Chapter XIV: The Engagement Ring

Ina Wentworth stood in deep thought for several moments after her friend had gone, then, with a resolute air, she walked directly across the room, and stood before Philip Paxton.

“Mr. Paxton,” she began, in a frank, straightforward way, “I do not wish you to regard me as an enemy who has stolen into your camp to plunder you. I tell you honestly, I do not want your wife’s fortune, I have never even thought of taking it from her; for,” she said, with a charming smile, which revealed two rows of white, even teeth, “having never known the convenience or luxury of possessing so much money, I can still be very happy without it.”

Philip lifted his head and looked at her in a skeptical way.

“You are very good to say so,” he said, coldly.

She flushed at his tone, which was almost insulting.

“It is evident that you do not intend to be friendly with me,” she said, with dignity, “but I do not know as that need to interfere with my plans and intentions; if, however, you will use your influence with your wife, and persuade her that I do not want this money, and make her keep it, I shall be very glad. I think from what Miss McAllister has said, that she desires me to make my home with her, as Mrs. Paxton is going away, and if I can get a few pupils I have no doubt that I can earn sufficient for my other needs.”

“Indeed! Perhaps you are fishing for the old lady’s fortune also,” Philip said, rudely.

Ina lifted a pair of surprised eyes to his gloomy face.

“I did not even know that she had a fortune,” she remarked, simply, but the crimson blood swept hotly up to her brow as she spoke.

She was very indignant at him for his impudence, but she was not lacking in spirit for all her gentleness. She drew herself up proudly, and said, looking straight into his eyes:

“I perceive that it is useless for me to attempt to conciliate you upon any point; but what I have said to you I have said in perfect good faith, and you can accept it and act upon it, or you can reject it, if you choose.”

With a graceful little bow, she turned and left him without another word, while he gazed wonderingly after her, and muttered:

“Who would ever believe that she was reared in a fisherman’s hut? She speaks and acts like a lady of culture and refinement, and she must have improved her later opportunities wonderfully well to appear so polished. However, I suppose it is one of those instances where ‘blood will tell.’ But--hang it!--if she really is Captain Wentworth’s daughter, who on earth is Arley? and why couldn’t this _denouement_ have happened yesterday--last week--any time rather than to-day? I’m in a devil of a pickle, or shall be, if I cannot manage some way to keep this fortune. These disappointments and reverses, one after another, are making a veritable demon of me. I feel as if I should do something desperate if I am pushed much closer to the wall.”

He arose, and paced the room excitedly, muttering irritably to himself, while his face was deeply flushed and overcast.

Poor Arley, upstairs, meantime had come to herself, and was trying to look her fate as calmly and sensibly in the face as possible.

Her proud spirit utterly rebelled against appropriating, for even another day, that which rightfully belonged to another, and she told Miss McAllister that everything must be made over to Ina at once.

“I honor you, dear, for your readiness to deal justly,” the old lady said, with a glow of pride in the girl’s rectitude. “It is but right, of course, according to the law of heritage, that she should come into possession of her grandfather’s fortune, and I know that the consciousness of having performed a noble deed will more than repay you for the loss of it.”

If she could have known of all that Arley was to suffer in consequence of it, she might not have spoken quite so confidently upon this point.

“Doubtless it will be a little uncomfortable at first,” she added, “not to receive your accustomed income, and it will probably be a disappointment to your husband to have you deprived of any of the independence which you have hitherto enjoyed, but, believe me, you will be no loser in the end.”

She did not tell her then of her own secret determination to bequeath to her the whole of her fortune, which would amount to nearly as much as her brother’s if she proved true to herself and the right, and cheerfully relinquished to Ina her inheritance.

Wil Hamilton, with great tact, made both Philip’s and Arley’s excuses, and the wedding guests politely retired, with many expressions of regret for the bride’s sudden illness.

Lady Elaine went up to see her before she left, and was told something of what had occurred, and was both shocked and grieved for her friend.

She wound her arms about her, and tried to whisper some words of comfort; but Arley could not bear them, even from her, just then.

