University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.
ABRUPT PROPOSALS.

“What has come over you Getty, that you have been singing
all the time for these two days, up-stairs and down—hey?” said
Becky to her niece, in the afternoon of the second day after the
visit which has been spoken of.

“O, nothing, aunt Becky,” replied Gertrude, hesitatingly; “I
often sing like that, do not I?”

“Not often, I hope. I have counted these stitches over these
three times, and every time your ring-tee-iddity has made me forget
how many there are.”

The dame's tone was severe, and as Getty spied the old scowl
taking shape on her forehead, she retreated to her own room to
sing away the remainder of the evening by herself. On the morrow,
also, her heart seemed equally light, and snatches of old
songs were escaping all day from her lips, making every room
and closet vocal as she flitted through them on various household
duties. Now and then a growl responded to some of
these chirpings, silencing them for a while, only to break forth in
some other quarter of the house more merrily than ever. As
evening drew nigh, her merriment gradually subsided, and she with
drew to her own apartment in a more thoughtful and pensive
mood—not long, however, to remain unsought.

Her heart beat quickly when, listening, she heard the voice of
a visitor below, and far quicker when a servant girl came up and

informed her that Mr. Vrail was in the parlor, and wished to see
her. Startled, but not surprised, with a fluttering heart and
flushed face, she flew to the glass to add the last touch to the simple
adornments of her person, and although far from being vain,
she could not forbear contemplating for a moment with complacency
the sweet picture reflected by the faithful mirror.

She waited a little while for her agitation to subside: for with
that rapid breath and heightened color, and something very like a
tear glistening in her eye, she was unwilling to meet her visitor;
but, while she waited, she received another and more urgent summons.

“You had better come down, Miss Gertrude,” said the girl, who
seemed to guess that her young mistress was expecting a not unwelcome
visitor; “you had better come down, for your aunt Becky
is getting ready to go in and see the gentleman.”

This announcement did not have a tendency to allay Miss Van
Kleeck's excitement, but it hastened her movements, and in a few
moments she was at the parlor door, which she entered tremblingly,
and not the less beautiful for her fright. Her step had
been agile, but she stopped as if spell-bound just within the doorway,
seemingly unable to comprehend or reply to the very civil “Good
evening,” with which she was addressed by Mr. Thomas Vrail.

The changed expression of her countenance, so radiant on entering,
so amazed and saddened now, did not fail to attract the notice
of that young gentleman, who, sagely attributing it to the awe inspired
by his presence, at once condescendingly resolved to reassure
the heart of his charmer by his suavity. But, although Getty
recovered herself so far as to say “Good evening,” and, after
another considerable pause, to ask her visitor to sit down, and then
to sit down herself on the farthest edge of the chair most remote
from her companion, she did not seem easily reassured.

Tom said it was a pleasant evening, and Getty said “Yes,” very
very faintly.

Then Tom said it was a beautiful walk from his house to Miss
Van Kleeck's, and Getty again answered with a monosyllable, but
this time a little more distinctly.

“A very delightful walk,” reiterated the suitor; “and one
which I hope I shall have the pleasure of taking frequently.”

Miss Van Kleeck, thinking it necessary to say something in reply,
and entirely failing to comprehend the drift of the remark,
“hoped so too.”

Tom now felt himself to be getting along fast—nay, with very
railroad speed, so he ventured to draw his seat a little nearer to
Getty, to her manifest trepidation, for her eyes turned quickly
toward the door, and she seemed to be contemplating flight.

But it was one of Tom's maxims to strike while the iron is hot,
and if he had been so well convinced of having made a favorable
impression on the evening of his first visit, he felt doubly sure now,
after the new encouragement he had received.

“I may be a little hasty, Miss Van Kleeck,” he said, again
slightly lessening his distance from her, “but I have had the presumption
to imagine that I—that you—that I”—

“Please not to come any nearer,” said Getty, hastily, as her suitor's
chair exhibited still farther sings of locomotion.

“Ah! certainly not, if you wish it,” replied the lover, very
blandly; “I mean, not at present; but allow me to hope that the
time will come, when you—when I—that is to say when both of
us”—

Tom stopped, for Gertrude had risen and taken a step toward
the door, with much appearance of agitation.

“I fear you do not understand me,” he said.

