Books: Nature\'s Serial Story

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The man of experience smiled in spite of himself at Burt's frank
enthusiasm and naivete. The whole affair was so different from anything
that he had ever looked forward to! Instead of a few formalities between
himself and a wealthy suitor whom his wife, and therefore all the world,
would approve of, here he was listening to a farmer's son, with the
consciousness that he must yield, and not wholly unwilling to do so.
Moreover, this preposterous young man, so far from showing any awe of
him, had almost defied him from the start, and had plainly stated that
the father's wealth was the only objection to the daughter. Having seen
the drift of events, Mr. Hargrove had long since informed himself
thoroughly about the Clifford family, and had been made to feel that the
one fact of his wealth, which Burt regretted, was almost his only claim
to superiority. Burt was as transparent as a mountain brook, and quite as
impetuous. The gray-haired man sighed, and felt that he would give all
his wealth in exchange for such youth. He knew his daughter's heart, and
felt that further parleying was vain, although he foresaw no easy task in
reconciling his wife to the match. He was far from being heartbroken
himself, however, for there was such a touch of nature in Burt, and in
the full, strong love waiting to reward the youth, that his own heart was
stirred, and in the depths of his soul he knew that this was better than
giving his child to a jaded millionaire. "I have money enough for both,"
he thought. "As she said, she is rich enough to follow her heart. It's a
pity if we can't afford an old-fashioned love-match."

Burt was respectfully impatient under Mr. Hargrove's deep thought and
silence.

At last the father arose and gave him his hand, saying: "You have been
honest with me, and that, with an old merchant, counts for a great deal.
I also perceive you love my daughter for herself. If she should ever
inform me that you are essential to her happiness I shall not withhold my
consent."

Burt seized his hand with a grasp that made it ache, as he said, "Every
power I have, sir, shall be exerted that you may never regret this
kindness."

"If you make good that promise, Mr. Clifford, I shall become your friend
should your wooing prove successful. If you will come to the parlor I
will tell Miss Hargrove that you are here."

He went up the stairs slowly, feeling that he was crossing the threshold
of a great change. How many thoughts passed through his mind as he took
those few steps! He saw his child a little black-eyed baby in his arms;
she was running before him trundling her hoop; she came to him with
contracted brow and half-tearful eyes, bringing a knotty sum in
fractions, and insisting petulantly that they were very "vulgar" indeed;
she hung on his arm, a shy girl of fifteen, blushingly conscious of the
admiring eyes that followed her; she stood before him again in her first
radiant beauty as a _debutante_, and he had dreamed of the proudest
alliance that the city could offer; she looked into his eyes, a pale,
earnest woman, and said, "Papa, he saved my life at the risk of his own."
True, true, Mr. Clifford had not spoken of that, and Mr. Hargrove had not
thought of it in the. interview so crowded with considerations. His heart
relented toward the youth as it had not done before. Well, well, since it
was inevitable, he was glad to be the one who should first bring the
tidings of this bold wooer's purpose. "Trurie will never forget this
moment," he mattered, as he knocked at her door, "nor my part in her
little drama." O love, how it craves even the crumbs that fall from the
table of its idol!

"Trurie," he began, as he entered, "you had better dress. Bless me, I
thought you were packing!"

"I--I was."

"You were expecting some one?"

"Mr. Clifford said he would call--to bid me good-by, I suppose."

"Was that all you supposed, Trurie?"

"Indeed, papa, I told him I was going to town to-morrow, and he asked if
he might call."

"Did he speak of his object?"

"No, papa. I'm sure it's quite natural he should call, and I have been
packing."

"Well, I can assure you that he has a very definite object. He has asked
me if he might pay his addresses to you, and in the same breath assured
me that he would in any event."

"Oh, papa," she said, hiding her face on his shoulder, "he was not so
unmannerly as that!"

"Indeed, he went much further, declaring that he would take no refusal
from you, either; or, rather, that he would take it so often as to wear
out your patience, and secure you by proving that resistance was useless.
He had one decided fault to find with you, also. He much regrets that you
have wealth."

"Oh, papa, tell me what he did say;" and he felt her heart fluttering
against his side like that of a frightened bird.

"Why, Trurie, men have offered you love before."

"But I never loved before, nor knew what it meant," she whispered.
"Please don't keep me in suspense. This is all so strange, so sacred to
me."

