"Dear Eleanor, I hope you have thought over what I said to you yesterday, and that you know how you really feel, and can—that you can love me enough to let you make me—to let me try to make you—I mean—" I was blundering terribly now, and getting very red. Yesterday's fluency had quite deserted me. But Eleanor was thinking too much of what she had to say herself to heed it.
"Oh!" she began, "I am afraid—I know I am not worthy of you. It was all so sudden and so unexpected yesterday. But I know now that I do not love you as much as I ought—as you deserve to be loved by the woman you love. I ought to say that I will not marry you—but—" she looked up beseechingly—"I can't—I can't."
She paused, then went on in a trembling voice, "You don't know how hard a time my father and mother have had. There has hardly a single pleasant thing ever happened to them. Ever since I was a little girl I have longed and longed to do something for them—something that would really make them happy—and I never could. I never dreamed I should have such a chance as this! and then all the others! I have thought so what I should like to give them, and I never had the smallest thing; and then myself—I don't want to make myself out more unselfish than I am—but you don't know how little pleasure I have had in my life. I never thought of such a chance as this—all the good things in life offered me at once—and I cannot—cannot let them go by."
She stopped, breathless, only for a moment, but it was a bitter one for me. I had one of those agonising sudden glimpses such as come but seldom, of the irony of fate, when the whole tragedy of our lives lies bare and exposed before us in all its ugliness. So then even she, for whom I was giving up so much, could not love me, and I was going to be married for my money after all! Then with another electric shock of instant quick perception, it came across me that I was getting perhaps a better, certainly a rarer, thing than love. Many women had flattered my vanity with hints of that; but here was the only one I had ever met whom I was sure was telling me the absolute, unflattering truth. The sting of wounded pride grew milder as Eleanor, unconsciously swaying toward me in her earnestness, went on:
"Will you—can you love me, and take my friendship, my gratitude and admiration—more than I can tell you—and wait for me to love you as well as you ought to be loved? I know I shall—how can I help it?"
As things in our family were always done with the strictest attention to etiquette, I informed my mother, as was due to her, during our usual stroll on the terrace, after our early Sunday dinner, that I was paying my addresses to Eleanor Beecher, and intended to apply for her father's consent that afternoon. It was a great and not a pleasant surprise for her. My mother was celebrated for never saying anything she would be sorry for afterwards—an admirable trait, but one which frequently interfered with her conversational powers; and unfortunately, on this occasion, to say nothing was almost as bad as anything she could have said. It was rather hard for both of us, but after it was over, she could go to her room and have a good cry by herself, while I was obliged to set off for an interview with my intended father-in-law, whom I found in his little garden, in shirt-sleeves and old slippers, cutting the ripest bunches from his grape-vines. It was the blessed hour sacred to dawdle—the only one the poor old fellow had from one week's end to the other. He was evidently not accustomed to have it broken in upon by young men visitors in faultless calling trim, and starting, dropped his shears, which I picked up and handed to him; dropped them again, shuffled about in his old slippers, and muttered something of an apology. Evidently I must plunge at once into the subject, but I was getting practised in this, and began boldly: "Mr. Beecher, may I have your consent to pay my addresses to your daughter Eleanor?"
"Eleanor at home? Oh, yes, she's in. Perhaps you'll kindly excuse me?" and he looked helplessly toward the house door.
"I don't think you quite understand me. I spoke to Eleanor last night about my wishes—hopes—my love for her, and she promised to give me an answer this morning. She has consented to become my wife—of course, with your approval."
"Lord bless my soul!" exclaimed Mr. Beecher, throwing back his head, and looking full at me over the top of his spectacles; "who would ever have thought it? I mean—you seem so young, such a boy."