The American Claimant by Mark Twain (non fiction books to read .TXT) 📕

He shook hands all around and went off to do some work which he said was pressing. The idolaters were the width of the room apart; and apparently unconscious of each other’s presence. The distance got shortened a little, now. Very soon the mother withdrew. The distance narrowed again. Tracy stood before a chromo of some Ohio politician which had been retouched and chain-mailed for a crusading Rossmore, and Gwendolen was sitting on the sofa not far from his elbow artificially absorbed in examining a photograph album that hadn’t any photographs in it.

The “Senator” still lingered. He was sorry for the young people; it had been a dull evening for them. In the goodness of his heart he tried to make it pleasant for them now; tried to remove the ill impression necessarily left by the general defeat; tried to be chatty, even tried to be gay. But the responses were sickly, there was no starting any enthusiasm; he would give it up and quit—it was a day specially picked out and consecrated to failures.

But when Gwendolen rose up promptly and smiled a glad smile and said with thankfulness and blessing, “Must you go?” it seemed cruel to desert, and he sat down again.

He was about to begin a remark when—when he didn’t. We have all been there. He didn’t know how he knew his concluding to stay longer had been a mistake, he merely knew it; and knew it for dead certain, too. And so he bade goodnight, and went mooning out, wondering what he could have done that changed the atmosphere that way. As the door closed behind him those two were standing side by side, looking at that door—looking at it in a waiting, second-counting, but deeply grateful kind of way. And the instant it closed they flung their arms about each other’s necks, and there, heart to heart and lip to lip—

“Oh, my God, she’s kissing it!”

Nobody heard this remark, because Hawkins, who bred it, only thought it, he didn’t utter it. He had turned, the moment he had closed the door, and had pushed it open a little, intending to re-enter and ask what ill-advised thing he had done or said, and apologize for it. But he didn’t re-enter; he staggered off stunned, terrified, distressed.

CHAPTER XXII.

Five minutes later he was sitting in his room, with his head bowed within the circle of his arms, on the table—final attitude of grief and despair. His tears were flowing fast, and now and then a sob broke upon the stillness. Presently he said:

“I knew her when she was a little child and used to climb about my knees; I love her as I love my own, and now—oh, poor thing, poor thing, I cannot bear it!—she’s gone and lost her heart to this mangy materializee! Why didn’t we see that that might happen? But how could we? Nobody could; nobody could ever have dreamed of such a thing. You couldn’t expect a person would fall in love with a wax-work. And this one doesn’t even amount to that.”

He went on grieving to himself, and now and then giving voice to his lamentations.

“It’s done, oh, it’s done, and there’s no help for it, no undoing the miserable business. If I had the nerve, I would kill it. But that wouldn’t do any good. She loves it; she thinks it’s genuine and authentic. If she lost it she would grieve for it just as she would for a real person. And who’s to break it to the family! Not I—I’ll die first. Sellers is the best human being I ever knew and I wouldn’t any more think of—oh, dear, why it’ll break his heart when he finds it out. And Polly’s too. This comes of meddling with such infernal matters! But for this, the creature would still be roasting in Sheol where it belongs. How is it that these people don’t smell the brimstone? Sometimes I can’t come into the same room with him without nearly suffocating.”

After a while he broke out again:

“Well, there’s one thing, sure. The materializing has got to stop right where it is. If she’s got to marry a spectre, let her marry a decent one out of the Middle Ages, like this one—not a cowboy and a thief such as this protoplasmic tadpole’s going to turn into if Sellers keeps on fussing at it. It costs five thousand dollars cash and shuts down on the incorporated company to stop the works at this point, but Sally Sellers’s happiness is worth more than that.”

He heard Sellers coming, and got himself to rights. Sellers took a seat, and said:

“Well, I’ve got to confess I’m a good deal puzzled. It did certainly eat, there’s no getting around it. Not eat, exactly, either, but it nibbled; nibbled in an appetiteless way, but still it nibbled; and that’s just a marvel. Now the question is, what does it do with those nibblings? That’s it—what does it do with them? My idea is that we don’t begin to know all there is to this stupendous discovery yet. But time will show—time and science—give us a chance, and don’t get impatient.”

But he couldn’t get Hawkins interested; couldn’t make him talk to amount to anything; couldn’t drag him out of his depression. But at last he took a turn that arrested Hawkins’s attention.

