"Oh, certainly!" said the young man, with considerable confusion. "Well, to tell you the truth, Colonel, they are very strongly averse to it. I considered it my duty to let them know what I intended doing."
"I am very glad you did so," interposed Servosse.
"I told them, and was met with remonstrances and reproaches by my mother, and with more of anger than my father had ever shown towards me before."
"Their objection was what?" sharply.
"I don't know exactly. In the first place, they had made up their minds that I should do otherwise. I knew that before, had known it for years. They had looked forward, and mapped out my life for me, — all in kindness and love I know, — and I am sorry I can not comply with their wishes. I told them that I could not, and that I must be the judge of my own happiness."
"And then?" as the young man paused.
"Well," said he apologetically, "there was as much of a scene as there ever is in my father's house. He told me that if I persisted in ruining my prospects I might take the responsibility. And my mother, — well, sir, you must excuse her: she was much disappointed, but it will not last, — she said that if I must marry a Yankee girl I need not bring her there."
"In other words, your parents object to an alliance with my family because we are of Northern birth," said the Fool.
"Not exactly: not so much because you are Northerners, as because you are not Southerners, — are strangers so to speak; not of us, nor imbued with our feelings; speaking our language, but not thinking our thoughts. Then, too, you know, Colonel, there has been much political bitterness, and very harsh things have been said; and there is among the people — I mean those who constitute our best society — a strange sort of prejudice against you, which naturally extends, in some measure, to your family."
"Was there any other objection urged?"
"None."
"And what did you say to this?"
"Only what I said years ago, when I first realized the strength of my attachment: 'I will woo and win Lily Servosse for my wife if I can.'"
"And you are still so disposed?"
"Most assuredly."
There was silence between them for a time, and then Servosse said, —
"Your conduct in this whole matter has been most honorable, Mr. Gurney; and, so far as you are personally concerned, you are entirely unobjectionable to me. What may be my daughter's opinion, I have no means of knowing. I have hardly yet accustomed myself to recognize the possibility of such an event as her marriage. She is lively and sociable, and for a few years past has had considerable society of a general sort, but, so far as I am aware, has never before been thought of as marriageable, nor do I think the idea has once entered her own mind.
"I will not conceal from you, Mr. Gurney, that I wish it had not occurred to you. I think your parents' objections are wise and weighty. I do not put it upon the ground of restraint or duty; but I think they correctly estimate the difference of surroundings, habits of thought, and all those things which enter so largely into the make-up of human life, and which youth and passion often fail to consider. I think it would be better for you to wed a daughter of your own people, and better for her to take a husband whose ideas are more in harmony with those to which she has been accustomed. I know these also to be, even more decidedly, the views of my wife. I suppose she would feel almost as badly at her daughter's marrying a Southern man as your mother does at the prospect of a Northern daughter-in-law, or perhaps worse.
"Notwithstanding these views, I admit that it is entirely a question of your mutual happiness, which no one can determine but yourselves. I have the utmost confidence in Lily's judgment and sincerity. I would not have her accept or reject your proposal hastily. It is not the case of two young people who have grown up together, each knowing the other's faults, understanding their mental and moral natures. You are almost strangers.
"Oh, I know!" he continued, responsively to a shake of the young man's head, "Love has wings, and makes swift journeys and instant discoveries; but it will do no harm to have his reports confirmed by reason and quiet observation. I shall do nothing to influence her decision, unless she asks my advice; in which case I shall tell her, as near as may be, what I have told you.
"You have my leave to pay your addresses; and, if I can not wish you success in your wooing, I hope you understand that I will throw no obstacle in your way, and, should you succeed, will do all in my power to render happy the result. I hope that my frankness will induce a like candor upon your part with my daughter. I need hardly tell you that you will find her more ripened and developed in mind and character than her years would lead a stranger to expect."