“I am so confused and nervous, dear Elaine, that I cannot talk about it now; I will write you the whole story when I am more calm. I have not, however,” she added, with a wan smile, “forgotten what you said to me when we were at Hazelmore, and shall try to ‘make the best of it,’ although there does not seem to be any best about it to me just now.”

“He knows all about it, dear, and He will lead you in just the best way. Cast all your care upon Him, for He careth for you,” Lady Elaine answered, tenderly, and then left her, with a heart full of misgivings as to how Philip would bear this blow to his hopes.

She felt that he ought to have been by Arley’s side, for he could comfort her as no one else could; but he was nowhere to be seen, and his absence did not look well for her happiness.

* * * * *

“Philip, it is of no use for you to talk to me in any such way; my mind is made up to do what is right, and nothing will turn me from my purpose.”

Thus Arley Paxton spoke, after an hour’s fruitless argument with her husband, on the contested point of that twenty thousand pounds.

As soon as she had felt equal to the ordeal, she had dismissed every one from her room, and sent for her husband to come to her.

“But I think I should have a voice in this matter. I am your husband, and I have rights now which should be considered,” he said, moodily.

“That is true; I have promised to ‘love, honor, and obey you,’ and I shall gladly do so in everything possible. But I cannot sacrifice principle, even to you.”

“Sacrifice fiddlesticks!” he retorted, impatiently. “Dr. McAllister gave this money to you--he meant you to have it, and no one else, and I am bound that you shall keep it.”

“We have gone over all that ground before,” Arley said, wearily; “but, Philip, reverse the position. Suppose that I had been the girl, and at the same time your wife, and the knowledge had come to us that a mistake had been made in our identity, and that I ought to be in her place and she in mine, would you have contended then that she ought to keep the fortune which Dr. McAllister left to his granddaughter, or would you have said that blood should inherit, and that it rightly belonged to me?”

Philip Paxton flushed hotly at this question, and felt very uncomfortable, with those clear eyes of his wife fixed so searchingly upon him.

“That alters the case, of course; still----” he stopped, and looked ashamed for having admitted so much.

“No, it does not alter the case at all,” Arley said, in a clear, firm tone. Then going up to him, and laying her hand upon his arm, she asked, with white, trembling lips:

“Philip, did you marry me for this money?”

He shook her hand off nervously.

“What an absurd question, Arley!” he exclaimed, irritably; yet the red blood flooded his whole face.

“Then, if you did not--if you married me for myself, and because you loved me as--I love you, how can you ask me to do this dishonorable thing and expect to retain your respect and affection for me? I am sorry that I must come to you penniless. I was glad to have this fortune for your sake, because I know that though you are talented in your profession, you have your own future to carve out, and I hoped that this money would be a help to you. But I will help you with every power that I have. I will give my whole life to assist you to rise, and become all that you desire to be. I will try not to hamper you in any way, and believe we shall be very happy, far happier than if we committed a theft--for I can view the keeping of this money in no other light--to secure a foundation to build upon.”

Philip appeared to be absorbed in profound thought for several moments after she had ceased speaking.

But at last, looking up at her, he said, with an air of desperation:

“If you persist in this quixotic idea--in this piece of mad folly, we are nothing but a couple of beggars. I may as well tell you, first as last, that I have lost everything that I had--lost it in a foolish speculation, and I have not a hundred pounds in the world; so if you give up all your claims to this girl, we shall have no home and nothing to depend upon. Can you tamely give up all this?” he asked, looking around upon the luxurious furnishings of her room. “Can you bear to leave this beautiful home, where you have been accustomed to everything that heart could wish, and go into miserable lodgings, such as I, in my present circumstances, can afford to give you? Can you give up your fine clothes, your jewels, your ponies and carriage, and everything that has hitherto made life so attractive to you?”

“Yes, I can give them all up, Philip, because I know that it is right and just that I should. I would rather never have another dainty or pretty thing as long as I live, than to have it in a dishonorable way--my honor and a clear conscience are more to me than all the luxuries of the universe,” Arley replied, firmly and earnestly.

“Well, I shall not relinquish your claim without a struggle, I can assure you,” Philip returned, reddening with anger; “we cannot afford to be deprived of everything thus by a single blow.”

“We have each other left, Philip,” Arley said, gently.

