CHAPTER XI. IT TAKES TWO TO MAKE A BARGAIN.
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The arts, the manœuvres, which Dangleton
assiduously employed during the ensuing week
to accomplish his mercenary scheme, were
many and ingenious. He did not at once place
in Ruth's possession the much-coveted portrait,
but made it the pretext for daily visits,
during which he always had some plausible excuse
in readiness to account for the delay of
the fulfilment of his promise. On these occasions,
he laboured hard to render his society
agreeable to her, and he flattered himself that
he had succeeded. In a measure, he was right.
He was well informed upon a variety of subjects
in which she felt an interest, and she listened
to him with much the same sort of pleasure
that she might experience in reading a light,
amusing book.
Just a week after the first memorable visit,
he rose from his bed and carefully dressed
himself, with the determination of addressing
her in relation to the subject which had been
uppermost in his thoughts. His father met
him as he was leaving the house, and asked,
“What cheer, Ned?”
“The coffee plantations will be ours before
sundown,” replied Ned, with a whirl of his
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little golden-tipped cane. “I have prepared
the way, so that there can be no possible doubt
as to the result.”
“You should seal the bargain at once, Ned,
if she says yes. `There's many a slip,' you
know—eh?”
“I am not certain that I shall not come home
a married man this very evening,” said the sanguine
Ned.
“Bravo, my boy! That's the way. Let
there be no interval between your marches.
Don't allow the enemy time to recruit.”
“The Napoleon tactics, eh, father?”
“Just so, my boy! Remember, `There's no
such word as fail!”'
“Ay, sir. Leave me alone for success in
such an enterprise as I am bound upon now.
Good-morning!”
“Good-morning, Ned!”
Before quitting his room, the young man had
placed in his pocket-book the promised portrait
of Ruth's mother, believing it would be an auspicious
offering with which to precede his proposal.
An hour's walk brought him to the obscure
and retired lodgings occupied by the young
Lovedays. He found Ruth alone, engaged upon
a drawing on wood. This was, for him, a fortunate
circumstance. Hitherto some one had
always been present at their interviews; and
now Ruth, with an instinctive sense of propriety,
was proceeding to call Lucy Marvell, when
he interrupted her, and said, “At length I have
brought you the portrait. Here it is!”
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“Oh! give it me!” she cried, forgetting every
other purpose in her anxiety to see it.
As she took it, and eagerly scanned every
line and feature, her eyes sparkled, and the
flush of aroused affection and joy overspread
her face. Dangleton thought she had never
looked half so beautiful. “What a prize I
shall have in her, every way!” thought he.
For nearly five minutes she remained silently
and intently gazing at the picture, deaf to all
the inquiries addressed to her by her visiter,
every sense absorbed in the single one of sight.
At length her breast began to heave and her
tears to fall, and, with a smile half cheerful and
half tender, she exclaimed, “How very like!
And how very beautiful!”
“And what a resemblance to yourself it bears,
dear Ruth!” said the young man.
Ruth started, and looked in his face with a
momentary expression of surprise; then transferring
her gaze to the picture, she again examined
it with renewed interest.
“As a work of art, it is admirable — is it
not?” asked Dangleton. “Your opinion upon
that subject is worth something, Ruth.”
“It is, indeed, exquisite as a picture,” she
replied; “but in looking at it, I can think only
of the fidelity of the likeness.”
After inspecting it for some minutes longer,
she continued, “And is this really to be mine,
Mr. Dangleton? Am I at liberty to retain it?”
“Certainly, although I prize it much, Ruth,
as a likeness of yourself.”
“Thank you a thousand times!” she cried,
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not heeding or not perceiving the implied compliment.
Placing it carefully away in her desk, she
proceeded towards the door to call Lucy, as
she had before intended; but again Dangleton
interposed.
“Hear me one moment, Ruth,” said he, “before
another's presence makes me falter in what
I have to say. Although our acquaintance has
been so brief, it has already been too long for
my peace; and I have come to you this morning
with the deliberate intention of making you
a proposal of marriage. Do not be so startled.