“I fear I do,” she replied quickly and sensibly; “although it is
rather your manner than your words which express your meaning.”

“Stay, then, and be assured that I am quite in earnest.”

“I do not question your sincerity, Mr. Vrail”—

“That I have come to offer you this hand,” he continued, extending

a very clean one, which bore evident marks of recent scrubbing
for its present service, but which the heiress exhibited no haste
to accept.

She had attained sufficient proximity to the door to feel certain
that her retreat could not be cut off, and her self-possession
having in some degree returned, she listened respectfully and
replied politely, although with a tone of sadness.

“I will spare you any further avowal of your feelings, Mr. Vrail,”
she began.

“Do not think of such a thing, dear Gertrude,” he replied, still
unawakened from his hallucination. “I am proud to make profession
of my love for you.”

“Will you listen to me a moment before I go?”

“An hour! a week! nay, forever!”

“I shall not detain you a minute.”

“I assure you I am in no hurry.”

“I am. You are laboring under a mistake. We are nearly
strangers to each other, and you have scarcely the right to address
me in the way you have done; but if it were otherwise, I have
only to answer by declining your offer,” she said, glancing at the
hand and arm which had remained projecting like a pump-handle
all this while, with the evident expectation on the part of Thomas,
whose whole attitude was quite theatrical, that it was speedily to
be seized and clung to.

He now began to look astonished and alarmed, but he immediately
rallied.

“Oh, I see how it is,” he said; “I have been rather abrupt, I
dare say; but we will become better acquainted. I will call often
to see you, and then—why, Miss Van Kleeck—don't go!”

Getty had now become angry; she left the room and her astonished
lover, but paused a moment outside the door, and said, with
a very pretty flush on her cheek, and a very bright sparkling in
her eye—

“Call as often as you choose, Mr. Vrail, but I shall never see

you. You do not seem to understand the plainest words, but I
assure you we shall never be better acquainted with each other
than we are now. Good evening.”

So saying, Getty almost ran out of the outer room, shutting
the door after her with a haste that gave it quite the character of
a slam, and hurried up to her own apartment.

Tom's panoply of conceit, which was almost invulnerable, and
which had withstood so much, only now gave way.

“I really believe she means to refuse me,” said he, soliloquizing;
“it is very ridiculous—but perhaps she may come back. I will
wait a little.”

He did wait some minutes, listening earnestly, and was at length
gratified by the sound of approaching steps, which he advanced
to meet with great alacrity. But what was his consternation on
encountering at the door the wrinkled and vinegary countenance
of Dame Becky, whose huge spectacles, as she stood confronting
him a moment in silence, glowered upon him like the eyes of the
great horned owl.

The lover retreated a step before this apparition.

“Do you want Getty?” she said, at length, in a voice amazingly
shrill and sharp.

“I—yes, I should be happy to see her for a few moments, if—
if you please.”

“But do you want her—do you want to marry her?” she asked,
in still more of a scolding tone.

“Oh—ah—yes, madam,” said Tom, attempting to win the old
woman by a fine speech; “I am exceedingly proud to call myself
an admirer of your beautiful niece, and I have indulged the hope
that we might find our tastes congenial, and our hearts sympathetic.
May I count, my dear madam, on your influence with Miss
Gertrude?”

“No, you can't, and more than that, you can't have her. So
no more of that. You are the third this week.”

“Good gracious! the third what, ma'am?”

“No matter what. You can't have her—you understand—don't
you?”

“Y—yes,” said Tom, “I suppose I do.”

“Very well, then—no offence meant,” said aunt Becky, now
trying to modify what might seem harsh in her language by a
stroke of politeness, but still speaking in the same high key;
“won't you sit down?”

“No I thank you,” muttered Tom, now decidedly crestfallen;
“I rather think it is time for me to go.”

“Good night, then,” said Becky, following him to the door as
close as if he had been a burglar. “Take care of the dog!”

“The deuce!” said Tom to himself, clutching his cane, as he
walked off the stoop; “is there a dog to be shunned too? I
shouldn't wonder if they should set him on me!” and he quickened
his step down the lane that led to the highway, and was soon out
of sight of the old farm-house, without even turning to take a last
look at the solitary light which gleamed like a beacon from Getty's
room—alas! no beacon of hope for him.