Leslie, laughing: “That’s too fine a distinction for me. And you haven’t answered my question.” Blake, gravely: “No, it isn’t monotonous to me; it’s all very good, I think. I’m rather old-fashioned about women; I like everything in their lives to be regular and ordered by old usage.” Leslie: “Then you don’t approve of originality?”
Blake: “I don’t like eccentricity.”
Leslie: “Oh, I do. I should like to do all sorts of odd things, if I dared.”
Blake: “Well, your not daring is a great point. If I had a sister, I should want her to be like all the other girls that are like you.”
Leslie: “You compliment! She couldn’t be like me.”
Blake: “Why?”
Leslie: “Why? Oh, I don’t know.” She hesitates, and then with a quick glance at him: “She would have dark eyes and hair, for one thing.” They both laugh.
Blake: “Was that what you meant to say?” Leslie: “Isn’t it enough to say what you mean, without being obliged to say what you meant?”
Blake: “Half a loaf is better than no bread; beggars mustn’t be choosers.”
Leslie: “Oh, if you put it so meekly as that you humiliate me. I must tell you now: I meant a question.”
Blake: “What is it?”
Leslie: “But I can’t ask it, yet. Not till I’ve got rid of some part of my obligations.”
Blake: “I suppose you mean what I — what happened.”
Leslie: “Yes.”
Blake: “I’m sorry that it happened, then; and I had been feeling rather glad of it, on the whole. I shall hate it if it’s an annoyance to you.”
Leslie: “Oh, — not annoyance, exactly.”
Blake: “What then? Should you like a receipt in full for all gratitude due me?”
Leslie: “I should like to feel that we had done something for you in return.”
Blake: “You can cancel it all by giving me leave to enjoy being just what and where I am.” Leslie, demurely, after a little pause: “Is a broken wrist such a pleasure, then?”
Blake: “I take the broken wrist for what it brings. If it were not for that I should be in New York breaking my heart over some people I’m connected with in business there, and wondering how to push a little invention of mine without their help. Instead of that” ——
Leslie, hastily: “Oh! Invention? Are you an inventor, too, Mr. Blake? Do tell me what it is.”
Blake: “It’s an improved locomotive driving-wheel. But you’d better let me alone about that, Miss Bellingham; I never stop when I get on my driving-wheel. That’s what makes my friends doubtful about it; they don’t see how any brake can check it. They say the Westinghouse airbrake would exhaust the atmosphere of the planet on it without the slightest effect. You see I am rather sanguiue about it.” He laughs nervously.
Leslie: “But what have those New York people to do with it?”
Blake: “Nothing, at present. That’s the worst of it. They were partners of mine, and they got me to come on all the way from Omaha, and then I found out that they had no means to get the thing going.”
Leslie: “Oh! How could they do it?”
Blake: “Well, I used language to that effect myself but they didn’t seem to know; and I ran up here to cool off and think the matter over for a fresh start. You see, if I succeed it will be an everlasting fortune to me; and if I fail, — well, it will be an everlasting misfortune. But I’m not going to fail. There; I’m started! If I went on a moment longer, no power on earth could stop me. I suppose your ‘re not much used to talking about driving-wheels, Miss Bellingham?”
Leslie: “We don’t often speak of them. But they must be very interesting to those that understand them.”
Blake: “I can’t honestly say they are. They ‘re like railroads; they ‘re good to get you there.” Leslie: “Where?”
Blake: “Well, in my case, away from a good deal of drudgery I don’t like, and a life I don’t altogether fancy, and a kind of world I know too well. I should go to Europe, I suppose, if the wheel succeeded. I’ve a curiosity to see what the apple is like on the other side; whether it’s riper or only rottener. And I always believed I should quiet down somewhere, and read all the books I wanted to, and make up for lost time in several ways. I don’t think I should look at any sort of machine for a year.”
Leslie, earnestly: “And would all that happen if you had the money to get the driving-wheel going?”
Blake, with a smile at her earnestness: “I’m not such a driving-wheel fanatic as that. The thing has to he fully tested, and even after it’s tested, the roads may refuse to take hold of it.”
Leslie, confidently: “They can’t — when they see that it’s better.”
