October days! The sumacs drabbled in the summer’s blood flaunt boldly, and green, gold and purple shades entrance the eye. The mullein stands upon the brown land a lonely sentinel. The thistle-down floats ghost-like through the haze, and silvery disks of a spider’s web swing twixt the cornrows.
Sunday. Elliott remained at home until late in the afternoon. While he feared the result, he still held to his fixed resolve to go that day and definitely ascertain what was to come of his love for Dorothy. He said to Mr. Field, as he started off, “I shall not be back to supper—I am going to see Mr. Carr.” His voice was hopeful and his face wore a smile.
His nephew’s assumed hopefulness had long been more painful to Mr. Field than this despondency he sought to cover by it. It was so unlike hopefulness, had in it something so fierce in its determination—was so hungry and eager, and yet carried such a consciousness of being forced, that it had long touched his heart.
Dorothy knew the object of this call, and when her father came into the parlor she withdrew, full of sweet alarm, and left the two together. A tender glance, a soft rustling of pretty garments, and Elliott knew that he and her father were alone. He had scarcely taken his chair, when he began:
“Mr. Carr, I have come upon the most sacred and important duty of my life.”
“Draw your chair closer, I cannot see you well,” said Mr. Carr. “I am growing old and my sight is failing me.” And the way his voice faded into silence was typical of what he had said.
Elliott obeying his request, continued:
“I have had the honor of being received in this house for some time—nearly two years now, and I hope the topic on which I am about to speak will not surprise you.”
“Is it about Dorothy?”
“It is. You evidently anticipate what I would say, though you cannot realize my hopes and fears. I love her truly, Mr. Carr, and I want to make her my wife.”
“I knew it would come. But why not a little later?” he said, pathetically.
It was so like a cry of pain, this appeal, that it made Elliott’s heart ache and hushed him into silence. After a little, Mr. Carr said, solemnly:
“Go on!”
“I know, after seeing you together from day to day, that between you and her there is an affection so strong, so closely allied to the circumstances in which it has been nurtured, that it has few parallels. I know that mingled with the love and duty of a daughter who has become a woman, there is yet in her heart all the love and reliance of childhood itself. When she is clinging to you the reliance of baby, girl and woman in one is upon you. All this I have known since first I met you in your home life.”
With an air of perfect patience the old man remained mute, keeping his eyes cast down as though, in his habit of passive endurance, it was all one to him if it never came his turn to speak.
“Feeling that,” Elliott went on, “I have waited as long as it is in the nature of man to do. I have felt, and even now feel, that perhaps to interpose my love between you and her is to touch this hallowed association with something not so good as itself, but my life is empty without her, and I must know now if you will entrust her to my care.”
The old man’s breathing was a little quickened as he asked, mournfully: “How could I do without her? What would become of me?”
“Do without her?” Elliott repeated. “I do not mean to stand between you two—to separate you. I only seek to share with her her love for you, and to be as faithful always as she has been; to add to hers a son’s affection and care. I have no other thought in my heart but to double with Dorothy her privileges as your child, companion, friend. If I harbored any thought of separating her from you, I could not now touch this honored hand.” He laid his own upon the wrinkled one as he spoke.
Answering the touch for an instant only, but not coldly, Mr. Carr lifted his eyes with one grave look at Elliott, then gazed anxiously toward the door. These last words seemed to awaken his subdued lips.
“You speak so manfully, Mr. Harding, that I feel I must treat your confidence and sincerity in the same spirit.”
“With all my heart I thank you, Mr. Carr, for I well understand that without you I have no hope. She, I feel sure, would not give it, nor would I ask her hand without your consent.”
The old man spoke out plainly now.
“I am not much longer for this world, I think, for I am very feeble, and of all the living and dead world, this one soul—my child—is left to me. The tie between us is the only one that now remains unbroken, therefore you cannot be surprised that its breaking would crowd all my suffering into the one act. But I believe you to be a good man. I believe your object to be purely and truthfully what you have stated, and as a proof of my belief, I will give her to you—with my blessing,” and extending his hand, he allowed Elliott to grasp it warmly.
“God bless you for this, Mr. Carr,” was all that he could say.