PROTEST AND APPEAL.
"Father, father, do not ask me to meet him; from the first it was an
evil engagement, broken, or should have been. Why do you wish to take
it up again?"
Ruth Jessup, who made this appeal, stood in front of her father, who
had just told her that it had been arranged that a speedy marriage
should terminate the engagement with Richard Storms--an engagement
entered into when she was scarcely more than a child. "It was high
time the thing was settled," he said, "while neighbor Storms was
pleased with his son and ready to settle a handsome property on him.
That, with the money that would be hers in time, might enable them to
move among the best in the neighborhood."
The girl listened to all this with a wild look in her face,
half-rebellion, half-terror. "No," she said, straining her hands
together in a passionate clasp, "you must not ask me to take him. I
could not love him--the very idea is dreadful."
"But, girl, you are engaged to him. My word is given--my word is
given."
"But only on condition, father--only on the condition of his
amendment."
"Well, the young man has come through his probation like a gentleman,
as he has a right to be. He just rode by here on his bay horse, as
fine a looking young fellow as one need want for a son-in-law, lifting
his hat like a lord as he passed me. We may expect him here to-night."
"But, father, I will not see him. I--I cannot."
The girl was pale and anxious; her eyes were eloquent with pleading,
her mouth tremulous.
"And why not?"
"Only I cannot--I never can like him again."
The kind-hearted gardener sat down in the nearest chair, and took
those two clasped hands in his, looking gravely but very kindly into
the girl's troubled face.
"Daughter," he said, "workingmen don't pretend to fine sentiments, but
we have our own ideas of honor, and a man's word once given in good
faith must be kept, let the cost be what it may. I have given my word
to neighbor Storms. It must be honestly redeemed. You made no
objection then."
"But, oh, father, I was so young! How could I know what an awful thing
I was doing?"
"If it was a mistake, who but ourselves should suffer for it, Ruth?"
"But he went astray--his company was of the worst."
"That is all changed and atoned for."
The girl shook her head.
"Oh, father, he was never a good son."
"That, too, is changed; no man was ever more proud of a son than
neighbor Storms is now of this young man."
The girl turned away and began to cry.
"I thought you had given this up--that I should never again be
tormented with it! He seemed willing to leave me alone; but now only
three weeks after my godmother has promised to give me her money he
comes back again! Oh, I wish she had promised it to some one else!"
"That is the very reason why we should fulfil our obligations to the
letter, Ruth. It must not be said that a child of mine drew back from
her father's plighted word because her dower promised to be more than
double anything he had counted on when it was given."
The girl's eyes flashed and her lips curved.
"If it has made him more eager, I may well consider it," she said;
"and I think it has."
"Shame on you, daughter! Such suspicions are unbecoming!"
"I cannot help them, father; the very thought of this man is hateful
to me."
"Well, well," said the father, soothingly, but not the less firm in
his purpose; "the young man must plead his own cause. I have no fear
that he will find my child unreasonable."
The harassed young creature grew desperate; she followed her father to
the door of an inner room.
"Father, come back, come back! It is cruel to put me off so!"
Ruth drew her father into the room again, and renewed her protest with
the passionate entreaties that had been so ineffectual. In her
desperation she spoke with unusual energy, while now and then her
sentences were broken up with sobs.
"Oh, father, do not insist--do not force this marriage upon me! It
will be my death, my destruction! I detest the man!"
Jessup turned away from her. That sweet appealing face made his heart
ache.
Ruth saw this look of relenting, and would not give up her cause. She
approached close to her father, and, clinging to his arm, implored
him, with bitter sobs, to believe her when she said that this marriage
would be worse than death to her.
"Hush, girl!" said the old man. "Hush, now, or I may believe some
hints that the young man has thrown out of another person. No girl in
these parts would refuse a young fellow so well-to-do and so
good-looking, if she hadn't got some one else in her mind."
This speech was rendered more significant by a look of suspicion,
which brought a rush of scarlet into the daughter's face.
"Oh, father, you are cruel!" cried the tortured young creature,
struggling, as it were, for her life.
The old man turned away from this pathetic pleading; nothing but a
stern sense of honor, which is so strong in some men of his class,
could have nerved him against the anguish of this appeal.
"We have given our word, child; we have given our word," he said.
"Neither you nor your father can go beyond that."
The gardener's voice faltered and he broke away from the trembling
hands with which Ruth in her desperation sought to hold him. For the
first time in his life he had found strength to resist her
entreaties.