Lippincott's Magazine of Popular Literature and Science, Volume 15, No. 87, March, 1875

"But I don't love you," she said, trying to withdraw her hand, and the tears coming into her eyes. "I don't love you, and I want to go home." She turned from me to hide her face, looking about at the same time for some way of escape.

"But you will love me by to-morrow," I replied soothingly. "I may ask you again, may I not?" and then she looked so pitiful, with the tears rolling from her frightened eyes and her hand trembling in mine, that I thought I would put my arm around her—to comfort her, you know. "Poor child!" I said, drawing her to me as they do in the theatre, "you don't know your own heart: rest here."

I wish you had seen her!—I wish you had seen her! She drew herself from me quivering with indignation, her eyes% sparkled, and she was in such a rage that she could hardly speak, but after an effort she broke forth in a torrent of words: "I have an utter contempt for you, and I will bear this no longer. You think you are irresistible—that all the girls are in love with you—that your wealth buys you impunity—that your position will excuse your rudeness—and that you can dispense with politeness because your name is Highrank! I would like to box your ears. I despise you and your behavior so thoroughly that were you a hundred times in earnest in asking me to marry you, I would refuse you a hundred times!" Then she rushed past me, and I was so astonished that I did not try to prevent her.

The idea of her refusing me, and in such a manner! No wonder if she should end badly. Mrs. Stunner was right. However, I am glad she did refuse me, for she must certainly be a little wrong in her head. Wonder if her ancestors were insane or anything. She was deuced handsome when she got angry. Never saw a woman angry at me before: something very queer about her. Had a contempt for me, too! Why should she have that? I don't understand it. Said I was conceited—that I thought all the girls would marry me. And so they would, all but herself; and that shows there is something odd about her—not at all like any other woman. Deuced glad she did not take me at my word. Queerest thing! She cried when I put my arm around her: never knew a woman would cry at that before. Little Eva wouldn't. I believe I like tender women best—at one time I thought they were not nice. What a fool I was! What should I do with a wife I could not kiss? I wonder if Blanche will speak to me again? Maybe all this was a dodge, women have so many; but she looked in earnest. I might have frightened her by being so sudden, but why the deuce should women be frightened at proposals, when they pass their lives in trying to get them? So Mrs. Stunner said. Poor birdie!, what a soft hand she has! Maybe some women are modest: I will ask Hardcash about it. She may not have known what she was saying—agitated, and all that sort of thing. I will see how she acts to-night—need not ask her again if she is not civil. Eva will comfort me if I need it. What a sweet voice she had till she got angry! but she was very odd.

I strolled home to the hotel, musing over the adventure of the afternoon. Blanche was a girl who might be included in the star type that I had once sought for: wanted to be worshiped and play the superior. Now that I had found her I was surprised how little I liked that style. Just as if a good-looking fellow like me was a bear or a wild Indian, to be afraid of! I don't see that she would have been any the worse for it if I had kissed her; and wasn't I as respectful as her nearest relation? 'Pon honor I was. A very odd girl. I shall ask Ned Hardcash about it.

CHAPTER IV

I never saw Eva looking better than she did that night. I lounged around the room until I came to her crowd, attached myself there, and did some heavy flirting. I asked her to take a moonlight stroll, but her aunt overheard me and gave her a look, upon which she said the air outside was too cool. I saw the play was to be above-board. Aunt Stunner had taken matters into her own hands, and the game had commenced in earnest. Mr. David Todd, Jr., was there, and Eva paid him a good deal of attention: I did not like it.

Presently she went off to dance with him, and Aunt Stunner sat down by me. Fanning herself energetically, she said in a confidential tone, "Eva is looking sweetly to-night: don't you think so, Mr. Highrank?"

"Miss Eva always looks jolly," I said shortly. I did not want to talk to the old lady.

"Mr. Todd appears to think so too," she went on with a nod and a knowing look at me. Evidently she was playing Todd against Highrank.

