MR. LEIGH HAS A PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE MADE HIM
Though I had not acted on the principle, I had always felt that a young man had no right to pay his addresses to a young lady without giving some account of himself to her father, or whoever might stand in the relation of her natural protector; certainly that it was incumbent on a gentleman to do so. I felt, therefore, that it was necessary for me before proceeding further in my pursuit of Eleanor Leigh to declare my intention to her father. My declaration to her had been the result of a furious impulse to which I had yielded; but now that I had cooled, my principle reasserted itself. One trouble was that I did not know Mr. Leigh. I determined to consult John Marvel, and I had a sneaking hope that he might not think it necessary for me to speak about it to him. I accordingly went around to his room and after he had gotten through with a tramp or two, who had come to bleed him of any little pittance which he might have left, he came in. I bolted into the middle of my subject.
"John, I am in love." I fancied that his countenance changed slightly—I thought, with surprise.
"Yes. I know you are."
"How did you know it? I am in love with Eleanor Leigh." His countenance changed a shade more, and he looked away and swallowed with a little embarrassment.
"Yes. I know that too."
"How did you know it?"
He smiled. John sometimes smiled rather sadly.
"I want you to help me."
"How?"
"I don't know. I have to go and ask Mr. Leigh."
"What! Has she accepted you?" His face was, as I recalled later, full of feeling of some kind.
"No. I wish to Heaven she had! If anything, she has rejected me,—but that is nothing. I am going to win her and marry her. I am going to ask her father's permission to pay my addresses to her, and then I don't care whether he gives it or not.—Yes, I do care, too; but whether he does or not I am going to win her and him and marry her."
"Henry," he said gently, "you deserve to win her, and I believe, maybe—if—" He went off into a train of reflection, which I broke in on.
"I don't think I do," I said honestly, sobered by his gentleness; "but that makes no difference. I love her better than all the rest of the world, and I mean to win her or die trying. So, none of your 'maybes' and 'ifs'. I want your advice how to proceed. I have not a cent in the world; am, in fact, in debt; and I feel that I must tell her father so."
"That will scarcely tend to strengthen your chances with him," said John. My spirits rose.
"I can't help that. I feel that I must tell him!" Though I spoke so grandly, my tone contained a query.
"Yes, that's right," said John decisively. His mind had been working slowly. My spirits drooped.
I was not conscious till then how strongly I had hoped that he might disagree with me. My heart quite sank at the final disappearance of my hope. But I was in for it now. My principle was strong enough when strengthened by John's invincible soundness.
I walked into the building in which Mr. Leigh had his offices, boldly enough. If my heart thumped, at least, I had myself well in hand. The clerk to whom I addressed myself said he was not in, but was expected in shortly. Could he do anything for me? No, I wanted to see Mr. Leigh personally. Would I take a seat?
I took a chair, but soon made up my mind that if I sat there five minutes I would not be able to speak. I sat just one minute. At least, that was the time my watch registered, though I early discovered that there was no absolute standard of the divisions of time. The hands of a clock may record with regularity the revolutions of the earth, the moon, or the stars; but not the passage of time as it affects the human mind. The lover in his mistress' presence, and the lover waiting for his mistress, or for that matter, for her father, has no equal gauge of measurement of Time's passage. With the one the winged sandals of Mercury were not so fleet, with the other, the leaden feet of Chronos were not so dull.
I decided that I must get out into the air; so, mumbling something to the surprised clerk about returning shortly, I bolted from the office and walked around the block. As I look back at it now, I was a rather pitiable object. I was undoubtedly in what, if I were speaking and not writing, I should call "the deuce of a funk"; but for the sake of fine English, I will term it a panic. My heart was beating, my mouth was dry, my knees were weak. I came very near darting off every time I reached a corner, and I should certainly have done so but for the knowledge that if I did I should never get up the courage to come back again. So I stuck and finally screwed up my courage to return to the office; but every object and detail in those streets through which I passed that morning are fastened in my mind as if they had been stamped there by a stroke of lightning.