Blake: “I wish I could, think so. But roads are human, Miss Bellingham. They prefer a thing that’s just as well to something that’s much better — if it costs much to change.”
Leslie: “Well, then, if you don’t believe the roads will take hold of it, why do you want to test it? Why don’t you give it up at once?” Blake: “It won’t give me up. I do believe in it, you know, and I can’t stop where I am with it. I must go on.”
Leslie: “Yes. I should do just the same. I should never, never give it up. I know you’ll be helped. Mr. Blake, if this wheel” —
Blake: “Really, Miss Bellingham, I feel ashamed for letting you bother yourself so long with that ridiculous wheel. But you wouldn’t stick to the subject: we were talking about you.” Leslie, dreamily: “About me?” Then abruptly: “Mamma will wonder what in the world has become of me.” She rises, and Blake, with an air of slight surprise, follows her example. She leads the way into the parlor, and lingeringly drawing near the piano, she strikes some chords, and as she stands over the instrument, she carelessly plays an air with one hand. Then, without looking up: “Was that the air you were trying to remember?” —
Blake, joyfully: “Oh yes, that’s it; that’s it, at last!”
Leslie, seating herself at the piano and running over the keys again: “I think I can play it for you; it’s rather old-fashioned, now.” She plays and sings, and then rests with her hands on the keys, looking up at Blake where he stands leaning one elbow on the corner of the piano.
Blake: “I’m very much obliged.”
Leslie, laughing: “And I’m very much surprised.”
Blake: “Why?”
Leslie: “I should think the inventor of a driving-wheel would want something a great deal more stirring than this German sentimentality and those languid, melancholy things from Tennyson that you liked.”
Blake: “Ah, that’s just what I don’t want. I’ve got stir enough of my own.”
Leslie: “I wish I could understand you.”
Blake: “Am I such a puzzle? I always thought myself a very simple affair.”
Leslie: “That’s the difficulty. I wish” —
Blake: “What?”
Leslie: “That I could say something wrong in just the right way!”
Blake, laughing: “How do you know it’s wrong?”
Leslie: “It isn’t, if you don’t think so.”
Blake: “I don’t, so far.”
Leslie: “Ah, don’t joke. It’s a very serious matter.”
Blake: “Why should I think it was wrong?”
Leslie: “I don’t know that you will. Mr. Blake” —
Blake: “Well?”
Leslie: “Did you know — If I begin to say something, and feel like stopping before I’ve said it, you won’t ask questions to make me go on?” Very seriously.
Blake, with a smile of joyous amusement, looking down at her as he lounges at the corner of the piano: “I won’t even ask you to begin.” Leslie passes her hand over the edges of the keys, without making them sound; then she drops it into her lap and there clasps it with the other hand, and looks up at Blake.
Leslie:— “Did you know I was rich, Mr.
Blake?”
Blake: “No, Miss Bellingham, I didn’t.” His smile changes from amusem
ent to surprise, and he colors faintly.
Leslie, blushing violently: “Well, I am, — if being rich is having a great deal, more money to do what you please than you know what to do with.” Blake listens with a look of deepening mystification; she hurries desperately on: “I have this money in my own right; it’s what my uncle left me, and I can give it all away if I choose.” She pauses again, as if waiting for Blake to ask her to go on, but he remains loyally silent; his smile has died away, and an embarrassment increases upon both of them. She looks up at him again, and implores: “What will you think of what I’m going to say?”
Blake, breaking into a troubled laugh: “I can’t imagine what you ‘re going to say.”
Leslie: “Don’t laugh! I know you won’t —
O Mr. Blake, you said you liked girls to be just like everybody else, and old-established, and that; and I know this is as eccentric as it can be. It isn’t at all the thing, I know, for a young lady to say to a gentleman; but you ‘re not like the others, and — Oh, it doesn’t seem possible that I should have begun it! It seems perfectly monstrous!
But I know you won’t misinterpret; I must, I must go on, and the bluntest and straightforwardest way will be the best way.” She keeps wistfully scanning Blake’s face as she speaks, but apparently gathers no courage or comfort from it. “Mr. Blake!”
Blake, passively: “Well?”
