I replied that I had inferred as much from the conversation which I had heard between her and Miss Marvin, saying further, for his manner emboldened me, that “I was surprised, for I did not think her such an one as he would fancy.”
“Neither is she,” said he, again relapsing into silence. At last, rousing up, he continued, “I must talk to somebody, and as you seem to be a sensible girl, I may as well make a clean breast, and tell you all about it. Ada came up here from Georgia last spring, and the moment mother saw her, she picked her out for her future daughter-in-law. I don’t know why it is, but mother has wanted me to get married ever since I began to shave. I believe she thinks it will make me steady; but I am steady enough now, for I haven’t drank a drop in almost a year. I should though, if Ada Montrose was my wife. But that’s nothing to the point. Mother saw her and liked her. I saw her, and liked her well enough at first, for she is beautiful, you know, and every man is more or less attracted by that. They say, too, that she is wealthy, and though I would as soon marry a poor girl as a rich one, provided I liked her, I shall not deny but her money had its influence with me, to a certain extent. And then, too, it was fun to get her away from the other young men who flocked around her, like bees round a honey jar. But, to make a long story short, we got engaged—Heaven only knows how; but engaged we were, and then”—— Here he paused, as if nearing a painful subject, but soon resuming the thread of his story, he continued; “And then I stopped writing to Anna, for I would not be dishonorable. Do you think she felt it?”
The question was so unexpected, that I was thrown quite off my guard, and replied, “Of course, she did; who wouldn’t feel mortified to have their letters unanswered?”
“’Twas wrong, I know,” said he. “I ought to have been man enough to tell her how it was, and I did begin more than a dozen letters, but never finished them. Do you think Anna likes me now, or could like me, if I was not engaged, and she knew I’d never get drunk again?”
Could he have seen her when first she learned that his affections were given to another, he would have been sufficiently answered, but he did not, and it was not for me, I thought, to enlighten him; so I replied evasively, after which he continued, “As soon as I was engaged to Ada, she began to exact so much attention from me, acting so silly, and appearing so ridiculous that I got sick of it, and now my daily study is how to rid myself of her; but I believe I’ve commenced right. Can I make a confidant of you, and feel sure you’ll not betray me to any one, unless it is Anna?”
I hardly knew how to answer, for if it was anything wrong which he meditated, I did not wish to be in the secret, and so I told him; but it made no difference, for he proceeded to say, “I shall never marry Ada Montrose, never; neither would it break her heart if I shouldn’t for she’s more than half tired of me now.”
I thought of the dark stranger, and felt that he was right, but I said nothing, and he went on; “Sometimes I thought I’d go up to Meadow Brook, tell Anna all about it, ask her to marry me, and so settle the matter at once; but then I did not know but she might have grown up raw, awkward, and disagreeable, so I devised a plan by which I could find out. Mother would burn her right hand off I believe, to save me from a drunkard’s grave, and when I wish to win her consent to any particular thing, all I have to do is to threaten her with the wine-cup.”
“Oh, Herbert! how can you?” I exclaimed, for I was inexpressibly shocked.
“It’s a way I’ve got into,” said he, laughing at my rueful face. “And when I suggested that Anna should spend the winter here, I hinted to the old lady that if she didn’t consent, I’d go off with a party of young men on a hunting excursion. Of course she yielded at once, for she well knew that if I joined my former boon companions, I should fall.
“And so we are indebted to you for our winter in Boston,” said I, beginning to see things in a new light.