“I said give the woman an order for your wedding gown, Leola Mead, for you are to be married soon.”
Leola stared, speechlessly, a moment, wondering if the old man was losing his mind, and, taking advantage of her silence, he continued, with forced bravado:
“You look surprised, my haughty young lady, so I will explain. I have accepted a desirable proposal for your hand, and as you are plenty old enough to marry—nineteen your last birthday—I have named the wedding for a month from to-day.”
Leola, recovering her speech, cried, indignantly:
“Quite a cool proceeding on your part, sir, I must say, but I wish you to understand that I am not ready to marry yet.”
“That makes no difference to me, for you will have to obey me, Leola Mead, understand that,” he replied, with rising anger. “You are my ward, and in pursuance of my duty to you, I have accepted a man for your husband who worships the ground you walk upon and will spend money on you like water.”
Leola’s dark eyes blazed with indignation.
“You must surely be mad,” she cried, passionately. “The man I would choose for my husband must ask me for my hand, not you, sir. This is free America, you must remember, not France, where marriages are arranged by old people who have forgotten love and youth. I refuse the suitor you have chosen for me without even hearing his name!”
The old man muttered, sullenly.
“Marriage is the destiny of all young girls. You would not wish to grow into a sour old maid?”