Chapter XIII Rejected Addresses
“The Heart’s Desire hath led me
In barren lands and vain.”
—Theodosia Garrison.
“I suppose it sounds brutal to say so,” said Lynn Thayer, “but you know you ought really to be very grateful to me for refusing you. You will thank me for it, ten years hence.”
Mr. Harold Lighton, who was sitting opposite, frowned angrily and made no response.
“We are not in the least suited to one another,” she continued, gently. “You—I would make you very unhappy. You are young and rich, and when you get over this, you will be able to marry some nice, young, pretty girl.”
“I don’t want a nice, young, pretty girl,” returned Mr. Lighton, glumly. “I want you.”
Lynn’s eyes suddenly danced but she very properly refrained from comment.
“Oh, I say, won’t you think this over?” burst forth Mr. Lighton, quite unconscious of the doubtful compliment he had just paid the object of his affections. “I’m most awfully in love with you, indeed I am. You know that, don’t you?”
“I know that you think you are in love with me, just now,” answered Lynn, gravely. “But, in my twenty-eight years of life, quite a few people have told me that they were in love with me and would never be happy without me. And they have married some one else in a few years’ time and have never thought of me, again.”
“I’m not like that,” said Mr. Lighton, eagerly. “Upon my soul, I’m not. You may think I’m fickle or easily suited. I’m not. I don’t like anybody but you and I never will. It seems pretty hard when a fellow’s waited until over thirty before he has run across any one he fancied—and then to be turned down, after all.”
“It has happened before.”
“Why, no, it hasn’t!” said Lighton, indignantly.
“I mean to other people.”
“Oh! See here, why won’t you have me? I suppose I’m not clever enough for you. Is that the trouble?”
“No, no indeed. I’m stupid, myself, frightfully stupid in lots of ways. That isn’t it, at all. It’s just that I don’t care enough about you.”
Mr. Lighton regarded her with some perplexity.
“I say—I’d like awfully to say something if you won’t think it rude.”
“Very well—what is it?”
“You’re twenty-eight—you don’t mind my mentioning it, do you?” queried Mr. Lighton, tactfully. “You’ve always spoken so openly of it, yourself.”
“Oh, I can never keep even the most damaging facts about myself hidden,” said Lynn, solemnly.
“Eh?—what’s that? Oh, well, never mind! What I wanted to say was this: Don’t you mean to marry?”
“I haven’t quite made up my mind, yet. Perhaps I may marry somebody a few years hence—but not you,” she hastily added, seeing Mr. Lighton look up with sudden interest.
“Why not me?”
“I have told you twenty times over why not.”
“And you’re serious about it? You’re sure you won’t change your mind? Well, what I wanted to say was this. Suppose, a few years hence when you’ve decided that you will marry—now, you won’t be offended?”
“I don’t think I will. What you want to say is, what will I do if no one wants to marry me, then?”
“Yes,” confessed Mr. Lighton, looking a little embarrassed but sticking to his guns, manfully. “You’re an awfully stunning girl, but a girl often doesn’t get another offer after thirty; and what if you don’t?”
“I won’t marry.”
“But—but”—
“I won’t marry, anyway, unless I see some one I like better than I do you,” said Lynn, deliberately. “It is best to be explicit, isn’t it? I don’t want to hurt you, but this is the plain truth of the matter. The idea of marrying just for the sake of being called ‘Mrs.’ doesn’t appeal to me, at all; and I could not marry you for any other reason. Oh yes, of course I might marry you for the sake of living in a nice house and getting my clothes in Paris; but I don’t care much about that, either. You see what I mean?”
“Oh, yes, I see. I thought, some way—you see I have a fairly good income and you’re fond of horses”—
“You thought I might marry you for the pleasure of seeing something of your horses; is that it?”
“Oh, I say, Miss Thayer, let up! It’s bad enough to be refused without being made game of.”
“I suppose it is,” said Lynn, slowly. She looked at him as though a new idea had occurred to her. “I wonder why you want to marry me,” she said at last.
“Why I want to marry you?”
“Yes. I’m not very young, I’m not at all pretty and I have no money. It seems a most curious thing that you should have taken this violent fancy to me. Why did you? Do you know?”
“I say! you are a queer girl.”
“In other words I’m not a sheep,” returned Lynn, composedly. “Don’t you think most people are very like sheep? They travel in flocks and all bleat in unison at the same things and get up in the morning and eat and drink and go to sleep, again—and, in time, they die. I suppose they might as well be doing that as something else, but if it amuses me to do something else, why shouldn’t I? Now, for instance, if I had been a well-regulated, conventional sheep I should have bleated out, ‘Oh, Mr. Lighton, this is so sudden!’ and then I should have thought lovingly of your good house and your nice furniture and should have simpered and accepted you. But, not being a sheep, I want to know why on earth you did it.”