"Well, Trurie, I hope your match may be one of those that are made in
heaven. Your mother will think it anything but worldly wise. However, I
will reconcile her to it, and I'm glad to be the one with whom you will
associate this day. Long after I am gone it may remind you how dear your
happiness was to me, and that I was willing to give up my way for yours.
Mr. Clifford has been straightforward and manly, if not conventional, and
I've told him that if he could win you and would keep his promise to do
his best for you and by you, I would be his friend, and that, you know,
means much. Of course, it all depends upon whether you accept him. You
are not committed in the least."

"Am I not, papa? Here is an organ"--with her hand upon her heart--"that
knows better. But I shall not throw myself at him. Must I go down now?"

"Oh, no, I can excuse you," he said, with smiling lips but moist eyes.

"Dear papa, I will, indeed, associate you with this hour and every
pleasant thing in life. You will find that you have won me anew instead
of losing me;" and looking back at him with her old filial love shining
in her eyes, she went slowly away to meet the future under the sweet
constraint of Nature's highest law.

If Burt had been impatient in the library, he grew almost desperate in
the parlor. Horrible doubts and fears crossed his mind. Might not Miss
Hargrove's pride rise in arms against him? Might she not even now be
telling her father of his fickleness, and declaring that she would not
listen to a "twice-told tale"? Every moment of delay seemed ominous, and
many moments passed. The house grew sepulchral in its silence, and the
wind without sighed and moaned as if Nature foreboded and pitied him in
view of the overwhelming misfortune impending. At last he sprang up and
paced the room in his deep perturbation. As he turned toward the entrance
he saw framed in the doorway a picture that appeared like a radiant
vision. Miss Hargrove stood there, looking at him so intently that, for a
second or two, he stood spell-bound. She was dressed in some white,
clinging material, and, with her brilliant eyes, appeared in the
uncertain light too beautiful and wraith-like to be human. She saw her
advantage, and took the initiative instantly. "Mr. Clifford," she
exclaimed, "do I seem an apparition?"

"Yes, you do," he replied, coming impetuously toward her. She held out
her hand, proposing that their interview should at least begin at arm's
length. Nevertheless, the soft fire in his eyes and the flush on his
handsome face made her tremble with a delicious apprehension. Even while
at a loss to know just how to manage the preliminaries for a decorous
yielding, she exulted over the flame-like spirit of her lover.

"Ah, Mr. Clifford," she cried, "you ought to know that you are not
crushing a ghost's hand."

"Pardon me. What I meant was that I thought I had seen you before, but
you are a new revelation every time I see you."

"I can't interpret visions."

"Please don't say that, for I must ask you to interpret one to-night.
What does Shakespeare say about those who have power? I hope you will use
yours mercifully. Oh, Miss Hargrove, you are so beautiful that I believe
I should lose my reason if you sent me away without hope."

"Mr. Clifford, you are talking wildly," was her faint response.

"I fear I am. I am almost desperate from fear, for I have a terribly hard
duty to perform."

"Indeed!" she said, withdrawing her hand, which he relinquished most
reluctantly, dreading that he might never receive it again.

"Do not assume that attitude, Miss Hargrove, or I shall lose courage
utterly."

"Truly, Mr. Clifford," she said, a little satirically, seating herself on
a sofa, "I never imagined you deficient in courage. Is it a terrible duty
to entertain me for a half-hour, and say good-by?"

"Yes. Nothing could be worse than that, if that were all;" and he looked
at her appealingly and in such perplexed distress that she laughed
outright.

"I am very much in earnest, Miss Hargrove."

"You are very enigmatical, Mr. Clifford. Must I be present while you
perform this terrible duty?"

"I think you know what I must confess already, and have a world of scorn
in store for me. Do not judge me harshly. Whatever the end may be, and my
sense of ill-desert is heavy indeed, I shall begin on the basis of
absolute truth. You shall know the worst. I've asked your father for the
privilege of winning your love;" and then he hesitated, not knowing how
to go on.

"Is that the worst?" she asked, demurely.