Leslie, with desperate vehemence: “I want — Oh, what will you think of me! But no, you ‘re too good yourself not to see it in just the right. way. I’m sure that you won’t think it — unladylike — for me to propose such a thing, merely because — because most people wouldn’t do it; but I shall respect your reasons — I shall know you’re right — even if you refuse me; and — O Mr. Blake, I want to go into partnership with you!” Blake, recoiling a pace or two from the corner of the piano, as Leslie rises from the stool and stands confronting him; “To — to — go into” —
Leslie: “Yes, yes! But how dreadfully you take it; and you promised — Oh, I knew you wouldn’t like it! I know it seems dreadfully queer, and not at all delicate. But I thought — I thought — from what you said — You said those people had no money to push your invention, and here I have all this money doing nobody any good — and you’ve done nothing but heap one kindness after another on us — and why shouldn’t you take it, as much as you want, and use it to perfect your driving-wheel? I’m sure I believe in it; and” — She has followed him the pace or two of his withdrawal; but now, at some changing expression of his face, she hesitates, falters, and remains silent and motionless, as if fixed and stricken mute by the sight of some hideous apparition. Then with a wild incredulity: “Oh!” and indignation, “Oh!” and passionate reproach and disappointment, “Oh! How cruel, how shameless, how horrid!” She drops her face into her hands, and sinks upon the piano-stool, throwing her burdened arms upon the keys with a melodious crash.
Blake: “Don’t, don’t! For pity’s sake, don’t, my — Miss Bellingham!” He stands over her in helpless misery and abject self-reproach. “Good heavens, I didn’t — It was all” —
Leslie, springing erect: “Don’t speak to me.
Your presence, your being alive in the same world after that is an insufferable insult! For you to dare! Ah! No woman could say what you thought. No lady” —
Blake: “Wait!” He turns pale, and speaks low and steadily: “You must listen to me now; you must hear what I never dreamt I should dare to say. I loved you! If that had not bewildered me I could not have thought — what was impossible. It was a delusion dearer than life; but I was ashamed of the hope it gave me even while it lasted. Don’t mistake me, Miss Bellingham; I could have died to win your love, but if your words had said what they seemed to say, I would not have taken what they seemed to offer. But that’s past. And now that I have to answer your meaning, I must do it without thanks. You place me in the position of having told my story to hint for your help” —
Leslie, in vehement protest: “Oh, no, no, no! I never dreamt of such a thing! I couldn’t!”
Blake: “Thank you at least for that; and — Good-by!” He bows and moves away toward the door.
Leslie, wildly: “Oh, don’t go, don’t go! What have I done, what shall I do?”
Blake, pausing, and then going abruptly back to her: “You can forgive me, Miss Bellingham; and let everything be as it was.”
Leslie, after a moment of silent anguish: “No, no. That’s impossible. It can never be the same again. It must all end. I can forgive you easily enough; it was nothing; the wrong was all mine. I’ve been cruelly to blame, letting you — go on. Oh, yes, very, very much. But I didn’t know it; and I didn’t mean anything by anything. No, I couldn’t. Good-by. You are right to go. You mustn’t see me any more. I shall never forget your goodness and patience.” Eagerly: “You wouldn’t want me to forget it, would you?” Blake, brokenly: “Whatever you do will be right. God bless you, and good-by.” He takes up her right hand in his left, and raises it to his lips, she trembling, and as he stands holding it Mrs. Bellingham enters with an open letter.
Mrs. Bellingham: “Leslie” —
Leslie, who withdraws her hand, and after a momentary suspense turns unashamed to her mother: “Mr. Blake is going away, mamma” — Mrs. Bellingham faintly acknowledges his parting bow. Leslie watches him go, and then turns away with a suppressed sob.
IV. MRS. MURRAY’S TRIUMPH.
I. MRS. BELLINGHAM AND LESLIE.
Leslie: ““Well, mamma, what will you say to me now?” Without the inspiration of Blake’s presence, she stands drearily confronting her mother in Mrs. Bellingham’s own room, where the latter, seated in her easy-chair, looks up into Leslie’s face.
Mrs. Bellingham: “Nothing, Leslie. I am waiting for you to speak.”
Leslie: “Oh, I can’t speak unless you ask me.” She drops into a chair, and hiding her face in her handkerchief weeps silently. Her mother waits till her passion is spent and she has wiped her tears, and sits mutely staring toward the window.