“Yes, and poverty staring us in the face. We cannot very well eat each other, and how we are to live is more than I can tell,” he retorted, with bitter sarcasm.

“How much does your profession yield you annually?” the young wife asked, with a sigh, a look of keen pain in her eyes.

“I have no stated income--I have just what I work for,” he said.

“But about what has it averaged during the last two or three years?” she persisted.

“Perhaps three hundred pounds. But I have made a good deal by speculating outside, and if I had been successful in this last venture, I should have been a rich man, comparatively, to-day.”

Three hundred pounds a year! It seemed very little to the inexperienced girl. She had spent more than twice that amount on her trousseau, and she had never in all her life known what it meant to be economical. Miss McAllister’s income was as large as her own, while her wants were comparatively few, and she had always been ready to fill the purse of her pretty niece, if it chanced to get empty before her quarterly allowance was due, and there she had never had a wish ungratified.

But, notwithstanding, the thought of poverty and self-denial did not daunt her, for she was a brave and honorable little woman at heart, as we shall see.

“It seems very little,” she said, thoughtfully, “but I suppose there are people who live upon much less than even that, and are quite happy, Philip,” with a little tremulous smile, that was exceedingly pitiful. “If you will not mind being burdened with a penniless wife, I shall be content. I shall not need anything new in the way of clothing for a long time. We can take a couple of comfortable, yet inexpensive rooms somewhere, and have our meals brought to us, and I am sure we shall do very well, and be very happy.”

He turned away from her impatiently, a sneer on his lip, and muttering something that she could not hear.

She looked to him sadly, an expression of bitter pain in her dark eyes. She was a bride of only a few hours, and this experience was different from the happiness and enjoyment which she had anticipated.

There was a fearful sinking at her heart, too, at this strange treatment from her husband, when he should have been tender and sympathetic regarding her trouble, when he should have soothed her with kind and loving words, he was harsh and unkind, appearing to think more of his own disappointment over the loss of her fortune than of the great trial in which she was suddenly involved regarding the mystery enshrouding her identity.

Suddenly she approached him, growing first red, then pale.

“Philip, when was it that you lost in this speculation of which you were telling me?” she asked, eagerly, and then waited almost breathlessly for his reply.

The question took him unawares, and he did not stop to consider his answer.

“I received news of it on the eighteenth of July,” he said.

Arley started and caught her breath, but before she spoke she drew off her engagement ring, and looked at the marking upon the inside of it.

It was dated the twenty-sixth of July, only a little more than a week after he had known of his loss.

This discovery made Arley heart-sick, and almost faint. He had not begun to pay her marked attention until after that, and she could not help thinking, from the fact of his having suddenly transferred his devotion from Lady Elaine to her, after the announcement of her ladyship’s engagement, that he had done so with the deliberate purpose of getting possession of her fortune, rather than from any deep feeling of love that he bore her.

But at all events, whether he loved her or not, it was not the part of an honorable gentleman to make proposals of marriage to any lady when he was involved in such serious embarrassments.

“Philip!” she cried, sharply, and holding out the ring to him, “you lost your money the eighteenth and you asked me to marry you the twenty-sixth!”

“The devil!” he muttered, with a great start, as he suddenly realized the awkward position in which he had placed himself.

“Well, I can’t help it,” he admitted, with averted eyes; “yes, I did.”

“Oh, Philip! then it was my money, after all--it was not me that you wanted; you did not really love me,” Arley said, in a despairing voice.

“Are you not assuming considerable?” he asked.

“Will you answer me one question, and answer it honestly?” she questioned, her eyes burning like coals of fire, and two very bright spots concentrated on her cheeks.

“I will endeavor to do so,” he replied, sarcastically.

“Well, then, if I had been a poor girl at that time, would you have asked me to become your wife?”

“Nonsense, Arley! why will you torture yourself and me with such useless questions?”

“Answer me; you said that you would; if I had then stood in the doubtful position in which I find myself to-day, would you have asked me to marry you? I will know.”

“No, I suppose I should not, if you are determined to be answered,” he said, recklessly; “I should not have felt justified in so doing, since I was not in circumstances to support a wife.”

Poor Arley sank down upon the floor in a heap, a cry of mortal pain escaping her.