"It's poverty!" gasped John Lawton. Then, having regained his power of speech, he went on: "Don't ask me to condemn my girl to poverty for life. Love sweetens the draught, but the bitterness is there all the time! Wait, my boy, wait! It is not for her alone I speak! Spare yourself the torment, the shame, the pain of denying to the woman that you love the little fripperies and follies and small luxuries that she craves as a flower craves sunshine! There's no pain like it in the world! And," his lips writhed as he spoke, "I ought to know, for—for ten years past it has so pierced my heart that there can be but a shapeless pulp there now! No! no! you can't afford to marry my daughter!"
"It's hard to think of you as a lover of mammon—a seeker after mere wealth!" frowned Leslie.
"Don't be unjust, my lad. The joy of counting one's dollars in seven figures is a joy without savor for me. Very great wealth is either a great trust or a greater temptation. I neither seek for nor desire it for our girls; but I cannot calmly face for them a future of such poverty as they are enduring now. You should be able, positively able, to provide at least a modest home; be able to make both of these inelastic ends not only meet but lap over a bit. The poor working-man has a right to marry a poor girl, but a poor gentleman has no right to condemn a girl with the training, tastes, and requirements of a lady to a lifelong struggle with ways and means. Then, remember, when a man marries he not only doubles his joys but his responsibilities as well. Oh, my boy! if only you had a few thousands in hand—a wall to plant your back against if the fight went against you for awhile! But—but, I dare not give my child into empty hands! Why—why—boy? What in heaven's name?"
Galt was flinging his hat high in the autumn sunlight, catching it and flinging it again, like a boy at boisterous play! Then, with dancing eyes, he made apology for his antics, adding: "I have no father, as you know. So I think I'll follow the fashion of the Japanese and adopt one!" taking a chill, veiny old hand in his firm, warm ones. "You, sir, by your leave? So, Father Lawton, listen! I have not deceived you at any time, but I may have been a trifle more reticent than was necessary, for I hate talking of myself. But now I'll tell you what, I see, should have been told before, and, when I've done, I'll ask again for Dorothy! No! no! adopted father, you may only answer yea or nay when you have earned the right by listening!"
And just then both men fancied they heard a sort of screech from the house, and glanced up toward it. But old John said, indifferently: "An owl, I guess. Lena disturbs them when she's rooting about that tumbling barn behind the cedars. Go on!"
But, up in the sitting-room, William Henry Bulkley, rampant and blindly furious while charging Mrs. Lawton with insincerity and bad faith, had flung the engagement of Dorothy in her astonished face, and it was the screech of the stricken Letitia that faintly reached them. But Mr. Lawton, whose mind moved slowly, and who, though undoubtedly American, was yet no "guesser," being all at sea as to the meaning of Galt's sudden change from bitter disappointment to an exuberance of spirits he had not thought the grave young man capable of, repeated, more urgently: "Go on, please, go on!"
And, in the handsome weak old face and piteous faded eyes raised to him, Galt saw again the likeness to Dorothy, and, with a pang, he thought: "This is what years of sorrow and privation might put into her fair face," and swiftly prayed, "protect, defend her, Lord, in part at least, through my poor human agency," and then plunged into the simple story, whose telling might change the color of the sky for him and make the old world new for his young sweetheart and himself.
"You remember, sir, I told you before, that it was through Mr. Wheatleigh's friendship for my dead father that I was first taken into the office where so many wished to secure a berth. He advanced me, too, as rapidly as he could, because he knew the mother I worked so hard for would not be with me long. Well, the only property my father left me, besides a small cottage, was an extensive sweep of swamp, over in our neighboring State. This inheritance was considered a great jest, and was continually referred to as my 'mosquito foundry.' The only harvest ever gathered from its acres was a harvest of poor and pointless jokes. My mother and I used to spend two or three months in the cottage during the summer, and the rest of the year an old couple used it rent free, save for keeping the small shell in repair. That my father had twice refused, when the neighboring town was making spasmodic spurts of growth, to sell portions of his swampy holdings, made people think him quite off his head. But my mother told me he had once declared the time would come when thousands of dollars would be offered eagerly where hundreds were then spoken of grudgingly. She had said, 'Why, do you believe these swamps can ever be made healthy enough to attract the wealthy?' and he had answered, 'My dear wife, wealthy people often have other uses for property than the making of homes. Nor do I anticipate a sudden fad among millionnaires for personally cultivating cranberries. Nevertheless, there's money lying in those mud-flats and out there in the meadows—money waiting for a Galt; and if we don't gather it up, Leslie will.'
"Every word," the young man continued, "I treasured, and while I was yet a lad I used to rack my brain to find a cause for my father's faith, and though I found it not I yet resolved to follow his plan and—wait. So silently, tenaciously I kept my hold upon my 'mosquito foundry,' and endured many things in the name of wit from my companions, who sought information as to proper 'treatment of stings,' as to the usual period 'for mating among the young birds,' as to the 'outlook for cranberries,' etc. As years went by the subject dropped, thank heaven! I had worked desperately for my mother's needs. Then—well, when I found myself alone, I worked desperately still, to prove to Mr. Wheatleigh that I was grateful. The firm noticed me. They tested my discretion. Then one day old Mr. Gordon said to Mr. Stone: 'A young fellow who can so lock his lips, and give the combination to no one is wanted in this office for confidential work.' It was a big step they offered me, and—and, Father Lawton, I did not have a soul to rejoice with me or say 'well done!' I was so desolately alone in my good fortune that when I locked my room door behind me I buried my face in my mother's old crêpe shawl, and talked to it, and yet," he laughed a little, "upon my soul I quite expect people to consider me a man!
"Well, one day I was mildly surprised to receive a letter making an offer for a small portion of my land. The price was modest—I declined it, briefly. But before I had mailed my note another letter and another offer to purchase reached me. I declined both, and dropped the matter from my mind, when lo! my correspondents renewed their efforts to buy, doubling the price first offered, at a single bound. I had heard of no boom in town lots—no sudden growth outward in my direction, yet both letters expressly stated that 'simple cottage homes were to be built.' Homes out there on those dreary flats? Builders of simple cottages were rarely able to double an offered price for the ground alone. I astonished Mr. Wheatleigh by asking for half a day's absence. The old pair at the cottage could only tell me that two or three of the widely scattered residents had recently sold out and all but one had gone away. These people had lived along the river. I walked out in that direction, and stopped at the small truck garden, that had been sold but was not yet vacated. I questioned the woman—a dull creature—from whom I gained no information beyond her joy at going to live in the town. Her little girl was teasing for a penny to spend for that childish solace—gum. Being refused, I told her if she would walk along with me for company I would give her a nickel; I paid in advance, and we went out together. She was a sharp little monkey, as keen as her mother was dull. Inquiring about what had been going on, I learned of the advent of six puppies down the road a bit; of the lamentable fate of old Tom Hale, a local ne'er-do-weel, and also of the presence of the 'queer men,' who used to get dinner at her house. 'Why were they queer?' 'Why, because they did funny things, and were squintin' along the road and across the meadows,' 'Squinting?' I repeated. 'Yes,' she explained; 'they had three wooden legs, that had a funny brass and glass fixin' on top, that they squinched through, and then they'd make marks in books and stick sticks in the ground.' Surveyors, I thought. 'And,' went on the child, 'they used to say, before they came into dinner, "don't talk!"'