When I walked in again the clerk said, Yes, Mr. Leigh had returned. Would I take a seat for a moment? I sat down in what was a chair of torture. A man under certain stress is at a great disadvantage in a chair. If he be engaged in reflection, the chair is a proper place for him; but if in action, he should stand. Every moment was an added burden for me to carry, which was not lightened when young Canter walked out of the office and with a surly glance at me passed on.
The clerk took my card, entered the door, and closed it after him. I heard a dull murmur of voices within, and then after what appeared to me an interminable wait, he reappeared and silently motioned me in. I hated him for months for that silent gesture. It seemed like Fate.
As I entered, a man past middle age with a strong face, a self-contained mouth and jaw, a calm brow, and keen eyes glanced up from a note he was writing and said:
"Excuse me a moment if you please. Won't you take a seat?"
I sat with the perspiration breaking out as I watched the steady run of his pen over the sheet. I felt as a criminal must who watches the judge preparing to pass sentence. At length he was through. Then he turned to me.
"Well, Mr. Glave?"
I plunged at once into my subject.
"Mr. Leigh, I am a young lawyer here, and I have come to ask your permission to pay my addresses to your daughter."
"Wha-t!" His jaw positively fell, he was so surprised. But I did not give him time.
"I have no right to ask it—to ask any favor of you, much less a favor which I feel is the greatest any man can ask at your hands. But I—love her—and—I—I simply ask that you will give me your consent to win her if I can." I was very frightened, but my voice had steadied me, and I was gazing straight in his eyes.
"Does my daughter know of this extraor—of this?" He asked the question very slowly, and his eyes were holding mine.
"I hardly know what she may divine. I told her once that I thought a gentleman should not—should not try to marry a gir—a lady until he had asked her father's permission, and she is so clear-minded that I hardly know——"
"Does she know of your attachment?"
"Yes, sir. I mean, I told her once—I——"
"I thought you said you thought a gentleman had no right to speak to her until he had gained her father's consent!" A slight scorn had crept into his face.
"Yes, sir, I did—something like that, though not quite that—but——"
"How then do you reconcile the two?" He spoke calmly, and I observed a certain likeness to his daughter.
"I do not—I cannot. I do not try. I only say that in my cooler moments my principle is stronger than my action. I gave way to my feelings once, and declared myself, but when I got hold of myself I felt I should come to you and give you some account of myself."
"I see." I began to hope again, as he reflected.
"Does my daughter reciprocate this—ah—attachment?
"No, sir. I wish to God she did; but I hope that possibly in time—I might prevail on her by my devotion." I was stammering along awkwardly enough.
"Ah!"
"I am only asking your permission to declare myself her suitor to try to win—what I would give the world to win, if I had it. I have no hope except that which comes from my devotion, and my determination to win. I have nothing in the world except my practice; but mean to succeed." I had got more confidence now. I went on to give him an account of myself, and I tried to tell him the truth, though doubtless I gave myself the natural benefit of a friendly historian. I told him frankly of my unfortunate experience in the matter of the contribution to the Trumpet—though I did not conceal my views on the main subject, of the corporation's relation to the public. I must say that Mr. Leigh appeared an interested auditor, though he did not help me out much. At the end, he said:
"Mr. Glave, I have some confidence in my daughter, sufficient—I may say—to have decided for some time back to allow her to manage her own affairs, and unless there were some insuperable objection in any given case, I should not interfere. This is one of the vital affairs in life in which a man has to fight his own battle. I refer you to my daughter. If there were an insuperable objection, of course I should interfere." I wondered if he knew of Canter, and took some hope from his words.
The only thing that gave me encouragement was that he said, just as I was leaving:
"Mr. Glave, I used to know your father, I believe. We were at college together." I think I must have shown some feeling in my face, for he added, "We were very good friends," and held out his hand. I came away drenched with perspiration; but I felt that I had made a step in the direction of winning Eleanor Leigh, and almost as if I had gained a friend. At least, I liked him, as self-contained as he was, for he looked at times like his daughter.