The two men shook hands, and Melville inquired if he could see Miss Lily. Upon inquiry, it was found that she had just started to ride upon "the three-o'clock road" towards Verdenton, — a road so denominated because it lay through the woods, and, even at that most oppressive hour of the day, the sun did not once beat upon the traveler in the five miles which it extended.
"She has Young Lollard," the father said, as he returned from the house; "but she is too good a horsewoman to ride fast at the beginning, and in this heat. You will probably overtake her before she reaches the town, and you can take your own time on the return. By the way," he added, "I spoke briefly to my wife of your errand, and she fully approves what I have said to you."
The young man thanked him again, sprang on his horse, and dashed off in the direction indicated.
Half way to the town, Lily was passing through a shady bottom, when the clatter of a horse's hoofs behind her attracted her attention, and, turning, she saw a man approaching at full speed, mounted on a powerful gray horse. At the first glance she recognized the horse as that ridden by the messenger who had brought the warning of her father's peril. During all the time that had since elapsed, she had never forgotten the horse or the rider, and had always been on the watch for them, in order that she might testify her gratitude. The memory this discovery evoked so startled and overwhelmed her, that she quite forgot to notice the rider, until Melville Gurney drew up at her side, and, doffing his hat, said cheerily, —
"Good-evening, Miss Lily!" And then, noticing her pallor and confusion, he added, "Pardon me: I hope I did not startle you. It was very thoughtless in me to ride up at that gait; and, indeed, I would not have done so, had I not known your skill as a horsewoman."
"Oh!" she said confusedly, "it was not you, but your horse."
"Of course," he replied, laughing heartily. "That is what I supposed; and it was for my horse I was apologizing."
"But I did not mean that," she said, blushing prettily, and laughing too. "I thought I recognized your horse; and it startled me to see him again."
"Ah! you are a close observer of horses," he said pleasantly. "When and where did you think you had seen him? He is a somewhat notable horse."
"Very! One could hardly fail to remember him. Does he belong to you, Mr. Gurney?"
"What, Reveillé?" he asked, with an amused smile. "No, indeed! He is my father's favorite saddle-horse. Never had a harness on; and I don't suppose any one ever backed him but Pa, myself, and Brother Jimmie."
"A younger brother?" she asked innocently.
"Yes, ten years younger."
"Is he like you?"
"No, lighter. Almost as blonde as you."
"How long has your father owned Reveillé?"
"Raised him from a foal. He is almost as fond of horses as your father, Miss Lily."
"Indeed!" And she thought with a strange pleasure, "And your father saved my father's life." Then it occurred to her that possibly it might have been the act of the man who rode beside her: she would find out. So she said, with burning cheeks and an arch emphasis, —
"You were not so well mounted when we rode together last, Mr. Gurney."
"No, indeed. Pa had Reveillé with him in another county when I left home the day before."
"For which fact it behooves me to be duly grateful, I do not doubt, Mr. Gurne
y," she said lightly.
"Reveillé could have pushed Young Lollard closer than the black mare did," he answered, with significant emphasis. Something in his tone made her heart beat with strange apprehension. To change the subject, she said desperately, eyeing the horse critically as she spoke, —
"I think I have seen that horse at Warrington."
"I am sure he was never there until to-day," he answered.
"You came by there, then?" she asked, because she could think of nothing else to say. The strange prescience of her woman's heart told her that her hour had come; and, like a moth about a candle, it seemed that she but fluttered nearer to her doom with every weak attempt to avoid it.
"My business was with your father," he replied.
She looked up quickly, as if surprised, and met his eyes flaming down into her own the question which his tremulous lips were trying to syllable forth. The terror of maiden love in its last effort at concealment took hold upon her. She would have given worlds to avert the utterance of words which she knew would come, which her bounding heart was clamorous to reward. The horses were walking slowly, side by side, in the cool shadows. He reached across, and took her bridle-hand in his, and stopped them both. She did not resist. She wished she had not submitted. She could not lift her eyes from her horse's mane. Then came one last struggle of maidenly reserve. As is always the case, it was one of those stupid blunders which throw down the last defense, and leave the fluttering, tender heart at the mercy of the relentless assailant.
