The city is not built on the sea-coast, but two or three miles from the shore, its port being Sandridge, with which it is connected by railway. Vessels of all nations crowd the harbor, and the streets are as full of busy life and gay frivolity as those of Havre or Marseilles. The drives in the environs of the city are replete with picturesque beauty—meadows dotted with many—tinted flowers and magnificent forest trees, about which are festooned flowering vines and creepers. Their thick branches are the resort of cockatoos, parrots and paroquets in brilliant plumage, and perhaps most beautiful of all, because most rare, sparrows, not clothed, like ours, in sombre gray, but rejoicing in vestments of green and gold. But brilliancy of plumage is the solitary charm of these feathered beauties, for their voices are harsh and their song a very burlesque on the name of music.
FORECAST
thisCall me by nameCHARLOTTE F. BATES.THE MATCHLESS ONE:
A TALE OF AMERICAN SOCIETY, IN FOUR CHAPTERS
CHAPTER III
I was nearly asleep, though my thoughts were entertaining enough, when again footsteps entered the arbor below. This time the intruder did not pause. A woman's voice humming an air seemed to approach, and in a moment more a swift hand parted the bushes behind me, and Blanche Furnaval appeared. I was very much surprised, but stood up to make way for her, at the same time throwing aside my cigar.
"I beg your pardon," she exclaimed immediately, clearly as much astonished as I: "I did not know any one had found this pretty spot but myself."
"I think I know how to look for pretty things," I replied, gazing at her face, which was glowing from quick walking, though her breath came evenly through her parted lips.
"Do you never tire of making those silly speeches?" she asked, lifting her gray eyes candidly to my face. "Excuse me, you need not answer: I am very brusque. You see I did not expect to find any one here, and consequently left my company manners at home. I am sorry to have disturbed you," she continued, turning to go.
"Let us compare notes, Miss Blanche, and see to whom the rock belongs by right of discovery. Won't you be seated?" I said, making a place for her.
"I came to see the sunset," she replied after a moment's hesitation, "and if it won't incommode you I will stay. Should you not care to talk, please read on: I shall not mind. And won't you light another cigar? I have no objection to cigars in the open air, though I think them disgusting in the house."
"Thank you," I said as she sat down and I took another Havana for the one I had thrown away at her arrival. "Will you relate to me the manner of your discovery? I would rather not read."
"About two weeks ago," she began, looking over the landscape, and not at me, "I was sitting in the arbor below, and I heard Mrs.—well, a lady coming whom, to be sincere with you, I dislike. If I stayed, I knew she would have a long talk with me: if I walked on, she might call me back. I looked about in haste for a hiding-place. The bushes near me appeared as if I might get behind them: I pushed through, saw a little path, which I followed, turned round the base of a hillock, and found two rocks, upon which I raised myself with the help of a sapling. Then, carefully parting the branches, I saw this," waving her small hand that I might see it, but still not looking at me. "The sun was just setting; away down in yonder field the sorrel was as fire in its rays; a catbird was reciting a merry pastoral in the thicket beyond; two goats stood high on a bank, like satyrs guarding the place. You see why I come again."
"I have the right of discovery," I cried gayly: "I made the path and placed the rocks. I claim it, that I may lay it at your feet."
"Do you like it?" she asked, turning to me and laying a slight stress on "you."
"I told you I admired pretty things, and you know, Miss Blanche, I am a bit of a poet."
She smiled: "Ah yes; but do you really admire this?"
"Of course I do—think it dem foine."
She laughed outright—a laugh so gay that I joined her, though I could not tell why. "As for sorrel," I added, "you ought to see The Beauties: the fields are full of it, though the farmers don't seem to admire it much."
"Well, I am very fond of the sorrel," she replied, "with the clover-tops, the seed-globes of dandelion and the daisies by the water: it makes quite a bouquet in yonder field."
I looked at her to see if she was chaffing me: not at all—she was sober as a judge.
"Dem foine! I beg pardon, very nice indeed. How would you like to carry it to the ball this evening?"
"I never take anything to a ball that I care to have appreciated," she answered dryly.
"Aw! That is the reason you won't sing down there: isn't it, now? But, really, they thought it fine the other night—quite clever, I heard some of them say."
"Oh yes," with a weary smile that had a little contempt in it.
"Did that ugly little Italian know very much about singing? You seemed pleased with his admiration."
"That ugly Italian, as you call him, has heard some of the best prima donnas in Europe. He is poor, he is seedy—for his voice left him just as he was on the eve of success—but he was the only person in the room who could tell me that I sang as well as the greatest of them." Her voice quivered as she spoke.