You shall be fully satisfied that my intentions
are strictly honourable—that my father does
not oppose my wishes—and that I have been
impelled by the sincerest feelings of admiration,
esteem, and love, to address you in this
language. Do not think it unaccountable that
a young man in my position should seek out a
wife in this humble abode, for love levels all
distinctions. Remember, also, that I have always
been familiar with your mother's name,
her virtues and respectability, and, need I add,
her beauty, so faithfully reflected in her daughter's
face.”
So fluent had been Dangleton's address, and
so unexpected the tenour of it, that Ruth was
for some moments quite confused, and sank
into a chair, hardly conscious of what she was
doing or what she had been hearing. Her self-possession
was restored, however, on seeing
him kneel at her feet; and rising, she said, in
a rapid, decisive tone, “I will not question
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your motives, but I can frankly assure you that
I do not, and never can, have any disposition
to receive your visits after this avowal on your
part.”
Had a mine been sprung beneath his feet,
Dangleton could not have been more amazed
than he was by this prompt and resolute reply,
followed as it was by Ruth's instantaneous departure
from the room. For a minute he remained
in his kneeling posture, until, suddenly
struck with the absurdity of his appearance,
he started to his feet, and, while his cheeks
grew white with anger, paced the room. His
thoughts, whatever they might have been, were
not audibly vented, but there was an expression
ominous of danger to some one about his eyes
and his quivering lips. Hastily seizing his hat,
he left the house, and, lifting the knob of his
cane so that it pressed against his teeth, walked
slowly away, as if in deep thought.
No sooner was he gone, than Ruth sought
out her good friend, Mr. Bibb, and related to
him the whole occurrence.
At first he became indignant at the story, attributing
to Dangleton the basest designs; but,
upon reflection, he thought that this conclusion
might be too hastily formed. He hardly knew
what to infer from his conduct, and ended by
telling Ruth that he would revolve the subject,
and give her such advice when they met again
as he might consider safest.
Ruth returned to her labours, and Mr. Bibb,
seating himself upon a cask near the street
door, pondered, in a state of silent abstraction,
upon the communication he had just received.
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“What is the matter, my dear, that you look
so serious?” asked a feminine voice, in a subdued,
but somewhat sarcastic tone. “Has May
Loveday's kitten lost the riband that was tied
about its neck? Or has Master Frank's new
kite had a hole made in it?”
Mr. Bibb stared vacantly at his wife, but did
not condescend to reply. With a short, hysterical
laugh, she turned away, without venturing
upon any more decided demonstration of
the spirit in which she regarded his predilections
for juvenile society.
“Hand me the Directory, Mrs. Bibb!” said
the grocer, with a dignified wave of the hand.
Mrs. Bibb's fingers twitched and quivered,
as if they would have answered, could they have
spoken, “We will tear your eyes out before
we do it!”
“The Directory, Mrs. Bibb!” exclaimed the
grocer, in a sterner tone.
“Ye-e-e-s, my dear,” said the obedient wife,
jerking the book into his lap.
The grocer gave her a look which made her
lower her eyes and move away, and then turned
over the leaves of the volume till he satisfied
himself of Mr. Dangleton's address.
“I am going as far as Bleecker-street, and
shall be absent an hour or two, Mrs. Bibb,” said
he, putting on his hat, and throwing aside his
white apron.
“Will he not take a pound or two of almonds
and loaf-sugar to give to the charity scholars?”
inquired his amiable mate, looking vitriol and
Prussic acid at him.
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“You will attend to the shop till my return,
Mrs. Bibb,” said the grocer, without bestowing
the slightest notice upon her bitter ironisms.
With a sigh for the good old times, when he
dared not move into the street without asking
her permission and satisfying her as to his
errand, she saw him leave the shop and proceed
meditatively along the sidewalk, while every
limb, every motion of his body seemed to taunt
her with its freedom and independence.
