“And what would her life be with you? A constant battle with hardship and penury on a little prairie farm, where with her own hands she must bake and wash and sew for you, or, even worse, a lonely waiting in some poor lodging while you were away months together railroad building. Is this the lot you would propose for her? Now, and there is no reason I should explain why, after my death there will 192 be little left her besides an expensive and occasionally unprofitable farm, and so I have had otherwise to provide for her future!”
“There are, however, two things you take for granted,” I interposed again; “that I shall never have much to offer her—and in this I hope you may be wrong—and Miss Carrington’s acquiescence in your plans.”
The old grim smile flickered in the Colonel’s eyes as he answered: “Miss Carrington will respect her father’s wishes—she has never failed to do so hitherto—and I do not know that there is much to be made out of such railroad contracts as your present one.”
This was certainly true enough, and I winced under the allusion before I made a last appeal.
“Then suppose, sir, that after all fortune favored me, and there was some reason why what you look for failed to come about—all human expectation, human life itself, is uncertain—would you then withhold your consent?”
He looked at me keenly a moment, saying nothing, and it was always unpleasant to withstand the semi-ironical gaze of Colonel Carrington, though I had noticed a slight movement when quite at random I alluded to the uncertainty of life. Then he answered slowly:
“I think in that case we could discuss all this again, though it would be better far for you to consider my refusal as definite. Now I have such confidence in my daughter’s obedience that on the one condition that you do not seek to prejudice her against me I do not absolutely forbid your seeing Miss Carrington—on occasion—but you must write no letters, and you may take it as a compliment that I should tell you I have acted only as seemed best in her interest. Neither should it be needful to inform you that she will never marry without my consent. And now, reiterating 193 my thanks, I fail to see how anything would be gained by prolonging this interview.”
I knew from his face that this was so, and that further words might be a fatal mistake, and I went out hurriedly, forgetting, I am afraid, to return his salutation, though when I met his sister she glanced at me with sympathy as she pointed toward another door. When I entered this Grace rose to meet me. The time we spent in the cañon had drawn us closer together than many months of companionship might have done, and it was with no affectation of bashful diffidence that she beckoned me to a place beside her on the casement logs, saying simply, “You have bad news, sweetheart. Tell me everything.”
Her father had exacted no promise about secrecy. Indeed, if the arrangement mentioned compromised a prospective husband, as I thought it did, Grace was doubtless fully acquainted with it; and I told her what had passed. Then she drew herself away from me.
“And is there nothing to be added? Have you lost your usual eloquence?” she said.