“Because I—like you so awfully,” explained Mr. Lighton, eagerly.
“But why on earth should you like me?”
“I don’t know,” said Mr. Lighton, doubtfully. “Why does any one like you?” he inquired, brightening. “You’ve had lots of other chaps.”
“Oh, but that’s different. You see I’m a man’s woman by instinct and training. I do my very utmost to please and be nice to every man I meet except you; and the consequence is that they all like me and the ones who like me enough to call on me, often, usually end by proposing: not because I’m so remarkably attractive but for the reason that a man, for some occult reason, cannot see much of a woman without proposing to her.”
“I say! You’re gassing!”
“I’m not. But the queer thing is that you took this fancy to me at the very start without any help whatever from me.”
“What a funny girl you are to give yourself away like that. Girls generally say that they don’t encourage anybody.”
“Yes, but, as you remarked, I am a funny girl; I tell the truth, sometimes. How do you suppose a plain, poor person like me would ever have had so many men friends if she hadn’t done something? It’s wonderful,” said Lynn, meditatively, “wonderful! how easy it is to fascinate men. Just look at each man and talk to him as if you thought he was the most handsome, brilliant and fascinating creature extant—and the thing is done! The man doesn’t live who can resist it.”
“Ha, ha! you are funny.”
“Yes. I can remember when I was a young girl that I used to be terribly afraid that no one would ever fall in love with me because I was so ugly. I used to wish so that I had curling eyelashes and rose-leaf complexions and things: and, lo and behold! before I was eighteen the great beautiful truth dawned upon me. Just let a man talk about himself until he is black in the face and he will never tire of your society, no matter what you look like. Nothing else is necessary. A man thinks any eyes gazing admiringly into his are beautiful eyes: he considers any voice that murmurs timely flatteries in his good right ear a sweet voice: and any woman with intelligence enough to laugh heartily at his stale jokes and listen respectfully to his dull anecdotes, has all the intelligence that any female needs, in his opinion. So there you are. Having this knowledge, what else did I lack? I promptly became a belle of the first water and have remained so for ten years. Pretty girls have lost their beauty, rich girls have lost their money, lively girls have lost their vivacity; but I remain perennially attractive because I have grasped the great truth that every man prefers himself to anything else on earth and, next to himself, admires the woman who acts as though she agreed with him. I’m in a candid mood to-night, am I not, Mr. Lighton? What is the matter? you don’t look very happy.”
“I can’t help wondering,” confessed Mr. Lighton, rather ruefully, “why, if you’re so fond of having men like you, you’ve never been nicer to me.”
“Because,” she returned, slowly, “I very soon received the impression that you were more or less in earnest. Now my puppy days have passed and I take no pleasure in causing pain; and it must be more or less painful to want some one who doesn’t care anything about you. So I thought it best to be flippant and unpleasant in the hope that you would get disgusted. Why didn’t you?”
“I—I don’t know”—
“Yes, I’ve been most hateful,” continued Lynn, thoughtfully. “I wonder if it would do any good if I were to tell you all the harsh things I’ve said about you to Aunt Lucy.”
“I don’t think,” said Mr. Lighton, hastily and firmly, “that it would do a bit of good.”
“Then I won’t. But will you tell me just as a matter of curiosity—what it was that you liked about me?”
“In the first place,” her companion said, pondering, “I suppose I liked you because you didn’t chase me and it was such a change. You see when a fellow has a good position and money coming to him”— He wiped his forehead and looked scared and reminiscent.
“I see,” exclaimed Lynn. “I must make a note of that. There are men who tire of being ‘chased.’ Then there must be men who tire of tobacco, I suppose.”
“I don’t know about that,” said Mr. Lighton, dubiously. “You see, when one has smoked long enough, one can always throw one’s cigar out of the window. So one doesn’t get as sick of it as one does of women.”
“No, I suppose not. I never thought of that,” said Lynn, gravely. “Well, let me see! you liked me in the first place because I didn’t ‘chase’ you: and why did you like me, in the second?”
“You’re a fine sport,” said Mr. Lighton, pondering, “you’re always ready for any thing, and you dance like a streak, and you’re never tired, and you do make a fellow roar so. I suppose that’s why.”
“So these are my assets. Dancing like a ‘streak’—whatever that may be: always being ready to skate and toboggan: and ’making a fellow roar so.’ It doesn’t sound attractive: however I never pretended to understand men. What a funny thing it is! No money, no beauty, no particular brains and one of the most eligible young men in the city begging me to marry him!”