"Mr. David Todd, Jr.?" I asked languidly: "he has thirty thousand a year, hasn't he?"

She looked at me sharply for an instant, then smiled and said, "How should I know, dear Mr. Highrank? It is his rare personal merit that pleases me. I own I am happy to see him so attentive to the child for her sake. She is so impulsive and innocent, so likely to fancy a younger, more dashing kind of man"—here she glanced at me—"that I acknowledge I do feel anxious to have her settled happily. Not but that some young men are exceptions," she continued amiably, "and make excellent husbands."

"There are two classes of men," I remarked quietly. "They can be divided into those who make good husbands and those who don't. Wealthy men are the most superior, and are best fitted to fill the situation."

"I agree with you entirely: you are a very sensible young man," enthusiastically replied the old lady, not recognizing the quotation.

We talked on until Eva came back: then I claimed the next waltz, and decided I would carry her off from Todd. I pressed her hand, but she would not respond: it was plain she was obeying orders.

"Won't you walk with me?" I whispered as we were near an open window in a pause of the dance.

"I can't, Charley—indeed I can't," as I tried to draw her outside: "I will explain another time."

"You are very cruel," I continued in the same undertone.

"You don't care if I am," she said a little bitterly.

"As if I do not care when you use me badly! Won't you tell me what is the matter?" I asked tenderly.

"Oh, Mr. Highrank, I am so unhappy!" she whispered.

"Why so, my dear?" No one could help calling Eva "my dear"; besides, we were hidden by the heavy window curtain and no one overheard us.

"I—I—am going to be married," she said.

"It appears to me that ought to make you particularly merry, oughtn't it?"

"But it don't," she answered, sighing.

"Why not, you foolish girl?"

"Oh, everything is so different from what I expected."

"In what way?"

"W-h-y," she answered slowly, "I thought it would be romantic, and that he would ask me in the moonlight."

"Like to-night, for instance?" I said, taking her hand and drawing her through the low window on to the piazza.

"Yes," she replied, "and instead of that—"

Well, instead of that?" I repeated, seeing she paused.

"Instead of that, it was in that old parlor of ours. I have never had a nice time since we took it two weeks ago, odious green place! I detest green furniture; it is so unbecoming," she said pathetically.

"And who is the happy dog—I mean gentleman'—Eva? I may call you Eva, just for this evening yet, mayn't I?"

"I don't care if—if—Oh my! what a name! Charley, did you ever hear such a dreadful name as David?"

"What! old Todd? It isn't old Todd?" I asked, laughing.

"It is very unkind of you to laugh when you know I must marry him."

"I won't laugh," I said, putting her arm in mine and walking down the verandah. "Come, sit on this sofa and tell me all about it."

"Well," she said, half pouting and half crying, "I must marry some one this season—both mamma and auntie say so—and I can't marry Ned."

"Ned Hardcash? You don't mean to say he was spooney on you?"

"Yes he was, but I told him he was too poor."

"You are very reasonable, Eva."

"You need not talk that way. Mamma would not hear of it. I could not let him ask her, for she would have been so angry, and she and auntie would have scolded me; and you don't know how fearfully auntie can abuse one when she begins."

"How did Ned take your answer?"

"Oh, he just went away, and did not care a bit, and I have not seen him since."

"He did not care?" thinking I now had the clew to Ned's savage manner for the week past. "When did it happen?"

"I can't exactly remember: it was soon after we took the parlor. Auntie would not let me invite him there, and he got angry and jealous of Mr. Todd, who was with me all the time, and—"

"But that showed he loved you, don't you think so?"

"Well, perhaps he did a little: he told me if I Would trust him he would not let mamma or auntie scold; but you know that was nonsense. I would like to see any one prevent them if they want to do it. And he hadn't any money, and we should have starved: I told him so. Then he said there was no danger of that: he could manage to keep the wolf from the door. I knew of course that be could easily keep wolves away, for there are none here, and I would not live in that horrid West; but that would not prevent us starving: auntie said we would starve."

"Poor Ned!" I murmured.