That evening Miss Leigh observed something unusual in her father's expression, and finally, after waiting a little while for him to disclose what he had on his mind, she could stand it no longer.
"Dad, what is it?" she demanded.
Mr. Leigh gazed at her quizzically.
"Well, I have had a rather strenuous day. In the first place, I got a letter from Henry Glave." Miss Eleanor's eyes opened.
"From Henry Glave! What in the world is he writing to you about?"
"He has offered me assistance," said Mr. Leigh. He took from his pocket a letter, and tossed it across the table to her, observing her with amusement as her expression changed. It, possibly, was not the Henry Glave she had had in mind.
As she read, her face brightened. "Isn't that fine! I thought he would—" She stopped suddenly.
"You wrote to him?" said Mr. Leigh.
"Yes, but I didn't know he would. I only asked his advice—I thought maybe, he possibly might—knowing how he liked you. This will help us out? You will accept his offer, of course?"
Mr. Leigh nodded. "I am considering it. It was certainly very good in him. Not every man is as grateful these times. My only question is whether I ought to accept his offer."
"Why not?"
Mr. Leigh did not answer for a moment, he was deep in reflection, reviewing a past in which two older men who bore my name had borne a part, and was trying to look forward into the future. Presently he replied:
"Well, the fact is, I am very hard pressed."
For answer Eleanor sprang up and ran around to him, and throwing her arm about his neck, kissed him. "You poor, dear old dad. I knew you were in trouble; but I did not like to urge you till you got ready. Tell me about it."
Mr. Leigh smiled. It was a patronizing way she had with him which he liked while he was amused by it.
"Yes. I'm—the fact is, I'm pretty near—" He paused and reflected; then began again, "What would you say if I were to tell you that I am almost at the end of my resources?"
The girl's countenance fell for a second, then brightened again almost immediately.
"I shouldn't mind it a bit, except for you."
Mr. Leigh heaved a sigh which might have been a sigh of relief.
"You don't know what it means, my dear."
"Oh! Yes, I do."
"No-o. It means giving up—everything. Not only all luxuries; but—" He gazed about him at the sumptuous surroundings in his dining-room, "but all this—everything. Horses, carriages, servants, pictures—everything. Do you understand?"
"Everything?" Eleanor's voice and look betrayed that she was a little startled.
"Yes," said her father with a nod and a sigh. "If I assign, it would all have to go, and we should have to begin afresh."
"Very well. I am ready. Of course, I don't want to be broke; but I am ready. Whatever you think is right. And I would rather give up everything—everything, than have you worried as you have been for ever so long. I have seen it."
"Nelly, you are a brick," said her father fondly, looking at her in admiration. "How did you ever happen to be your Aunt Sophy's niece?"
"Her half-niece," corrected the girl, smiling.
"It was the other half," mused Mr. Leigh.
"Tell me about it, father. How did it come? When did it happen?" she urged, smoothing tenderly the hair on his brow.
"It didn't happen. It came. It has been coming for a long time. It is the conditions——"
"I know, those dreadful conditions. How I hate to hear the word! We used to get them when we were at Miss de Pense's school,—we had to work them off—and now people are always talking about them."
"Well, these conditions," said Mr. Leigh smiling, "seem a little more difficult to work off. I am rated as belonging to the capitalists and as opposed to the working class. The fact is I am not a capitalist; for my properties are good only while in active use, all my available surplus has gone into their betterment for the public use, and I am a harder-worked man than any laborer or workman in one of my shops or on one of my lines."
"That you are!" exclaimed his daughter.
"I belong to the class that produces, and we are ground between the upper and the nether millstones. Do you see?"
Eleanor expressed her assent.
"The fire, of course, cost us a lot."