The grocer pursued his course by the nearest
route to Mr. Dangleton's, and knocked at the
door.
“Is Mr. Edward within?”
“No. You can leave your bill, however, and
he will call and settle it in a week or two.”
“I have no bill against him.”
“Haven't you, indeed? Stop a moment. It
is barely possible that he is in his room. I will
go and see.”
In less than a minute the servant returned,
and told Mr. Bibb to follow him. Conducting
him up two flights of stairs, he ushered him into
a handsomely furnished apartment, where Mr.
Edward was reclining at full length upon a sofa.
His face was pale, and his hair disarranged, as
if his hands had thrust the rich brown locks
from his forehead, that the cool air might fan
his temples.
“Well, old boy, what is wanted?” said Dangleton,
lifting his head, but retaining his recumbent
posture.
“We have met before, though you may not
recollect my face,” replied the grocer.
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Dangleton at once recalled the circumstance
and the place, and he hesitated a moment whether
he should be rude or civil to his visiter. Considerations
of policy soon prevailed; and rising,
and politely handing him a chair, he said, “I
beg your pardon. The hue from that confounded
curtain so altered the expression of your
countenance, that I did not recognise you at
first. I pray you to be seated, my dear Mr.
Blabb.”
“Bibb, if you please, sir.”
“Oh, to be sure—Bibb! A very natural mistake,
though! You will find this chair the most
comfortable, Mr. Bibb.”
“You may, perhaps, have already guessed
my object in calling, Mr. Dangleton?”
Ned bowed, with all the reserve of a minister
plenipotentiary.
“Ruth has told me,” continued the grocer,
“of the proposition you this day made to her.
Allow me to ask you if it was made in good
faith—if you seriously desire to make her your
wife?”
The young man approached, and, grasping his
interrogator by the hand, replied, with a tone
and air of solemnity, “As Heaven is my witness,
sir, I was and am in earnest. If you
doubt me, ask my own father; bind me by any
oaths which you can devise. What proof of
my sincerity can you ask that I will not give
you? Bring your own priest and your own
witnesses, and this very day, this very hour, put
the integrity of my offer to the test. I will
most cheerfully accede to it.”
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The earnestness of Ned's manner swept everything
like doubt before it from the hearer's
mind.
“I believe you, sir,” replied the grocer, “and
am rejoiced to find that my suspicions as to
your motives are not well founded. I will make
known my convictions to my young friend Ruth,
and, should there be any change in your favour
in her feelings, I will at once let you know.”
He was about to take his leave, but Ned seized
his hand, and, detaining him, made a most
pathetic appeal, which lasted nearly ten minutes.
He gave a flattering picture of his own situation
in life—described in glowing terms his violent
and “disinterested” (oh, Ned!) attachment—
and concluded by imploring Mr. Bibb to aid
him in his suit. The good grocer was affected
even to tears by his warmth, and left him with
the settled intention of espousing his cause.
On communicating, however, to Ruth that
evening his convictions as to Dangleton's sincerity,
he was surprised to find that a knowledge
of the fact only increased her repugnance
to receiving him any more as a visiter. Mr.
Bibb immediately despatched a note to Mr. Edward,
regretting that he could not afford him
any hope in the prosecution of his suit, and requesting
him to abstain from again calling on
the Lovedays. Young Dangleton did not receive
the message till the next morning, when,
exhausted and harassed, he returned from a
faro-table, at which he had lost during the night
the whole of the sum he had recently received
from his father. As he finished the perusal of
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the note, his lips became compressed as with
the energy of a desperate purpose. All his resources
had been cut off. Ruin stared him in
the face. He well knew that his father no longer
had the ability, even if he had the inclination,
to supply him with any more money.
“Since fair means have failed, harsh ones
must be tried,” said the young man, ringing the
bell, and sending a servant in quest of Bangs.
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Sargent, Epes, 1813-1880 [1842], What's to be done?, or, The will and the way (Harper & Brothers, New York) [word count] [eaf333].