“Your aunt likes me,” said Mr. Lighton.
“She likes you very much; but she always confuses you with the new plumbing and the electric lights in your house. She can’t conceive how I can withstand such fascinations. Poor Aunt Lucy! I wish I were a little more satisfactory: but I really cannot fall in love to order even to please her—not with a whole galaxy of electric lights.”
“I don’t know exactly what you’re driving at,” said Mr. Lighton, looking sullen, “but I think your aunt’s a very sensible woman.”
“So do I. I only wish I were half as sensible. I’m a great grief to her. You see, she feels rightly that a single woman with no independent income should struggle valiantly to avert the awful doom of old maid. Now, the deeper I sink in the mire of old-maiden-hood, the less I struggle.”
“Is your aunt very fond of you?” asked Mr. Lighton curiously.
“No. She is much pleased at my popularity, which she doesn’t understand in the least, and she regards it in the light of a personal reward for her goodness in adopting me. That is all.”
“And your uncle? You don’t mind my asking, do you?”
“Not a bit. My uncle hates me, but he thinks I’m a good girl and tries not to show it more than he can help. You see he can’t endure children and he is prejudiced against me because I was a child when he first knew me and he has never forgotten it.”
“Then I suppose you’re not awfully fond of them?”
“I am—most grateful to them, both: but I do not love them. I have never really loved but one person in my life—no, two. The first love is much stronger than the second: but the second is—profound and lasting. I am not an affectionate person: I do not suppose that there will ever be more than just those two.”
“Neither of them’s me,” interposed Mr. Lighton, gloomily and ungrammatically.
“Neither of them’s you, no,” returned Lynn, firmly.
“Oh, look here, Miss Thayer, can’t you reconsider it? I’m—I’m most awfully in love with you, upon my word I am: and—and, after all,—I don’t like to say this exactly—but you know I can give you everything you want and—don’t you like the idea of having a little money?”
“Immensely.”
“Then”——
“But, unfortunately I do not like the idea of having you. There is the plain English of it. I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but there doesn’t seem to be any way of making you understand.”
“Oh, I understand, all right!” muttered Mr. Lighton, ruefully. “But I can’t say I’m pleased. You might have given me a hint before letting me make a fool of myself.”
“A hint! Man! how many hints have I given you?”
“A dev—I mean a great many,” returned the consistent Mr. Lighton. “But I thought you were trying to draw me on.”
“I have no talents for man-hunting,” said Lynn, rather crossly. “I never try to ’draw people on’ or anything like that. It does not amuse me: I’m a man’s woman in one sense but I am not a flirt”——
“Flirt! You can’t flirt any more tha—than that mantelpiece,” said Mr. Lighton, desperately. “But I like you—I can’t help liking you, some way.”
“No—I suppose you can’t—not just at present, anyway. But you’ll get over it in time.”
Mr. Lighton said nothing, but his face was not cheerful.
“I have a good mind,” said Lynn, slowly, “to tell you something about myself—something that will show you the hopelessness of asking me. It is this: even if I liked you very much I couldn’t marry you.”
“But why?”
“Because—because I have a duty to perform; a duty which demands all my time and strength and—and thought; and which marriage would interfere with.”
“But—but do you mean that you are going to perform this duty—whatever it may be—all your life?”
“N-n-no. In a few years—perhaps sooner—it will be—finished.”
“And then?”
“And then—oh, don’t talk about it! I was foolish to speak about it, anyway—but, do you know, I felt sorry for you. I can’t understand why people like having proposals from people they don’t want to marry. It always seems to me such a pity that anything should be wasted, that any feeling should burn itself out, without result. That may be a queer way to look at it—but I suppose I am queer. People seem to think so and, perhaps, they are right.”
“Well, I’d better go, I suppose,” said Lighton, gruffly, after a short pause. “If anything turns up—I mean, if you should change your mind, you know, or anything like that—why”—
“Thank you; but I never shall. Good-night, Mr. Lighton. I’m sorry, really I am. It all seems too bad, but you know it’s not my fault.”
Left to herself, she drew a long sigh; then rose and moved about the room mechanically straightening the furniture and patting the sofa cushions. Finally she leaned her elbows on the mantelpiece and gazed earnestly into the mirror, above. “Curious what he sees in me!” she said, slowly. “Curious what anyone sees in me! I have nothing to recommend me in the way of looks; it is hard to understand. In spite of all that I have done for—for the boy, he—he doesn’t really care very much about me, even now. And yet this man—whom I have done everything to discourage”—
She stared slowly at herself: then turned away.
“Time to go to bed,” she said, reluctantly. “And high time to stop—thinking.... Oh, Liol, Liol, Liol!”