That she seemed indifferent to him was all the more reason for choosing her. It was refreshing to find a girl who required to be won, and did not hold her heart in her hand ready to bestow it for the asking.
It was a gloomy, rainy afternoon in autumn that Esther, sitting alone in the library, was surprised by a call from Mr. Langdon. She was smarting under some hateful words of Sophy's, and thinking drearily that there was not a single person on the earth who cared very much whether she lived or died, when, behold! here came one, offering love, home, an honorable name, everything that a woman's heart could ask.
Ether was amazed. She had believed that Mr. Langdon simply admired her, as he did a score of others. She was too young and unworldly to weigh for a moment the advantages of position offered. He said he loved her, and that was what her heart hungered for. Nobody had told her so since her mother died. The tide of her feelings began to turn. How kind and good he seemed. How could she ever have thought him otherwise? Then she found herself in a whirl of thought. She was so very grateful to him, but how could she marry anybody? Not for a great many years yet, at least. Of course she must marry somebody—an orphan girl like her. Perhaps she was beginning to care for him, for her feelings toward him had changed within a few minutes. Still, it was all so different from what she had thought it would be when that time should come in which somebody brave and true would say these words to her. Was he brave and true? Was he? Oh! If she had not to settle a great question. It frightened her, and she was not glad, as she had dreamed she would be, nor happy as girls in books were; but real life was never quite up to books and stories, and Aunt Maria and Sophy would never forgive her if she refused him, and—and—he said he loved her. What should she say to him, sitting there looking down at her, waiting for her answer? What could she say? "O, mother! What would you have me say?"
She made a lovely picture in the large chair before the fire, its light glancing on her hair, her head leaning on her hand, the face sweet and serious, like a troubled child's, and the eyes almost tearful. Mr. Langdon resolved to have her painted in just that attitude immediately. Her hesitation and long silence did not in the least annoy him; he attributed it to maiden coyness. It almost amused him, he felt so sure of her. It never entered his mind that she could refuse him, or, indeed, that anybody could. And she did not; she promised she would be his wife—when one hour before the thought of such a thing had never come into her heart. So lightly and hastily are lifelong covenants entered into!
Mr. Langdon was ten years older than Esther. He had always fancied that he should choose a wife much younger than himself, it would be so delightful to mould her unformed nature; in short, to make her over to suit himself. So he set himself to the pleasant task at once. He had not tact enough to wait until he had won the right, as he would say.
He was pedantic himself, so he wished his wife to shine in literary society—to be able to discuss all isms and ologies, the merits and demerits of all standard authors, ancient and modern, and quote freely from their works. He brought her books and set her tasks, and made her recite to him as if she were a schoolgirl. If she read aloud, he criticised her elocution. If she played for him with ever so much taste and skill, he found fault with the selection or gave a lecture on style and delicacy of touch. Even the tenderest love ballad did not escape. It was analyzed and measured by square and compass till all the sweetness had gone out of it, and Esther felt vexed at having sung it, or her voice was pronounced to be too sharp, the tones not pure; she must begin at once to take lessons of some excellent master.
Esther bore it all meekly enough at first because of those precious three words he had spoken to her. It was a wonderful, sacred thing, somebody to love her, and she would endure much on that account even though her own heart did not respond as she had striven to make it. And, to tell the truth, she was slowly awakening to the fact that their spirit and aims were so very unlike, that clashing was inevitable. Mr. Langdon was more like a mentor than a lover, and she had an unpleasant consciousness of being managed, and of continually yielding her will to his, even in the matter of a ride, or a walk, or an evening's entertainment, for it was contrary to his rule to do anything, or go anywhere, that was not perfectly convenient and agreeable to himself.
They were not in sympathy on many points. She loved books and study and music for themselves, but scorned the thought of learning anything for the mere sake of displaying it. The pedantic airs Mr. Langdon assumed used to amuse her, now, they mortified her.
There was yet another more important subject on which they differed. Since the day of her first visit, Esther had gone often to see Mrs. Lyman, and it was impossible to come into close contact with her sweet spirit and strong faith without having the religious life quickened and strengthened; so Mr. Langdon's views jarred her more than they would have done a few months previous when she was a formal, worldly Christian. He pronounced many of Esther's opinions to be "mere cant." Some of the hymns she loved were "in very bad taste," "perfect trash," while the convictions of her tender conscience were "superstitions." He assured her that the time would come when, as her mind became more expanded and her tastes elevated, she would appreciate his criticisms.
This was too much, even though it were well seasoned with honeyed words, and Esther's indignant protest warned Mr. Langdon not to be too urgent in this direction. There was a limit even to meekness and forbearance.