CHAPTER VI
DAN'L WEBSTER SMEAD was right. Colonel Buckstone went to New York, and Ralph joined him there. Weeks passed, and they were still absent. Then the truth came to me and to Florence in a letter from Ralph, which she asked me to read. It ran as follows:
“Dearest Florence,—I'm having a hard time with the governor. I want you to know that I do not believe a word of all I've heard about you, and that I shall never care about anybody else. I'm going to England with my aunt. Dad suddenly decided that for me here in New York, and we've had an awful row. It seems as if I ought to be there with you, but I can't. Luck is against me. I should have to walk to Griggsby and go to work for my living, for I should have no home. Don't worry; everything will come out all right. Dad says I may write to you and come home in a year. What do we care what people say so long as we are true to each other, which I will always be. Dad says that Henry is leading me astray. What do you think of that?”
Then he added his signature and his London address.
The girl was game. Her eyes flashed with indignation.
“Never mind,” said she; “my turn will come by and by.”
She said that she had written to Ralph; and I knew, without saying it, that he would receive no letter from her, for I suspected that the cunning old politician would have laid his plans to discourage him with her silence. Two other letters came from Ralph, the last of which complained of what he called “her indifference”; and, although I wrote him, as did she, again and again, I happen to know that Ralph looked in vain for a letter.
Yes, it was the old, old plan, and easier managed in those days, when England was very far from us and one who had crossed the ocean was a curiosity.
“Ralph ain't the right timber for a hero,” said Smead, as we sat together one day. “He won't do.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“Too easily bamboozled. For one thing, a hero has got to be bigger than his father, especially when his father is only knee-high to a johnny cake. If I were young an' full o' vinegar, I'd jump in an' cut him out.”
I made no answer.
“You're a good jumper,” he suggested; “why don't ye jump for this big prize? The girl has beauty an' character an' wit an' wealth. Don't be afraid; hop in an' take her.”
“It's impossible,” I said. “She don't care for me; but that's only one reason.”
“Nonsense!” he exclaimed.
“She told me so,” I insisted.
“Young man, I maintain that a lady cannot lie; but it ain't always best to believe her. You didn't expect that she was goin' to toss her heart into your lap at the first bid, did ye? They don't do that, not if they 're real cunnin'. They like to hang on to their hearts an' make ye bid for 'em. They want to know how much you'll give; and they're right, absolutely right. It's good business. A girl has to be won.”
I sat in a thoughtful silence, and Smead went on.
“It's a kind of auction sale. 'How much am I bid?' the girl says with her eyes. You say, I offer my love.' It isn't enough. You offer houses an' lands. Still she shakes her head no. By an' by you speak up with a brave voice, an' offer the strong heart of a hero an' a love as deep an' boundless as the sea, an' you mean every word of it. That fetches her. You see, love is the biggest thing in a woman's life—or in the world, for that matter. So you've got to say it big an' mean it big. Feeble words an' manners won't do when you're tellin' the best girl in the world how ye love her. Now, you've got the goods—the hero's heart an' all. Why don't ye offer 'em?”
I wish I had told him why, but I did not. In the first place, I knew that I was no hero; and, again, I was like most Yankee boys of that time—I could not bear any tempting of my heart's history. It was full of deep sentiment, but somehow that was awfully sacred to me. Then, too, I was not much of a talker. I could not have said those pretty things to Florence. My words had never been cheapened by overuse, and I had quit lying, and any sort of hyperbole would have made me ashamed of myself.
I decided to leave school soon, and go to New York to seek my fortune. So I should have done but for my next adventure.