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