"O Mr. Gurney," she cried, in feverish desperation, "I have never had a chance before to beg your forgiveness for what I did that night! I am sure I am very sorry."
"And I am very glad to hear you say so," he said exultantly.
"Why?" She looked up in wonder at his apparent rudeness; but her eyes fell again, as he replied, —
"Because your sorrow for the past will incline you to be merciful in the future. If you are sorry for having broken my arm, how would you feel if you should break my heart?"
Her head sank lower. The two thorough-breds were amicably making acquaintance, regardless of the little drama which was being enacted by their riders.
"Lily," — his head was bent very low, and the word thrilled her heart like the low music of an unseen waterfall, — "Lily, I asked your father to allow me to seek your love; and he sent me to learn my fate from your lips. What shall it be, Lily? Will you be mine?"
"O Melville! I mean, Mr." — she stammered hastily.
His arm was about her waist. She was half drawn from her saddle, and bearded lips took tribute of her trembling mouth, and eyes glowing with impassioned lovelight looked down into hers, before she could protest. One instant she yielded herself to the intoxication of young love. Then there came a chilling fear, and she asked, with shuddering premonition, —
"But your father, your parents, Mr. Gurney, — do they know what you are — what you wish?"
"Yes."
"And do they — do they — approve?" hesitatingly.
"What matters that, darling? Your father does not object, and I am of age," he answered, with something of defiance.
She freed herself at once from his embrace, and sat erect and queenly in her saddle. He regarded her changed demeanor with something of apprehension; but he said lightly, —
"You have not given me my answer yet, Lily: What shall it be? Will you break my heart as well as my arm?"
She looked frankly and unflinchingly into his eyes, and laid her hand softly but firmly on his arm, as she replied in a calm, even tone, —
"Melville — Mr. Gurney, there can be no thought of — of what you wish, between us, so long as your father is opposed to the course you have taken."
"But, Lily — Miss Servosse, you surely do not, you can not, mean what you have said!" he cried, in an agony of surprise and pain.
She merely turned, and looked into his eyes again, and made no more reply. He knew then that she would adhere to her resolution until death, if there were any need to do so. An icy chill went through his frame. The joy seemed frozen out of his countenance, and only a sad, hopeless hunger remained. After a moment, he said huskily, —
"Will you tell me why, Lily?"
"I can not, Melville," she answered. A little hope shot up in his heart.
"I have waited a long time, Lily. I have tried in vain to remove my father's objection. Is my duty alone to him, and for ever?"
"It is not your duty, Mr. Gurney, it is mine, that impels me to say what I have."
"Your duty? How can that be? What duty do you owe my father?"
"I can not tell you."
"Is it your duty, as you say, because you think I have failed in mine?"
"Not at all."
The horses had become impatient, and began to walk on.
"And you mean this to be final?" he asked half querulously.
She drew rein, and looked him full in the eye again.
"Melville Gurney," she said, "you know what I dared for my father. I would dare even more for your sake; but I can not yield to your request, because your father objects, and because — because I love my father!"
"Because you love your father? I can not understand. He has not objected."
"So I am aware."
"You are pleased to deal in riddles."
"I am sorry."
They rode on a little way in silence. Then he stopped his horse, and, raising his hat, said coolly, —
"I will bid you good-evening, Miss Lily."
Tears stood in her eyes as she leaned towards him, and laid her hand upon his arm, and said, —
"Do not, Melville. You must not be angry with me. I am sure I am doing right, but I can not explain. Let us go back to Warrington. Be patient. All will be well; and some time, I am sure, you will approve my course."
How beautiful she looked as she pleaded for kindness! But her beauty only inflamed his anger. He seized her fiercely by the arm. She did not shrink, though his grip was like steel, and he knew that the slender arm would bear the marks of his violence for many a day.