"No, I fear it will be the best, for he kindly gave his consent, and I
know it would be hard for him to do as much for any man, much more so for
one not wholly to his mind. Miss Hargrove, I must appear awkwardness and
incoherency personified. I hardly know how to go on. I shall appear to
you fickle and unmanly. How can I excuse myself to you when I have no
excuse except the downright truth that I love you better than my life,
better than my own soul, better than all the world and everything in it.
I never knew what love was until you became unconscious in my arms on the
mountain. Forgive me for referring to it. I'm only trying to explain
myself; and yet I had thought that I knew, and had spoken words of love
to your friend, Amy Winfield, who is worthy of the love of the best and
noblest man that ever breathed. She did not welcome my words--they only
wounded her--and she has never eared for me except as a true and gentle
sister cares. But I promised to wait till she did care. I can't keep that
promise. You fascinated me from the first hour of our meeting. I feel now
that I cherished an unworthy purpose toward you. I thought that, by
attentions to you, I could make Amy care; I thought that you were but a
brilliant society girl; but every hour I spent with you increased my
admiration, my respect; I saw that you were better and stronger than I
was. On the first day we went into camp on the mountain I saw whither my
heart was leading me, and from that hour until to-day I have tried to
conquer my love, feeling that I had no right to give it, that you would
despise it if I did. You can't have any confidence in me now. All my hope
is that you will give me a chance to prove that I am not a fickle wretch.
I will accept of any probation, I will submit to any terms. I can't take
an absolute refusal now, for I feel you are seeing me at my worst, and I
know that you could do with me anything you pleased."

Her head bowed lower and lower as he poured out these words like a
torrent. "Does Amy--have you told her that you cannot keep your promise
to her?" she faltered, in a low tone.

"Oh, yes, I told her so a few hours ago--since I met you this afternoon.
I was going away to the West, like a coward, to escape from my dilemma,
for I felt you would never listen to me after you knew that I had broken
my word to Amy. I feared that I had already become a by-word between you
for all that was weak and fickle. But after I saw you I could not go till
I spoke. I determined to reveal the whole truth, and if you ever gave me
a chance to retrieve myself, gratitude would be no name for my deep
feeling._

"Did--did Amy release you?"

"Yes, she was kindness itself. She told me in good plain English that she
wanted neither me nor my promise; that she didn't think that she ever
could have loved me, no matter how long I might have waited. But I could
not look into your clear eyes and say, 'I love you,' and know that you
might learn from her or any one that I had said this before. If you won't
trust me, having had the whole truth, then I must bear my hard fate as
best I can."

"How long would you be willing to wait for me?" she asked, in tones so
low that he could scarcely catch the words.

He bounded to her side, and took her unresisting hand. "Oh, Gertrude," he
pleaded, "prove me, give me a chance, let me show that I am not without
manhood and constancy. Believe me, I know the priceless gift I'm asking,
but what else can I do? I have tried for weeks to conquer the feeling you
have inspired, tried with all the help that pride and sense of duty and
honor could give, but it has been utterly useless. I now am free; I have
the right to speak. I have concealed nothing from you. I'm wholly at your
mercy."

At last she raised her downcast eyes and averted face to his, and for a
moment he was dazed at their expression. In tones sweet, low, and deep
with her strong emotion, she said, "Burt, how glad I am that you men are
blind! I found out that I loved you before we went to our mountain camp."
She sprang up and gave him her other hand as she continued: "Can love
impose such hard conditions as you suggest--months of doubtful waiting
for one who risked his life for me without a second's hesitation? That is
not my nature, Burt. If I have power over you, I shall show it in another
way."

She would never forget his look as he listened to these words, nor his
humility as he lowered his head upon her shoulder, and murmured, "I am
not worthy of this." It touched the deepest and tenderest chord in her
heart. His feeling was not the exultation of success, but a gratitude too
deep for words, and a half-conscious appeal that she would use her
woman's power to evoke a better manhood. It was not mere acknowledgment
of her beauty, or the impulse of his passion; it was homage to the best
and noblest part of her nature, the expression of his absolute trust.
Never had she received such a tribute, and she valued it more than if
Burt had laid untold wealth at her feet.

A great joy is often as sobering as a great sorrow, and they talked long
and earnestly together. Gertrude would not become engaged until she had
told her mother, and shown her the respect that was her due. "You must
not be resentful," the young girl said, "if mamma's consent is not easily
won. She has set her heart on an establishment in town, I've set my heart
on you; so there we differ, and you must give me time to reconcile her to
a different programme."