“I’m coming to like him, Hawkins. He is a person of stupendous character—absolutely gigantic. Under that placid exterior is concealed the most dare-devil spirit that was ever put into a man—he’s just a Clive over again. Yes, I’m all admiration for him, on account of his character, and liking naturally follows admiration, you know. I’m coming to like him immensely. Do you know, I haven’t the heart to degrade such a character as that down to the burglar estate for money or for anything else; and I’ve come to ask if you are willing to let the reward go, and leave this poor fellow—”

“Where he is?”

“Yes—not bring him down to date.”

“Oh, there’s my hand; and my heart’s in it, too!”

“I’ll never forget you for this, Hawkins,” said the old gentleman in a voice which he found it hard to control. “You are making a great sacrifice for me, and one which you can ill afford, but I’ll never forget your generosity, and if I live you shall not suffer for it, be sure of that.”

Sally Sellers immediately and vividly realized that she was become a new being; a being of a far higher and worthier sort than she had been such a little while before; an earnest being, in place of a dreamer; and supplied with a reason for her presence in the world, where merely a wistful and troubled curiosity about it had existed before. So great and so comprehensive was the change which had been wrought, that she seemed to herself to be a real person who had lately been a shadow; a something which had lately been a nothing; a purpose, which had lately been a fancy; a finished temple, with the altar-fires lit and the voice of worship ascending, where before had been but an architect’s confusion of arid working plans, unintelligible to the passing eye and prophesying nothing.

“Lady” Gwendolen! The pleasantness of that sound was all gone; it was an offense to her ear now. She said:

“There—that sham belongs to the past; I will not be called by it any more.”

“I may call you simply Gwendolen? You will allow me to drop the formalities straightway and name you by your dear first name without additions?”

She was dethroning the pink and replacing it with a rosebud.

“There—that is better. I hate pinks—some pinks. Indeed yes, you are to call me by my first name without additions—that is,—well, I don’t mean without additions entirely, but—”

It was as far as she could get. There was a pause; his intellect was struggling to comprehend; presently it did manage to catch the idea in time to save embarrassment all around, and he said gratefully—

“Dear Gwendolen! I may say that?”

“Yes—part of it. But—don’t kiss me when I am talking, it makes me forget what I was going to say. You can call me by part of that form, but not the last part. Gwendolen is not my name.”

“Not your name?” This in a tone of wonder and surprise.

The girl’s soul was suddenly invaded by a creepy apprehension, a quite definite sense of suspicion and alarm. She put his arms away from her, looked him searchingly in the eye, and said:

“Answer me truly, on your honor. You are not seeking to marry me on account of my rank?”

The shot almost knocked him through the wall, he was so little prepared for it. There was something so finely grotesque about the question and its parent suspicion, that he stopped to wonder and admire, and thus was he saved from laughing. Then, without wasting precious time, he set about the task of convincing her that he had been lured by herself alone, and had fallen in love with her only, not her title and position; that he loved her with all his heart, and could not love her more if she were a duchess, or less if she were without home, name or family. She watched his face wistfully, eagerly, hopefully, translating his words by its expression; and when he had finished there was gladness in her heart— a tumultuous gladness, indeed, though outwardly she was calm, tranquil, even judicially austere. She prepared a surprise for him, now, calculated to put a heavy strain upon those disinterested protestations of his; and thus she delivered it, burning it away word by word as the fuse burns down to a bombshell, and watching to see how far the explosion would lift him:

“Listen—and do not doubt me, for I shall speak the exact truth. Howard Tracy, I am no more an earl’s child than you are!”

To her joy—and secret surprise, also—it never phased him. He was ready, this time, and saw his chance. He cried out with enthusiasm, “Thank heaven for that!” and gathered her to his arms.

To express her happiness was almost beyond her gift of speech.

“You make me the proudest girl in all the earth,” she said, with her head pillowed on his shoulder. “I thought it only natural that you should be dazzled by the title—maybe even unconsciously, you being English—and that you might be deceiving yourself in thinking you loved only me, and find you didn’t love me when the deception was swept away; so it makes me proud that the revelation stands for nothing and that you do love just me, only me—oh, prouder than any words can tell!”

“It is only you, sweetheart, I never gave one envying glance toward your father’s earldom. That is utterly true, dear Gwendolen.”

“There—you mustn’t call me that. I hate that false name. I told you it wasn’t mine. My name is Sally Sellers—or Sarah, if you like. From this time I banish dreams, visions, imaginings, and will no more of them. I am going to be myself—my genuine self, my honest self, my natural self, clear and clean of sham and folly and fraud, and worthy of you. There is no grain of social inequality between us; I, like you, am poor; I, like you, am without position or distinction; you are a struggling artist, I am that, too, in my humbler way. Our bread is honest bread, we work for our living. Hand in hand we will walk hence to the grave, helping each other in all