"It was set on fire," interrupted his daughter. "I know it."
"Well, I don't know—possibly. It looks so. Anyhow, it caught us at the top notch, and while the insurance amounts to something, the actual loss was incalculable. Then came the trouble with the bank. So long as I was there they knew they could not go beyond the law. So Canter and the others got together, and I got out, and, of course——"
"I know," said his daughter.
"They asked me to remain, but—I preferred to be free."
"So do I."
"I had an overture to-day from the Canters," said Mr. Leigh, after a moment of reflection. "I do not quite know what it means, but I think I do."
"What was it?" Eleanor looked down with her face slightly averted.
"Jim Canter came from his father to propose—to suggest a modus vivendi, as it were. It means that they have started a blaze they cannot extinguish—that they are having trouble with their people, and fear that our people are coming around, but it means something further, too, I think." Mr. Leigh ceased talking, and appeared to be reflecting.
"What?" said the girl, after waiting a moment.
"You know—your aunt—however—" He paused.
She rose and faced him.
"Father, I wouldn't marry him to save his life—and I have told both him and Aunt Sophia so." Mr. Leigh gave a sigh of relief.
"You, of course, declined the proposal they made?" said Eleanor.
"I did—I think they have broken with the Argand interest. I saw your aunt to-day, and had a talk with her. I think her eyes are opened at last. I told her a few plain truths."
He dropped into reflection and a quizzical expression came into his eyes.
"I had a very remarkable thing happen to me to-day."
"What was it?" demanded his daughter.
"I had an offer of marriage made me."
Eleanor Leigh's face changed—at first it grew a shade whiter, then a shade redder.
"I know who it was," she said quickly.
"Oh!" Mr. Leigh shut his lips firmly. "I did not know."
"She is a cat! She has been sending me flowers and opera tickets all winter, and deluging me with invitations. I knew she was up to something." She spoke with growing feeling, as her father's eyes rested on her placidly with an amused expression in them. "I wouldn't be such easy game. Why, dad, she'd bore you to death—and as to me, I wouldn't live in the house with her—I couldn't." She stood with mantling cheek and flashing eye, a young Amazon girded for battle.
"I will relieve you," said her father. "It is not the feline-natured lady you have in mind; but a person quite different." Miss Eleanor looked relieved.
"Dad—it couldn't be—it was not Aunt Sophia? That would explain a lot of things. You know I think she's been laying some snares lately. She even forgave me when I told her the other evening that that was the last time I would ever accept an invitation from Mr. Canter, even as a favor to her. Dad, she'd make you miserable. You couldn't."
"No," said Mr. Leigh. "In fact, it was not a lady at all. It was a person of the opposite sex, and the proposal was for your hand."
"Dad! Who was it? Now, dad." She moved around the table to him, as Mr. Leigh, with eyes twinkling over his victory, shut his mouth firmly. "Dad, you'd just as well tell me at once, for you know I am going to know, so you might as well tell me and save yourself trouble. Who was it?"
Mr. Leigh took her firmly by the arms and seated her on his knee.
"Well, it was a young man who appeared quite in earnest."
"It wasn't—no, I know it wasn't he—he wouldn't have done that—and it wasn't—" (she pondered) "no, it wasn't he—and it wasn't—" She suddenly paused. "Tell me, what did he say? How did you like him? What did you say to him?"
"So you have settled who it is. Perhaps, you sent him to me?"
"Indeed, I did not, and I don't know who it was. What did you tell him?"
"I told him you were of age——"
"I am not. I am twenty."
"No, I told him you were too young—to think of such a thing——"
"I am twenty," repeated the girl.
"That is what I told him," said Mr. Leigh, "and that I thought you were able to take care of yourself."
The girl rested her chin on his head and went off in a reverie.
"Dad, we must hold together," she said. Her father drew her face down and kissed her silently. "The man who takes you away from me will have to answer with his life," he said.
"There is no one on earth who could," said Eleanor.