The clock on the mantel chimed eleven, and Burt started up, aghast at the
flight of time. Gertrude stole to her father's library, and found that he
was pacing the floor. "I should not have left him alone so long
to-night," she thought, with compunction. "Papa," she said, "Mr. Clifford
is going. Will you not come and speak to him?"

He looked into his daughter's flushed, happy face, and needed no further
explanation, and with her hands on his arm he went to the drawing-room.
Burt said but few and very simple words, and the keen judge of men liked
him beter than if he had been more exuberant. There was evidence of
downright earnestness now that seemed a revelation of a new trait.

"You spoke of going to the West soon," Mr. Hargrove remarked, as they
lingered in parting. "Have you any objection to telling me of your
purpose?"

Burt explained. Mr. Hargrove's face soon expressed unusual interest. "I
must talk with you further about this," he said. "I have land in the same
locality, and also an interest in the railroad to which you refer.
Perhaps I can make your journey of mutual service."

"Oh, papa," cried his daughter, "you are my good genius!" for she well
understood what that mutual service meant.

After Burt had gone, Mr. Hargrove said, "Well, well, this Western-land
business puts a new aspect on the affair, and mamma may have little
ground for complaint. It's my impression that the Cliffords will realize
a very respectable fortune out of that land."

"Papa," said the young girl, "Burt gave me something better than wealth
to-night--better even than love, in the usual sense of the word. He gave
me his faith. He acted as if he saw in me the power to help him to be a
true man, and what higher compliment can a woman receive? He did not
express it so much by word as by an unconscious manner, that was so
sincere and unpremeditated that it thrilled my very soul. Oh, papa, you
have helped me to be so very happy!"

CHAPTER LVI

WEBB'S FOUR-LEAVED CLOVER

Webb's silent entrance had not been so quiet but that Burt heard him.
Scarcely had he gained his room before the younger brother knocked, and
followed him in without waiting. "Where have you been at this time of
night?" he exclaimed. "You are infringing on ghostly hours, and are
beginning to look like a ghost;" for Webb had thrown himself into a
chair, and was haggard from the exhaustion of his long conflict. The
light and kindly way in which he answered his brother proved that he was
victor.

"Webb," said Burt, putting his hand on the elder brother's shoulder, "you
saved my life last winter, and life has become of immense value to me. If
you had not found me, I should have missed a happiness that falls to the
lot of few--a happiness of which all your science can never give you, you
old delver, even an idea. I meant to tell mother and father first, but I
feel to-night how much I owe to your brave, patient search, and I want
your congratulations."

"I think you might have told father and mother last night, for I suppose
it's morning now."

"I did not get home in time, and did not wish to excite mother, and spoil
her rest."

"Well, then, you might have come earlier or gone later. Oh, I know all
about it. I'm not blind."

"By Jove! I think not, if you know all about what I didn't know, and
could scarcely believe possible myself, till an hour or two since."

"What on earth are you driving at? I think you might have stayed at home
with Amy to-night, of all times. An accident, Burt, revealed to me your
success, and I do congratulate you most sincerely. You have now the
truest and loveliest girl in the world."

"That's true, but what possible accident could have revealed the fact to
you?"

"Don't think I was spying upon you. From the top of a ladder in the
orchard I saw, as the result of a casual glance, your reward to Amy for
words that must have been very satisfactory."

Burt began to laugh as if he could not control himself. "What a surprise
I have for you all!" he said. "I went where I did last night with Amy's
full knowledge and consent. She never cared a rap for me, but the only
other girl in the world who is her equal does, and her name is Gertrude
Hargrove."

Webb gave a great start, and sank into a chair.

"Don't be so taken aback, old fellow. I suppose you and the rest had set
your hearts on my marrying Amy. You have only to follow Amy's example,
and give me your blessing. Yes, you saw me give Amy a very grateful and
affectionate greeting last evening. She's the dearest little sister that
ever a man had, and that's all she ever wanted to be to me. I felt
infernally mean when I came to her yesterday, for I was in an awkward
strait. I had promised to wait for her till she did care, but she told me
that there was no use in waiting, and I don't believe there would have
been. She would have seen some one in the future who would awaken a very
different feeling from any that I could inspire, and then, if she had
promised herself to me, she would have been in the same predicament that
I was. She is the best and most sensible little girl that ever breathed,
and feels toward me just as she does toward you, only she very justly
thinks you have forgotten more than lever knew. As for Gertrude--Hang it
all! what's the use of trying to explain? You'll say I'm at my old
tricks, but I'm not. You've seen how circumstances have brought us
together, and I tell you my eye and heart are filled now for all time.
She will be over to-morrow, and I want her to receive the greeting she
deserves."