"You are mistaken indeed, Miss Blanche," I said. "Any fellow there would have paid you the same compliment if you had given him a chance; but you were so confoundedly wrapped up in that Italian chap that you would not look at the rest of us."
"I don't care for the compliment," she said, cooling down directly: "I care for the truth. They don't know if I sing well or not."
"Then you only sing to be admired, Miss Furnaval?"
"I don't sing at all," she said, coloring.
"But you should sing."
"Why?" she asked.
"To please—to give pleasure to others."
"I don't care to please any one but myself."
"But that is not right, you know. Now, I try to please everybody."
"Do you always succeed, Mr. Highrank?"
"Yes, always; and though it's tiresome at times, I bear it. Last autumn you never saw anything to compare to it—in the country, you know. But it's my vocation, and I try to live up to it. People do wrong who have talents and do not use them. That is why I blame you, Miss Blanche."
"It is not worth the trouble. I have withdrawn my hand from market, and intend to please myself the remainder of my life."
"From what market? What do you mean?"
"I mean the matrimonial market, of course."
"Why won't you marry? if I may ask."
"It is too much trouble. I won't be a slave to the caprices of the world so that I may be called amiable. Now, if I don't wish to appear in the parlor, I stay in my room; if I don't wish to receive callers, I refuse; if I don't wish to attend a party, I stay at home. I need not visit to keep myself 'before, the public.' I can be as eccentric as I like. When I disagree with a gentleman, I can contradict him; if I do not feel like smiling, I frown; and when I want to walk alone, I go. I can please myself from morning till night, and I enjoy it."
"You like clever fellows, don't you?" I asked, remembering the conversation I had just overheard.
"Yes," she answered, and then speaking decidedly, added, "and I like 'poor devils,' as you call them: they are not so dreadfully conceited as some men are."
"I tell you what," I said—just for the purpose of getting her opinion of myself, you know—"I am a clever fellow: I hope you like me."
She glanced round—I suppose to see if I was in earnest—then turning away said, "Y-e-s, pretty well."
It was rough on a chap, but she looked so sweet as she said it, and sat so very unconscious that I was looking at her, that I thought I would give her a little advice. I could not get it out of my head how Mrs. Stunner said she would end badly, and it seemed a pity for a charming girl such as she was. So I said, persuasively, "Now, don't you go and marry one of those poor chaps, Miss Blanche. You see, you will be regularly unhappy, and all that sort of thing, if you do."
"How do you know?" she asked.
"Oh," I replied, not knowing what to to say for an instant, "I heard it."
"Heard what?" she said, looking at me curiously.
"That you would do it, and would be unhappy."
"A report made to order by those good people whom you want me to take pains to please. 'Tis a method to make a harmless rival of me. Rumor that I am engaged, and to a man beneath me, and of course other gentlemen will not pay me attention. Mean! mean! But no matter," she continued after a moment: "it won't hurt me. I am not engaged, and don't intend to be; and it is nothing new for me to know that the world is not particularly truthful."
"But why not marry? You had better change your mind—indeed you had: I advise you for your good."
"You say I must not select a poor man, and the rich require too much devotion from the ladies. You gentlemen let us take all the trouble to please: you present yourselves, and expect us to fall at your feet.I am waiting for a chevalier who will go the world over to win me—who will consider it an honor if I finally accept him, instead of fancying, that I am honored by his choice."
"I used to have ideas of that kind, but found them false. It is an honor to receive a proposal, you know. Every one thinks so, else they would not tell of it and brag as they do. By being so unlike the rest of the world you will end badly—indeed you will, Miss Blanche."
"Look for a moment at the case as I put it. A man asks me to marry him: he likes me—thinks I shall make him a good wife. He woos me to please himself, not to please me, and you think I should be grateful because his vanity prompts him to believe that I am highly honored. But this is only one of the many fallacies which people adopt without question. It is good for a man to be refused several times: it takes some little conceit out of him, and makes him more humble and nice for the poor woman who is ultimately to be his wife. I am convinced that there is no gentleman who makes his first proposal that has a doubt of his being accepted. Now, is there?" she asked, appealing to me.
"Well, you are about right. Women are not so particular about making a choice, you know. It isn't so hard for them to find, somebody that suits. I suppose I should be accepted by any girl I might ask. Frankly, now," I said, wishing to give her a poser, "wouldn't you accept me?"
"Frankly," she replied, taking my own tone, "I would not."
"And why not?" I asked.
"There would be too many young ladies made unhappy through losing you," she answered banteringly.
"But you know I should not care for that: I can't marry them all."
