his fine, clear eyes.
"Mr. Abbot," he said, "you have told me one of the saddest stories that I
have ever known, and I can find nothing but sympathy and regret for you in
my heart. You have been but the victim of an atrocious wrong—no stain
rests upon your character, if there appears to be upon your name, and so I
ask you again, will you give me your daughter, if I find that I have been
so fortunate as to have won her love? What you have related to me can
never make any difference in my feelings toward her, and since I shall
take her to another country, where nothing of this will ever be known or
cast a shadow upon her future, as Lady Heath she will be honored and
respected, and I trust, happy."
Tears welled up into the eyes of the invalid as he listened to the words
of this true, earnest lover.
"God bless you for a noble, royal hearted man!" he exclaimed, reaching
forward and clasping the young baronet's hand. "Yes, I can say God bless
you now—for you have taught me to believe there is an Infinite Father and
I can reverently invoke His benediction upon you. Of course I will give
you Virgie and feel that she is richly blessed in having won such a
husband and thus I can die with not a care upon my heart."
"You have given me the richest boon that it is in my power to crave,"
returned Sir William, his face kindling with happiness. "But you need not
speak of dying. A sea voyage would prolong your life. Come with me at once
to England and to Heathdale where you shall have every comfort and
attention, and the change will do you good."
A sad smile flitted over Mr. Abbot's wan features.
"It is too late," he said, sorrowfully. "I shall not live through another
month; but my mind is at ease and it will be a restful season—the little
time that I am spared. No, I shall never leave this place, but I have a
request to make of you."
"Tell me, and it shall be granted if it is in the power of man," returned
Sir William, eagerly.
"I should like, if you can win Virgie's consent, to see her your wife
before I die. It will be better for you both; then, after I am gone, you
can take her away as soon as you choose, and perhaps among new scenes and
with new ties she will not grieve so bitterly for me."
Sir William Heath's heart leaped with joy at this proposition, though
there was an expression of sadness on his handsome face as he looked upon
the wreck before him, and realized how truly he had spoken. He knew that
he had very little time to live.
"If I can win her, nothing would make me happier than to accede to your
wish," he said, in a low, earnest tone.
At this time, a light step was heard in the hall, and the next moment the
door was opened, while a sweet young voice called:
"Come, papa and Mr. Heath—tea is ready; the peaches are delicious, and
Chi Lu has obtained, from some mysterious source, real cream to eat with
them."