The affair seemed of such tremendous importance to Burt that he was not
in the least surprised that Webb was deeply moved, and fortunately he
talked long enough to give his brother time to regain his self-control.
Webb did congratulate him in a way that was entirely satisfactory, and
then bundled him out of the room in the most summary manner, saying,
"Because you are a hare-brained lover, you shouldn't keep sane people
awake any longer." It were hard to say, however, who was the less sane
that night, Webb or Burt. The former threw open his window, and gazed at
the moonlit mountains in long, deep ecstasy. Unlike Burt's, his more
intense feeling would find quiet expression. All he knew was that there
was a chance for him--that he had the right to put forth the best effort
of which he was capable--and he thanked God for that. At the same time he
remembered Amy's parable of the rose. He would woo as warily as
earnestly. With Burt's experience before his eyes, he would never stun
her with sudden and violent declarations. His love, like sunshine, would
seek to develop the flower of her love.

He was up and out in the October dawn, too happy and excited for sleep.
His weariness was gone; his sinews seemed braced with steel as he strode
to a lofty eminence. No hue on the richly tinted leaves nor on the rival
chrysanthemums was brighter than his hope, and the cool, pure air, in
which there was as yet no frostiness, was like exhilarating wine. From
the height he looked down on his home, the loved casket of the more
dearly prized jewel. He viewed the broad acres on which he had toiled,
remembering with a dull wonder that once he had been satisfied with their
material products. Now there was a glamour upon them, and upon all the
landscape. The river gleamed and sparkled; the mountains flamed like the
plumage of some tropical bird. The world was transfigured. The earth and
his old materiality became the foundation-stones on which his awakened
mind, kindled and made poetic, should rear an airy, yet enduring,
structure of beauty, consecrated to Amy. He had loved nature before, but
it had been to him like a palace in which, as a dull serving-man, he had
employed himself in caring for its furniture and the frames of its
paintings. But he had been touched by a magic wand, and within the frames
glowed ever-changing pictures, and the furniture was seen to be the work
of divine art. The palace was no longer empty, but enshrined a living
presence, a lovely embodiment of Nature's purest and best manifestation.
The development of no flower in all the past summer was so clear to him
as that of the girl he loved. He felt as if he had known her thoughts
from childhood. Her young womanhood was like that of the roses he had
shown to her in the dewy June dawn that seemed so long ago. Burt had
never touched her heart. It was still like a bud of his favorite
mossrose, wrapped in its green calyx. Oh, what a wealth of fragrant
beauty would be revealed! Now it might be revealed to him. But she should
waken in her own time; and if he had not the power to impart the deep,
subtile impulse, then that nearest to her, Nature, should be his bride.

They were all at the breakfast-table when he returned, and this plotter
against Amy's peace entered and greeted her with a very quiet
"Good-morning," but he laid beside her plate a four-leaved clover which
he had espied on his way back.

"Thanks, Webb," she said, with eyes full of merriment; "I foresee an
amazing amount of good luck in this little emblem. Indeed, I feel sure
that startling proofs of it will occur to-day;" and she looked
significantly at Burt, who laughed very consciously.

"What mischief has Burt been up to, Amy?" Mrs. Clifford asked. "He was
ready to explode with suppressed something last evening at supper, and
now he is effervescing in somewhat different style, but quite as
remarkably. You boys needn't think you can hide anything from mother very
long; she knows you too well."

Both Webb and Burt, with Amy, began to laugh, and they looked at each
other as if there were a good deal that mother did not know.

"Webb and Amy have evidently some joke on Burt," remarked Leonard. "Webb
was out last night, and I bet a pippin he caught Burt flirting with Miss
Hargrove."

"Oh, Burt!" cried Amy, in mock indignation.

"Nonsense!" said his mother. "Burt is going to settle down now and be
steady. We'll make him sign a pledge before he goes West, won't we, Amy?"

"Yes, indeed," gasped Amy, almost beside herself with merriment; "he'll
have to sign one in big capitals."

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