"You told me you thought it your duty to please everybody."
"Come, now, think of it, and tell the real truth: you know if I marry it would have to be but one girl."
"You might go to Utah."
"You won't answer. Silence gives consent, don't it?" I said in a tone of triumph.
"Do you really want me to answer your question?" she asked, looking at me queerly.
"By Jove!" I thought, "it's coming now. I've pushed it too far—never thought what I was doing: she will certainly accept me, and I cannot retract." It took me but a moment to see my danger and to make up my mind. A gentleman will always sustain his word. My voice was shaking a little from the greatness of the resolution I had made, but I managed to say pretty steadily, "Of course I do." It was so very sudden, you know. I felt I should be an engaged man in five minutes more.
"You are awfully funny," she exclaimed after quite a pause.
"I believe I am considered witty," I replied, hardly knowing what I said: I tell you, that sort of thing makes a man confoundedly nervous.
Then she began laughing, and I thought she, would never stop. I did not feel like laughing, so I just sat and looked at her.
"Oh my! oh my!" she gasped, trying to control herself, "why didn't you say No? You never intended to ask me at all. It is the funniest thing I ever heard of. Oh my! I shall die of laughing. I think you will 'end badly' if you go on so," she said, quoting what I had repeated. "What induced you to act in this manner?"
I saw that she had found me out and thought I was a fool. This provoked me, and I replied, rather warmly, pretending I did not know what she meant, "It appears to me an odd manner you have of receiving an offer, Miss Blanche. I think you should at least treat me with politeness."
She became serious in a moment when she saw I was hurt, and did not lose her good-temper at my rude speech, but said pleasantly, "You are not fond of being teased, Mr. Highrank. Never mind: I don't intend to take advantage of your blunder, nor keep you long in suspense. Go "—and she smiled as if she really could not help it—"go, and be sensible in future."
"You mean that you won't marry me?" I asked.
"Don't talk of that: let us pretend we were in fun—as of course we were—and let me thank you for a very agreeable afternoon."
I declare she looked so bewitching as she spoke that I wished she had thought me in earnest and accepted me. It was real good in her, giving a fellow a second chance when she might have snapped him up directly. I think girls ought to give a man two chances, but they seldom do. Many a poor soul repents the moment the words are spoken, but he can't help himself. Generally, when 'tis done 'tis done.
She made a motion to rise: I could not permit her to go without an explanation. She had been so generous, and she was so beautiful, that I began to desire quite earnestly that she would be my wife, and that we could settle down at The Beauties together: she would like the sorrel at any rate. Perhaps Fortune had sent her to me this very afternoon, and I ought not to let the opportunity slip, but ask her seriously before she left. Of course she would accept me if she knew I was in earnest. She was too delicate to take advantage of a mistake—mighty few girls so particular. The more I entertained the idea, the more I liked it, so I resolved to speak. I fancied that she was a little cool in her manner: possibly she thought I ought not have jested on such a subject, but I would make it all right now. I was sitting on a stone a little lower than she. I leaned forward and placed my arm on the rock and round her—just near enough to keep her there, you know. Then I spoke: "I want to beg your pardon, Miss Blanche. You are offended, but I did not mean to annoy you: I esteem you too highly for that."
"I am not at all offended, not at all," she said heartily, at the same time trying to rise, but as I was leaning on her dress she could not. "I must beg you to move: I am going home," she added, looking round: then seeing where my arm was, her tone became slightly angry: "Will you allow me to rise?"
"Not until you listen to me. Do not be displeased when I tell you the truth. I was jesting, or at least did not think what I was asking, a moment ago, but now I am in real earnest. I want you to marry me—truly I do. I love you, and am willing to do everything you can desire. See, I will kneel if you like devotion;" and I fell on my knees before her, catching her little white hands and kissing them. "Won't you love me?" I felt as I looked into her sweet face that I could do anything in the world for her.
"A little less devotion and more respect would suit me better, Mr. Highrank. Will you stop this farce and release my dress? I shall certainly be offended if you do not rise instantly."
"I will obey you if you will give me one kind word."
"I have none for you," she said frigidly.
"You think I have been too hasty—that I am not really in love with you; but I am, I assure you. I fall, in love very quickly—indeed I do. I have often been in love with a girl the first time I saw her, and I have known you ever so long. Won't you believe me, Blanche?"
"I believe you are treating me in a most ungentlemanly manner in keeping me here when I don't wish to stay."
"I can't let you go," I said as I rose, but standing so that she could not pass, "till you are convinced that I love you, for I do, and shall always. Surely I have a right to an answer."