Mrs. Bellingham: “Is he coming back again, Leslie?”
Leslie: “No.”
Mrs. Bellingham: “Was it necessary that you should let him take leave of you in that way?”
Leslie, sighing: “No, it wasn’t necessary. But —— it was inevitable.”
Mrs. Bellingham: “What had made it inevitable? Remember, Leslie, that you asked me to question you.”
Leslie: “I know it, mamma.”
Mrs. Bellingham: “And you needn’t answer if you don’t like.”
Leslie: “I don’t like, but I will answer, all the same, for you have a right to know. I had been saying something silly to him.”
Mrs. Bellingham, with patient hopelessness: “Yes?”
Leslie: “It seems so, now; but I know that I spoke from a right motive, — a motive that you wouldn’t disapprove of yourself, mamma.”
Mrs. Bellingham: “I’m sure of that, my dear.”
Leslie: “Well, you see — Couldn’t you go on and ask me, mamma?”
Mrs. Bellingham: “I don’t know what to ask, Leslie.”
Leslie: “It’s so hard to tell, without!” Desperately: “Why, you see, mamma, Mr. Blake had told me about a thing he had been inventing, and how some people in New York had promised him money to get it along, — push it, he said, — and when he came on all the way from Omaha, he found that they had no money; and so — and so — I — I offered him some.”
Mrs. Bellingham: “Oh, Leslie!” —
Leslie: “Yes, yes, it seems horrid, now, — perfectly hideous. But I did so long to do something for him because he had done so much for us, and I think he is so modest and noble, and I felt so sorry that he should have been so cruelly deceived. Wasn’t that a good motive, mamma?”
Mrs. Bellingham: “Oh, yes, my poor headlong child! But what a thing for a young lady to propose! I can’t imagine how you could approach the matter.”
Leslie: “That’s the worst of it, — the very worst. Of cours
e, I never could have approached such a thing with any other young man; but I thought there was such a difference between us, don’t you know, in everything, that it would be safe; and I thought it would be better — he would like it better — if there was no beating about the bush; and so I said — I said — that I wanted to go into partnership with him.”
Mrs. Bellingham, with great trouble in her voice, but steadily: “What answer did he make you, Leslie?” —
Leslie: “Oh, I was justly punished for looking down upon him. At first he blushed in a strange sort of way, and then he turned pale and looked grieved and angry, and at last repeated my words in a kind of daze, and I blundered on, and all at once — I saw what he thought I had meant; he thought — Oh dear, dear, — he thought” — she hides her face again, and sobs out the words behind her handkerchief— “that I w-w-anted to — to — to marry him! Oh, how shall I ever endure it? It was a thousand times worse than the tramps, — a thousand times.” Mrs. Bellingham remains silently regarding her daughter, who continues to bemoan herself, and then lifts her tear-stained face: “Don’t you think it was ungratefully, horridly, cruelly vulgar?”
Mrs. Bellingham: “Mr. Blake can’t have the refinement of feeling that you’ve been used to in the gentlemen of your acquaintance; I’m glad that you’ve found that out for yourself, though you’ve had to reach it through such a bitter mortification. If such a man misunderstood you” —
Leslie, indignantly: “Mr. Blake is quite as good as the gentlemen of my acquaintance, mamma; he couldn’t help thinking what he did, I blundered so, and when I flew out at him, and upbraided him for his — ungenerosity, and hurt his feelings all I could, he excused himself in a perfectly satisfactory way. He said” —
Mrs. Bellingham: “ What, Leslie?”
Leslie, with a drooping head: “He said — he used words more refined and considerate than I ever dreamt of — he said he was always thinking of me in that way without knowing it, and hoping against hope, or he could never have misunderstood me in the world. And then he let me know that he wouldn’t have taken me, no matter how much he liked me, if what he thought for only an instant had been true; and he could never have taken my money, for that would have made him seem like begging, by what he had told me. And he talked splendidly, mamma, and he put me down, as I deserved, and he was going away, and I called him back, and we agreed that we must never see each other again; and — and I couldn’t help his kissing my hand.” She puts up her handkerchief and sobs, and there is an interval before her mother speaks in a tone of compassion, yet of relief.
Delphi Complete Works of William Dean Howells Page 1104