"Lily Servosse," He said passionately, "listen to me! You must — you shall be mine! I swear that I will never wed any one but you!"
"I will take that oath with you, Melville Gurney," she replied seriously, "and seal it with a kiss."
She lifted up her face, and he pressed a kiss upon her proffered lips.
"And now," she said gayly, as she wheeled her horse, "for a gallop back to Warrington!"
When they came in sight of her home she drew rein, and he asked anxiously, —
"When shall I see you again?"
"When your father sends you to me," she answered gayly.
They said "good-evening" at the gate, and she watched him through her tears as he rode away. She saw her father standing at his library-door as she turned, and dashing up to him she leaped into his arms, and was borne into the library. With her head hidden in his breast she told him all, and more than she had told her lover.
"Did I not do right, dear Papa?" she asked, when the story was completed.
"God knows, my daughter!" he replied, solemnly; and his tears fell upon her blushing, upturned face as he kissed her, but his own was lighted up with a rapturous joy, which was an abundant answer.
Then he took her in his arms, and carried her up the steps of the great house (thinking the meanwhile of the romping girl whom he had first borne thither a dozen years before, to the room where the still fair mother sat, and, placing one upon either knee, repeated the story to her.
The setting sun looked in, and kissed their mingling tears with golden light.
"Well," said General Gurney, with a tinge of sarcasm, when he met his son the next morning, "I suppose you accomplished your errand?"
"I saw Miss Lily Servosse," was the terse reply.
"And offered her your heart and hand?" mockingly.
"I certainly did," was the emphatic answer.
"And was accepted with thanks, no doubt." The sneer was intense by th
is time. "Really I" —
"Stop!" said the son, turning on him a brow as haughty as his own, and black with suppressed thunder. "You little know whom you are deriding! Do I look like an accepted lover?"
His father looked after him in open-mouthed wonder as he strode away. He felt for the first time, as he did so, that he had fallen back from the foremost place. He was a part of that ever-shrinking Old which the ever-increasing New is perpetually overshadowing. His sight was not dimmed, his arm was unshrunken; but the life which had sprung from his loins was stronger than he. He might be an equal for a time, by the grace of filial love, but no more the guide and helper. All at once he awoke to the fact that the world had moved while he had been sleeping. For the first time he began to doubt his own wisdom.
"Fanny," he said to his wife later in the day, in an incredulous, querulous tone, "can it be that that — that — minx has refused our Melville?"
"So it seems," answered the good lady, about equally astounded at her husband's tone and the fact she announced.
"Confound their Yankee impudence! Just think of a Gurney jilted by a Yankee! It's like them, though, and I am glad of it. It will teach the young fool to look at some of our home girls."
"Don't think that," said the wife, with truer forecast. "Melville will never marry any one else. He told me so himself."
"Oh, he'll get over that."
"Some might; but he will not. I'm almost sorry we opposed him. It seems that, when she found that out, my lady was on her dignity, and would not hear a word more."
"You don't say so!" he exclaimed in surprise. "I declare, I admire her pluck. There must be good blood about her. It will teach the young rascal to despise his parents' wishes. I never expected to think as well of her. She must be a rough, coarse hoyden, from what I learn about her, though, — any thing but a fit wife for Melville!"
"I suppose so," assented the mother, with a sigh.
CHAPTER XLIV
PRIDE OVERMATCHING PRIDE
Table of Contents
FROM the night of her perilous ride, Young Lollard had become the sole and separate property of Lily Servosse. In acknowledgment and remembrance of that act, a decree had gone forth at Warrington that none else should ride the carefully nurtured horse but his young mistress, or such as she might give express permission so to do. As the public interests and duties of the father lessened, the old routine of rambling rides about the country roads was resumed, — the father and daughter becoming almost inseparable companions, the mother, by reason of her added household cares, seldom accompanying them. Sometimes, however, the daughter went alone.
A Fool's Errand & Bricks without Straw Page 35