Chapter III

Mr. Landyke Somerset was a nabob, and retained a private parlor, to which the obsequious servant conducted Sarah Whiting.

Of course the bachelor was reasonably astonished at this visit.

“Indeed, Miss Whiting, I am delighted to see you,” exclaimed he, with rapturous enthusiasm.

“I knew you would be, and that’s the reason I came,” laughed Sarah, and at the same time she blushed so sweetly that Mr. Landyke Somerset had almost dissolved in a rapture of delight.

“Ah, my dear Miss Whiting, you are not always so kind to me as you are to-day.”

“But I always will be hereafter,” and Sarah smiled, though her heart beat like the boundings of a race horse.

“Ah, you are so good, and so pretty, too.”

“I will save you the trouble of all these useless adulations, by saying that I have come to accept your oft-repeated proposal.”

“Indeed!” and the bachelor was taken “all aback;” he could hardly believe the evidence of his own senses.

“What, sir! Do you recede from your offer?” said Sarah, laughing with all her might—a very convenient cloak for young ladies sometimes.

“Capital joke, eh?” and the bachelor laughed too.

“No joke, sir; I am in earnest.”

Sarah looked as sober as the matron of an orphan asylum.

“Nay, nay, my pretty Sarah, do not make sport of me.”

“I will give you my promise in writing, with my signature, if you desire it.”

“Is it possible that you mean so?” said the doubtful Mr. Somerset.

“Take my hand.”

The bachelor took it, pressed it to his lips, and began to think himself the happiest fellow in the world.

“I am yours, Mr. Somerset.”

“Bless you, Sarah!”

“On one condition.”

“Name it.”

Sarah recounted the story of her father’s embarrassment.

“Fill me out a check for three thousand dollars, and I promise to become your wife within one year.”

Mr. Landyke Somerset mused. He appeared to be in doubt. He was a high-souled man, and the idea of buying the hand of his wife was to the last degree repugnant to him.

“You hesitate sir; I know you do not love me,” said Sarah, with apparent pique.

“On my soul, I do! I agree; here is the check,” replied Mr. Somerset, as he seated himself at the table and drew the check.

“Now enclose it in a note to my father, saying you learned his trouble from a mutual friend, and then beg the privilege of loaning him the amount of the check.”

“And you sacrifice yourself to your father, my fair Sarah!” said the bachelor, as he sealed the note.

“I do.”

“You are an angel!”

“Nay, I must go now.”

The check did the business, and Mr. Whiting was as happy as ever he was in his life. Bacher could not sleep that night because he had been foiled in his revenge.

In the evening Mr. Somerset called at the house to see his future bride. She treated him kindly, and permitted him to sit by her side, hold her work basket, and pick up her thimble when she dropped it—which was glory enough for an evening, to one as moderate in his wishes as the bachelor beau of our heroine.

But about eight o’clock, to Sarah’s utter consternation, John Barnet paid his usual visit. The poor clerk was sadly distressed, as well he might be, and had called to desire an explanation of the cool manner in which he had been dismissed.

The presence of Mr. Somerset was all the explanation he desired. He was uneasy; he could not join in the conversation, and aware that he was making himself disagreeable to the party, he determined to take his leave; but how could he leave her?

He knew Mr. Somerset to be one of the best men in the world, and he resolved to request an interview with him on the spot.

The worthy bachelor kindly condescended to walk down the street a short distance with him, and John Barnet told him the whole story; how he loved Sarah, and how he had every reason to believe that Sarah loved him. He was sure that some unfair advantage had been taken, and he wanted the matter explained.

“Come back to the house, young man, and I will give you all the satisfaction you desire.”

John consented.

A few minutes sufficed to explain to Mr. Whiting and the discarded lover the nature of the sacrifice which the devoted Sarah had made for her father’s sake.

“Bless you, my child!” exclaimed the merchant, his eyes filling with tears of love, as he tenderly embraced his noble-hearted daughter.

“You understand it now, don’t you, Mr. Barnet?” said the bachelor, with a good natured smile.

“I do, indeed,” replied John, sorrowfully; “she is a noble girl, and I shall never cease to love her, though she can never be mine.”

Sarah cast a sad glance at him, and her eyes filled with tears. She never knew till that moment how much she loved the poor clerk. But it was all over now—the bright dreams of love had passed away, and she could never be happy again.

“What, Sarah! do you recede from your promise?” asked Mr. Somerset.

“Nay, I do not. Farewell, John! farewell forever!” and the poor girl sobbed convulsively.

“Farewell, Sarah!” and the clerk seized his hat and rushed towards the door.

“Hallo! stop, young man!” exclaimed Mr. Somerset; “don’t go off mad. Give me your hand.”

The bachelor took the clerk’s hand.

“You are a good fellow; I honor you. Your hand, Sarah,” and Mr. Somerset took the little white hand of the weeping maiden, and placed it in that of John Barnet. “Be happy!”

“What do you mean, sir?” asked Sarah, bewildered at the actions of the bachelor.

“Mean? You love him, don’t you?”

“With all my soul!”

“And you do not love me?”

Sarah began to understand.

“I like you.”

“You are his; be happy! You did not for a moment suppose I could be so mean as to take advantage of such a noble act of self-sacrifice as you performed to-day? No! I love you, but I will not make you miserable.”

Poor Sarah! How happy she was, and how she pitied poor Mr. Somerset, who loved her so much! She felt that, if she had never seen John Barnet, she would have been glad to become his wife, iron gray and wrinkles to the contrary notwithstanding—he was such a dear good soul!

“Be happy! and that isn’t all; when I die you shall have half my fortune.”

The bachelor kept his word, and though he didn’t die of a broken heart, he did not live many years; yet when he did die, the hand of woman—of as true and loving a woman as ever made home a paradise—smoothed his dying pillow, and closed his eyes in their last sleep; and there were sincere mourners over his bier.

Poor Mr. Landyke Somerset! though he found not a wife in Sarah Whiting, he found a true friend.